The Story of Don Miff (2024)

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Copyright, 1886, by Virginius Dabney.

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

Most mysteriously, then, and I knew not whence orfrom whom, the manuscript of this work found itselfin my study, some time since, accompanied by the requestthat I should stand sponsor for it.

I shall do nothing of the kind. True, the grammarof it will pass muster, I think; and its morals are abovereproach; but the way our author has of sailing intoeverything 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. Ishould not have a friend left in the world were it togo abroad that this Mr. J. B. Whacker’s opinions werealso mine. If but to enter this disclaimer, therefore, Imust needs write a preface.

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

It seems fair, too, to warn the eccentric person whoshall read this preface, against putting too much faithin the account Mr. Whacker gives of himself. The astoundingpedigree to which he lays claim in Chapter I.may be satire, for aught I know; but when he posesas a lawyer, a bachelor, and a ton of a man, weighing(though he does not give the exact figures) not muchless than three hundred pounds, he is counting toomuch on the simplicity of his editor. For the internalevidence of the work itself makes it clear that he is aphysician, ever so much married, and nestling amida 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 divideshis work not into books (as a Christian should), butinto movements; indicating (presumably) the spirit andpredominant feeling of each by the opening page of theorchestral score of one of the four numbers of a famoussymphony!

One more word and I am done.

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

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

But it seems to me best to say, once for all, thatwhenever the necessities of the narrative compel himto show his sympathies on one side or the other (ashappens two or three times in the course of the story),they will be found to be with those people among whomhe was born, by whose side he fought, and with whom hehas suffered. And I feel sure that no man who knowsme, in the South, and equally sure that no man whoknows me, in the North, would deem me capable ofprinting 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 thinealmond eye, my Ah Yung Whack, the hand whichpenned them for thy delectation will have crumbledinto 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 singularlydistant and belated relative thou art.

3.

If then, dear, intended Offspring, you will be so anachronisticas to sit beside your proposed ancestor, andso civil as to lend him your ear, he will give you oneor two reasons for addressing you, rather than thegeneral 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 cannotbring myself to join the mob of authors, and let flyanother.

The very leaves in Vallambrosa, flying before theblasts 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 thatare annually published in Christendom (beg pardon, myboy, evolutiondom), and then fell to sawing out shelvesfor them in the pine forests of North Carolina, theNorth Carolinians would, when they awoke, find themselvesinhabitants of a prairie, provided, of course, ourstater goes on to state, the job were completed in onenight.

Or, to put it in another shape:

The earth, adds Mr. Statisticker, the earth, we willallow, for illustration’s sake, to be twenty-five thousandmiles around. Now, says he, suppose all these booksto be pulled to pieces [shame!] and their leaves pinnedtogether, end to end, they would stretch ever so (for Icannot, 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 mygeneration? Humanity forbid!

5.

And look at this:

In any given country a certain number of undergarmentswill be worn out, year by year, producing acertain crop of rags. These rags can be converted intoso much, and no more, paper. Hence, as any thinkingman would have reasoned (until the advent of a recentinvention), the advancing flood of literature was practicallyheld in check. So many exhausted shirts, somany books,—so many exhausted washerwomen, somany (and no more) authors. There was a limit.

That day is gone. Wood-pulp and cheap editionshave opened the flood-gates of genius upon the world;and the days of our noble forests are numbered; forone tree is sawn into shelves to hold another groundinto paper. And already, through the denudation of theland, the Mississippi grows uncontrollable, taxing eventhe wisdom of Congress. And many a lesser stream,in which once the salmon sported, or which turned amill, or meandered, at least, past orchard or corn land,a steady source of fruitful moisture, is now a fierce torrentin spring, in autumn a string of stagnant pools.What the builder began, the builder (for that, I hear, isthe 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 somethingto say, and a man that has something to say, andis not allowed to say it, is (like a woman or a boiler) indanger. Nor has my native land, when I come to thinkof it, the right to exact of me that I burst, to save abeggarly 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 mybook with the merest infinitesimal damage to the Mississippiand other patriotic streams. It is this. I shallhave but one copy printed. This, in a strong box, hermeticallysealed, shall be addressed to you. I shallhand it to my eldest son, and he to his; and so it willtravel down the stream of time till it reach you; whichstrikes me as a neat, inexpensive, and effectual way ofreaching that goal of all authors, posterity. Fromfather 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 whatwould become of the book, should there be twins?—butI 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 tohave two copies struck off; yes, and while we areabout it, a dozen extra ones, for private distributionamong my friends.

8.

And one friend, especially, but for whom this nonsensewould not now be bubbling up so serenely frommy 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 theedition to a dozen copies is midsummer madness,—wheream I to come in? said he, using the language of theperiod,—and that he intends to print as many copies ashe pleases. So everything is upset. And I shall haveto recast my entire work, which, you must know, isalready, with the exception of this first chapter, finishedand ready for the printer, down to the last semicolon.For, as it stands, my boy, everything I say isaddressed to you only; and my book may be comparedto a telephone with a private wire three hundred yearslong. But since my publisher is going to give the generalpublic the right to hook on and hear what I amsaying, it is extremely probable that my monologuewill be very often interrupted. Whenever, therefore,you find me suddenly ceasing to speak to you personally,and, after a word with my contemporaries, droppingback to our private wire, you may be sure thatthere 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,—notWest 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 worthwhile to lay the following sketches before you.

11.

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

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

True, some of them I have not seen with my owneyes, but Charley has, or else Alice, which is just aswell.

12.

Yes, my lad, I think the glimpses I am about to giveyou 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. Ourcivil war (war of the rebellion, as the underbred amongthe victors still call it) swept that into the abyss of thepast; but let me with such poor wand as I wield summonit before you.

In Pompeii, the tourist, looking from blank wall todusty floor, wonders what there is to see in that littlehall; but a native goes down upon his hands and knees;with a few brisk passes of his hand the sand is brushedaway, and a Numidian lion glares forth from the tessellatedpavement. So I, brushing aside the fast-settlingdust, would make you see that old life as I saw it.

And, strangely enough, I, too, have a lion to showyou. For, while my real object was by a series ofsketches to bring into clear relief the careless ease, thesweet tranquillity, the unapproachable serenity of thoseold days, I did not see my way to making these sketchesinteresting. (For not alone in a repast for the body isthe serving almost everything.) But the thoughtoccurred to me to stitch them together with the threadof a story into a kind of panorama. For this story Ihad to find a hero. To invent one would have been, Iam sure, quite beyond my powers; and what I shouldhave done I am at a loss to conjecture had I not foundone ready made to my hand: a very remarkable youngman, that is, who in a very remarkable way suddenlymade his appearance upon the boards of our littletheatre, upon which were serenely enacting the tranquilscenes in which I would steep your care-wornsoul. This is the lion that I have to show you. Andwhen he begins to shake his mane and lash his sides,you will find things growing a trifle lurid in our littleimpromptu drama. Absolutely none of which was uponthe original programme. But dropping from the sky,as it were, in the midst of our troupe, what should hedo but straightway fall in love with one of our prettylittle actresses. And then the trouble began and thetranquillity came to an end.

13.

As for me, the manager of the show, you will see thatI have done my best to relieve the gloom. Betweenthe acts,—between the scenes,—nay, even while theyare going on,—you shall find me continually poppingout before the foot-lights and interrupting the play,and raking the audience with a rattling rigmarole. Allfor the sake of keeping their spirits up. And on morethan one occasion I go the length (or breadth, as Alicesuggests) of standing on my head and making faces atCharley in the prompter’s box. How I should havegotten on had he not sat there, or without Alice in thewings (to superintend the love-passages), I am sure Icannot tell. And if, at the end of the play, I am calledbefore the curtain, I shall refuse to budge unless handin hand with my two co-workers; who, though contentto 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, thatwhile this story is composed for your delectation, theinjunctions of my publisher force me to recognize thepossibility of contemporary readers. The situation isawkward. As though a third person were present ata confidential interview. Ah, I have it.

While I am talking to you, the contemporary readermay nod; and when I turn to her, you have leave tonap it. And small blame to the contemporary reader.For what I shall say to you will seem to her (andespecially 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 familiarphrase of our day, which simply means that thefact in question is known to the Able-Editor, who lookedit up in the cyclopædia on his desk an hour since. Everyschool-boy in ancient times knew, for instance, whatkind of a school Aristotle went to, and how he wastaught, and what. Aspasia, we may feel sure, knew noGerman, nor had even a smattering of French; whileall conceivable ologies were so much Greek to her. Andyet she must have known something. For statesmenand philosophers flocked to her boudoir, and, when shespoke, sat at her feet, silent and wondering. What hadshe been taught, and how? Every contemporaryschool-girl knew. What audience could be found nowin the wide world that could keep pace with the eloquenceof Demosthenes? How had the Athenianpopulace been taught? For they were more wonderfulthan their orator. Ah, how much would we notgive to know! But no one thought it worth his whileto set it all down in a little book; and we know not, andmust darkly guess. Else would we rise as one man, and,rushing with torches to all the colleges and universitiesof the land, incinerate within their costly walls theirarmies of professors, along with the hordes of oarsmenand acrobats that they annually empty on the world.

A porch sufficed for Zeno.

Ah, there are thousands of little things which theymight have told us, but did not. Ah, that Homer, forinstance, had described Helen to us as minutely as hedid the shield of Achilles. As it is, we must even conjecturethat she had a Grecian nose. And as for hereyes and hair—

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

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

Ah, we shall never know! Therefore, my boy, I amdetermined you shall know something about the Virginiansin my day. But excuse me for one moment,—mytelephone-bell is ringing.

15.

Some stranger has hooked on.

“Hello!”

“Do you claim that Virginia has ever produced aSocrates?”

“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 throughoutthe entire course of my story. True, I shall leaveout the hello and good-by part of the business as toorealistic, but you will know when they have been hookingon from my stopping to argue with my supposedreaders. By the way, if this chapter bears, to yourmind, internal evidence of having been composed inBedlam, you will understand how it has fared with mewhen I tell you that I had hardly spoken a dozen wordswhen my telephone began to ring like mad. A thousandcross-lines at least must have been connected withour private wire before my first sentence was finished.Heavens, what a jingling they are keeping up evennow! 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 openingsentence,—Thine almond eye, my Ah Yung Whack.

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

Of this number, three announced themselves as authorsof English grammars, adding that they could notsustain me unless I changed my ah to ah my; and ofthe three, one that I should have said Virginian insteadof Virginia Xantippe; quoting a rule from his owngrammar. Which I was glad he did, seeing that I hadnever read a line in any English grammar in my borndays; and I find that when you are writing a book nokind of knowledge comes amiss.

I answered him (per telephone) by this question inpolitical economy: whether he thought that by a judicioustariff Massachusettsish enterprise would ever beenabled to raise Indian rubber under glass at a profitand successfully compete with the pauper labor of thesun; and, springing nimbly from political to domesticeconomy, I trusted that his next Thanksgiving Turkishgobbler would sit light on his stomach. And this Imeant, once for all, as a defiance to the whole tribe ofgrammarians, be they living, dead, or yet unborn.

After the three grammarians come seven spelling reformers,congratulating me on my courage in writingyung instead of young. [How they found this out bytapping my telephone I will explain later, if I havetime.] And of these, one, who was also a short-handwriter, thought Whack an improvement on Whacker.

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

There is a certain insinuating witchery about theunmarried voice of woman (among males all widowershave 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, “Haveyou 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 astrange coincidence, they, too, were married; the remainingone saying that she was single. She, I takeit, was a young widow; especially as she went on tosay that she feared that I was a sad, bad, bold, fascinatingwretch to speak in my half-frivolous, half-businesslikeway of the holy estate of matrimony, which hadbeen commended even of St. Paul. She added that shehad often been told that her own eyes sloped a little.

16.

Now you, my boy, know perfectly well that you arecalled Whack. Nor will it strike you that I have reformedthe spelling of your Confucian name, Yung.As to the Ah, you will smile at its being mistaken by aWestern barbarian for an interjection. But you do notknow, and will be amazed to hear, that you have almondeyes. For you have never seen any other variety.This, therefore, strikes me as a fitting opportunity forexplaining to you and the contemporary reader whyI began with those seven mysterious words. You, atleast, can hardly regret their use, since it was themeans of showing you how many candidates therewere 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 thatI am not puffed up.

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

His soul is beautiful, they say; then why will hewaddle when he walks?

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

17.

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

The line of Bishop Berkeley, to the effect that thestar of empire is constantly moving west, is naturallya favorite with patriots in this country. It is in everybody’smouth. I have heard it cited, you could notimagine how often; so often, to put it plainly, that Iwould undertake to reckon up on my fingers and toesthe number of times I have not heard it. Westernjournalists, especially, see their way to quoting it sofrequently that they keep it always in stock, electro-typedand ready for use at a moment’s notice (whena commercial traveller registers at the local hotel, forinstance). Not a Weekly is set up as the organ of thepioneerest water-tank of a Western railway, but youshall see this verse figure in the first leader. Now it wasthis line which, though not the exciting cause of thefirst of my two dreams, gave direction to it, at least.

A friend had sent me a San Francisco paper, andmeeting the familiar line therein, I began wonderingto myself, as I lay upon my lounge, where the star ofempire could go now, seeing that there was no longerany West left; and, reading on, half awake, after a latesupper, and seeing in every column allusions to theglorious climate of California (in worn type), I askedmyself, with a drowsy smile, whether it were not toreach this same glorious climate, perhaps, that the starin question had been bending her steps westwardthroughout recorded time.

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

18.

How long I slept I cannot say; but long enough todream this:

Dream I.—[Welsh rarebit.]

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

(When I speak of your cutting their throats, I speakas a man of my time; for it would be the veriest presumptionin a mortal of this benighted day to restrictheroes in the blaze of the twenty-third century to suchvulgar and ineffectual methods of destroying their fellow-men.Indeed, I must do myself the justice to saythat, when I ventured to dream of you as storming theranges of Thian-Shan and the Kuen-Lun, into whichhave fled the deluded remnants of the followers of Confucius(of whom, at the date of this dream, you werenot one), I did not take the liberty of picturing youto myself, even in a vision of the night-time, as laboriouslytoiling up those rugged slopes, convincing, as yougo, the unregenerate, by the unanswerable suasion ofbreech-loading cannon and repeating rifles,—lame contrivancesof our less-favored age; but)

Before my closed, yet prophetic eye, you float abeautiful, aerial host of missionary heroes and real-estateagents, flecking the sky with innumerable winged craft.There! I see the line halt! A rock-bound fastness liesjust ahead! A captain’s yacht—a kind of mechanicalAmerican eagle, an ’twere—darts forward through thelimpid air, and poises itself just over the enemy, a mileabove the earth. A field telephone drops into the fortress,and a parley is held. Unsatisfactory! for an officerin the uniform of the Flying Chemists, leaning lightlyover the starboard gunwale, lets fall into the stronghold,with admirable precision, a homœopathic globule of thetriple-refined quintessence of the double extract of dynamite.It is finished! Peace on earth, good will towardmen! What was, a moment since, a heaven-piercingpeak, is now a hole in the ground,—what were, just now,the adherents of an effete theology, in the twinkling ofan eye are converted, if not into Christians, at least intoalmond-eyed angels,—and the victors can read theirtitle clear to mansions near the skies, and to the rice-fieldsof the Yang-tsi-Kiang, or the tea-orchards of theHoang-Ho.

I am persuaded that every fair-minded man willallow this to have been a dream that not even Pharaohneed have blushed to own. I feel that it does mecredit. But would it have been prudent in me (as aprofessional dreamer) to see that one vision, and then,as we lawyers say, rest my case? Perhaps I had goneall astray. Who is this Bishop Berkeley, after all?Have men, in their migrations, always followed thesun? Who destroyed the Mound-Builders? andwhence came they? and their destroyers? from theEast? or from the West?

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

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

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

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

19.

Before I lay down, therefore, I locked my door; forthe spectacle of a sleeping lawyer must ever be a painfulsurprise 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 haveknown it was a dream; for how could he have gottenin with the door locked? So I suppose I must havedreamed that it was not a dream. At any rate, therehe was. A Chinaman,—but tall, athletic, and gorgeouslyarrayed in brocaded silks. A low bow, full ofgrace and dignity. I rose hastily, without either theone or the other.

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

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

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

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

“No doubt,—no doubt,” replied he, with a courteouswave of the hand. “In a general way you are quiteright; but for the special purpose of my visit permitme to insist that you are Mr. Yang Kee.”

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

“Very well,” said I, “if you will have it so. I wasnever called a Yankee before, that’s all.”

“No doubt; nor have you the least idea that you areone. Still, I venture to remark—with your kind permission—thatsuch is practically the fact. To youreye and ear there are differences between your peopleand those of Connecticut, just as I have no difficulty indistinguishing an inhabitant of the district of HingChang from a dweller on the banks of the Fi Fum.To you we are all Chinese. To us, Americans are allYankees. Orientals, occidentals. Let Ying Kee standfor the one, Yang Kee for the other.”

“You don’t say Melican man?”

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

I gave him to understand that he was more thanwelcome. (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 understandyou have done us Chinese the honor to dreamabout us.”

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

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

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

“Throughout the length and breadth of HenricoCounty,—Hanraker, as the natives call it.”

“You are strong on geography.”

“It is made my business by my government to knowAmerica. But let’s to our discussion. But is not youroffice rather close quarters? Might I beg you to walkwith me?”

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

“What do you say to Rocketts?”

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

“Rocketts?” said he, with a bland smile; “who doesnot know that it is the port of Richmond, just as thePiraeus was that of Athens?”

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

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

“And now, Mr. Yang Kee,” said he, as we took ourseats 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 centralconception of your dream being vicious, the whole businessfalls to pieces.”

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

“You have been at the pains of dreaming that yourpeople are to conquer mine through the instrumentalityof armed colonization. Those days, when entirenations—men, women, and children—migrated, swordin hand, are over. Instead of migration we have emigration,—themovement of individuals instead of themovement of tribes; in place of the Helvetii—”

“Mr. Kee, your learning amazes me!”

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

Mr. Kee hesitated, and a subtle smile played overhis features.

“Go on,” said I.

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

“Go it, Ying!” cried I; at the same time fetchinghim a rouser between the shoulders with my ratherheavy hand. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten hishigh rank. I began to stammer out an apology.

“It is nothing,” said he. “It makes me know thatyou are a good fellow,” added he, at the same timeshaking hands with himself, after the manner of hispeople, with the utmost cordiality.

I do not suppose that a native ever puns without acertain sense of shame; but I confess to enjoying it ina foreigner. He is always as proud as a boy whistlinghis 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 theirliving by saying—judicious things. The Chinamanworks for nothing and lives upon rice, so that a decentAmerican working-man cannot compete with him.Moreover, he persists in returning to China. He won’tstay, therefore he must go. Moreover, a Celestial is aheathen, while you, dear voters, are all pious and good!”

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

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

Just then the rat thrust his sharp muzzle out of hishiding-place and warily swept the dock with his jet-beadeye. Mr. Kee turned upon him his almond ovaland smiled.

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

“’Tis a Norway rat,” I put in.

“No,” said he, quietly, “he is of Persian origin, andmigrated to China ages ago, during the reign, to beexact, of Ying Lung Fo. You will find it laid down inConfucius, in his great work, ‘Bang Lie Yu,’—concerningall things, as you would say in English.”

I wonder whether he likes them best broiled orfricasseed? thought I.

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

“To be found, I suppose,” said I, “in Confucius’slesser work, ‘Fool Hoo Yu,’ or, concerning a few otherthings, as we say in English.”

“You have me there!” replied he, with the mostwinkish of winks. “But we digress. Where is theblue rat now? Perhaps a few specimens might befound, falling back, with the Red Men, upon the RockyMountains. And where will the Caucasian race be threecenturies [his very figures] hence? Your statesmen areright, but, like Opecancanough, right too late. Yourrace is doomed; not, indeed, to extinction, for alreadythe despised Mongol begins to find wives among you,but you will be crossed out of existence by a superiorand prepotent race. Look at me,” said he, giving himselfa slap upon his broad chest; “do I look like aninferior specimen of—there he comes again!”

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

“There he is, that intruder from Persia, and he willremain with you. Housewives may poison, here andthere, a score of them,—the survivors take warning;puss* may lie in wait,—he learns to avoid—even tobully her. Terriers may dig down into their hiding-places,—theywill bore others. An incautious youngstergets his leg in a trap,—his squeal is a liberal educationto the entire colony. He has an infinite capacity foradjusting himself to his environment. He is here forgood; and so is the Chinaman. Congress may legislateagainst him; it will be a Papal bull against a comet.Mobs may assail him, trade-unions damn him; but theChinaman will not go. And myriads more, the survivorsof ages of a fearful struggle for existence at home,will pour in. He will not go. He will come; and betweenYing 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 hishole, when the cat, awakening, sprang after him. Downhe plunged into his hole, bearing off the egg, but leavingan inch of his tail under puss*’s paws.

“Scat!” cried I, rushing to the rat’s assistance,—andbump! 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. Myobject is merely to explain how you happen to havealmond eyes. And if you don’t, you will understandthat it is no fault of mine. The Welsh rarebit dreamovercame the canned lobster vision,—that’s all. Andhaving made this clear to you, as I hope, the time hascome 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 yourthoughtful yellow father, I have no doubt that youwill ask him, before even you begin to play your chopsticks,who wrote it. Now, what will it avail you forhim to say that it was written by John BoucheWhacker, of the Richmond bar? Who was JohnBouche Whacker? And that question means (at leastsince Mr. Charles Darwin wrote) who was the fatherand who the mother of J. B. W.; and the father andmother of this pair, and so on, and so on.

Now, I suppose that if I were to push the inquiry intoprehistoric times, it would turn out that I was relatedto the entire Indo-Germanic race; but I shall contentmyself with indicating to you the three chief strains ofblood which mingle in my veins, leaving to you, as youread chapter after chapter, this entertaining ethnologicalpuzzle: Who spoke there? The Dane? or was itthe Saxon? As to my Huguenot blood, there will beno hiding that. It will always be on fire, at the merestsuggestion of a dogma of theology.

22.

I.—THE WHACKERS.

Every school-boy knows that, no sooner had theirbrave Queen Boadicea perished, than the Britons lostall stomach for fighting, and gave themselves up whollyto roast beef and plum pudding. Nor is it a secret,that when the Roman legions, to whom they hadlearned to look for protection, were withdrawn fromthe island, the Picts and Scots, grown weary of oatmeal,began to trouble the more sumptuous feasts oftheir neighbors. Remonstrances proving fruitless, theysent for the Jutes and the Saxons and the Angles (socalled, respectively, from a valuable plant, a fine varietyof wool, and a singular devotion to fishing). Thesesturdy braves crossed the water with their renownedbattle-axes, as every school-boy knows. But what evenour very learned young friend does not, perhaps, suspect,is that, along with Hengist and Horsa, theresailed, on this historical occasion, two twin brothers,named respectively Ethelbert and Alfred Whacker,—orHvaecere, as they themselves would have spelled it,had they thought spelling, of any sort, worth theirheroic while; which, haply, they did not. Now, fromthese twins I am lineally descended, as you shall seeduly set forth in the Whacker Records, herewith transmitted.You will find in these family annals, too, somedetails not sufficiently elaborated, perhaps, in the Anglo-SaxonChronicle, and other authorities for this period.There is the barest allusion, for instance, to the bravedeath of Ethelbert Hvaecere, the eldest of the twins,which occurred as follows:

23.

When the English (for such recent historians haveshown that they were, and not Germans, as they themselves,absurdly enough, supposed themselves to be)—whenthe English reached the Wall of Severus, theyfound that earth-work lined, for miles, with Picts andScots. So, at least, they were named in Pinnock’sGoldsmith’s England, which I read at school. So,too, you will find they are called in the Whacker Records.Recent historical research, however, has demonstratedthat the so-called Picts were, in reality, paintedScotchmen, while the alleged Scots were neither morenor less than Irishmen. And I must confess that whenI re-read the Whacker Records by these modern lights, Iwas ashamed that I had not made this discovery myself.

It would appear that the west of Scotland was originallysettled by the Irish; and that those who remainedat home took so lively an interest in their emigratedbrethren, that whenever they got news of a wake orother shindy that was brewing beyond the Channel,they would shoot across in their canoes, or else—so surprisinglylow were the tides in those simple days—wadeacross and join in the fray; as they did on thepresent occasion.

24.

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

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

In the first place, the weapons which these so-calledScots were waving above their heads were not claymores,as he had been led to expect. Instead, theybrandished stout, blackish, knotted clubs, and to theaccompaniment, not of the shrill bagpipe or the rhythmicslogan, but with fierce and discordant cries. Onething he remarked with grim satisfaction. Standingin dense masses, and whirling their clubs with morefervor than care, it constantly happened that a neighboringhead got a tap; and no sooner had this occurred(giving forth a singularly solid sound) than itinstantly set up a local internecine fracas of suchseverity that, at times, considerable spaces of the wallwere denuded of defenders; who, tumbling into thetransmural ditch, fought fiercely there. In a few minutes,however, they would reappear, smiling, as thoughthey had been seeing fun of some sort, over there beyondthe wall. Once, indeed, one of the combatants,—alittle bow-legged fellow,—bringing down his shillaleh(which is Celtic for hickory) with a soundingthwack 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 histhumb to his nose, jeered at him.

“Who hit Maginnis?” cried he in Gaelic; and eventhe Maginnises roared with laughter. Nay, grimHorsa, too, was observed to smile; for he knew theirlanguage well, having learned it during his many incursionsinto Gaul.

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

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

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

We charged too. (I have read the account so oftenthat I cannot help thinking I was there.) And it wasthen that Horsa discovered the meaning of a reddishline along the top of the wall in his front. Observingno signs of missile weapons among the enemy, he hadflattered himself that he would easily have the masteryover them, with his terrible battle-axes against theirshillalehs. 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 raininghis thunder-bolts upon our shields. Our men wentdown by hundreds. A reddish mist filled the air.

’Twas brick-dust!

With such prodigious force did they hurl their nationalweapon (shamrock is the pretty name of it inthe Gael) against our shields, that, where it did not gothrough, it was reduced to powder.

We stood a long while, stunned, blinded, bewildered;suffering heavily, doing nothing in reply. At last therewas a slight lull in the storm of missiles; for as theyhad each brought over but a peck of ammunition, intheir corduroys, the more impetuous among them werebeginning to run short; and it was then that our sturdyancestor showed the stuff he was made of. Assumingcommand (for Horsa, with Alfred Hvaecere by his side,lay insensible upon the grass), “Men,” cried he, “whydo we stand here? Remember Quintilius Varus and hislegions! To your axes! to your axes!” And the wholeline staggered forward, with Ethelbert well in frontand bearing down upon Maginnis. (The same,—thoughhis mother would scarcely have known him, with thatblue-black bulge in his forehead.) And it is mainlyfrom an observation that Maginnis made at this juncturethat I am inclined to give in my adhesion to thehypothesis of the later historians, who claim that thesem*n were not Scots.

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

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

Too late,—for the brick of Maginnis landed squarebetween the hero’s eyes,—and you and I had to bedescended from the younger brother.

25.

The Whackers, therefore, are not ancestors that oneneeds 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 thatthey had a certain sturdy love of truth, for which thisrace is conspicuous. And so this book may be absurd,or even wicked, nay, worst of all, dull; but one thingyou may rely upon. Every word in it will be true.

26.

II.—THE DANICHESTERS.

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

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

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

Now, since man—as every college-boy knows—andit is well to know something—since man is but thesum of his ancestors modified by his environment,whence have I derived this trait of mine, this unconscioushumor,—the gift, that is, of making people laughwithout intending it? Many persons have it, butwhere did I get it?

Not from the business-like Whackers, surely. Stillless from the Pope-hating Bouches. I must derive itfrom my Danichester blood. From this source, too, Imust get another characteristic,—that of being sadwhen others are gay. In the midst of piping andfiddling I sometimes ask my heart what is the use ofit all. And ofttimes, while I have stood smiling as Ilooked upon a group of merry children at play, I couldfeel the tears trickling back upon my heart.

Family traits are generally modified (Darwin, passim)from generation to generation. Thus, the grandsonof a painter will be a musician, perhaps; and manyliterary people are sons of clergymen. There is similarityrather than identity. And so this vein of sadness,which lies so deep in me that few or none of myfriends have ever suspected its existence, crops out inone of my progenitors. I allude to Olaf Danichester,Gent., whose daughter Gunhilda was married to JohnWhacker, merchant, London, in the seventeenth yearof the reign of glorious Queen Bess.

Now, from all accounts, this ancestor of ours had amost extraordinary way of saying things that no oneelse would ever have thought of; added to which wasthe singularity that, after he had run through the fortunebrought to him by his second wife, he was neverknown to smile. And it is no secret to the Whackerconnection (though not generally known in literarycircles) that the immortal Shakespeare, who often satwith him over a cold cut and a tankard of ale in theparlor of his prosperous son-in-law (J. W.), has embalmedhim for posterity in the melancholy Jaques.

Now, the difference between Olaf Danichester andmyself is simply that he gave utterance to his sadthoughts, while I keep mine to myself. I am a meremodification of him, just as he was of his valiant progenitor,Vagn Akason, the Viking. This Vagn, thoughan eminent waterman in his day, did not come over toAmerica in the Mayflower,—chiefly because he waskilled centuries before she sailed, but in part, also, becausehe felt no wish to make others worship God afterhis fashion; which was a very poor fashion, I fear, fromthe account given of him in our Records. At any rate,he was a marvellously handsome fellow, this Vikingbold; and when he went forth to battle, a storm ofyellow hair, as Motherwell says, floated over his broadshoulders,—so that he looked for all the world likeLohengrin. But I suspect he was not the kind of manwe should select, at the present day, as superintendentof a Sunday-school. For one thing, he was a mostomnipotous drinker; nor should I ever have admittedthat I had a drop of his blood in my veins had it notbeen necessary for me, as a Darwinian, to account formy unconscious humor. And if these words savor ofconceit, let us call it my trick of saying and doing themost unexpected things. Hear the account of thedeath of this brave young sea-rover, and see whether Ido not come honestly by this trait:

He, with seventeen of his companions, had been captured,and had been made, according to the custom ofthose rude days, to straddle a large log, one behind theother, with their hands tied behind their backs. Upcame, then, the victor, Jarl Hakon (after a leisurelybreakfast of pork chops), to strike off their heads.This, to us, seems unkind; but having one’s headchopped off was such a matter of course in those daysthat no one ever thought for an instant of minding itin the least. Give and take was the way they lookedat it.

But brave as these men were in the presence of theheadsman, they shuddered at the very thought of abarber. They gloried in their long hair. To lose theirheads was an incident of war; to lose their locks a disgracewhich followed them even into the next world.According to a superstition of theirs, a Sea-Cavalierwho lost his curls just before parting with his headwas doomed to be a Roundhead ghost and a laughing-stockthroughout eternity.

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

27.

III.—THE BOUCHES.

Every school-boy knows what the Edict of Nanteswas; but philosophers differ as to what was the effectof its revocation upon the fortunes of France. For usit is enough to know that Louis XIV., by recalling it,drove to Virginia our ancestor John Bouche, whosedaughter, Elizabeth, completely captivated my greatetc. grandfather, Tom Whacker, by her pretty Frenchaccent and trim French figure. She was good and wise,too; but the rascal never found that out till after hemarried her. It must be owing to the Danichesterstrain, I suppose, that the Whackers, so sensible inmany ways, have always sought grace and beauty intheir wives, rather than piety and learning; and I supposeI shall be no wiser than my fathers when my timecomes.

This Huguenot cross gave the old Whacker stock atwist towards theology. Two of the sons of Thomasand Elizabeth took orders, much to the surprise of theirfather, who used to say that Reverend Whacker had aqueer sound to his ear. So prepotent, in fact, has theHuguenot strain become, that a Whacker is no longera Whacker. In the old days our eyes were as blue asthe sky; now they are as black as sloes. Once we werereserved and silent; now—but enough. As for myself,it has often seemed to me that I was all Bouche,—Boucheet præterea nihil,—as the ancient Romans putit in their compact way.

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

“And, now in conclusion, my dear boy, if you risefrom the perusal of this work a wiser and better man,the direct author of the book and the indirect authorof 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 suchanother! Alas, those Danichester molecules, whathave they not made me say! Page after page, andchapter after chapter, in which I defy even a mouse topick up a crumb of edification. Chapter after chapterof feasting, fiddling, dancing, courting,—roast turkeys,broiled oysters, hams seven years old. Bowls full ofegg-nogg, pipes full of tobacco, students full of apple-toddy,—everythingto make a man feel good, nothingto make him be good. For the heathen Viking in mespeaks!

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

28.

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

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

29.

And a Bushwhacker, beloved scion, you will rightlydivine to be one who whacks from behind a bush. Butthat this is so is (and that you would never guess) oneof those whimsical accidents of which philology pointsout so many examples. Bushwhackers no more gottheir name in the way the name suggests than yourShank-high fowls got theirs from length of limb.

How they did get it I must now explain. Not that Imay vaingloriously show off my rather quaint and curiousphilologic lore. I have a better motive. The wordhas its origin in an incident in our family history; anincident, too, of such interest that it gave rise to apoem, famous in its day, beginning, “All quiet alongthe Potomac to-night,”—the author of which will neverbe 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 tomake a noise in the world, and made oath that theywrote it. Which shows, among other things, that thereis no lack of justices of the peace in this country. Butlet’s to the incident.

30.

You must know, then, that the Bouche connectionis as numerous as it is respectable. Hardly a countyin Virginia where you shall not find a colony of them.And as a rule they are genteel folk, mingling with thebest. But (for I shall not conceal it from you) everynow and then one stumbles upon a shoot of the originalstem that is fallen into the sere and yellow leaf. Still,the motto with us is, that a Bouche is a Bouche, eventhough he be run down at the heel. But our clannishnesshas its limits. We draw the line at the spellingof the name,—draw it sharply between Bouche andBush. Still, I happen to have heard my grandfathersay that, though old Jim Bush did not spell the nameafter the aristocratic Huguenot fashion, his father beforehim did; and that, consequently, he was one ofus.

After all, he was by no means a bad fellow. It covershis case better to say that he was not profitable untohimself. He was, in fact, a kind of Rip Van Winkle,whose hands, though he was desperately poor andowned a farm of a few acres, were more familiar withthe rifle than the handles of a plough. For milesaround his tumble-down old house he and his gun werea 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 werethere lacking those who maintained that upon a dozenof these edible rodents, as a substratum, he couldbuild up a Brunswick stew such as—but I dined withhim once, and feel no need of outside testimony. (Isuppose it was the French streak in him. He spelthimself 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 inthe brains. When I was a green hand with the rifle Iused to knock their heads off; and monstrous proud Iwas, I remember, of never touching their bodies. NowI 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 uscan do one! For my own part, when I look at myselfand then at my brother-men, I cannot find it in myheart to despise the lowliest of them all. The scornfulalone do I scorn. And when I see a little two-leggedpuff-ball strutting along, with its nose in the air, I longfor old Jim Bush and his rifle, that he might serve itas he did the squirrels.

31.

Old Jim’s ramshackle house stood in the zone whichlay between the Northern and Southern armies duringthe winter following the first battle of Manassas, orBull Bun. He was not young enough to shoulder hismusket, 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 uncomfortablynear old Jim’s little farm, he, dreadingcapture, spent most of his time in the dense woodswhich surrounded his house, creeping back, at nightfall,beneath its friendly roof. True, the roof leaked hereand there, but it was all he had, and he loved it.

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

Old Joe—for, while Jim differed from Diogenes inmany other ways, he was like him in this, that heowned a solitary slave—old Joe they had caught. Nodoubt the sizzling (the dictionary-man will please putthe word in his next edition)—the sizzling of the baconin his frying-pan dulled his hearing; and so his kneessmote together, when, raising his eyes to the darkeneddoor, he saw a Federal soldier standing upon thethreshold.

“Sarvant, mahster!” stammered he through hischattering teeth.

In order to explain his terror to readers of the presentday, I must beg them to recall the fact that Lincolnhad issued a proclamation that the North had no intentionor wish to overthrow slavery in the South.“We come to save the Union,—dash the nigg*rs!” wasthe angry and universal reply of the Federal soldierswhen our women jeered them on their supposed mission.Hence the phrase “wicked and causeless rebellion,”without which no loyal editor could get on withthe least comfort in those early days of the war.

Just as a poetess, nowadays, rends her ringlets tillshe finds a way of working “gloaming” into her littlesonnet.

The abolitionists,—to praise them is the toughest taskmy conscience ever put upon me,—though they broughton the war, were not war-men. They honestly abhorredslavery, and had the courage of their convictions.They would have let the “erring sisters departin peace” so as to rid the Union of the blot of Africanservitude, and deserve such honor as is due to earnestmen. Later on, they changed their position; but middle-agedmen will remember what their views were atthe opening of the struggle.

Not recognizing, therefore, a friend in the “Yankee”who stood in his door-way, the glitter of his bayonetwas disagreeable to old Joe’s eyes, and the point of itlooked so sharp that it made his ribs ache; and hisknees trembled beneath him. For old Joe was not bynature bloodthirsty, nor longed for gore,—least of allthe 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 ablackberry-bush, under which he had forced his head,had fastened themselves upon his right ear. At anyrate, I am afraid he muttered, sotto voce, an oath athearing his old slave and friend call a Yankee master.

“Sarvant, mahster!”

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

The sight of a man’s face distorted with abject fearhas always filled me with deep compassion; but I believeit arouses in the average man (which I am farfrom claiming to be) a feeling of pitiless scorn.

“Sarvant, mahster!” chattered old Joe, writhinghimself behind the kitchen table. The soldier was anaverage man.

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

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

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

The soldier, hungry from his march, fell to, nothingloath, but had scarcely eaten three mouthfuls beforeseveral of his comrades appeared, all of whom fell foulof poor old Jim’s supper with military ardor, if withoutmilitary 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 admissionin regard to the supper.

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

The audacious lack of adjustment between this statementand the facts of the case amazed, almost amused,old Jim. Breathing a little freer, he ventured softly toshake his ear loose from the brier; for he could notreach it with his hand.

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

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

“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’ stepin, and dar warn’t nothin’ for ’em to eat, an’ mahsterhear ’bout it when he come back, how I turn a gent’munhongry ’way fum de do’. How ’bout dat, youreckon? 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 muskethad gone off yet, and Joe began to feel rather morecomfortable.) “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 nosupper jess ’cause he was away, an’ I done turn a gent’munoff widout he supper, mahster he gimme, eff youb’lieve Joe, he gimme ’bout de keenest breshin’ Joeever tase in he born days.” And, throwing back hishead, he gave a laugh such as these soldiers had neverheard in their lives.

And none of us shall ever hear again.

As for old Jim, who had never laid the weight of hisfinger on the romancer whose imagination was nowplaying like a fountain, tears of affectionate gratitudecame into his eyes.

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

Hearing a bustle, he peeped through the briers, andsaw the officer in command of the party coming towardsthe kitchen, bearing in his hand the Virginia flag. Hehad discovered it in old Jim’s bedroom, where he hadtacked it upon the bare wall, so that it was the lastthing he saw at night and the first his opening eyesbeheld. It was an insult to the Union soldiers, heheard the officer say, to flaunt the old rag in theirfaces. It was what no patriot could stand. He wouldteach the dashed rebels a lesson. “Set fire to thishouse,” he ordered. “The old rattletrap would falldown anyway, the first high wind that came along,”he added, with a laugh.

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

Late in the night, when the smoking ruins of hishouse no longer gave any light, Jim crawled stealthilydown the ravine. Could the sentry, as he marchedback and forth on his beat, have seen the look that theold man, turning, fixed upon him every now and thenas he made his way through the jungle, he would havefelt 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 oldoak, and, thrusting down his arm into its hollow trunk,drew forth his rifle.

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

And so, with his rifle across his lap, he sat upon alog and warmed his benumbed limbs, and, looking intofriendly 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? Canit shoot?”

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

Late in the afternoon of the next day (it took himall this day to get thawed) old Jim bade the jolly boysat 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 youmay 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 summitof a densely-wooded little hill, about three hundredyards from where his house had lately stood. Stoppingin front of a tall hickory on its apex, he raised his eyesand surveyed the tree from bottom to top.

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

Old Jim was tough and wiry, and found no great difficultyin climbing this to a point about thirty feet fromthe ground, where a large branch of the hickory camewithin a foot of the white oak. This he cooned till hereached 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 feetfrom the ground, he, with a sharp effort, adjusted hisown 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 openspace 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 outof sight, as he marched to and fro. “Well, old man,”said he, at last, “I reckon you know about all youwant to know.” And twisting his stiff leg out of thefork, with a wry face, he descended the hickory, andtook his seat upon a fallen trunk that lay near, throwingold Betsey across his lap. It was growing dark, andevery now and then he raised his rifle to his cheek andtook aim at various trees around him. Took aim againand again, lowering and raising his rifle, with contractedbrows. “I am afraid my eyes are growingdim,” he muttered; “but the moon will rise at a quarterto ten, and then it will be all right, won’t it, oldBet? Don’t you remember that big gobbler we tumbledout of the beech-tree, one moonlight night—let mesee—nineteen years ago coming next Christmas Eve?And you ain’t going to go back on me to-night, areyou? Oh, I know you will stand by me this one time,if my eyes are just a little old and dim. I know youwill help me out, as you have done many a time before,when I didn’t point you just right, but you knew whereI wanted the bullet to go. Do you know what’s happened,old gal? Do you know that the little cornerbehind the bed, where you have stood for fifty years, isall ashes now, and the bed, too? Do you hear me,Betsey? And as the Holy Scripture says, the birds ofthe air have their nests, and the foxes their holes, butyou and I have not where to lay our heads.”

The old man bowed his head over his rifle; and thefading twilight revealed the cold, steady gleam of itspolished barrel, spotted with the quivering shimmer ofhot tears.

33.

A soldier marched to and fro in the darkness. It oppressedhim, 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 endof 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 isup, now, poor fellow, and your sleep will know nowaking!

Yet it was not you who burned the nest of the poorold man. Nor even your regiment. Nor had you helpedto hound the South to revolution by threats and contumely.’Twas John Brown dissolved the Union. Youhated him and his work, for you loved your wholecountry,—you and your father, who bade you good-by,the other day, with averted face. And now you mustdie that that work may be undone. You and half amillion more of your people.

The South salutes your memory!

Ah, the moon is rising now. Ribbons of light stealingthrough the trees lie across his path, and yonder,at the farther end of it, the Queen of Night pours aflood of soft effulgence through a rift in the wood.The young soldier stood in the midst of it, bathed in aglorious plenitude of peaceful light. Such perfect stillness!Can this be war, thought he? He could hearthe 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,—hesees it not. The tear-stains are upon it still; butthe tears are dried and gone.

Click! click!

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

And the placid moon, serene mocker of mortals andtheir 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 friendanywhere in the heavens above, as some would haveus believe? or the ever-peaceful gods, dwellers uponOlympus, have they in very deed forgotten us?

34.

“Where’s your game, grandpa?” asked the youngsoldier. “We have been sitting up waiting for youand your rabbit.”

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

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

“’Twas old Betsey,” replied he, patting her cheek, asit were. “We whacked one of ’em. He won’t set fireto any more houses, I reckon.”

After this, old Jim, thoroughly acquainted with thecountry for miles around, became a regular scout; andgoing and coming at all hours of the night and day, hewas soon well-known along the line of our outposts.And whenever he had important information to give, hewent straight to headquarters; but whenever, after amoonlight night, he stopped at the picket-post, satdown on a log and toyed with his rifle, seeming to havenothing to say, the boys knew that he was waiting fora certain question: “Yes, old Betsey and me whackedone of ’em last night.” And then he would set outfor headquarters, and the soldiers, passing the news,and adopting old Jim’s word, would say, “Old Bushwhacked another of the rascals last night.” And thesetwo 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, butone who whacked after the fashion of old Jim Bush.

35.

And I am a Bushwhacker who whacketh after thatfashion. So much so, that it seems to me that myparents made a sort of prophetic pun when they namedme John Bouche. The difference between me and oldJim is simply this: that he expressed his sentimentswith a carnal rifle, I mine with a spiritual one. He hungupon the skirts of the Northern hosts; I go stalkingstragglers from the Noble Army of Lies. Every shamthe sturdy Whacker molecules of me impel my soul tohate. Yet my Huguenot blood shrinks from martyrdom.Did not they leave France to avoid it? I neverattack the main body. But let a feeble, emaciated, andworn-out little lie, or a blustering, braggart fraud, ora conceited, coxcombical sham, stray to the right orleft, or get belated on the march! I pounce upon himlike an owl upon a field-mouse. It is my nature to.And so the reader must not be surprised, as we journeyalong together, through scene after scene of my story,to find herself suddenly left alone at the most unexpectedtimes 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 mustangthrough his comical paces,—my coal-black mustang,with his great, shaggy mane, and bushy, flowing tail,that sweeps the ground. For though, as every schoolboyknows, a Poet or other Gifted Person is properlymounted only on a Pegasus, I have been unable to getme one of those winged, high-bounding steeds.

36.

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

One word more,—he begs your pardon. He led youto believe that the opera began at eight, sharp. Youwere there, in your seat, on time, eager to hear thefirst notes of the opening chorus. But I feared thathad you known there was to be a long overture youwould have been late, and thereby missed certain leitmotifs,not to have heard which would have marredwhat was to follow. Honestly, now, had you knownthat Chapter I. was not Chapter I., nor chapter of anykind, would you have read it? Would you not haveskipped it, clear and clean (for it’s a hundred to onethat you are a woman), had you known that it was myIntroduction?

CHAPTER II.

As the last rays of the setting sun were gilding themodest spires of Richmond, early in the month ofOctober, 1860, I was sitting with two young ladies atthe front parlor window of a house on Leigh Street.One of these, Lucy Poythress, like myself, was fromthe county of Leicester; or, to speak with entire exactness,her father’s residence was separated from mygrandfather’s, in that county, by a river only. She hadarrived in Richmond that morning, on a visit to herfriend, Alice Carter. As the two girls, lately school-mates,had not met for three months, and had justrisen from an excellent dinner,—that notable promoterof the affections,—I deem it superfluous to state thatthey 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,—thatis, nearly. I must tell you about it,” continued she,talking, at the same time, with her lips, her hands, andher 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 crossingthe street, two squares below here, I struck myfoot against something and fell flat. A book that Icarried 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 Ifell, and whose face I am sure I had never before seenin Richmond, ran forward, lifted me up, got me mybook and veil, and, in short, he was so graceful, andhis voice was so gentle, when he said ‘Excuse me,’ ashe lifted me from the ground, that—I confess—I—”And dropping her eyes, and with an inimitable simperon her countenance, she made as though straightening,between thumb and forefinger, the hem of herhandkerchief.

“Ah, you are the same dear old Alice still,” criedLucy, leaning forward, and, with laughing lips, kissingher on the cheek. “And you fell in love with the gracefulstranger?”

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

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

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

“Yonder he comes now,” said I, languidly, as one whohad dined well. Two lovely heads shot instantly outof the window.

“Where? where?”

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

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

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

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

The Unknown was crossing the street in a veryleisurely, or rather abstracted, manner, evidently absorbedin thought,—or the lack of it,—for extremesmeet. With hat in hand and chin pressed upon hisbreast, he sauntered along with the air of one who isgoing 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 westood, he stopped, hung his hat on the back of his head,and drew from his breast-pocket a pencil and a piece ofstiff-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?” exclaimedAlice.

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

“The man’s crazy!” said Alice.

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

“Did you ever!” ejacul*ted Alice.

“Did you ever!” echoed Lucy.

“Well, I never!” mocked I.

“St!”

We drew still farther away from the window. Hewas going to pass us. Pencil and paper are again inbreast-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 superfluousflesh!”

“How distinguished-looking!”

So chirruped these twain,—I, meanwhile, interjectingsuch interruptions as I could think of. “No oneever says of me that I haven’t an ounce of superfluousflesh.”

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

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

At the edge of the sidewalk, and nearly opposite thewindow at which we were standing, was an oblongcarriage-block of granite, and upon this was seated, atthis juncture, a sister of Lucy’s,—a little girl of nearlyfour years of age, playing with a set of painted squaresof wood, known in the nursery as “blocks,” which hadbeen presented to her by her godmother, Mrs. Carter, atwhose special request the little thing had been broughtto Richmond. Her country nurse was standing a fewpaces distant, dressed out in her finest, airing her bestcountry manners for the bedazzlement of a city beauof her acquaintance (as having been formerly of hercounty), a mulatto barber who had chanced to pass thatway, and had stopped for a chat about old times. TheUnknown had not observed the little girl till, in hislistless way, he had sauntered to within a few feet ofher, when, catching sight of the mass of sunny curlsthat poured over her neck and shoulders (her backwas turned towards him), he stopped, and seeing whather occupation was and hearing the babbling of herlittle tongue as she agreed with herself, now upon thisplan, now on that, upsetting one structure almostbefore it was begun for another which was to sharea like fate; gazing upon this little scene, a look ofpleased interest, not unmingled with sadness, came intohis 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 herselfinto an argumentative attitude, “of course I do notreally rejoice at the poor woman’s death; but how canyou 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 behindher, and, turning her head and judging with that unerringinfantile instinct that he was a friend, she gavehim a number of those irresistible little looks, withwhich every one is familiar, half coy, half coquettish,which showed that, young though she was, her namewas woman. Ladies at her time of life do not appreciatethe necessity of introductions as preliminary toconversation with gentlemen.

“Build me a house!” cried she to the stranger, runningtowards him and looking now into his face, nowat her blocks, with a smile half expectation, halftimidity.

“I build you a house? Why, certainly, little browneyes!”—taking her plump cheeks between his handsand gazing down into her upturned face with a smilethat was singularly tender and bright; and all themore striking, as it gleamed forth with something ofthe suddenness of a flash of sunlight bursting througha cloud. It had been easy to see, indeed, as he approachedus more nearly, that his preoccupations werenot of a pleasant character. His slightly compressedlips imparted a shade of grimness to his look, and themingled expression of weariness and resolution uponhis features seemed to reveal some struggle going on inhis breast.

“Well, now,” said he, taking up a few of the blocksas he seated himself upon the stepping-stone, “whatkind 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,—“witha great, tall steeple!”

“N-o-o-o! People don’t live in churches! M-a-k-eme—m-a-k-e me—oh! make me one just like ourhouse!” cried she, with sudden triumph, placing herhand upon her new-found friend’s shoulder, thrustingher face almost against his, and opening wide at himher great brown eyes, as much as to say, now wehave it! And away she skipped, backwards, on thetips of her toes, clapping her dimpled hands; chirpingforth, meanwhile, sundry joyous, inarticulate notes;which I shall not merely say were as sweet as thesong of the birds,—for they were warblings from theheart of a happy child,—which notes, I take it, are theloveliest that float upward into the dome of the highheavens,—and blessed whose fingers avail to call themforth!

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

“Bricks!” cried she, in a voice that was almost shrillwith surprise. “Why, it is not a brick house!”

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

“Lor’ me, that’s not our house! Did you think thatwas our house? Oh, how funny!” cried she, gleefullytriumphing in her superior knowledge; then, runningtowards the open window, behind the curtains of whichthe amused spectators of this scene had retired, “SisterLucy!” exclaimed she, “what do you think! Thisgentleman thought this was our house, and we are juston a visit here! Sister Lucy! Sister Lucy! SisterL-u-u-u-c-y!”

Not receiving any reply from that alarmed youngperson, who had fled with me into one corner of theroom, and with appalled look and appealing gestureswas endeavoring to check the convulsive tittering ofher friend Alice, who, in another corner, stood bowedtogether, weak and weeping with suppressed laughter,the little girl turned to her friend and said, “SisterLucy has gone up-stairs, I reckon.”

“Thither Luthy hath dawn up-thtairs, I weckon,”—thatwas 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, canplease the eye of a phonetic reformer only. And sowith the reader’s consent,—in fact, as a compliment toher,—I shall leave, in the main, such transformationsto 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 illuminedday, you know, infants will have ceased to lisp.

The stranger had risen from his seat with rather astartled look, but upon this reassuring suggestion ofhis 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 upontwo, certainly, of the eavesdroppers. Lucy, who wasdiffidence itself, blushed to the roots of her hair; whilean uncomfortable consciousness of looking foolish tookpossession of me. Alice, holding her sides, fell exhaustedupon a sofa.

“Mr. who?” asked he, with a sudden look of interestwhich 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 makesme 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 ripplesof merriment danced about his singularly intenseand glowing eyes, like those on the dark waters ofsome deep lake.

“Did she ever tell you so?”

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

“Mr. Whacker, I assure you,” began Lucy, chokingwith 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 amusem*ntto the Stranger.

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

“She said,” began the little thing, gesticulating withher hands and rolling her eyes,—speaking, in fact, withher 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 troublewas that Lucy, who was as truthful as Epaminondas,could not deny having paid me, in substance, this two-edgedcompliment. So she could only bury her facein her hands. As for the Stranger, he actually laughedaloud.

“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 offshoulder and shut her eyes.

“Say, do you like candy?”

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

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

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

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

She stuck a finger into her mouth and hung herhead.

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

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

“And yellow candy, and—let me see—and stripedcandy, and speckled candy—and—and—and—ALLSORTS 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 towardshim, seized his head, pulled it down, pressed her lipsagainst his ear, shot the momentous name therein andbounded back.

“There! Give me the candy!”

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

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

“Now, don’t tell Mr. Whacker!”

“No,” replied the stranger; but he had heard herwith 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 tomove; and every now and then he looked, out of thecorners of his eyes, at his little companion. At last heslowly rose, but stood motionless, with eyes fixed uponthe ground.

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

And here our mysterious friend had another surprisein store for us. For, when he saw that look, a startledexpression came into his face; and leaning forward, hescrutinized her features with a gaze so searching thatthere was a kind of glare in his eyes,—so that the littlegirl dropped her eyes and drew back, as though witha feeling of dread. But the Unknown suddenly satdown beside her, and, taking one of her hands in bothhis, patted it softly, and, in a voice tender as that of ayoung mother, asked, “But what is your name, my littlecherub?”

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

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

“My name is Laura Poythress.”

“Laura Poythress!”

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

We looked at each other with wide eyes.

Again the stranger rose; this time with nervousabruptness, and took a few rapid turns up and downthe pavement, close to little Laura; then walkingquickly up to her, and stooping down, he asked her, inan eager whisper, “Have you any mother?”

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

He seemed to avert his face when she laid down thisgeneralization; nor could we, from our position, see hisexpression. “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 namedMumma and she is named Mrs. Poythress.”

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

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

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

“Oh, me, the idea!” cried she, raising her hands andeyes in infantile pity of his ignorance. “Why, that’sAunt 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 callyour mother?”

“Mistiss.”

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

“Good-by, Laura,” said the Unknown, taking herplump 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-thirdsof us were girls, several seconds passed without a wordbeing spoken.

“Oh, here comes Mary!” And, looking across theway, I saw Mary Rolfe briskly tripping down the stepsof her father’s residence. Away scampered Alice andLucy into the hall; not to unlock the front door forMary, for that, Richmond-fashion, stood wide open; butimpelled by that instinctive conviction, never entirelyabsent from the female breast, that life is short. I followedwith 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 basinand see how the water, instead of pouring straight outin a business-like way, spins round and round, just asthough 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, acrossmountain-chain and valley, around its advancing storm-centre,so in one of those lesser atmospheric disturbancesset up by the conversation, or rather contemporaneousversation,of three or four girls just met (impossiblethough it be, in the present state of our knowledge,to determine in advance the precise location oftheir area of lowest barometric pressure), it is clear,even to the eye, that the movement of the girls themselvesis cyclonic. And, further, just as, in a storm, thearea of highest barometer is found to be occupied by amore or less tranquil atmosphere, so you shall findthat the centre of a contemporancousversation alwaysmoves forward around a listener,—some weakling of agirl, with a bronchitis, perhaps, or, in rare cases, a stammerer.And again, just as a body of air, itself capableof levelling houses and uprooting trees, may be forcedinto quiescence by its environment of storm, so may areally worthy girl, not otherwise inferior, be reduced tosilence by despair.

This, in fact, was the case with Lucy in the presentinstance. As the lovely human cyclone, whose outwardsign was a world of fluttering ribbons and wavingflounces, came whirling up the steps, through the hall,and into the parlor, it was obvious that she was thepivot around which it revolved.

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

It appears that Mary had seen, from her window, theUnknown, and watched his strange performances tillhe was gone. She had not seen us at our window, andtripping across the street to tell her dear Alice what asingular man she had seen sitting on her carriage-block,and talking with Laura, she had found that Alicehad seen and heard more than she. And so, with thatinstinctive dread of loss of time so characteristic of thesex, they both, when they met on the sidewalk, begantalking at once. They began talking to each other; butsoon, their words, in obedience to that law of which Mr.Herbert Spencer makes so much (that moving bodiesalways follow the line of least resistance), began flowinginto Lucy’s ears. Not that Mary took possessionof one ear, Alice of the other. Rather did they, in obedienceto law, revolve around her, as the earth aroundthe sun, the moon round the earth, water round itsexit, pouring their tidings into either organ with impartialeagerness.

It may excite wonder among my male readers thatAlice should have told Lucy things that she knew thelatter had seen with her own eyes. But this would behardly putting the case fairly, as her remarks werecouched rather in the form of exclamatory commentsthan of pure narrative. The male reader, again (wouldthat there were no such dull animals in the world!),must be warned not to suppose that Alice and Marywere rude in talking simultaneously. It is discourteous,oh, crass mortal, for one man to interrupt another; butwhere a party of girls are met together, it will be foundthat 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 villagechimney, the more of them in the air at once, themore merrily do they flit.

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

It is when I contemplate this well-known phenomenonthat my wonder daily grows that no allusion hasever been made to this acknowledged superiority ofthe female over the male hom*o, by what are calledthe woman-women, in their annual pow-wows in theinterest of their sex. Cropped-haired woman aftercropped-haired woman will arise, reinforced, here andthere, by some mild-eyed male, o’er whose slopingshoulders soft ringlets cluster, and the burden of theplaint of she-he and he-she, alike, will be only thatwoman is unjustly excluded by man from this employmentor that privilege, for which she is as well fitted ashe. They seem to me to forget that Hannibal was notovercome till Africa was invaded; and they will neveradvance their cause till they find some female Seipio toput man upon the defensive, and aggressively insistthat the real question is not whether she is capable ofbecoming lawyer, physician, preacher, but whether heis, or, at any rate, will be, in the re-fashioned worldwhich is coming, fit for any avocation whatever.

Let us take the legal profession for an example. Excludingthe male lawyer of the period, as an interestedwitness, who can fail to see how much would be gainedwere our judges, our counsel, and our jurymen allwomen? As things actually stand, the law’s delay haspassed into a proverb. But what delay could there bein a trial wherein all the witnesses could be examinedsimultaneously, without a word being lost on the jury;where the learned (and lovely) counsel could sum upside by side (like a pair of well-matched trotters),neither of them getting in the first word, neither (whatfairness!) being allowed the last? Again. Instead of adrowsy Bench, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, youwould have an alert Sofa, capable of lending one ear tothe 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—theCourt—estimated the relative good looks of the litigants,preparatory to instructing the jury and layingdown the law. And so of the other professions, didspace allow.

But this is not the worst of the matter. Alreadyhave advanced thinkers begun dimly to see that, withthe approaching extinction of war, the time will comewhen courage will be worse than useless; while, in therapid multiplication of labor-saving machinery, there isdiscernible the inevitable approach of an era whensuperior strength will be a disadvantage. For is notstrength assimilated food? And in the Struggle forExistence will not She, requiring less food, and beingtherefore Fittest, survive? So that, with Seer’s eye, Iseem to behold the day when my sex, excluded fromevery avocation, shall perish from off the face of thatearth over which we have so long and so haughtilylorded.

The truth is, my dear lad (would that you were agirl!), I shudder when I think of your fate and that ofyour brother males, three hundred years from now.Preserved here and there in the zoological gardens ofthe wealthy and the curious, along with rare specimensof the bison of the prairie, skeletons of the AmericanIndian and the dodo; exhibited in mammoth moralshows, and meeting the stare of the unnumberedfemale 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 womanfrom that haven of rest, the ballot-box. Why, it wasbut the other day that I saw a boy with a basketfulof pups, which he was going to drown; and on myasking him why he condemned them to this fate, heanswered, in the simplest way, “Oh, they are nothingbut she’s.”

Yet we are never tired of boasting of our nineteenthcentury!

How the world is to be kept wagging when once thecustom is established of drowning all the boy-babies(except specimens for menageries and preserves), is aproblem for the science of the future. It suffices thatI 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 floatby the womankind of your day, in remembrance ofmy 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 identicalman who lifted me up the other day when I fellin the street.”

“You don’t tell me so!”

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

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

“Yes, indeed, I am too sorry. Why, Mary, it wouldhave done”—and her irrepressible eyes began totwinkle—“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 eagerinterest; for she remembered that she had been alwaysregarded as the genius of the school.

“I spoke of the novel which I was writing,” persistedAlice.

“Yes, but—”

“It is a maxim of the common law, Miss Lucy,” remarkedthe learned counsel, with ponderous gravity,“that all shall be held innocent till proven guilty. Butshould novel-writing ever be made (as seems inevitable)a statutory offence, I hold it as probable that this rulingwill be reversed, and the presumption of the law adjudged,in the present state of literature, to lie theother way,—in plain English, that the onus probandiinnocentiam would be held to rest upon the prisoner atthe bar.”

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

“To think I should have missed it!”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Come over and dine withus to-morrow, and you will have a chance of seeinghim.”

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

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

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

“I have no doubt of it, for he seems in some strangeway as much interested in us as we in him. At anyrate, you will dine with us. Mr. Whacker will ofcourse do likewise.”

The reader will please imagine the dinner in questionover, the three young ladies eagerly watching, up anddown the street, through the slats of the closed Venetianblinds, while Mrs. Carter and myself, too dignifiedto manifest our curiosity so clearly, held ourselves inthe rear as a sort of reserve. Laura, our little decoy,was trotting, meanwhile, from room to room, singingand babbling; having, in fact, entirely forgotten theStranger and his promise. It had been decided in acouncil of war not to remind her of it till our man wasseen approaching, when she was to be sent out in acasual way to intercept him.

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

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

It appears that the Unknown, instead of making hisapproach by way of Leigh Street, as we somehow expected,had suddenly turned into that thoroughfarefrom the cross-street. The girls from their positioncommanded a view of this cross-street for some distance,looking towards the south, as the Carters’ residencewas but one remove from the corner. Strangeto say, however, the gentleman emerged into LeighStreet from the north, as though returning from awalk in the country, and thus came upon the girlswithout warning. The reserves, forgetting their dignity,scampered off in their search for Laura. She,meanwhile, ignorant of her importance, was sitting inthe back yard, building mounds upon a pile of sandthat lay there, and before she could be found thestranger had passed. He turned and looked back severaltimes, and when he reached the end of the blockhe stopped, and, turning, looked for some time in ourdirection. Meanwhile, I, having secured the littletruant, was hurrying to the front, while Mrs. Carter,plump and jovial soul, was not far behind me.

“Make haste! make haste!” cried Alice, who, withMary, had in her impatience found her way into thehall. “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 trottedout 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, afterwith some difficulty escaping from Mrs. Carter’s urgentinvitation to dine with them again next day, I agreedto call immediately after dinner, so as to be on handshould the Stranger, as we thought likely, return insearch of Laura. Nor were we disappointed; and thistime, warned by the failure of the preceding day, wehad kept Laura well in hand; so that she was readyon the front steps as he was passing.

The two friends smiled as their eyes met.

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

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

He unbuttoned his coat and slowly inserted his handinto his breast-pocket.

“Pull it out!” cried she.

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

“Yes!” answered she, skipping about with claspedhands.

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

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

He withdrew the package from his pocket with aslowness which made her dance with impatience; openedone end, peeped into it cautiously, and gave her a beaminglook 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 thesteps.

“Why, where are you going?”

“I am going to show my candy to sister Lucy,” repliedshe, 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 sawhim examining the contents of the precious package.“Take a little piece.”

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

“Yeth, ma’am,” replied she, abstractedly; with onehand thrusting into her mouth a second piece, whilewith 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 yoursister Lucy; besides, it will make you sick.”

“Candy don’t never make me sick. I can showsister 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 makehim 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 knowwhat 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 isLaura, too.”

Our coaching had told.

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

“She is at our house.”

“And where is your house?”

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

The stranger was looking upon the ground, andheeded neither the smile nor the movement againstthe 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 repeatedthe 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 hisvoice that thrilled us all with a strange excitement, weknew not why.

“We sail in our boat to see Uncle Tom.” [Many ofthe young people in our neighborhood called my grandfatherby this name.]

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

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

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

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

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

The audience half rose from their seats. “Why, whocan 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, Ireckon. 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 onLaura’s part that I have recorded, it is high time thatI explained that the idea had naturally enough arisenin her mind from hearing Mary and Alice rally hersister upon the increased frequency of my visits to theCarters’ 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 supposeyou had better run in and show your candy to yoursister Lucy.”

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

CHAPTER VI.

The morning following these occurrences, and forseveral days thereafter, I had occasion to be absentfrom town. Calling at the Carters’ on the evening ofmy return, I found that the daily visits of the mysteriousstranger had not been interrupted. There was,however, nothing of special interest to report. Theinterviews with Laura had been short, and marked onlyby 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 hadshared the danger with Laura so magnanimously thather 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 sooften, what do you think of him? What are your theories?”

“There are as many opinions as there are girls,” saidMrs. Carter. “What is mine? Well, I should supposethat I was too old to express an opinion upon suchromantic affairs. But one thing I will say, he is undoubtedlya gentleman.”

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

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

“You see, Mr. Whacker,” said Alice, turning to mewith earnest gravity in her eyes, under which theirirrepressible twinkle could have been discernible onlyto those who knew her well,—“you see I have been inlove with him ever since I first saw him, and I inferfrom mamma’s remark that should anything ever comeof 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, “neverallowed 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 toasking him his name, and she brought back the drollestone imaginable,—‘Don Miff.’ Think of it! But of courseLaura got it all wrong; that could not be any humanbeing’s name,—of course not.”

“The Don part of it,” broke in Alice, “has confirmedMary in her previously entertained opinion that he wasa nobleman of some sort travelling incog.; it would beso novelly, you know; though what good it could doher I cannot conceive, even were it so, for it was I who‘sighted’ him first; it was I to whom he first offeredhis hand; mark that! it was I who first fell in lovewith him; and I wish it distinctly understood that asagainst the present company”—and she made a sweepingcourtesy—“he—is—MINE!”

“I waive all my rights,” said I.

“Yes; but I don’t know how it will be with thesegirls, 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 explosionall around the circle aroused Mary to the consciousnessthat once more and for the thousand andfirst time she had failed to detect the banter that lay inambush behind her friend’s assumed earnestness. “Oh,I knew you couldn’t mean it,” said she, with a faintsmile. “The truth is, Mr. Whacker,” continued she,“I am not sure that I altogether like this mysteriousDon. Do you know, Alice, I should be afraid ofhim?”

“Afraid of him! Why, pray?”

“Well, perhaps I am jumping at conclusions, as theysay we women all do; but, unless I am greatly mistaken,that man, while he might be a very staunch friend, iscertainly 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; butwhenever the absent needed a defender, the sufferinga friend, or the down-trodden a champion, that gentlevoice was not wanting.

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

“Very true,” rejoined Mary; “but have you not noticedthe expression of his eyes at times, when he ispacing to and fro, as he did for some time yesterday,reviewing in his mind, I should judge, some event inhis past life? Every now and then there would comeinto them a look so stern and bitter as to give hiscountenance an expression which might almost becalled ferocious.”

“Oh, Mr. Whacker, I think Mary’s imagination mustbe running away with her,” broke in Lucy. “Now letme tell you of an incident which all of us witnessedone day while you were absent. The day had beendamp and raw; and just as Mr. Don Miff—I don’t wonderat your laughing,—was there ever such a namebefore? What was I saying? Ah! there came on oneof those cold October rains just as the Don was goingaway. He had taken but a few steps when his attention wasarrested by the whining of a little dog acrossthe street. What kind of a dog did you say it was,Mrs. Carter?”

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

“Well,” resumed Lucy, “the poor, little, naked creaturewas whining piteously in the rain, and pawingagainst that alley-gate over yonder by that large tree;and when this ferocious man, whom Mary thinks soterrible, saw him, he stopped, then moved on, thenstopped again, and at last, seeing that the little thinghad been shut out, he actually walked across the streetand opened the gate for him!”

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

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

“Upon my word—”

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

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

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

The last remark was levelled at her mother, who hada singular way of laughing; to wit, shaking all over,without emitting the slightest sound, while big tearsrolled down her cheeks. Alice was the idol of herheart, and her queer freaks of vivacious drollery oftenset her mother off, as at present, into uncontrollableundulations of entirely inaudible laughter.

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

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

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

“Yes,” said Alice, “you elicited from Lucy her maidenspeech; which I had never expected to hear in thislife.”

“But really,” continued Mary, “the Don’s eyes arepeculiar. Do you know what I have thought of, morethan once, when I have seen their rapidly changingexpression? I was reminded of certain stars which—”

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

Mary smiled, but continued: “of certain stars whichseem first to shrink and then to dilate,—now growingdark, at the next moment shooting forth bickeringflames,—at one time—”

Mary here caught Alice’s eye, and could get nofarther.

Alice rose slowly to her feet and said, gravely wavingher closed fan as though it had been the wand of ashowman, “This, ladies and gentlemen, is not a speech,but poetry and romance. I would simply observe thatwhen a young woman begins by stating that she doesnot like a certain man, and ends by comparing his eyesto stars, the last state of that young woman shall beworse than the first. But I am somehow reminded ofthe Moonlight Sonata. Mr. Whacker, I beg you willconduct 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 allthere; 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, onmy way here, I came upon Laura and her nurse andthe Don standing at the corner. Laura did not observeme till I was close to her, but, as soon as she did,she ran up and took hold of my hand, and said, pointingstraight at the Don, ‘He’s the one what gives methe candy;’ and, immediately releasing my hand, sheran 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 onewhat’—” And I paused.

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

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

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

“I scarcely know what I did or did not say. Hespoke first, saying something about the originality ofLaura’s mode of introducing people, and I made someconfused, meaningless reply, and then, after we hadexchanged a few commonplaces—”

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

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

“Why, what’s the matter, Molly?”

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

“What?”

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

This was before the days of the Charley Ross horror;but the proposition threw all the young ladies into aferment, and ejacul*tion followed ejacul*tion in rapidsuccession. At last Alice rose, flew up-stairs, and presentlyreturned with her mother.

“What’s all this?” began Mrs. Carter.

“Yes, ma’am, dis is adzactly how ’twas. Laura andme, we was a-standin’ on the cornder a-lookin’, andhere comes de gent’mun dat’s always a-bringin’ her decandy, and, says he, ‘Good-evenin’, little Rosebud,’ saysjess so, and ‘Howdy do, my gal,’ says he, polite-like,and says I, ‘Sarvant, mahster,’ says I, ‘I’m about,’ saysI; and den Marse Jack he comed up, and Laura, shecalled Marse Jack out o’ he name. ‘Lor’ me,’ says I,‘chill’un don’t know no better.’ Howsomdever, I toldher, I did, ‘Heish!’ says I, easy-like, and ‘Mind yourraisin,’ says I, jess as I tell you, and Marse Jack willsay de same; and Marse Jack he comed on here to dehouse, and we was a-standin’ on de cornder, and degent’mun says, ‘Laura,’ says he, ‘I ain’t got no candyfor you to-day, but I want you to go wid me to Pizzini’sto get some ice-cream and cake; and won’t you go,my gal,’ says he, ‘an’ ax de lady of the house, downyonder, 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 accedingto the request of the stranger; but upon Molly’s statingthat the gentleman expected her to accompany Laura,a strong majority voted in the affirmative; and whenthe little lady herself, unable to control her impatience,came bustling into the parlor, her curls dancing, hercheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling with expectancy,the proposition was carried unanimously; to the obvioussatisfaction of Molly, who lost no time in sallyingforth with her little charge.

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

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

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

“I knew it,” said she, with modest triumph. “Maryhas read so many novels and poems that she lives inconstant expectation of adventures; as though an adventurecould 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?” Andshe stood as though rooted to the pavement, helplesslylooking about her for some avenue of escape.

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

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

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

Meanwhile, the Don was coming up the street, and,as he approached us, I could see that his features weresoftened by a half smile. We met, face to face, at thecorner above the Carters’. His eyes chancing to fallupon 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 junctureshe, for the first time, looked up, and their eyes met.It was then that I understood what Mary had saidabout his eyes. For a second his steps seemed almostarrested, and his eyes, filled with a strange mixture ofcuriosity and intense interest, seemed to dilate andto shoot forth actual gleams of light. Lucy, who wasleaning heavily upon my arm, shivered throughout herentire frame.

“Why, what can be the matter?”

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

Arrived in front of the house, within which was tobe heard the busy chattering of Laura and our otherfriends, Lucy hurried in at the gate, and, without attemptingto enter the house, dropped down upon thefirst step she reached, and leaning back, drew a longbreath.

“Mr. Whacker,” said she, after a few moments’silence, “you must really excuse me. I cannot conceivewhat made me so silly. What is he to me? Butdo you know, sometimes the strangest ideas come intomy head, and I often wonder whether other peoplehave the same. Sometimes I will visit some place forthe first time, and suddenly it will seem to me that Ihave been there before, although I know all the timethat it is not so. And again I will be listening to someone relating an incident just happened, and it will seemsuch an old story to me; and it will seem as though Ihad heard just the same story ages and ages ago. Doyou know, I sometimes think that the ancients—however,it is all nonsense, of course. But oh, I would notfeel 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, drawingme towards him, and so strongly, that nothing but thefirm grasp I had on your arm saved me from rushingup to him and taking him by the hand. And then,when I passed him, without speaking to him, suddenlythere came over me the strangest feeling. Will youthink 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 seemedto me as though I had known him ages ago, in someother world, such as the Pythagoreans imagined, andthat I, bright and young and happy, meeting him again,I, though I saw he was unhappy, cruelly passed himby! Oh, Mr. Whacker, I do pity him so!”

Her lower lip trembled, and her soft brown eyesglistened with rising tears. For a while neither of usspoke,—she, perhaps, afraid to trust her voice, I respectingher emotion by silence.

“Yes,” said I, at length, “it is an old story. ‘What’sHecuba 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 fewtimes, with a rather serious expression of countenance,and you straightway jump to the conclusion that heis profoundly miserable, and even shed tears over hisfate.”

“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 particleof evidence, not a scintilla, as we lawyers say, that theDon is any more to be pitied than I, or any otherperson of your acquaintance.”

“Oh, a woman’s rules of evidence are very differentfrom what you lawyers find in your great, dusty, dullvolumes. See how I should state the case. I see agreat, strapping, fine-looking fellow, to borrow yourlanguage, coming here, day after day, from I know nothow far, or at how great inconvenience to himself, withno other object, so far as I can divine, save that of enjoyingthe affectionate greetings of a little child of lessthan four years of age, whom he met by chance, andwho, though nothing to him, in one sense seems everythingto him, in that her childish love has gone out tohim. What kind of a home must this man have, doyou think? He can have no home. And yet youwonder that I am sorry for him!”

“No,” said I, gladly seizing the opportunity ofchanging the current of her thoughts; “it is true thatthe views you hold of evidence do not coincide withthose of Greenleaf; but I have long since ceased towonder 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 straydogs’ tails, and the hosts of cats that have escapedtwine cravats—”

“How cruel you boys used to be!”

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

I think it will be allowed that, whatever else thisstory may be, it has been, so far, genteel. It is withregret, therefore, that, in the very opening of thiseighth chapter, I find myself driven to the use of aword which hardly seems to comport with the previousdignity of our narrative. But, after turning the matterover in my mind again and again, I have found it impossibleto discover any satisfactory synonyme, or inventany delicately-phrased equivalent for the veryplebeian vocable in question. With the reader’s kindpermission, therefore—

To a philosopher and a philanthropist (and I amsomewhat of both, after a Bushwhackerish fashion)the word Lager Bier should undoubtedly be one of themost precious additions to a language already rich insuch 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 ahost of such etymological simples as Juleps, Smashes,Straights, and Cobblers. For the introduction into thiscountry of the mild tipple it indicates has unquestionablydone more to arrest drunkenness than all the temperancesocieties that have been, are, or shall be. Still,the word itself, spell it how you will, has hardly a distinguishedair; and hence I long sought, and shouldgladly have adopted, some such aristocratic expressionas 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 wasunwilling to sacrifice precision to elegance.

Now, the necessity that I am under of alluding tothe Solace of Arminius at all, arises in the simplestway.

At the period of which I am writing, this beverage,newly introduced, had great vogue in Richmond, notablyamong the young men. Especially did college-bredyoung fellows give in a prompt adhesion to the newfaith; 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 Germanuniversities, that man was the lion of the evening.His it was to excite our wonder by reciting deeds ofprowess that he had witnessed; his to tell us what hadbeen done; his to show us how it could be done again.I wonder whether a young medical man whom I knewin those days (now a staid and solid doctor) remembersthe laugh which greeted him when he essayed to explain,to an attentive class that he was coaching in thenew knowledge, how the German students managedactually to pour their beer down their throats,—swallowedit without swallowing, that is.

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

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

Why is it that a man recalls with such pleasure thefollies of his youth? And why is it that the wisethings 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, whileof acts of wisdom scarcely one occurs to me.

The favorite haunt of my beer-drinking friends atthis period was a smallish room,—you could not havecalled it a saloon,—a regular nest of a place, situated,not to be too explicit, not very far from, say FourthStreet. Our little nook stood alone in that part of thecity, and, being so isolated in an exceedingly quietneighborhood, it met exactly the wants of the jovialthough orderly set of young professional men who,with the honest Teutons of the vicinage, frequentedit.

Well, on the occasion to which I have referred, halfa dozen of us were grouped around a table, and wereunusually merry and bright. Our doctor’s new wordhad been hailed as a real acquisition, in honor of whichthere was some sparkling of wit, and more of beer,—ahappy saying being as real a provocative of thirst as apretzel,—and, moreover, there had arisen between himand a young and promising philologist, lately graduatedat the university, and since become a distinguishedprofessor in the land, a philologico-anatomical, serio-comicaldiscussion, in which the philologian maintainedthat it was hopeless for American to emulate Germanyouth in this matter of drinking beer, while at thesame time maintaining a voluntary suppression of theperistaltic action of the œsophagus, for the very simplereason that the throat of the German, incessantlyopened wide in pronouncing the gutturals of his language,and hardened by the passage of these roughsounds, becomes in process of time an open pipe, aclear, firm tube,—in a word, a regular rat-hole of athroat, such as no English-speaking youth mightreasonably aspire to. The medical man, I remember,came back at him with the quick smile of one whoknows, and asked him if he did not confound thelarynx with the œsophagus.

“I do,” broke in a young lawyer.

“You do what?”

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

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

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

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

Turning, I saw Don Miff standing by the counter, exchangingin 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 thefirst time you have seen him? Why, he has beencoming here every evening for a week at least. Ah, Iremember, you have not put in an appearance forabout that time. We boys have nicknamed him ‘theGrenadier.’ He always takes a seat at that tablewhere he is now, and, after sitting about an hour, anddrinking two or three glasses of beer, goes off. Weare curious to know who the deuse he can be.”

“Does he always come alone?”

“Invariably. Never speaks to a soul, save Hans, ofcourse. 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 expansiveand bland, born of many beers.

“No; I can’t say that I do. I have met him on thestreet 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 jollyparty 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 withmuch hospitable bustle.

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

“Mr. Whacker,” replied I; and, seizing his hand, Ishook 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 couldnot expect, in our every-day world, to meet an actualperson with such a name as that.”

“I should think not,” said Alice. “But what is hisname, 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 DonMiff as the result of her investigations, and none of usever 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 werelooking from Alice to me, and from me to Alice, witha 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 ofher foot.

“But he told me his name himself.”

“I can’t help what he told you; but no one shallever 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 believethat any Smith, senior, in the full blaze of the nineteenthcentury, would name his son John?”

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

“Improbable, Alice? Why, it is preposterous. Atany rate, be there or be there not John Smiths in theworld, 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 hisname than Don Miff was. And as I, somehow, likethe oddity of the latter, Don Miff shall he be with metill the end of the chapter.”

“Selah!” said Alice.

CHAPTER X.

The most dangerous gift that a man can possess issuperior skill in perilous employments. Sooner or laterthe most illustrious lion-tamer furnisheth forth funeralunbaked 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-defencehas been brought to high perfection; but youshall no more find a prize-fighter with a straight nosethan a rope-dancer with sound ribs. Every now andthen (for the danger is not confined to the expertsthemselves) 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 theeminent pippin upon which Swiss liberty is based mighthave been placed once too often on his son’s head, hadnot William Tell abandoned, when he did, archery forpolitics.

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

Now, no true artist is content unless he may exhibithis virtuosity; and this young man, like all crackwhips, had conceived the notion that the art of drivingconsisted, not in bringing back his passengers to theirpoint of departure, safe and sound, but rather in showinghow near he could take them to the gates of Paradisewithout actually ushering them therein. To himthe sweetest incense was the long-drawn sigh of reliefbreathed out by his friends when deposited, once againand alive, at their front door. Who but he could havecontrolled such untrained horses,—spirited is what hecalls them? Who passed that wagon at that precisespot,—made that rapid turn without upsetting?

Think not, my boy, that it escapes me that in yourbright day of things perfected there will be no moredrivers of horses,—nor horses either, for that matter,save in zoological gardens. Not forgetting this, butremembering that human nature remains the same,have I written these words. Beware, then, oh, lastlingering 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 therear seat, Sthenelus and I in front, on a rather moreelevated position. Returning from our drive, we arerapidly moving down Franklin Street. A heavy countrywagon is just in front of us, and not far behind it,though rather on the other side of the street, anothercreeps along, both meeting us. The problem was topass between them. One of those fellows who knowsnothing about driving would have brought his horsesdown 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 reinsalong the backs of his rapid bays, and we whizzed pastthe first wagon. The next instant our charioteer wentsprawling over the dashboard, carrying the reins withhim; though I, foreseeing the collision with the secondwagon, had braced myself for the shock, and so managedto retain my seat.

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

Nurses scurried hither and thither, gathering up theircharges. Men stood in the middle of the street, shoutingand sawing their arms, waving hats, umbrellas,handkerchiefs, but getting out of the way just in timeto let the more and more frantic horses pass; whiletroops of boys came rushing down every cross-street,their eyes a-glitter with barbaric joy, and shoutingback the glad tidings to their toiling but shorter-leggedcomrades in the rear.

Where do all the boys come from?

But wild with terror as they were, the horses turnedup the cross-street along which they had been drivenearlier in the afternoon,—the one, that is, intersectingLeigh one block above the Carters’,—and up this theyrushed with a terrific clatter.

Meanwhile, I had not been idle. Immediately uponthe fall of our charioteer and the bounding forward ofthe horses, both girls had sprung to their feet with acry of horror; but I shouted to them to sit down, andthey obeyed. Alice, however, with every jolt of unusualseverity would rise and attempt to leap from thevehicle, and again and again I had to seize her andthrust her back into her seat. Lucy, on the contrary,gave me no further trouble. Ashy pale, with her handsclasped, she sat trembling and silent, her appealingeyes fixed upon me. At last I insisted upon their sittingupon the floor of the carriage, assuring them, inas confident a tone as I could muster, that there wasno earthly danger if they would but resolutely holdthat position; and in this, too, they obeyed me, thoughin Alice’s case I had to supplement my commands bya firm grip upon her shoulder.

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

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

Picture to yourself, gentle reader, Mr. Fat Whackermoving 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,—oftena more powerful emotion than the fear of death.(I, for example, once saw an officer, while the battle ofSpottsylvania Court-House was raging, blush, insteadof 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 asharpshooter 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 nursestanding near by. Molly saw us as soon as we turnedinto Leigh Street, and knowing the horses, I suppose(all recognition of me being, I must presume, out of thequestion), rushed up to the Don with a scream. Heleaped to his feet, and, taking in the situation at aglance, sprang into the middle of the street.

Perhaps the effect was intensified to me by the concentrationof light wrought by the involuntary hindsightarrangement of my legs; possibly my perceptivefaculties, stimulated by the situation, were unusuallykeen; but the bearing and look of the Don remain tothis 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 countenancethat struck me most. His grimly-set lips, hisdistended nostrils, his brows intensely knit over hisdarkly glancing eyes, but, above all, his head, thrownback, and rocking to and fro in sympathy with the oscillationsof the approaching team, gave him a look offerocious disdain.

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

’Twas Milton’s Satan stood there!

But just as the grimness of the countenance of Clearchusappeared odious to his soldiers in camp, butlovely in the hour of battle, so the look I have beendescribing seemed to me, at this critical juncture, torival the beautiful disdain of Byron’s Apollo Belvedere.It was the sternly confident look of a man who scornedto rank failure among possibilities.

What would have been the result, had the horsesheld their straight course down the middle of the street,we can only conjecture, but such was the force of habitthat, frantic as they were, they bore so far to the leftjust before reaching the Don, that the left wheels rattledalong the gutter, within a few inches of the carriage-block,up to which they had so frequently beendriven by their owner. The Don rushed to the rightto intercept them, and, just as they were about to passhim, sprang upon the head of the off horse with an inarticulatecry so fierce, and a vigor so tremendous, thatthe animal, partly thrown back upon his haunchesswerved, in his terror, violently to the left, forcing hismate upon the sidewalk. But the Don had leaped toofar. Struck in the right side by the pole, he was hurledto the ground, his head striking the pavement withgreat force. In a moment of time both hoofs and wheelshad passed over his prostrate form.

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

I was somewhat stunned by my fall, but extricatingmyself from my entanglements, I rose just in time tosee Alice spring from the carriage, followed by Lucy.The latter fell as she alighted from the carriage, butbefore I could reach her the Don had staggered up toher and lifted her from the ground. He was hardlyrecognizable. His clothes were soiled and torn, andblood was streaming from two ugly gashes in his face,—oneon his forehead and another in his right cheek.

“I trust you are not hurt?” said he.

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

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

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

But her further utterance was interrupted by thealmost 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 miscellaneouscrowd had clustered around our party, throughwhich Mary, who had witnessed the accident from herwindow, rushed to greet her friends. To add to theconfusion, little Laura, her nerves unstrung by thescene, was wailing piteously; so that, for a moment,we forgot the Don.

“Look! oh, look!” suddenly cried Lucy, in an excitedvoice; and seizing me by the arm, she gave me apush. “Quick! quick!” said she, pointing towardsour deliverer.

He was leaning heavily against the lamp-post, which,for support, he had clasped with his arms; but, theirhold relaxed, they had fallen and hung listlessly by hisside. With pallid face, vacant, upturned eyes, andparted 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 findinga 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 agonizedterror in her face.

“It is the Don. He tried to stop the horses, but wasknocked down, and then both they and the carriagepassed over his body.”

Mrs. Carter was by his side in an instant. His eyeswere closed, but opening them slightly, and seeingher sympathizing looks, a faint smile illumined hisashy-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 andhis 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 sawmy friend Charley.

“What, you in the city! You are just in time. Wewant 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 himgently, we moved towards the house. Some papersfell out of his breast-pocket as we raised him from theground, which Charley gathered together and put intohis own pocket for the time being.

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

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

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

“To-day. On a little b-b-b-business. Who is ourfriend?” 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 heavysleep and decided to make no examination into his injuries,till he awoke. So he lay, just as he was, in hisclothes, till eleven o’clock, at which time he began toexhibit symptoms of returning consciousness; and wesent 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 sideto convey tidings of his condition to the girls, whowere naturally anxious to know how matters weregoing with him. A little after eleven, after turninguneasily from side to side for some time, he awoke.Mrs. Carter arose softly, and going to the bedside andleaning over him, asked if he wanted anything; andhe called for a glass of water. He barely moistenedhis lips, however, and then, looking from one to anotherof us in a bewildered way, and scanning the room withfeverish eyes, he raised his head from the pillow andasked, with a puzzled look, “Where am I?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, and brought you in here; but you mustn’ttalk.”

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

“That’s right. Lie quietly where you are, and aftera while you will go to bed and have a good night’s rest, andwill 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 starearound the room. “Where am I? This is not myroom,” said he, with rather a wild look; and he triedto rise on his elbow, but fell back with an expression ofpain on his face, closed his eyes, and lay motionless fora little while. Presently he opened them again. “Idon’t know this room!” And his eyes ranged up anddown and from face to face with a sort of glare. Mrs.Carter gave us an anxious look. She arose, and, drawingher chair alongside the bed, began passing her fingersthrough his hair. Immediately the wild look passedout of his eyes, and his face was suffused with a smileof infantile sweetness.

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

“Yes,” said he, simply.

Suddenly he started up with staring eyes, and criedout, “There they come! There they come! Molly!Take Laura! Molly! Quick! Quick! Get out of theway! Ah! I missed ’em!” and he fell back with agroan.

Just then the doctor entered. Mrs. Carter touchedher head.

“That’s nothing!” replied the doctor, in a cheeryvoice. He was a large man, with a large head, coverednot so much with auburn hair as with a tawny mane.His face, too, was leonine in its strength, and his steplight and springy; and he came into a sick-room withan air which seemed to say that when he entered bythe door disease had to fly out by the way of the window,or else he would know the reason why. Hewalked straight up to the sufferer and placed his handupon his forehead. The Don gave him a perplexedlook, which passed away, however, when the doctorbegan to feel his pulse. The firm and confident look ofthe doctor seemed to give the patient control of hisfaculties.

“Your head aches?”

“Badly.”

“Of course. Any pain elsewhere?”

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

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

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

The examination over, the doctor wrote his prescriptions,and, before taking his leave, suggested that oneof us should sit up with the patient, as his flightinesswas likely to return during the night, while the othermade himself comfortable on a lounge till he wasneeded as a relief. Giving us his final directions, heleft the room; but no sooner had he emerged into theupper hall than he was surrounded by Mrs. Carter andthe three girls, Mary having decided to pass the nightwith her friends.

“Is he badly hurt?”

“Yes, badly.”

“Dangerously?”

“His body is black and blue; there is an ugly lumpon 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 tremblinglips, “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 thedoctor, with a certain jolly imperiousness. “Scamper!”And he shook his tawny mane. “No doubt there areplenty of fellows who would gladly die for you, but Iintend to pull this one through. Good-night. Go anddream of the hero. Of course you are all in love withhim. Good-night.” And with a courtly bow he tookhis leave.

CHAPTER XII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it possible?”

“Yes; but you have been delirious, and of coursecould know nothing of the lapse of time. You canimagine what our feelings were, doubtful as we wereas to the result of your injuries. There you lay, sufferingfrom possibly fatal injuries, while, owing to the disorderedcondition of your brain, we could in no possibleway learn from you the address of your friends,—youremember, Mr. Frobisher,—nor write them of your condition.”The Don’s face grew clouded, as Charley’squick eyes perceived; but Mrs. Carter’s being fixed uponCharley for the moment, she did not remark the change.(I was getting a nap in an adjoining room.) “I amsure,” continued she, “I cannot explain why I felt so,for I did all I could, even insisting, one night, whenthe doctor pronounced your condition exceedingly critical,upon Mr. Frobisher’s looking through your pocketsfor letters or other sources of information; but I couldnot help repeating and repeating to myself, What willhis mother say when she learns that we—Ah, you aresuffering again. Well, we must not talk any more justnow. You will be better after breakfast. You cantake some breakfast, can you not? No? But I shallsend up some toast, may I not? Yes? Ah, that’sright. It will do you good; and little Laura shall beallowed now to pay you the visit she has so oftenbegged for.”

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

Charley went to the door and called her, and soonher little feet were heard pattering along the hall; butreaching the door, and seeing the Don lying in bed,and so pale and scarred, she stood abashed and hesitatingupon the threshold, with one rosy finger in hermouth,

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

“Did you?” said he, with a grateful smile. “I believeyou are the best friend I have in the world.” Andhe 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 Laurahas just used,—Don Miff. She came in one eveningand said that that was your name; and do you knowwe were all so stupid that we could not imagine whatwas the English of it till Mr. Whacker met you andtold us. ‘Don,’ you will observe, has a decidedlySpanish air; but what nationality did ‘Miff’ indicate?”

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

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

Charley came forward and extended his hand.

“Mr. Charles Frobisher!” echoed the Don, in astartled tone, giving Charley a quick and concentratedglance; and then, as if recovering himself, he took theproffered hand, and said, “Ah, Mr. Frobisher, I amextremely indebted to you.”

“Not at all,” replied Charley. “I could not do toomuch 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 areso good as to say?”

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

“My only child,” added Mrs. Carter, averting herface.

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

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

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

“And my friend Jack Whacker, whom I have long—indefault 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 youyours, Mr. Smith. Mr. Frobisher, you may leave yourpatient to Molly and Laura; so join us at breakfast.No; we will let Mr. Whacker sleep after his vigils aslong as he can. Now, Laura, you must take good careof Mr. Smith.”

That morning Mary, as was her wont, came acrossthe street to inquire after the Don, and found thefamily lingering around the breakfast-table; and thegirls had hastened to tell her of the improved conditionof the patient. Mr. Carter and Charley had lit theirpipes, and there was a lively clatter of female voices.

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

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

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

“Capital! and perfectly legitimate,” cried Alice.“And mind, mother, just so soon as he gives you thenames find an excuse—you will need pen, ink, andpaper, 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 hispipe, 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 shelooked down at her plump figure and laughed; “anddo 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 fallupon the table. Charley, who was just passing outinto the hall, turned and smiled. It was the answerthat he returned to most things that were said tohim.

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

Charley stood looking down upon the floor and twirlinghis thumbs.

“Don’t you think so?”

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

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

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

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

“I know nothing whatever, but—”

“But what?” gasped the girls.

Charley stood silent for a time, stroking his yellowbeard.

“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 whenyou spoke to him this morning of his mother—” Andhe 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 arenever to learn who this Sphinx is.”

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

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

“You always were a dear, encouraging creature,”said Alice, passing her arm round Lucy’s waist andleaning her head languidly upon her shoulder. “Ishall 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 toCharley’s retiring footsteps.

“Mrs. Carter,” said Mary, “Mr. Frobisher knowssomething about the Don that we do not. Don’t youthink so, Mr. Whacker?”

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

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

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

“I am not so sure of that.”

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

“A woman-hater!” exclaimed Mary, looking muchinterested; “a regular misogynist would be such apiquant character!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Charley, you must know, is an eccentric, and it isof the nature of eccentricities to grow, especially whenremarked upon. He was, even as a boy, singularlytaciturn, and this trait having been often alluded to byhis acquaintance, I think he has grown rather proudof it. Rarely opening his mouth, when he does speakhis language is apt to assume a sententious and epigrammaticform; and certain of his crisp utterancesabout women having been repeated, have given him thereputation of hating the sex. This for example: Fewladies are gentlemen. I suppose, too, that the manner ofhis life has contributed to strengthen this impression.He never visits young ladies, seeming content with thesociety of my grandfather and that of two or three ofthe elderly people among his neighbors.”

“Why, yes,” interposed Lucy, “if he hated women,how could he be so devoted to mother as he is? Noweather can prevent his crossing the river for his weeklyvisits 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 beganwhen I was ever so little; and as for mother, she lovesMr. Frobisher as dearly as though he were her ownson. But you know,” said she, turning to me with agrave look, and speaking in undertones, “there arepeculiar reasons for that.”

“Yes,” said I, “I have heard.”

Lucy sighed and was silent.

“But, Mr. Whacker,” began Alice, “why is he sosilent? You can see he is very intelligent. His smileis singularly subtle, and what little he does say is alwaysadmirably 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!” exclaimedLucy.

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

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

“Ah,” said I, “that’s the trouble, is it? You wouldlike 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—soI understood you to say—all the time that you—evenyou—are talking. How great a portion of his timehe—”

“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 andMary to see Alice put, for once, on the defensive, “youdo my friend injustice. I assure you that, seated quietlyin the Elmington sitting-room, before a bright winterfire, alone with my grandfather and me, Charley iscapable of becoming a veritable chatterbox. When heis in the vein, there seems to be no end to the streamof his quaint, subdued humor. He reminds me of thewaters of a cistern, deep, quiet, unobtrusive, but therewhen needed,—not of a brook that goes babbling sweetlyforever.”

“For example,” said Mrs. Carter, nodding towardsAlice.

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

“And you, meanwhile?”

“Ah,” said her mother, “she would be able then toenjoy the luxury of what Sydney Smith called anoccasional flash of silence.”

CHAPTER XIII.

The Don now went on improving steadily, and itwas not very long before his jolly doctor, entering theroom in his brisk, cheery way, and bringing along withhim much of the freshness of the crisp October morning,told his patient that he might dress and sit by thewindow, and that if he felt able to do so, he might, thenext day, go down-stairs. At this Mrs. Carter, whohad followed the doctor, expressed great satisfaction;when the Don said something about having givenenough trouble already, and asked whether he wouldnot be strong enough, probably, to go down to his ownroom.

“How far is it?” asked the doctor. “Where is yourroom?”

“At the corner of —th and Main; ever so far,” saidMrs. Carter; “but far or near, Mr. Smith, you will notgo there yet. It is simply out of the question.” Towhich the Don smiled his acknowledgments.

I must mention, here, that after the conversation recordedin the last chapter, on Mrs. Carter’s going up toinquire how the Don had enjoyed his breakfast, he hadseemed a little nervous. It was obvious—so, at least,she thought—that he feared that she was going to proposeto write to his friends. At last it seemed to occurto him, as a kind of compromise, that he would give avague sort of account of himself, but in such a way thatit would be understood that he had nothing more to report.Actuated, apparently, by this motive, and spurredon by a nervous dread of a point-blank question fromMrs. Carter, he seized every pretext for saying somethingabout himself, but always in a distant and shadowykind of way. For example, allusion having been madeto the news from Europe, he hastened to say that hehad spent much of his life there; and this bringing up,very naturally, the delights of travelling, “Yes,” saidhe, “it is very pleasant at first, but after a while onebegins to feel, as he wanders from capital to capital,that he is on a sort of perpetual picnic,—a mere butterfly,—anda weary sense of the aimlessness, the utterworthlessness, of his life begins to creep over him.After all, every human heart feels, sooner or later, theneed of a home; for a home means interests, meansduties, means affections; and what is life without allthese?”

It was a study, watching his face when he spoke inthis way. Beginning with a low voice and with astudied repose of manner, the mere utterance of histhoughts would soon hurry him past self-control, theglow of his countenance and the vibrating intensity ofhis voice breaking through the crust of a self-imposedcalm, when, as though conscious that he had betrayedtoo 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 askhim about his home and friends.”

“What would he have said, mother?” said Alice. “Iwish you had, almost.”

“And then, perhaps, we might have known something,”said Mary. “I declare I am positively consumedwith curiosity.”

“Don’t speak of it,” said Alice. “Now just look atthat provoking Lucy. Here are you and I, Mary,wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement overthis enigma, and there sits Lucy, as composed andself-contained as—as—Neptune. You remember hisplacidum caput, girls,—in the Virgil class, you know.”

“My head may be placidum, but it is more than myheart is. It fairly aches with longing to know who heis. Do you know, I feel, somehow, as though he wasto be more to me than to either of you girls.”

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

It was on one of the occasions above alluded to thatthe Don mentioned where his room was (hence Mrs.Carter’s knowledge of its location), managing to throwout, in a vague way, that as a wanderer about the earthhe had chanced to find himself in Richmond, somethingin his manner rendering it impossible that any oneshould 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 unwisein Mr. Smith to forsake his nurse and his present quartersjust 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 whatmight happen.” And she looked to the doctor for support.

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

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

“One must obey orders, especially when they areagreeable.”

CHAPTER XIV.

This decree of the doctor’s threw the household intoa great bustle. I was requested to call on the Don’slandlord, explain his long absence, and have his trunksent up to Leigh Street. The girls were in a greatflutter at the prospect of breakfasting with the mysteriousstranger next morning; which announcementthey had no sooner heard than they flew across thestreet to give Mary the news; and the air grew mistywith interjections.

“We have arranged it all, Mary. Mr. Whacker andMr. Frobisher, who, as you know, are to leave our housethis 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 justone apiece,—so nice! You and Mr. Frobisher, Lucyand—ahem!—Mr. Whacker, and the Don and myself.No! that’s the way it shall be. Of course I’ll let yougirls look at him,—even exchange a few words with him,—butI!—” And dropping into a chair by a table, shemade as though mincing at an imaginary breakfast,whilst ogling, most killingly, an invisible gallant by herside.

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

You must remember that they were hardly eighteenyears of age.

The morning came. Charley and I met Mary at thefront 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 togo up and assist the Don down-stairs, if necessary. Hewalked down-stairs very well, however, and we enteredthe dining-room, where I expected to find the wholefamily, but the girls had not yet put in an appearance.Alice, it seems, had gotten the other girls into so hilariousa state by her mad drolleries—enacting scenes that wereto take place between herself and the Don—that theyhad to remain some time in the upper chamber in orderto resume control of their countenances; and her performancesin the halls and on the stairways were suchthat they had to call a halt several times before theyreached the dining-room door. We were all seated atthe table, and breakfast had begun, when the door waspartly opened, then nearly closed, then opened a littleway again, while a faint rustling of female garmentswas the only sound that broke the stillness. Presently,Mary, followed by Lucy, popped into the room with asuddenness that suggested a vigorous push from someone in the rear, while their features, of necessity instantlycomposed, were in that state of unstable equilibriumwhich may be observed in the faces of boyswhen the teacher reappears in the school-room after afew moments’ absence. Alice followed, demure as aQuakeress.

The introductions over, and Alice and Lucy havingthanked the Don for his gallant rescue of them fromdanger, the girls took their seats, Alice next the Don.It will be easily imagined that, under the peculiar circ*mstancesof the case, no word, no gesture, no lookof our new friend passed unobserved. No bride, comingamong her husband’s relations, was ever moresearchingly scrutinized. Naturally, we compared notesupon the first occasion that offered, and it was interestingto observe that, various as were the estimates placedupon our enigma, each of the ladies held, in the main,to her first impression. It is no secret, in fact, that ifa woman sees a man passing in front of a window atwhich she is sitting, or hears him utter three sentences,the impression formed upon her mind is often next toineradicable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ob, Alice!” said Lucy, reprovingly.

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

“Why, what is the matter?”

“All my aspirations dashed to the ground during oneshort 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 raisedher eyes with a sad, reproachful look to those of herfriend. “And you call it a farce? You!” And shesighed. “Of course,” resumed Alice, quickly raisingher head and looking from face to face,—“of course youall noticed it. It was perfectly obvious. Yes, this Missfrom the rural districts has swooped down and carriedoff the prey without an effort.”

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

“Alas!” sighed Alice, “it is precisely there that thesting lies. I sat by him and had every advantage overyou,—and I used every advantage. Didn’t you remarkthe 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 striveto overwhelm his soul with buckwheat cakes! Andwas the marmalade sweeter than the murmur in whichI recommended it? And yet,”—Alice paused for alull in the tumultuous laughter,—“and yet,” she continued,“strive as I would, I could not keep his eyesfrom wandering to your end of the table.”

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

“And then,” added Alice, “your most—some one willplease attend to the fat lady; she seems in a fit—yourmost trivial remark, even though not addressed to him,seemed to rivet his attention. To confess the humiliatingtruth, Mary, I don’t believe he would recognizeeither of us, should he meet us in the street; but everylineament of Lucy’s face is graven—you know howthey say it in novels. It is a regular case of love atfirst sight, my dear.”

Alice’s eyes ran along the circle of faces surroundingher as she spoke, and it so happened that whenshe paused at the words “my dear” she was lookingCharley full in the face. Charley, as I have before remarked,had seen very little of young ladies, and I hadseveral times observed that when Alice was speakingin her sparkling way he would watch her all the whileout of the corners of his eyes, with an expression ofwondering interest. Charley rarely laughed. I thinkhis self-control in this regard amounted to somewhatof an affectation, and he had acquired a sort of serenemoderation even in his smiles. But Alice’s bright, rattlingtalk seemed to have a sort of fascination for him,and to hurry him out of himself, as it were. And onthis occasion I had been slyly watching his featuresmoving in sympathy with the changing expression ofher exceedingly mobile countenance. Entirely absorbedas he was in watching the play of her countenance,and thinking of I know not what, when hefound her bright eyes resting full upon him, and himselfseemingly addressed as “my dear,” he was suddenlystartled out of his revery, and not knowing what tosay:

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

A shout of laughter greeting this ingenuous question,Charley’s face reddened violently, Alice’s generallyimperturbable countenance answering with a reflectedglow.

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

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

“But, Mr. Frobisher,” continued Alice, willing torelieve the embarrassment of the woman-hater, “don’tyou agree with me? Wasn’t the Don obviously captivatedby Lucy?”

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

“Oh, you monster!”

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

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

“But Miss Alice was not alone in her observation ofthe 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 toothers his eyes were upon me. But there are looksand looks. You men don’t understand anything aboutsuch matters.”

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

“I am a woman.”

“So is Alice.”

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

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

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

“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 alwaysknew when the looks meant—pshaw! you know verywell what I mean.”

“You would have me to understand that the Don’slooks, though they meant something, did not meannascent love.”

“Yes. Do you not remember that sudden and intenselook he gave me when we met him on the sidewalk?Well, when I came to turn that incident overin my mind I came to the conclusion that he mistookme for some one else. Now I am all at sea again. Heknows, now, that I am Lucy Poythress, and not anyone 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 kindof problem,—no, not that,—he appeared—ah, this ismy idea—he seemed to me to survey me just as I haveseen mothers look at their sons after a session’s absence.‘Has he grown? Has he changed? Has heimproved?’ 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 isthat this Mystery, this Enigma, this Sphinx, this DonMiff—longs to be a mother to you.”

“Mr. W-ha-c-k-e-r!”

I could never understand why a man must not laughat his own witticisms; and my hilarity on this occasionimmediately drew the other girls and Mrs. Carterinto the front parlor, where Lucy and I were sitting.By rapidly interposing a succession of chairs betweenthat young woman and myself, I succeeded in givingthe ladies an enlarged and profusely illustrated editionof Lucy’s views of the state of the Don’s feelings andintentions in regard to herself, when, seizing my hat,I fled, leaving the three girls in uproarious glee, andMrs. Carter collapsed in an arm-chair, weeping, whilevoiceless laughter rippled along her rotund form. AsI 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, “haveyou any message for the old gentleman? I am off forhome 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 gooddeal. Isn’t she bright?”

“P-p-p-pass me the tobacco.” He filled his pipe verydeliberately and walked across the room. “Where doyou keep your matches? Ah, here they are. Who,”added he, striking one—“puff—do you—puff, puff—thinkso—puff, puff, puff—bright? Confound thething!—puff—puff—it has gone out!” And he struckanother. Lighting his pipe, and throwing himself upona lounge, he looked the picture of content.

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

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

“‘Howling ass’ is a mixed metaphor.”

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

“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 hishead, with a little jerk, towards me: “H’m? Howwould the Olympian Zeus look with a Parian Partagabetween his ambrosial lips?”

“I have seen lips that—”

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

“I think she likes you.”

Charley pursed up his mouth, and, taking aim, withone eye, at a spot on the ceiling, projected at it a fine-spunthread of smoke. I detected a tremor in hisextended lips.

“I may say I know she likes you.”

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

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

“Yes,” said I, carelessly.

“Yes!” said he, rising up on his elbow,—“what doyou mean by ‘yes’?”

“I merely meant to agree with you, that a pipewould have been a great solace and bulwark to Socratesduring his interviews with Xantippe.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, he is a man. Do you know what I am goingto do? I shall invite him to Elmington. Uncle Tomwill like him. He says he is fond of hunting, and thisis just the time for that; and he will be strong enoughsoon. Suppose we go up to-morrow, before I leavetown, and invite him jointly. You will be down for theChristmas holidays, you know. By the way, I hopehe will accept?”

“I am quite sure of it. He has betrayed an unaccountableinterest in Leicester County on every occasionthat I have alluded to it, notwithstanding anobvious effort to appear indifferent. He has a way ofthrowing out innocent, careless little questions aboutthe county and the people that has puzzled me not alittle. 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 usualChristmas party of girls and young men at Elmingtonthis 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 earthare you talking about?”

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

“And you woke me up to ask me such a question asthat? Thunder! And you see him to-morrow evening,too! Oh, I understand,” said I, being at last fullyawake, and I burst out laughing. “You want me tosay something about Alice with the merry-glancinghazel eyes.”

“About whom? Alice? That’s absurd,—perfectlyabsurd! Why, she thinks me an idiot because I don’tjabber like one of you lawyers. All women do. Unlessyou gabble, gabble, gabble, you are a fool. Theyare all alike. A woman is always a woman; a manmay be a philosopher.”

“My dear boy, your anxieties are misplaced.”

“Who spoke of anxieties?”

“Don’t you—a philosopher—know that talkativegirls prefer taciturn men? I am perfectly certain thatAlice thinks your silence admirable,—dotes on it, infact.”

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

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

“Now just look at this bed,” said Charley, out ofbreath; “see what you have done!” And he fell backexhausted, as well with the struggle as from his unwontedlaughter. “We have not had such a tusslesince I used to tease you as a boy. Whew! Let’s goto sleep now.”

“She’s a bewitching creature.”

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

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

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

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

“You rhyme with the sinners who came to scoff, butremained to pray. You seem to yourself to sing, butappear 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, butfound he had gone out for his first walk since his accident,to test, at Mrs. Carter’s instance, his strengthbefore 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 hissitting-room door, I was invited to enter, and found himsitting by a table reading a small book, which he closed,but held in his hand as he rose and came forward togreet me.

“Reading?” began I, bowing and glancing casuallytowards the little book, the back of which was turnedaway from me.

“Yes,” replied he, but without looking at the book;“getting through an evening alone I find rather dullwork after my recent charming experience. Take aseat. Will you have a pipe, or do you prefer a cigar?A pipe? You will find the tobacco very good.” Andwalking to a small set of shelves near the door, heplaced the little book upon it,—a circ*mstance too trivialto mention, did it not afford a characteristic exampleof the quiet but effectual way the Don had of nippingin the bud any conversation which was about totake a line he did not wish it to follow. I suppose wehad been chatting for half an hour before I alluded tomy errand.

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

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

The smile of polite curiosity with which he heardthat Charley had had something to say to him rapidlyfaded as I spoke, and there came into his countenancea look of such intense seriousness, nay, even of subduedand suffering agitation, that, for a moment, I lostmy self-possession in my surprise, but managed to finishmy message in a stumbling sort of way. As for theDon, anticipating, apparently, from my opening wordswhat that message was to be, he seemed hardly consciousthat it was ended. He sat, for a moment, withhis head resting in the palm of his hand, his piercingeyes fixed upon the floor; but seeming suddenly torealize that this was a queer way of meeting a courtesy,he quickly raised his head. “Thanks, thanks,” saidhe, with a forced smile, but with apologetic emphasis.“Charley—I beg pardon—Mr. Frobisher is very kind,—verykind indeed! Yes, I should immensely enjoyhaving a tilt once more at the partridges.[1] Verymuch indeed.”

“Then I may hope that you will accept?”

“Oh, certainly, with very great pleasure. Pleasepresent my warmest acknowledgments to Char—Mr.Frobisher, and say that I shall be at his command sosoon as I shall have recovered my strength somewhat.”He paused for a moment; then, throwing back hishead with a little laugh: “By the way,” he continued,“I beg you will not misinterpret my singularway 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?—thatthe invitation is to my grandfather’s place, Elmington.”

“Elmington?”

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

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

“Well, this rather peculiar state of things came aboutin this way. My mother died before I was a monthold, and my father, my grandfather’s only son, survivedher less than a year; so that I was brought up by theold gentleman. Now, Charley’s place adjoined Elmington,my grandfather’s, their respective residencesbeing not over a half-mile apart; and so Charley gotinto the habit—however, I must mention that Charleylost 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, restinghis head upon his hand, he fixed his eyes upon the windowwith 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,—“pleasego on.”

“Well, Charley was at the University at the time ofhis mother’s death; and during the following vacationhe seemed to find his own desolate home—he was singularlydevoted to his mother—unendurable; so hewould frequently drop in on my grandfather and myselfat tea, walking home, when bedtime came, acrossthe fields; but my grandfather, remarking the sadlook that always came into his face when he arose todepart, would frequently insist upon his spending thenight with us. The poor fellow could scarcely everresist the temptation, to my great delight; for to me, aboy of thirteen, Charley, who was eighteen, and a student,was a sort of demi-god. I suppose, in fact, thatapart from my grandfather’s personal liking for theyoung man, and his sympathy with him under the circ*mstances,he was very glad to give me the society ofsome one younger than himself. And so, to make along story short, Charley’s visits becoming more andmore frequent and regular, it came at last to be understoodthat he was to spend every night with us,—duringhis vacation, of course. At last, at the end of threeyears, Charley left the University with the degree ofMaster of Arts in pocket.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. You are surprised, no doubt. He is so unassuming,one would hardly suppose that he had attainedan honor which is reached by hardly more than one outof every hundred of the students at the University.To continue. When he returned from college and tookcharge of his farm, it soon appeared that the tableswere turned. It was Charley’s companionship nowthat had grown to be a necessity to the old gentleman.‘We shall expect you to dinner,’ he would say everymorning, as Charley rode off to look after his farmingoperations. Charley often protested against this one-sidedhospitality, and, as a compromise, we would dinewith him occasionally; but at last my grandfather proposeda consolidation of the two households, all of uswondering 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 timeworked in common, as occasion demands,—in harvest-time,for example. Each farm contributes its quota tothe table, though not in any fixed ratio. My grandfather,for example, is firmly persuaded that the grasson his farm—notably in one special field—imparts, insome occult way, a flavor to his mutton that Charley’sdoes not possess; while, on the other hand, an oldwoman on Charley’s place has such a gift at raisingchickens, turkeys, and ducks, that we have gotten inthe habit of looking to her for our fowls.”

The Don smiled.

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

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

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

It was a copy of the New Testament.

CHAPTER XVII.

At about the hour at which I was taking leave of theDon my grandfather was sitting alone in his dining-room,reading; his snow-white hair and beard, as theyglistened in the lamp-light, affording a strong contrastto the vivacity of his dark eyes and the ruddy glow ofhis complexion. But the book before him was hardlyable to fix his attention. Every now and then he wouldraise his eyes from its pages, with the look of one whofancied that he heard an expected sound. Severaltimes he had risen from his seat, gone to the door,opened it, and listened. Something like this he hadbeen doing now for nearly a week. “Dick!” calledhe at last, opening the door: “Dick!”

Uncle Dick emerged from the kitchen, where, forseveral days past, he had had orders to sit up till teno’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) supposedthat this was another false alarm, threw his headinto 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 mygrandfather, across the space that separated the kitchenfrom the “Great-House.”

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

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

“True enough.”

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

“But listen, Dick! what’s that?”

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

“Well, what in the blue-blazes makes them all stampso to-night?” replied the old gentleman, not without alittle petulance.

“Dat’s jess what I say! leastwise d’yar ain’t no fliesto 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 hardlyhappy in their application. Sometimes, in fact, just asdoctors will, when they don’t know what is the matterwith a patient, prescribe pills of several remedialagents, in the hope that if one shall miss another mayhit, so our old hostler, carriage-driver, and dining-roomservant would not scruple, when aiming at a truth, tolet fly at it an aphorism compound of the head of oneproverb and the tail of another.

“Yes,” said my grandfather, applying Dick’s sayingfor him, “every dog will have his day, and I supposethat is why your Marse Charles is staying so long inRichmond.”

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 nowgave one of those low chuckles beyond the reach ofthe typographer’s art to represent to the eye. “Yes,mahster, I hears ’em say dat d’yar is some monstrouspretty gals, nebberdeless I should say young ladies, upd’yar in Richmond. Howsomever, pretty is as prettydoes. Dat’s what old Dick tells ’em.”

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

Old Dick drew himself up as became one consultedon family affairs, and, dropping his head on one side, heassumed, with his knitted brows and pursed lips, aneminently judicial air.

“Well, mahster, ef you axes me ’bout dat, I couldn’t’espond pint’ly, in course; for I ain’t seen Marse Charlesa-noratin’ of it and a-splanifyin’ amongst de Richmondf’yar sect; but old Dick ain’t been a-wrasslin’ anda-spyin’ ’round in dis here vain world for nigh on to ahundred year for nothin’ ef you listen to Dick; and efyou believes me, mahster, dey all of ’em most inginerallygits 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 generalizationhe was about to utter, “I really do believeinto my soul dat people is born so; dey is pint’ly,—speciallyyoung folks.” And he stopped in mid-career.“What dat? ’Pear like I hear the far gateslam. But Marse Charley, he are a keener, he are, andthe gal what catches him will have to be a keener too,she will pint’ly. Marse Charley worse’n a oyster atlow tide; soon as a young ’oman begins a-speculatin’and a-gallivantin’ round him, he shets up, he do.” Andthe old man chuckled. “Howsomever, he am pint’lya 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, Ibelieve ’tis Marse Charley! Lemme look good! Sureenough, d’yar he is! Sarvant, Marse Charles! Iknowed you was a-comin’ dis very night, and I hope Imay die ef he ain’t on old Hop-and-go-fetch-it! Lorda’ massy! Lord a’ massy! Well, it’s an ill wind whatdon’t blow de crows out o’ some gent’mun’s cornfield.Lord a’ massy, Marse Charley, what is you a-doin’ upd’yar on dat poor old critter, and de horses in de stablejess 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 thedining-room, “that I had to stay away so long, but itseemed right that I should help nurse him. Ah, whata noble fire!”

“Well, you are at home again, at any rate. Pollywill soon have some supper for you, and you knowwhat is in the sideboard.”

Old Dick, meanwhile, was carrying out his share inthe programme.

“Well, I s’pose I’ll have to feed you,” said he tothe flea-bitten, surveying him from head to hock.

No true negro feels any doubt whatever as to his wordsbeing perfectly intelligible to horse, mule, cow, or dog.

“Ef ever I see a poor-folks’ horse, you is one. Gitup! git up! don’t you hear me? You needn’t be a-standin’here a-thinkin’ Dick gwine to ride you to destable. Aha! you hear dat word stable, did you?Bound for you! You been d’yar befo’, and you knowd’yar’s corn in dat ’ar stable; and a heap mo’, besidesyou, know dat d’yar is pervisions a-layin’ around here,and dey ain’t horses neither, nor yet mules. Git up, Itell you! Ain’t you got no more sense, old as you is,than to be a-snatchin’ at dry grass like dat? ButLor’, Dick don’t blame you! No, honey, Dick ain’t gota 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’ yourhead; you can’t tell Dick nothin’. Anybody can seeyou ain’t kin to nobody. ’M’h’m! yes, chile! youneedn’t say a word, Dick knows dat kind far as hecan see ’em, be dey man or beast. Howsomever, Dickdon’t mount no sich. nigg*r property is too unsartinfor dat. Nebberdeless, Marse Charles, bein’ as how hebelongs to his self, he mought. Nebberdeless, you fotchhim home, and pretty is as pretty does, dat’s de wayold Dick talks it. Polly! Polly!” shouted he to hiswife, the cook, as he passed the kitchen door; “Polly!git up, gal! Marse Charles done come and want hesupper. I would say,” continued he, not content withthe colloquial phrases in which he had announced hisyoung master’s arrival and the state of his appetite,—“Iwould say, Polly,”—and enveloped in darkness as hewas, and invisible even to his spouse, the old man threwhimself into an impressive pose, as he always did whenabout to adorn his language with phrases caught upfrom the conversation of his master and his guests,—“Iwould say de Prodigy Son have arrove, and he asravenous as de fatted calf.” Hearing Polly bustlingabout within the kitchen: “Polly,” inquired he, in astately voice, “did you hearken to what I rubserved?”

“I hear you, Dick.”

“But did you make me out, chile, dat’s de pint, didyou make me out?”

“G’long, man, and put dat horse in de stable. MarseCharley want he supper, course he do. What’s de useo’ talkin’ about fat calves, when you know as well asI does d’yar ain’t no sich a thing in de kitchen. MarseCharley 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, soliloquizingupon the much-longed-for return of his youngmaster, “dey tell me chickens, like horses [curses?],always does come home to roost—git up, I tell you!—’cep’nonless dey meets a free nigg*r in de road, dengood-by chickens—for you’re gwine to leave us.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Why, what’s all this, Uncle Dick?” exclaimedCharley, as that venerable servitor entered, with hospitablybeaming countenance, bearing a tray. “Roastoysters! why, this cold turkey was enough for a prince.”And he brushed from his yellow moustache the foam ofa glass of Bass’s ale.

The old man, complimented by Charley’s surprise,placed the smoking oysters upon the table with a bowof the old school.

“Why, they are beauties! Ah, I am glad you willjoin me, Uncle Tom! I never saw finer.”

“Dey is fine, Marse Charley, dat’s a fac’. Polly shesave ’em for you special. You know, young mahster”(another bow), “de old-time people used to say youmust speed de partin’ guest.”

“That’s true. By the way, Uncle Dick, what doyou say to a little something to warm up your oldbones?”

“Since you mention it, Marse Charley, I believe defrost has tetched ’em a little.”

“Well, get that bottle out of the sideboard,—youknow where it is.”

“Know whar ’tis? I wish I had as many dollars asI know whar dat bottle sets!”

“Or would you prefer ale?”

“Thank you, young mahster; whiskey good enoughfor Dick.”

“There, ’tisn’t more than half full; take it out andgive Polly her share.”

“Sarvant, mahster!”

“Take some sugar?”

“Much obleeged, young mahster; seems like ’mosteverything 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’sa 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 AuntPolly, 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, youmight have heard muttered fragments of his amiableintentions, as he trudged back to the kitchen.

“Well,” began my grandfather, rising from the tableto 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, deftlyremoving a side-bone from the fowl before him. “ByJove, I did not know how hungry I was. That earlydinner on the boat seems to me now like a far-awaydream of a thing that never was. I wonder whetherthis turkey really is the best that old Sucky everraised? How good that tobacco smells!”

Charley was happy. The bright fire and good cheer,after his long, cold, and tiresome ride, the intense consciousnessof being at home once more, but, above all,the look of beaming satisfaction on the face of the venerablebut still vigorous old man, who sat smiling uponhim and enjoying his appetite and high spirits, filledhim 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 explainwhen I get even with this noble fowl and light mypipe.”

“Did you,” asked my grandfather, advancing cautiouslyas a skirmisher, “meet any nice people inRichmond?”

“Oh, yes, very nice people up there,—too many ofthem; made me talk myself nearly to death,—but verynice people, of course, very. Look at that chap,”added he, holding up on the end of his fork a hugeoyster.

“You spoke of girls,—did you meet any?” And apang of jealousy shot through the old man’s heart, ashe recalled Dick’s aphorism on the universal liability ofyoung folks to a certain weakness.

“Oh, lots!—I’ll have to cut this fellow in two, Ibelieve.”

“Who were they?” asked the old man, trying tosmile.

“Who? the girls?”

“Yes; you did not mention any in your letters.”

“Of course not. When did you ever know me towrite about girls? As I said, I met lots of them at thevarious houses at which I visited. It seems to me thatthere are girls everywhere.”

“Thank God for it, too.”

“Well,—yes,—as it were; but you can’t expect afellow to remember all their names. Oh, there wasLucy Poythress, of course.”

“Yes, I knew she was in Richmond.”

“And then—and then there was a schoolmate ofhers,—Miss Mary Rolfe. You know her father, Mr.James Rolfe. Brilliant girl, they say,—talks beautifully—veryaccomplished, you know, and all that sortof thing.”

“Yes, I have heard she is a really charming girl.What do you say to our having her as one of ourChristmas party?” The old man removed his pipefrom his mouth. “What do you say, Charley?” Andhe glanced at the young man’s face with a look thatwas too eager to be shrewd.

“A capital idea!” exclaimed Charley, spearing anotheroyster with emphasis.

The old man drew vigorously on his pipe severaltimes, and finding it had gone out, rose for a lighter.“You think,” said he, puffing between his words as herelit his pipe, contemplatively watching the tongue offlame darting down into the bowl, “that we should haveher of the party?”

“Most assuredly. She is a fine girl,—you would likeher. In fact, we must have her here if possible.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “yes.” And he gazed at thebright 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 loudlaugh.

“The very idea amuses you?”

“I should think so! I suppose you suspect that oldCousin Sally’s niece—or Cousin Sally’s old niece—whicheveryou please—captivated me?”

“No, I was not thinking of Sarah Ann. In fact, Ididn’t know that any one had captivated you—till youmentioned it.”

“Well, upon my word, I have finished the last ofthese oysters,—and there is not so much turkey asthere 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 anacquisition for Christmas?”

“Who? Bless me, Uncle Tom, what could have putsuch a notion into your head? Oh, I’ll tell you,—leaveit all to Jack-Whack; he’s the ladies’ man of the family,you know.”

“Very well; and now fill your pipe and tell me allthose strange things about that strange Mr. Smith, thatyou promised me in your letters.”

Charley told the story, with one omission. He failedto allude to his having invited the Don to visit Elmington.Omissions to state all manner of things that ordinarymortals would make haste to mention was oneof Charley’s idiosyncrasies,—so that I suspect that hissilence on this point was premeditated. Another was,as I have already hinted, an aversion to expressing anopinion of any one, good or bad. But Mr. Whackerfelt instinctively that Charley had conceived a genuineliking for this mysterious stranger. A tone here, alook 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, “Youhave,” 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 tosay something.

“Yes, and characteristic points, highly characteristicpoints,” said the old gentleman, with a sort of defiantemphasis.

“He has, beyond question.”

“Charley,” began Mr. Whacker, rising and taking alighter,—for he had suffered his pipe to go out,—“don’tyou think”—and he lit the taper—“what do you say,”he continued, in a hesitating manner, which he tried tocover up under pretence of strict attention to the featof adjusting the blaze to the tobacco,—“how wouldit do to invite him here,—just for a week or so, youknow?”

It is, I dare say, a mere whim on my part, but Imust now beg the contemporary reader to obliteratehimself 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 tellyou, as a matter of family history, why your ascendant-to-the-fourteenth-powerhesitated.

Our common ancestor was a Virginian,—whichmeans, you will doubtless know, that he was hospitable.Again, he was a Virginian of Leicester County,—andthat is as much as to say, as I trust a dim tradition,at least, shall have informed you, that he was aVirginian of Virginians. But, lastly and chiefly, hewas Mr. Thomas Whacker of Elmington. What thatamounts to you can learn from me alone.

Our common ancestor was, then, the soul of hospitality,—hospitalityin a certain sense boundless, thoughit 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 queerfish that floated about Virginia. I suppose there musthave been something inborn in him that made oddpeople attractive to him, and him to them, but I haveno doubt that this trait of his was in part due to thekind of Bohemian life he led in Europe for severalyears, when he was a young man, mingling, on familiarterms, with musicians, actors, painters, and all mannerof shiftless geniuses,—so that the average humdrumcitizen possessed little interest for him. If a man couldonly do or say anything that no one else could do orsay, or do it or say it better than any one else, he hada friend in Mr. Whacker. All forms of brightness andof humor—any kind of talent, or even oddity—couldunlock that door, which swung so easily on its hinges.And not only men of gifts, but all who had a livelyappreciation of gifts, were at liberty to make Elmingtontheir headquarters; so that, as my memory goesback to those days, there rises before me a successionof the drollest mortals that were ever seen in one Virginiahouse. Now, I need hardly remind you that companyof this character has its objections. Men such asI have rapidly outlined are not always very eligiblevisitors at a country house. It happens, not unfrequently,that a man who is very entertaining to-day isa bore to-morrow,—the day after, a nuisance; so thatour grandfather, who was the most unsuspicious of mortals,and who always took men for what they seemedto be on a first interview, was frequently most egregiouslytaken in, and was often at his wit’s end as to howto get rid of some treasure he had picked up. In fact,Charley used to dread the old gentleman’s return fromthe springs in autumn, or the cities in winter; for hewas quite sure to have invited to Elmington some of thepeople whom he had met there; and they often provednot very profitable acquaintances. In fine, whereverhe went, he rarely failed to gather more or less gemsof purest ray serene, many of which turned out, underCharley’s more scrutinizing eyes, very ordinary pebblesindeed.

Unqualified, however, what I have written wouldgive a very erroneous idea of the people our grandfatherused to gather around his hospitable board; forI must say that after all deductions have been made, hemanaged, certainly, to get beneath his vine and fig-treemore really clever and interesting people than I haveever seen in any one house elsewhere. And then, too,as there were no ladies at Elmington, I don’t knowthat his mistakes mattered much. Still, they weresufficiently numerous; and he had begun to lose, notindeed his faith in men, so much as in his own ability toread them. And just in proportion as waned his confidencein his own judgment in such matters, he placedan ever-heightening estimate upon Charley’s; so that,in the end, he was always rather nervous upon the arrivalof any of his new-found geniuses, till his taciturnfriend had indicated, in some way, that he thoughtthem unexceptionable.

Now, Charley had seen Mr. Smith; our grandfathernot. Here was a chance. He would throw the responsibilityupon Charley. In this particular case hewas especially glad to do so, for there was undoubtedlyan air of mystery surrounding Mr. Smith, and mysterycannot but arouse suspicion.

Our grandfather continued: “H’m? What do yousay? For a week or so?”

There was positively something timid in the way heglanced at Charley out of the corners of his eyes. Andnow you may dimly discern what was most probablyCharley’s motive for refraining from alluding to hishaving himself invited the Don to Elmington. In aspirit of affectionate malice he had deliberately entrappedhis old friend into making the proposition. SoI must believe, at least.

“By all means,” replied Charley, with a cordialitythat 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 letterbe addressed?” continued he, turning and looking atCharley. His face reddened a little as he detected animperfectly suppressed smile in Charley’s eyes. Hewas 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!” ejacul*ted our impulsive ancestor, “I hadnot thought of that!”

CHAPTER XIX.

Ten days or so have passed.

“Well, Dick,” said Mr. Whacker, “I suppose we haveseen our breakfast?”

Dick gave his company-bow, glancing, as the gentlemenrose from the table, with the imposing look of ageneralissimo, at a half-grown boy who acted as his aide-de-campwhenever there was even one guest at Elmington.It was only, in fact, when our small family wasalone that this worthy served as what would be called,in the language of our day, a “practical” waiter (thereexisting, it would seem, at the period of this writing,to judge from the frequency of that adjective uponsign-boards, hordes of theoretical blacksmiths, cobblers,and barbers, against whom the public are thus tacitlywarned). For, whenever we had company, Dick wouldperform the duties rather of a commander than of aprivate,—magis imperatoris quam militis,—summoningto his assistance one or more lads who were too youngfor steady farm work,—or were so considered, at least,during those times of slavery. Zip,—for under thisname went, in defiance of all the philology and all theGrimm’s Laws in the world, the boy in question,—(hehad been christened Moses,)—Zip sprang nimbly forwardunder that austere glance of authority and beganto clear the table,—half trembling under the severe eyeof a chief for whom there was one way of gatheringup knives, one method of piling plate upon plate, oneof removing napkins,—one and only one.

“Dick,” said my grandfather, as soon as pipes werelit, “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 overthen; you will be more comfortable there than here. Ishall 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 onestory in height, which stood about fifty yards westwardof the mansion. This they entered by the left door oftwo that opened upon the yard, and found themselvesin my grandfather’s library and sitting-room. It wasfitted up with shelves, built into the walls, upon whichwas to be found a miscellaneous library of about twothousand volumes; the furniture consisting of a verywide and solid square table, a couple of lounges, and anumber 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 hiseye along the shelves, and occasionally taking downand examining a volume, and the two chatted quietlyfor 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 reservefor him the pleasure of exhibiting it to his friends.”

“Looking over our books?” interrupted my grandfather,entering the room briskly, with a ruddy winterglow upon his fine face.

“Yes; and I observe that you have a large and capitalselection of French classics.”

“Yes; I picked them up when I was abroad as ayoung man. You read French? Ah! Then this willbe the place for you on rainy days when you cannothunt. Charley, have you shown Mr. Smith theHall?”

“Not yet.”

“No?” ejacul*ted my grandfather, with a surprisethat was surprising, seeing that Charley had given himthat identical answer on a hundred similar occasionspreviously. “Mr. Smith,” said he, walking toward theinner door, “we have a room here that we think ratherunique in its way.” And he placed his hand upon theknob. “We call it ‘The Hall.’ Walk in!” And heopened wide the door, stepping back with the air of anartist withdrawing a curtain from a new production ofhis pencil.

The Don advanced to the threshold of the room, andgiving one glance within, turned to his host with a lookof mingled admiration and surprise. The old gentleman,who was as transparent as glass, fairly beamedwith gratification at observing the pleased astonishmentof his guest. “Walk in, walk in,” said he, wreathed insmiles. “Be careful,” added he, laying hold of theDon’s arm, as the latter’s feet seemed disposed to flyfrom under him,—“the floor is as smooth as glass.”

“So I perceive. Why, what on earth can you do withsuch a room in the country?” And the Don lifted hiseyes to the very lofty ceiling.

“That’s the question!” observed Mr. Whacker, givingCharley a knowing look.

“One would say it was a ball-room,” said the Don,looking down upon the perfectly polished floor, inwhich 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 jointsin that floor,” he added, stooping down and runninghis thumb nail across a number of the very narrowplanks. “You observe, the room is ceiled throughoutwith heart-pine,—no plastering anywhere. I used, asyou see, the darker wood for the floor, and selected thelightest-colored planks for the ceiling; while I madethe two shades alternate on the walls. You think so?Well, I think it ought to be, for I was several yearscollecting and selecting the lumber for this room,—nota plank that I did not inspect carefully. And so youthink it would make a good ball-room? So it would,in fact. Thirty feet by twenty would give room for agoodly number of twinkling feet.”

“I see a piano at the other end of the room.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Whacker, leaning forward, his fingersinterlaced behind his back, and his smiling eyes fixedupon the floor. He was giving the Don time,—he hadnot seen everything in the room.

“What!” exclaimed the latter, suddenly, as his eyeschanced to stray into a corner of the room, which wasrather dark with its closed blinds. “Is not that a violin-casestanding in the corner?”

“Yes, that’s a violin case,” rejoined Mr. Whacker,softly, while his eyes made an involuntary movementin the direction of the neighboring corner.

“And another!” exclaimed the Don, “and stillanother! and, upon my word, there is a violoncello inthe fourth corner!”

My grandfather threw his head back as though hewould gaze upon the ceiling, but closed his eyes; androcking gently back and forth, and softly flapping uponthe floor with both feet, was silent for a while. He wascontent. The surprise of the stranger had been complete—dramaticallycomplete,—his wondering admirationobvious and sincere.

Charley watched his friend quietly, with a tenderhumor in his eyes. He had witnessed a number ofsimilar scenes in this room, but this had been the mostentirely successful of them all.

“The third box,” resumed my grandfather, softly,with his eyes still closed, and still rocking from heel totoe, “contains a viola.”

“A viola! Then you have a complete set of quartetinstruments!” 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 solitaryin his own corner! Surely you can never—”

“Never use them?” And my grandfather paused witha smile on his face. “I find this room rather cold. Letus adjourn to the Library and I will tell you how wemanage.”

CHAPTER XX.

So, while Mr. Whacker is explaining matters to theDon, I shall make things clear to the reader.

My grandfather, when a young man, spent severalyears 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 theviolin, the piano being held, in Virginia, an instrumentfit only for women and foreigners. But, undertakingthe violin for the first time when he was a grown man,he never acquired, ardently as he practised, anythinglike a mastery over that difficult instrument. At anyrate, returning to Virginia and finding himself no longerin an artist-atmosphere, his ardor gradually cooled, sothat until about ten or twelve years before the periodof my story, all I can remember of my grandfather’smusical performances is his occasional fiddling for meand such of my young school-mates as chanced to visitme. During the Christmas holidays, especially, whenElmington was always crowded with young people, itwas an understood thing that Uncle Tom, as most ofhis neighbors’ children delighted to call him, was to beasked to play. Christmas Eve, notably, was no moreChristmas Eve, at Elmington, without certain jigs andreels executed by “Uncle Tom,” than without twoenormous bowls—one of eggnog, the other of apple-toddy—concoctedby him with his own hands. Thething had grown into an institution, more and morefixed as the years went by. On such occasions, immediatelyafter the old gentleman had taken his secondglass of eggnog,—not before,—it was in order to callfor his annual exhibition of virtuosity; whereuponCharley—no one else could be trusted to bear the preciousburden—was despatched to my grandfather’schamber, 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 nowdescribing, there came a German musician—WolffgangAmadeus Waldteufel chanced to be his name—and establishedhimself at Leicester Court-House as a pianoteacher,—or, rather, he gave lessons on any and allinstruments, as will be the case in the country.

Herr Waldteufel was an excellent pianist, and, infact, a thorough musician. Strangers from the cities,when they heard him play at Elmington, were alwayssurprised to find so brilliant a performer in the country,and used to wonder why he should thus hide his lightunder a bushel. But the truth is, a man generally findshis place in the world, and Herr Waldteufel was noexception. In the frequent hinges of his elbow was tobe found the explanation of his losing his patronage, incity after city; so that it was natural enough that hefound himself, at last, giving lessons in a village, andin 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 Herrwas an excellent teacher. True, he did occasionallyfail to put in an appearance for a lesson, when no excusewas to be found in the weather; but his patronslearned to forgive him; and, as he was very amiableand obliging, he was a general favorite, and welcomeeverywhere.

Mr. Whacker had not been slow to form the acquaintanceof the Herr and to invite him to Elmington; atfirst under the pretext of having him tune his piano.The tuning over, the Herr was naturally asked toplay; and, one thing leading to another, he and Mr.Whacker soon found themselves trying over a slowmovement, here and there, out of a musty and dustyold edition of Mozart’s Sonatas. The music they madewas, I dare say, wretched, as my grandfather had notplayed anything of that kind for years; but it wouldhave been hard to say which of the two was most delighted,—theGerman, at finding so enthusiastic a loverof his art in a Virginia country gentleman; my grandfather,at the prospect of being able to renew his acquaintancewith his idolized Mozart, whom he alwayspersisted in placing at the head of all composers. TheElmington dinner and wines did not lessen the Herr’sestimate of the treasure he had found; and (Mr.Whacker scouting the very idea of his leaving himthat night) they separated at the head of the stairs,at one o’clock in the morning, after a regular musicalorgie, 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 sureto drop in upon us every Friday afternoon; and regularly,after dinner, he and my grandfather would fallto and play and play until they were exhausted. Nextday the Herr would sally forth, and, after giving hislessons, return in time for dinner; after which theywould have another time together.

Herr Waldteufel always spent Sunday with us; butmy grandfather would never play on that day. I supposeit would be hardly possible for a man who hasspent several years on the Continent to see anything“sinful” in music on Sunday; but neither is it possiblefor any man, even though he be a philosopher, altogetherto evade the pressure of surrounding convictions.Now, for the solidity—it wouldn’t do to say stolidity—ofour Sabbatarianism, we Virginians may safely defyall rivalry. Virginia is not only one of the MiddleStates, she is the middle State of the Union in manyother respects, but especially in her theological attitude.While, to the north and east of her, religious systemsthat have weathered the storms of centuries are rockingto their foundations, nay, tumbling before our veryeyes, undermined by the incessant rush of opinionsever newer, more radical, more aggressive; and while,to the southward and westward, we see the instabilityand recklessness inseparable from younger communities,the Old Dominion stands immovable as a rock;believing what she has always believed, and seriouslyminded 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 Virginianthis is the most deeply rooted,—the most universallyaccepted,—that man was made for the Sabbath,not the Sabbath for man. Again: according to ourbiblical exegesis the word Sabbath does not really meanSabbath, but Sunday,—the last day of the week, thatis, being synonymous with the first. Now, as first isthe opposite of last,—mark the geometric cogency ofthe 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 workon the last day of the week was really meant to inhibitall manner of play on the first; Q. E. D.

I must admit, however, that when, one Sunday, afterreturning from church, the Herr opened the piano,“just to try over” the hymns we had heard, my grandfathermade no objection; and then, when his fingerssomehow strayed into a classical andante, the old gentlemaneither believed or affected to believe that it wasa Teutonic form of religious music, and called formore. And so, things going from bad to worse, itcame about that in the end we had hours of pianomusic every Sunday, to the great scandal of some ofour neighbors, who did not fail to hint that the Herrwas an atheist and my grandfather not far from one.

But Mr. Whacker would persist in drawing the lineat the fiddle; making a distinction perfectly intelligibleto all true Virginians,—though his course in this matterever remained a sore puzzle to the warped and effeteEuropean brain of Herr Wolffgang Amadeus Waldteufel.

For many months—for two or three years, in fact—afterthis arrangement was set on foot, my grandfatherwas at fever heat with his music. To the amazement,not to add amusem*nt of his neighbors and friends, hefell to practising with all the ardor of a girl in hergraduating 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 thisperiod, and one upon which he preached with muchvigor and eloquence, was the insipidity of Americanlife,—its total lack of the æsthetic element.

“What rational relaxations have we? None! Whistis adapted to those among us of middle age, or theold; but whist is, at the best, unsocial. Dancinggives happiness to the young only. Hunting affordsamusem*nt during one season and to one sex only.You cannot read forever; so that the greater part ofour leisure-time we spend in gaping or gabbling,—boringor being bored. How different it would be if allour young people would take the trouble to make musiciansof themselves! one taking one instrument,another another. Why, look at our neighbor up theriver, with his five sons and five daughters! Why—PSHAW!”—for,invariably, when he got to this particularneighbor, the bright vision of a possible domesticorchestra of ten—or twelve rather—would seem to robhim of the power of utterance, and he would pace upand down his library with an expression of enthusiasticdisgust on his heated features.

Now, among the victims of Mr. Whacker’s views inthis regard was his grandson, the teller of this tale;and I believe it was really one of the most serious ofthe minor troubles of his life that he could never makea musician of me. As it was, he ultimately gave meup as a hopeless case. But with Charley his rewardwas greater. Charley had readily consented to takelessons on the violin from Herr Waldteufel, as well beforehe 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 readercan very well understand. During the week he andhis friend used to play duos together, and they madevery pleasant music too, and on Fridays and Saturdaysthey would perform transcriptions (at making whichthe 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 summerof that year, it will be remembered, that Norfolkwas so terribly scourged by yellow fever, and mygrandfather, instead of going, as usual, to the springs,had remained at Elmington, and opened his doors tohis friends and other refugees from the stricken city.Now it so happened that, a few weeks before the epidemicdeclared itself, a young French or—to speakmore accurately—Belgian violinist had dropped downinto Norfolk, from somewhere, in search of a living;who, panic-stricken upon the outbreak of the fever, hadfled, he hardly knew whither; but happening to findhis way to Leicester Court-House, was not long in fallingin with Herr Waldteufel; and he, exulting in thetreasure he had found, brought him to Elmington onthe first Friday afternoon thereafter ensuing.

“I have inform Monsieur Villemain,” whispered theHerr, at the first opportunity, “dot Elmingtone vasso full as a teek von peoples, but he can shleep mitme. But you know, Barrone, vy I have bring disFrenchman, oder Beige, to Elmingtone?” (He wouldinsist 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 afeedler ist dot mon!”

“You don’t tell me so!”

“Donnerwetter!” rejoined the Herr, rolling up hiseyes, “you joost hear him one time, dot’s all!”

From that day in August until the following ChristmasM. Villemain was a member of our household;and even then he took his departure much against mygrandfather’s will. His coming among us enabled Mr.Whacker to do what he had scarcely dreamed of before,—toestablish, namely, a string quartet.

I shall never forget the first meeting of the club.Waldteufel, who was already a tolerable violinist, hadreadily agreed to take the violoncello part, and Charley,though with many misgivings, had consented to tacklethe viola; and the Herr was despatched to Baltimoreto purchase these two instruments. Upon their arrival,it was agreed that the novices should have two weeks’practice before any attempt at concerted music shouldbe made, Waldteufel taking his ’cello to his rooms atthe Court-House, while Charley was to attack the violaunder the direction of M. Villemain; but Mr. Whackergrew so impatient for a trial of their mettle that, onFriday morning of the first week, he sent a buggy forthe Herr, requesting him to bring his instrument withhim; and, accordingly, just before dinner, up drovethe bass, his big fiddle occupying the lion’s share of thevehicle. Dinner over, my grandfather could allow butone pipe before the attack began. The centre-table inthe parlor was soon cleared of books; the stands wereplaced upon it; the performers took their seats; theparts were distributed, “A” sounded, the instrumentsput in tune. The composition they had selected wasthat quartet of Haydn (in C major) known as theKaiser Quartet, in the slow movement of which isfound the famous Austrian Hymn.

“We are all then ready?” asked M. Villemain (inFrench), 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 countenancesof the four players.

The Frenchman, entirely master of his instrumentand his part,—glancing only now and then at his music,—ejacul*tingwords of caution or encouragement;Waldteufel, taking in the meaning of the printed signswithout an effort, but doubtful as to his fingering,—correctinghis intonation with a rapid slide of his handand an apologetic smile and nod to his brother artist;Charley, serene and imperturbable, but putting forthall that was in him; while my grandfather, consciousthat the second violin was most likely to prove theblock of stumbling, and anxious not to be utterly outdoneby the “boys,”—his eyes riveted upon the pagebefore him, his face overspread with a certain stage-frightpallor,—played as though the fate of kingdomshung upon his bow. At last, not without a half-dozenbreak-downs, they approached the end of the first movement;and when, with a sharp twang, they struck, alltogether, the last note, my grandfather’s exultationknew 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 occurredduring the performance of the slow movement. Herethe air, a gem of imperishable beauty, passes from oneinstrument to another. When the theme falls to thesecond violin, the violino primo accompanies, the violaand ’cello being silent, if I remember aright. Herewas Mr. Whacker’s opportunity. The movement iswithout technical difficulties, but the mere idea that hehad a solo to perform made the old gentleman as nervousas a graduating Miss. He lightly touched hisstrings to be quite sure they were in tune—gave aturn to a peg—wiped his spectacles—blew his nose—liftedthe violin to his left ear, softly plucking D andG as though still in doubt—smoothed down the page—tightenedhis bow—and, with a bow to M. Villemain,began.

He had scarcely played a half-dozen notes when theHerr cried out, “Goot for de Barrone!”

“Bravo, Secondo!” echoed the Primo from the midstof his rapid semiquavers.

Deeply gratified and encouraged, the old man gavean unconscious but perceptible toss of the head; andhis snowy locks trembled upon his temples. Charleylifted his eyes from the floor with a sigh of relief.His anxiety lest his old friend should break down hadbeen touching to see,—the more so as he had tried sohard to conceal it.

The performer reached the appoggiatura about themiddle of the air, and turned it not without grace. Itwas nothing to do,—absolutely nothing,—but the twoartists were bent on giving applause without stint.

“Parbleu! Tourné à merveille!” cried the FirstViolin, in his native language.

“Py Tam!” shouted the Bass, in an unknowntongue.

“Je crois bien!” rejoined the Belgian, as though heunderstood him.

One of the Herr’s foibles was his fondness for makingwhat it was his happiness to consider puns in theEnglish language. “De Barrone served us a good turndere!” he whispered to his unoccupied comrade.

The Viola smiled without taking his eyes off theSecond Fiddle.

“You take?” inquired the Violoncello, stimulatinghis neighbor’s sense of humor by a gentle punch inthe ribs with his bow.

“Very good, very good!” answered Charley; andmy grandfather, taking the compliment to himself,rather laid himself out on a crescendo and forte that heencountered just then.

Mr. Whacker had practised his part over, hundredsof times, during the week preceding its execution byhim on this occasion, and he really played it very creditably.It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that, atit* end, he should have been greeted with a small tempestof clappings and bravos and goots; and it remainedhis conviction ever after, that of all the quartetsof Haydn, the Kaiser most nearly approaches theunapproachable perfection of Mozart.

He looked at the matter from the Second Violinpoint of view. Who shall cast the first stone?

CHAPTER XXI.

Meanwhile, Mr. Whacker has not been idle. He hasbeen giving his wondering and interested guest an accountof what I have just narrated to the reader;omitting, naturally, many things that I have said;saying many things that I have omitted; telling hisstory, that is, in his own way. Let us drop in uponthem and see where they are.

“This was in 1855,—five years ago. How have youmanaged to supply M. Villemain’s place during all thistime? Have you succeeded in developing the localtalent?”

“Local talent? Bless you, no. I labored faithfullywith my grandson, but had to give him up,—no tastethat way. Then there was a young fellow, the son ofa neighbor,—young William Jones,—who is now at theUniversity. I had great hopes of him when he beganto take lessons; but the scamp was too lazy to practisehis exercises, and pretended he couldn’t see any tune inclassical music. Perfectly absurd! However,” quicklyadded Mr. Whacker, observing that his guest wassilent, “the majority are of his way of thinking. Billis a capital fiddler, however, and is invaluable at ourdancing parties. He will be down Christmas, and youwill 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-Billyin the Low Grounds’ the despair of every otherfiddler in the county.”

“I should like very much indeed to hear him,” saidthe stranger, laughing heartily at Charley’s neatlyturned phrase, over which his stammering threw aquaint halo of added humor. “And so you had to givehim up also, Mr. Whacker?”

“Yes, I had to give them all up, except Charleyhere.” And he gave that young man’s knee a vigorousslap, accompanied with an admiring glance. “Youcould hardly guess how I manage. You see Mr. Waldteufelvisits Baltimore twice a year to lay in a stock ofmusic and other articles needed by his pupils, and hehas instructions to look about him and pick up, if possible,some violinist newly landed in the country, or onetemporarily out of employment; or perhaps he mayfind an artist desiring a vacation, to whom a few weeksin the country would be a tempting bait. All such heis at liberty to invite to Elmington,—provided, ofcourse,” 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—infact—rather—what difference, pray, does it make to us twobachelors? You will no doubt think, Mr. Smith, thatthis is a quartet under difficulties,—and so it is, but itis 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 ofsome watering-place band to drop in on us, for a weekor so, on the closing of the season at the Springs.They are generally excellent musicians, and gladenough, after a summer of waltzes and polkas, to refreshthemselves with a little real music. So you seethat, after all, where there is a will there is a way.Provide yourself with a cage, and some one will be sureto 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, “Ihave the Hall there for a cage.”

“Yes, but where is your bird, your fourth player?”

“Very true, the bird is lacking just at present. Thetruth is, we have had poor luck of late. We have nothad any quartet music for a year,—not even our quartetswhere the piano takes the place of one of theviolins, owing to the absence of our young-lady artiste.By the way, I forgot to tell you, in speaking of ourlocal talent, that one of our girls is an excellent pianist,and that through her we have been enabled (until thepast year) to keep up our quartet evenings, in the absenceof a first violin; the main trouble being that Iam hardly equal to my part—that of the first violin—inthese compositions,—Lucy Poythress. You know her?”asked Mr. Whacker, on observing the sudden interestin the Don’s face.

“Why, Uncle Tom, Mr. Smith saved her life! Don’tyou remember?”

“Of course! of course! you must pardon an oldman’s tricks of memory!”

“Miss Poythress is a good musician?”

“Oh, wonderful, we think. She was the only one ofMr. Waldteufel’s pupils who had the least fancy forclassical music. She seemed to feel its meaning fromthe very first, and I hardly know what we should havedone without her. For several years—ever since shewas fourteen, in fact—she has been playing with us;in quartet when we needed her, a solo between ourHaydn and Mozart when we happened to have a firstviolin. You should know her,—know her well, I mean.So much character, and yet so gentle! Such depth ofsoul! In fact, she is an incomparable girl! I mustconfess, I never cease to wonder how Charley, here—”

“There you go again, Uncle Tom!”

“This good-for-nothing fellow, Mr. Smith, has, forseveral years, been crossing the river, Friday afternoons,to fetch her and her mother to our quartetparties,—taking them back, and spending the nightunder the same roof with this noble girl,—breakfastingwith her next morning,—and yet—Where would youfind another sister, eh?”

Charley rose, and, after walking about the room andglancing at the books in an aimless sort of way, withoutother reply than a smile, descended the steps andstood on the lawn with his fingers interlaced behindhis 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 singularfellow,—a ‘regular character,’ as the saying is. Hehas the greatest aversion to giving expression to hisfeelings, and fancies that he hides them,—though hesucceeds about as well as the fabled ostrich. The truthis, he has the warmest attachment for Lucy (I wish itwere only a little warmer), but a still greater affectionfor her mother. There are, in fact,” added Mr. Whacker,lowering his voice into a mysterious whisper, “peculiarreasons for his devotion to her and hers to him,—but itis a sad story which I will not go into; but, for ten orfifteen years—ever, at least, since a cruel bereavementshe experienced—he has made it a rule to spend, if atall possible, one night of every week under her roof.This weekly visit is a pleasure to Charley, but it seemsto be a necessity with poor Mrs. Poythress. Noweather 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, UncleTom,’ he will say; ‘she misses my visit so.’”

“My God!” cried the stranger, in a voice of piercinganguish; and, leaping from his seat, he stood with histemples pressed between his hands and his powerfulframe convulsed with emotion.

Had my grandfather been a man of more tact, hecould not have failed to remark in the dancing eyes,twitching mouth, and pallid features of his guest thesymptoms of a coming storm. As it was, it burst uponhim like a bolt from a cloudless sky. He stood aghast;and to the eager inquiring glances of Charley, whohad sprung into the room on hearing the cry and thenoise of the falling chair, he could only return, foranswer, a look of utter bewilderment. The strangerhad turned, on Charley’s entrance upon the scene, andwas supporting his head upon his hand, against thesash of the rear window.

“I cannot imagine!” silently declaimed and disclaimedmy grandfather.

“I hope—” began Charley, advancing.

The Guest, as though afraid to trust his voice, witha turn of his head flashed a kindly smile upon Charley,accompanied by a deprecatory motion of the hand, andagain averted his face as though not yet master of hisfeatures; but, a moment after, he straightened himself,suddenly, and turning, advanced towards his host.

“Mr. Whacker,” he began, with a grave smile, “Ibeg you a thousand pardons. There are certain parallelismsin life—I mean that you inadvertently toucheda chord that quite overmastered me for the moment.Forgive me.” And, taking my grandfather’s hand, hebowed over it with deep humility. Turning then toCharley, who, the reader will bear in mind, had notheard the words of Mr. Whacker that had wrought theexplosion, the Guest, to Charley’s great astonishment,grasped both his hands with a fervid grip, but avertedlook; then abruptly dropping his hands, he seized hishat and strode out of the door; leaving our two friendsin blank amazement. They stood staring at each otherwith wide eyes. At last, Charley raised his hand andtapped his forehead with his forefinger, then went tothe door and looked out.

“By Jove,” cried he, “he is making straight for theriver!” And, hatless as he was, he sprang to the groundand started after him, at a run—for the Guest wasswinging along with giant strides. Charley’s heartbeat quick, when the stranger, reaching the shore,stopped suddenly, stretching out both his arms towardthe opposite bank with wild, passionate gestures. Thepursuer was about to cry out, when the pursued, turningsharply to the left, moved on again, as rapidly asbefore. It was then that, either hearing Charley’shurrying steps, or by chance turning his head, hesaw that he was followed. He stopped instantly; and,coming forward to meet Charley:

“I must ask pardon again,” said he, with extendedhand. “I should have told you that I was going outfor a good long walk. I shall be back before dinner.”

“All right!”

The Guest doffed his hat and began to move onagain; but Charley, seized with a sudden remnant ofsuspicion, stopped him with a motion of his hand.“Remember,” said he, going close up to him, andspeaking in a low but earnest tone,—“remember, youhave two good friends yonder.” And, with a toss of hisupturned thumb, he pointed, over his shoulder, towardsthe house, which lay behind them; and young Frobisher,feeling that he had said much, cast his eyesupon the ground, bashful as a girl.

“I believe you,” said the guest; “and,” he addedwith earnestness, “the belief is much to me—much,—seeyou at dinner.”

Charley, returning, found Mr. Whacker standing onthe lawn, awaiting, with some anxiety, his report.

“It’s all right, I think. Look at him! See how he isbooming along the bank! But, Uncle Tom, how onearth did you and Mr. Smith manage to get up thosetheatricals?!”

“Hang me if I know! We were talking, as quietlyas possible, about some trivial matter or other,—entirelytrivial, I assure you,—and, all of a sudden, up heleaped in the air as though he had been shot. Let mesee, what were we talking about?” And Mr. Whackerrested 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 everythingout of my head; but they were nothings that we weresaying, I assure you.”

“You remember that, when I left the room, youwere teasing me about not falling in love with LucyPoythress?”

“Yes, yes, yes; now I have it! Well, after youwent out, I told him what friends you and Mrs. Poythresswere, and how you paid her a weekly visit, rainor shine,—ah, yes, and how once you were upset, whenyou 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 roomtwo minutes!”

“H’m!” And Charley slowly filled his pipe, and,lighting it, went out upon the lawn, where he walkedhaltingly up and down for some time. Quickly raisinghis eyes at last, and fixing them inquiringly uponthe Poythress mansion, nestling across the river, in itsclump of trees, he gazed at it with a look, now intent,now abstracted. “Can it be?” he muttered; and hestood long, chin upon breast, buried in thought; butwhat these thoughts were he breathed to no man.

CHAPTER XXII.

So, after all, my grandfather lost his opportunity ofexplaining to the Don how he came to build the Hall.No doubt he will do so as soon as the latter returnsfrom his walk. But there are reasons why I prefer togive my own account of the matter. The truth is, Ibelieve my narration will be more exactly in accordancewith the facts of the case than Mr. Whacker’swould be. For, my grandfather (though as truthfulas ever man was) having, like the rest of us, a greatdeal of human nature in him, did not always see veryclearly what his own motives were; and, had he beenasked why he had constructed this rather superfluousbuilding, would have given an answer at variance withwhat Charley’s or mine would have been. Now, hadeither of us been questioned, confidentially, and apartfrom our friend, we would have unhesitatingly affirmedthat he had built the Hall as a home for his quartet;but had he, perchance, overheard us, he would havedenied this, and not without heat. And this is easilyexplicable.

On the whole subject of music—music, whetherquartet or solo, vocal or instrumental—Mr. Whackerhad grown sore, and as nearly irritable as his strongnature admitted of. His neighbors had worried him.They—and who shall wonder at it?—had naturallybeen filled with amazement—and, what is harder tobear—amusem*nt—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 theirjokes that he altogether gave over inviting even hisnearest neighbors to be present at the Elmington musicalperformances. “Well, I hear your grandfather hasgot a new Dutchman,”—that was the way one old gentlemanused to speak of the arrival at Elmington ofeach successive find of Waldteufel’s in Baltimore; andthen his sides would shake. Naturally enough, mygrandfather grew more and more reticent, under thecirc*mstances, as to his musical doings and projects.

Now, the Elmington mansion was, originally, likemost of the residences of the Virginia gentry, a ratherplain and ill-planned structure. I dare say it had neveroccurred to the ancestral Whacker who contrived it thatany one of its rooms would ever be acoustically testedby a string quartet. At any rate, my grandfather foundhis parlor, with its thick carpet and heavy furniture,very unsatisfactory as a concert-room, and resolved tobuild a better. True, he himself never uttered a wordto this effect. Like a skilful strategist, he kept hisfront and flanks well covered as he advanced upon hisobjective-point. He began his forward movement withsome skill.

The Virginians of that day, as is well known, witha hospitality that defied all arithmetic, used to stowaway in their houses more people in proportion to thenumber of the rooms than was at all justifiable,—anda marvellous good time they all had too,—the necessityfor extra ventilation being met by the happy provisionof nature, that no true Virginian ever shuts a door.

I am far from claiming, my dear boy, that these ancestorsof yours were entitled to any credit for theirhospitality. For, even in our day of Mere Progress,we have ascertained that this is but a semibarbarousvirtue, while, in your day of Perfected Sweetness andLight, it will be classed, doubtless, among the entirelysavage vices. I am writing neither eulogium norapology. I draw pictures merely. You and your daymust draw the moral.

Well, Field-Marshal Whacker began operations bythrowing out the suggestion, every now and then, thatthe Library would be more comfortable to the youngmen who were sometimes crowded into it, on gala occasions(what a time they used to have!), if the bookcasesand the great table were removed. But where to putthem? He had often been puzzling his head of late,he would say, trying to contrive some addition to thehouse, but it was so built that he did not very well seehow it could be added to. After much beating aboutthe bush, from time to time, at last the proposition fora separate building came. Charley, very naturally,could not see the necessity for this, considering wewere but three; but, finding the old gentleman’s heartset on the project, he ceased to raise objections.

“It would be such a comfortable little nook to retireto.”

“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, whenthe house was full.”

“Exactly.”

“Certainly. And then, sometimes, when a lot ofyou young fellows got together, and wanted to have a‘high old time,’ you could go out there, and I could goto bed and let you have it out. Don’t you see?”

“Capital.”

So it was settled.

“But, Charley, would not a single room, stuck outall alone in the yard, have rather a queer look?”

“Rather queer, I should say.”

“While we are about it, why not put two roomsunder one roof?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t you think so? Then we’ll do it. Two rooms,—letme see.” And the wily old captain seemed to reflect.“As the rooms would be of only one story, thepitch should be high,—better artistic effect, you know.”

“Undoubtedly,” acquiesced Charley. And the craftyengineer meditated as to how to run his next and lastparallel.

“But what kind of a room shall the second be? Thefirst will be our Library, and, in case of a pinch, anextra guest-chamber, of course. But what are we todo with the second room? There’s the rub.”

“That’s a fact,” granted Charley between puffs; andthe 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!” criedCharley, surprised, for a moment, out of his habitualcalm.

“Why not?” asked Mr. Whacker, appealing withhis eyes from Charley to me, and from me to Charley.“Why not a ball-room? Remember how many youngpeople we frequently have here, especially Christmastime,—and you know they always dance.”

“I had forgotten that.”

“As it is, they must dance on a carpet, or else it mustbe taken up, and that is a great bother; whereas, witha nicely waxed floor! And then,” added my grandfather,casually,—running over the words as if of minorimportance (’twas a regular masked battery),—“andthen the fiddles would sound so much better in sucha room.”

“Oho!” cried Charley.

“What?” quickly put in Mr. Whacker, slightlycoloring.

“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 uncoveredhis artillery.

And so my grandfather set about gathering suitablelumber for his “Library,” as he called it; but it wasnearly two years before the structure was complete;so many trees did he find unsuitable, after they werefelled, and so carefully did he season the planks, beforethey were deemed worthy of forming part of thissacred edifice. Nor, during all this time, did Mr.Whacker ever once allude to the “Ball-Room” as likelyto prove a suitable place for his quartet performances.At last, in the month of November, 1858, just twoyears before the arrival of the Don at Elmington, the“Library” was finished, and we three were walkingover the glittering waxed floor of Mr. Whacker’s so-calledBall-Room, admiring its proportions and the exquisiteperfection of its joinery.

“Well, boys, we’ll christen her at Christmas. We’llhave one of the liveliest dancing-parties ever seenin the county. Suppose, Jack, you go over to thehouse and bring us a fiddle, and we shall see how shesounds.”

I brought the fiddle.

“Now, Charley, toss us off a reel.”

Charley dashed into a dancing tune, and played afew bars.

“Magnificent!” exclaimed Mr. Whacker, flushingwith intense delight. “Did you ever hear such resonance!”

“Magnificent!” we echoed; and Charley resumedhis playing.

“Do you know?” began he, pausing and raising hishead from the fiddle,—but on he dashed again. “Doyou know, Uncle Tom?” he resumed, biting hisunder-lip, as he gave a slight twist to a peg,—“Do youknow, it occurs to me that this room—” the scampwinked at me with his off eye. “Listen!” And, placingthe violin under his chin, he began to play a movementout of one of Mozart’s quartets. “How does thatsound?” he asked, looking up into my grandfather’sface with an expression of innocence utterly brazen.

This simple question, and the simplicity with whichit was put, covered our unsuspecting ancestor withconfusion, though he himself could hardly have toldwhy. Before he could recover himself sufficiently toreply, Charley went on,—

“Do you know, Uncle Tom, that it occurs to me thatthis room is the very place for our quartets? Howstrange that it should never have occurred to us before!”And turning to me, he bended upon me thatstare of serene stolidity under which he was wont tomask his intense sense of the humorous. I had nosuch power of looking solemn and burying a smile deepdown in my heart, as the pious Æneas used to do hisgrief, while he was fooling Sidonian Dido, poor thing;and so, as Charley and I had had many a quiet jokeover my grandfather’s transparent secret, I burst outlaughing.

“Why, don’t you agree with me?” demanded Charleywith austere composure. “What do you think, UncleTom?”

“Our quartets? Well, now that you suggest it—H’m!”And he glanced around the room with a criticallook. “We’ll ask Mr. Waldteufel next Friday. Whaton earth is that idiot giggling about?”

CHAPTER XXIII.

It was just one week before Christmas,—that of1860, the last Christmas of the olden time,—that Elmington—thatVirginia—forever and forever—was tosee—. But no matter; we did not know it then. Theguests from Richmond were to arrive that evening.Everything was in readiness.

The hickory logs, which alone my grandfather—andhis father before him, for that matter—wouldburn during the holidays,—lighting the first noble pileon Christmas Eve,—the hickory logs were banked up,high and dry, in the wood-house. The stall-fed ox noddedover his trough; the broad-backed Southdowns, clusteredtogether in a corner of their shed, basked in thesun and awaited a return of appetite; a remnant ofsturdy porkers, left over from the November killing,that blinked at you from out their warm beds, andgrunted when requested to rise, suggested sausage;while over on Charley’s farm, and under Aunt Sucky’sable management, aldermanic turkeys, and sleek, plumppullets, and ducks, quacking low from very fatness, andgeese that had ceased to wrangle,—all thought themselves,like man before Copernicus, the centre of theuniverse. Then, in the little creek, too, which ebbedand flowed hard by, there lay bushels and bushels ofoysters freshly taken from The River in front. These,too, were ready; while, in the cellar, suspended fromhooks, there dangled, thanks to the industry of Charleyand the Don, daily swelling bunches of partridges andrabbits, of woodco*ck and of wild fowl.

And can you not detect the odor of apples issuingeven from that locked door? There are great piles ofthem stowed away there; and cider, I suspect, is notlacking. And above, the storeroom showed shelvesweighed down, since the arrival of the last steamer,with such things as Elmington could not supply.Boxes and bags and bundles gave forth the mellowfragrance of raisins, the cheerful rattle of nuts, thepungent savor of spices,—the promise of all things dearto the heart of the Virginia housewife. On everywhiff floated mince-pie,—mince-pie embryonic, uncompounded;with every sniff there rose, like an exhalationbefore the imagination, visions of Plum-Pudding—ofthe Plum-Pudding of Old England,—twin-sister ofRoast Beef,—and, with Roast Beef, inseparable attendantand indispensable bulwark of ConstitutionalLiberty.

It was well.

Nor in stuffed larder alone were discernible the signsof the approaching festival. Christmas was in the veryair. Old Dick’s mien grew hourly more imposing; hiseye, beneath which now trembled no longer Zip alone,but Zip reinforced by double his own strength, hourlymore severe. Aunt Phœbe, her head gorgeous in anew bandanna (a present from Mrs. Carter last Christmas,but which had lain folded in her “chist” for thepast year),—Aunt Phœbe, chief of the female cohort,and champion pastry-cook of the county, waddled fromroom to room,—serene, kindly, and puffing,—voluminouswith her two hundred pounds, inspecting thework of her subordinates, and giving a finishing touchhere and there. Polly, the cook, and her scullion, aloneof the household, had no leisure for putting on theChristmas look, busy as they were getting dinner forthe coming guests; cooks being, in point of fact, amongthe few people, white or black, that ever did a full day’swork in Virginia in the olden time. But we havechanged all that,—so let it pass.

“Dey comin’!” eagerly cried an urchin of color, who,with twenty companions of both sexes, had had for thepast hour their eyes fixed on the lane-gate.

The gate was swinging on its hinges.

With one accord they all assumed the attitude ofrunners awaiting the signal to start. With feet plantedfirmly,—shall I say widely?—but no, they are menand brothers now,—with eyes bent upon the gate, butbodies leaning towards the house, they stood for amoment expectant.

The noses of a pair of horses appeared between thegate-posts.

“D’yar dey come! D’yar dey come!” they shoutedin chorus; and, with quasi-plantigrade flap of simultaneousfeet, they bounded to the rear.

As when Zeus, angry because of the forgotten hecatomb,sends forth, in black, jagged cloud, the glomeratedhail, and lays low the labors of the oxen and thehopes of the husbandman.

Or, just as a herd of buffaloes, sniffing the band ofRedmen from afar, scurry over the plain.

As though a pack of village curs have inaugurateda conflict, at dead of night, in peaceful, moonlit lane.The combat deepens and stayeth not. But the SummerBoarder, wild with the irony of advertisem*nts,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 blamelessEthiopians, 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 eendo’ de lane!” For that worthy, hearing their hurryingsteps, 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’tyou know I is de properest pusson to renounce de rerivalo’ de company?”

Awed by this courtly phrase, no less than by theshining bald head and portly figure that stood beforethem, the black cohort slowly withdrew, and, stragglingback, resumed their position at the lawn-gate to awaitthe 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 sablechorus in deferential undertones.

“Sarvant, Miss Fanny!” spoke up one older andbolder than the rest. “Sarvant, Miss Fanny; sarvant,Marse George,” echoed the dusky maniple.

“How d’ye do, children, how d’ye do!” respondedshe, affably nodding to a familiar face here and therein the groups that lined the road on either side.

“Yonder Marse Jack!” shouted a little fellow, gettingthe start of the rest, who were grinning upon Mrs.Carter as though she were their guest. “YonderMarse Jack a-drivin’ de hind carriage!”

Coming up between the rows, I nodded from side toside. The flash of ivories and of smiling eyes seemedto illumine the twilight. Perhaps the light was in myheart—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,—Alicewith the merry-glancing hazel eyes; then Mary Rolfe,demure, reserved, full of subdued enthusiasm, the antithesisof Alice, but “adoring” her—girls will talk so—andadored by her in turn; then the teller of this tale,making five. In addition there were two or threeyoung ladies,—all very charming,—but as they werenot destined to play any marked part in our drama,why describe, or even name them?

Only two of our guests had ever before spent Christmasat Elmington,—Mr. and Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Carterwas a kind of far-off Virginia cousin of ours, and it wasan understood thing between her and my grandfatherthat she should come down to Elmington every Christmasand matronize his household; else, a houseful ofgirls, 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 peopleenjoy themselves, could hardly have been found. Mr.Carter, an excellent, silent, sober man of business, couldrarely spend more than a week with us; but his jovialspouse never gave us less than a month of her charmingchaperoning; and, on one occasion, I remember, theunceasing entreaties of the young people constrainedher to prolong her visit and theirs, from week to week,till two full months had elapsed. The net result, directand indirect, of that particular campaign was fourmarriages, if I recollect aright,—so that Elmingtonhad an established reputation, among the girls, as alucky place; of which my grandfather was not a littleproud.

“Young ladies,” said he, walking up to Alice andMary, and putting his arms around their waists, asthey stood at a window, after dinner, admiring themoonbeams dancing on the waves,—“young ladies, doyou know that Elmington is a very dangerous place?”

“How, dangerous?” asked Mary.

“Shipwrecks?” suggested Alice, nodding towards TheRiver with a smile.

“Yes,” replied he, stooping down and kissing themboth with impartial cordiality,—“shipwrecks of hearts.”

“I have lost mine already,” said Alice, laying herhead on his shoulder and shutting her eyes, with alanguishing 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 consentedto let us have you this Christmas? It was butright, now that you are grown. And then she lives insuch an out-of-the-way neighborhood.”

“Yes, it was very kind in grandmamma to let mecome here instead of spending my Christmas with her.She grows deafer every year, and I think—perhaps—Iwas going to make such a wicked speech!” And Alicedropped her eyes.

“What dreadful thing were you going to say?”

“I was thinking that, perhaps, bawling into one’sgrandmother’s ear was not so pleasant a pastime, to agirl, as having—just for a change you know—a youngfellow whispering in hers.”

“Charley,” asked Mr. Whacker, suddenly, that night,as we sat before the library fire, after the newly-arrivedguests had retired, “do you know, I can’t understandwhy, in speaking of the ladies you met in Richmond,you never so much as mentioned the name of AliceCarter?”

I tried to catch Charley’s eye, but he durst not lookme in the face. Seated as I was, therefore, rather behindmy innocent relative, I clapped my hand uponmy mouth, doubled myself up in my chair, and wentthrough the most violent, though silent contortions ofpantomimic laughter. Charley held his eye firmlyfixed on my grandfather’s face, and affected, thoughwith reddening face, not to observe my by-play.

“D-D-D-Didn’t I?”

Any kind of mental perturbation always brought onan attack of stammering with Charley.

“Why, no; and yet I have never seen a more charminggirl. She is positively fascinating. Don’t you admitit, you cold-hearted young wretch?”

Here, a broad smile from the Don encouraging me tofurther exertions, my chair tilted, and I recovered myselfwith a bang.

“What is the matter with you?” asked my grandfather,suddenly turning.

Charley gave me a quick, imploring glance, and Ihad pity on him. “Give it to him, grandfather; hedeserves it, every word,—the woman-hater!”

“To be sure he does. Why, were I at his time oflife—hey, Mr. Smith?”

That night, after we had gone to bed, I was justdozing off into dreamland. Charley gave me a suddendig in the ribs.

“Wasn’t I good?” said I, drowsily. But the oldboy, turning his back upon me and settling his headupon 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 hercollar.

Mary, tired and sleepy as she was, dropped into achair and shook with half-unwilling laughter.

“What is the Little Thing laughing at?”

“Alice, you are the hardest case I ever knew. Whydo you persist in turning the man into ridicule?”

“Who, the Pass’n?” for thus she pronounced theword,—and her merry eyes twinkled.

I doubt whether the reader can guess who the“Pass’n” is. I must explain, therefore, that when Imentioned to the girls, in Richmond, that I had foundthe Don reading the New Testament, Alice had immediatelycried out that now she had it. “He is a Methodistparson in disguise.” And upon this theme shehad ever since been playing inimitably grotesque variations.Coming down on the boat, notably, she hadsurpassed herself; and I hear our party disgracedthemselves by their hilarity. “Ladies and gentlemen,”she had cried out, when first we had come inview of Elmington,—“ladies and gentlemen,” said she,leaning out of the carriage window, and declaimingsolemnly to the passengers in the rear vehicle, “inyonder mansion sits meditating, at this moment, Pass’nSmith, the disguised Methodist divine. He is theWhitefield of our day. For generations, no exhorterof such power—especially with sentimental young girlsand lonesome widows— Will some one be so good asto administer restoratives to the Fat Lady? She seemson the verge of— Where was I?” And so she went on,her young heart ceaselessly bubbling over with freshnessand high spirits.

“Ridicule the Pass’n!” said Alice, dropping into herfriend’s lap. “Far from me the profane idea.” And shesmoothed back from Mary’s brow her loosened hair.

“In the first place, Alice, it is perfectly absurd foryou to say he is a parson; and even if he were,” shecontinued, after a sharp struggle with her risinglaughter.—“even if he were studying with a view tothe ministry, I don’t see that he should be made funof on that account. To my mind,—and you ought tothink so too, Alice,—to my mind there is no noblerspectacle than that of a young man deliberately turninghis back upon all the allurements that lead astrayso many of his comrades, and devoting himself, in thevery vigor of his manhood and in all the glory of hisyouthful strength, to the service of his God. But asfor the Don,—Mr. Smith I mean,—I think he is aboutas far from being a parson as he well could be. Don’tyou remember how, when I first met him, I said I wasafraid of him? Well, that feeling grows on me. Hemay have his passions well under control, but, you maydepend upon it, they would be terrible if ever they gotthe 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 thatpeculiar way of his, they seem to me to glitter throughhis 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, “yougo straight and tell your mamma.” And she droppedher head on Alice’s shoulder and stuck out her mouthlike a three-year-old child.

“Incorrigible scamp!” cried Mary, between laughter-kissesthat, like bubbles, exploded as they touchedthose pouting lips. “But, Alice, will you never beserious?”

“Serious?” replied Alice, rising. “I was never moreserious in my life. It wouldn’t be right.”

“What wouldn’t be right?”

“For you to let the Pass’n bite you, without tellingyour mother,—and with those glittering teeth too!Think of it! Glittering teeth and starry eyes! Imagine!Most improper, upon my word!”—and she gavea toss of her shapely little head. “Mary,” said Alice,dropping again, suddenly, into her laughing friend’slap,—“Mary, look me in the eyes!”

From her fine honest face, as well as from her voice,—bothchangeful as the dolphin’s hues,—had vanishedin an instant all trace of raillery. Mary looked upwith a smile half serious, half inquiring.

“Well?”

“Straight in the eyes!” repeated Alice, lifting herfriend’s chin on the tip of her forefinger.

“I am looking.”

“Mary,” began Alice, leaning forward, and with thatsame forefinger daintily depressing the tip of Mary’snose, “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 answerto a question. Look me in the eyes and say no,—ifyou can.”

“Well, no, then!”

“No fluttering here, when he approaches? no quickbreathing 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 thepresent.”

“How ‘for the present’?”

“Never mind,” said Alice, rising; “and now foranother 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 enamouredof me? No, you will not ask that. Dear Charles,—well,he is a nice fellow, I must admit,—and wouldlet you do all the talking.” And she gave Alice asqueeze, as girls will do, when talking sweetheartsamong themselves.

“Mr. Frobisher! Why are you continually harpingon him? He has never said a dozen words to me. Butmark my words, that Enigma is interested in you. Heshowed it to-day at dinner. You know, my dear, whenthe humor strikes you, you talk beautifully—”

“I don’t compare with you, Alice.”

“Never mind about me. This meeting has not beencalled with a view to organizing a Mutual-AdmirationSociety. You are the subject of this little pow-wow.Now, to-day, at dinner—well, I don’t like to sit hereand flatter you to your face, but I saw very plainlythat the Reverend Mr.—I beg your pardon, the Don,was enraptured with your unconscious eloquence.”

“Eloquence, Alice?” And Mary flushed with ill-concealeddelight.

“Yes, Little Dumpling, eloquence.”

“Really?”

“That’s the charm of the thing, goosey; your wordsflow from you so easily, that you are unconscious howlovely your language often is. Then, of course, asnone of us know the sound of our own voices, you arehardly aware how low and musical your voice is.”

“Alice,” said Mary, gravely, “you are making funof me. You have never said anything like this to mebefore. It is not kind,—it really isn’t!” And her lipsquivered.

“You little goose! Not to know me any better thanthat! Well, to-day you became so much interestedin some subject you were discussing with Mr. JohnWhacker that you did not observe, for some time, thatevery one at the table was listening to you; and then,when you discovered that you ‘had the floor,’ youblushed 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 thoughtof you. I give you my word, I nearly exploded whenI caught sight of the Don. There he sat, with anoyster on the end of his fork poised midway betweenhis plate and his mouth, with his eyes riveted on you.Put this down in your book, Mary,—this,—as a maximon love: ‘Whenever a man forgets the way to hismouth his heart’s in danger.’”

“I will,” said Mary, shaking with laughter.

“Yes,” continued Alice, standing before the glass andtaking 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 inthe glass; then, folding her arms across her bosom andswaying from side to side two or three times, sailed offin a waltz around the room.

“The trouble with you, my dear, is simply this,”—andshe stood before her friend with arms akimbo,—“youare devoid of common sense.” And off she caperedagain, this time in the rhythm of the polka.“Oh, I’m so happy!” cried she, clasping her hands androlling 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 herown waving arms in the mirror, she, like the kaleidoscope,changed in an instant. Standing on her leftfoot, she described, with the extended toe of her right,an elaborate semicircle, and ended with a profoundcourtesy, her young face corrugated, meanwhile, withthat professional grin of the equestrienne, which, amongthe horsical, passes for a smile. Turning then to Mary,she repeated the movement. “Behold,” cried she,drawing herself up to her full height,—“behold theEmpress of the Arena! The Champion Bare-backRider of the World!”

“I don’t know so much about the champion part ofit, but of the bare back there can be little doubt.”

“Well said, Little Dumpling! I must admit that mycostume is rather meagre.”

“Alice, you ought to be able to explain it if anybodycan,—how do people come to be ‘privileged characters,’as they are called? You do whatever you please, andcut all sorts of crazy antics, and no one ever thinksyou foolish, or even undignified; and then, you saywhatever you think, yet no one can get angry withyou. You tell me, to my face, that I am destitute ofcommon sense—”

“Totally, that’s a fact.”

“And yet I am not the least bit vexed?”

“The simplest thing imaginable. Listen, and I willexplain. As to the crazy antics, as you are pleased toterm my joyous, lamb-like friskings, of course youcannot expect me to have the face to stand up hereand say that they do not offend, because of the bewitching,inborn grace which characterizes my everymovement?”

“Naturally.”

“Of course. And you will naturally pardon my notalluding to what I can’t help.”

“Poor thing!”

“Of course. I was born so; and that’s the end ofthat. Now, as to your not being hurt by my tellingyou that plain truth about yourself—”

“My destitution as regards—”

“Common sense—yes,—I think you yourself mustunderstand it.”

“Because you told me, first, that I had a streak ofgenius,—flatterer?”

“Precisely; I credit you with bullion, and you arenot worried that I should deny you the small changeof every-day life. You see I am as deep as Machiavelli,—inother words, as full of common sense as anegg is of meat. Lucy will not be home,” said she, abruptlyveering off from the line of their talk, as sheseated herself on the edge of the bed, “till the middleof 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 Donmight 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 andearnest, so single-minded and devoted, that I shouldtremble to see her exposed to such a danger.”

“And I am so—”

“You are what you are, my dear, and I would nothave you other. But there is but one Lucy in theworld. You know it and I know it, and neither of uswould 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 gotso much hard sense that I should never think of reciprocating.However,” added she, resting her head inher hand, while her elbow and fair, plump arm sank inthe pillow, “I am not so sure. I, too, am human. Perhapsit would be too much for me. He is tall,” shecontinued, looking dreamily into space,—“he is distinguished-looking!—sobrave!—so mysterious!—perhapsI haven’t as much sense as I thought,”—and she seemedto nod,—“and his teeth are so like stars! and his rowsof eyes are so even and white! glitter so!—Am Iasleep? Mary, my love,” cried she, bouncing off thebed, “are you going to talk all night? Talk on,—butI’ll tell you what I am going to do. I shall straightwayput on my little N. G.,—the toggery, to wit, of repose;and then I shall fall on my little knees and say my littleprayers; which done, I shall curl up my little self in mylittle bed, and know no more till the rising-bell. Oneword with you, however. Mary, do you know whatall 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 anddanced to-night means this, and this only. The Pass’nis going to fall in love with you. That’s the Pass’n’saffair, and shows his good taste. Now, who on earth isthe Pass’n? Do you see? Well, don’t you go and fallin love with him, now mind! don’t,—that’s a good, wisegirl. Good-night!”

CHAPTER XXV.

I will not suppose that any of my readers aresuperficial persons; and only superficial persons needbe told that Alice Carter was a young woman of unusuallystrong judgment and sound sense. And, further:all persons like her are similarly characterized.Doubtless, a sense of humor is not necessary to thechemist or the naturalist or the mathematician,—to onepursuing a special branch of knowledge; but in thatscience of sciences, the knowledge of men and things,no eminence is possible without it. ’Tis the blind whofall into pits; and the man who cannot see the absurdin others can in nowise himself escape being ridiculous.I know of but one bird with long ears; and he looksexceeding wise; but let him but venture forth fromthe twilight of his hiding-place into the full glare ofday, and the first school-boy that passes whistling by,shall knock him on the head. And so, among men, themost solemn owl is ever the most solemn ass.

Yes, our little Alice of the merry-glancing hazel eyeswas a wise virgin and of exceeding tact; but when shewarned her friend against falling in love with the Don,she blundered,—blundered most grieviously when sheplanted in Mary’s mind the idea that he was not indifferentto her. She loved Mary dearly, with a lovesecurely based on similarity of principles and dissimilarityof temperament, and cemented by the closestassociation from their very infancy. She admired her,too,—admired her gifts, the unusual range of herwomanly culture, her enthusiasm for all that was highand noble, the glowing beauty of her language whenshe discoursed of anything that kindled her blood. Atsuch times she would sit gazing upon Mary’s face,illumined as it was with a beautiful enthusiasm, andfeel that she herself was almost despicable. Yet a reactionalways came. Mary was not what is called practical.Her head was among the stars, as it were, whileher feet were stumbling along the earth; and Alicerevenged herself upon her goddess, for her enforcedworship, by playing upon her foibles and blunders withan incessant spray of delicate and sparkling raillery.Even the school-girl love-affairs that they had had whenabout twelve or thirteen years of age had been characteristicof the two friends. Mary’s youth rejoiced inthe aristocratic name of Arthur, while Alice’s lad wasknown as plain Harry. Arthur was curly-haired andpale of face, and generally had, as he sauntered toschool, some novel or other concealed about his person.Harry was a brisk, bullet-headed chap, championknucks’ player of the school; while, at mumble-peg, hisstubby, upturned nose allowed him to rise superioreven to defeat.

“I can’t see, Alice, how you can fancy a boy with apug 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 andme dry, while he ran home in the rain. Somebody elsewas afraid of getting his curls wet. I’ll tell you whatit is, Mary, I like a boy that carries my books for meand gives me peaches and French candy and orangesand things; but you want one with a novelly nameand a ‘chiselled nose,’ as you call it,—a pretty boy, infact.” All which Mary denied With some heat, and theyhad a tiff and “didn’t speak” for five long and wearyminutes. Alice phrased the same idea differently someyears later. “Mary, I’ll tell you the difference betweenyou and myself. Your idea of a husband is a manwhom you can adore; mine must adore me.”

Alice blundered,—blundered through over-zeal forher friend’s welfare. She knew Mary’s nature in itsevery recess; she erred through not knowing humannature as well. She was only eighteen; hence herknowledge of mankind was special rather than general.She knew the exaltation of Mary’s imagination, andfelt the danger of her fervid fancy’s laying hold of sucha man as the Don, and converting him into a demi-godby the alchemy of her fresh, girlish heart. But generalizationis not a trait of the feminine mind. Whenwe hear that some one admires us, we—all of us—instinctivelygive that person credit for good taste anddiscernment,—that, she of the hazel eyes overlooked.Now, good taste and discernment are admirable traits;how, then, other things being favorable, can we helpadmiring our admirers?

“Good-night!” answered Mary; and the two fairheads lay side by side, deep-sunk in vast, beruffledpillows. Alice, fatigued by the day’s journey, fellasleep almost immediately. Her companion, thoughher eyes were closed, lay thinking. Ah, little Alice,you have sadly blundered! Mary is thinking of whatyou have said to her—ransacking her brain for confirmationof your suggestion. “Yes, I did remark his lookingat me several times at dinner; but what of that?People can look at other people without being in lovewith them. And—yes, I did think his eyes wore a veryintense look; but then they always glow like coals.How beautiful they are!” [Oh, Alice! Alice!!] “terriblybeautiful! 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 disturbedthe latter’s slumbers; but she merely drew a long breathand exhaled it again with force,—taking a fresh hold,as it were, on sleep.

“Pshaw! it’s all nonsense! Alice forgets what weall agreed to in Richmond. Lucy Poythress was obviouslyhis favorite. Of course she was. Everybodyremarked it. I never saw anything like the suddennessof the fancy he took for her. Well, Lucy willreach the neighborhood in a few weeks, and then weshall 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 methan to the others when we left the parlor; but whatof that? Bows must differ like everything else; onemust be lower than the rest. And he is so strong, Isuppose he hardly knew that he almost hurt my hand.”“Stuff!” cried she aloud, with emphasis; whirling outof Alice’s arms and changing her position.

Many men, in many lands, Poor Thing, have triedthat method of changing the current of their thoughts,and have failed. The chronometer goes ticking on, layit how you will; and so the human heart; but that,alas, unlike the tireless watch, throbs fiercest when ’tisbroken.

Alice gave the half-conscious moan of disturbedsleep; and Mary resumed her meditations, going, againand again, over the same ground. At last youth andfatigue asserted their claims, and she fell asleep andslept for hours; then suddenly sprang up with a sharpcry.

“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 asleepagain.

Mary had dreamt that she was walking alone on aroad through a dark forest, when suddenly she heard,behind her, the clatter of a horse’s hoofs. Lookingaround 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 makingfull at her, and she stood transfixed with fright, androoted to the ground. As he came up to her, he didnot slacken his speed, but bending to the right, and encirclingher waist with his mighty arm, lifted her fromthe ground, and, without an effort, placed her beforehim on the charger’s neck. On, on, they rushed formiles and miles; but the horseman spake never a word,nor, for very terror, could she utter a cry. At last theyemerged into a bright, moonlit plain, and there, standingbefore them, was the figure of a young girl. Sheturned her head at the sound of the charger’s hoofs,and the moon, shining full on her face, revealed the featuresof Lucy. “Aha! it is she!” cried the Knight,breaking silence for the first time. ’Twas the voice ofthe Don! And tossing his trembling captive disdainfullyto the ground, he stooped once more, and, seizingLucy, 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 theDon narrowly, and see whether there is anything inwhat Alice says. Perhaps there may be some littlefoundation for her opinion.” Entering the breakfast-roomin this frame of mind, it is not to be wondered atthat, as she saluted one after another of the company,her eyes suddenly gave forth kindlier beams as theymet those of the Don. Very likely the Don did notmake any such comparison. He may not have remarkedthat the smile she gave him was sweeter orsweetest; but he felt that it was sweet.

There were only two vacant seats at the table whenthe two girls entered. One, at my grandfather’s right,he had expressly reserved for Alice, who had entirelycaptivated him the evening before by her sparklinggayety. The other was next the Don’s, and this Marytook. That sweet smile merited response of somesort, and his attentions to his fair neighbor were assiduousand delicate. He was always courteous, but,certainly, rather constrained; now, his manner seemedto her singularly gentle. What was thawing him out?Perhaps—well, at any rate—

“Thank you,” cooed she, in that soft, high-bredtongue of Richmond,—“thank you,”—in requital forhot waffle, weaving wreathed smile, entangler of thehearts of men. Could he, the friendless one and solitary,could he be unmoved? And so, smile answeredsmile, 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 thewhole. It makes the chapter shorter; but even thathas its possible advantages. The fact is, I am not quitesure that I know what they did think and feel; forwas not the Don an Enigma? and was not Mary awoman?

After all, what is the use of all this microscopic anatomyin tracking the progress of heart-affairs? It seemsto me that falling in love is as elementary a process assitting down on an ice-pond. The rub is how not to doit. If the novelists would but tell us that! Fortunatelyfor me, I am not called on to do this, as I am nota novelist, but a bushwhackerish philosopher instead.And then—have I defrauded you, fair reader?—this isnot a love-story! When I sat down to write it, I resolvedto exclude, most rigidly, from its pages, all allusionto the tender passion; but, somehow, thoughagainst my will, my personages could not be kept freefrom its toils. My error was in bringing them togetherto spend Christmas in a Virginia country-house. Thething cannot be remedied, now, without an entirechange of plot; so I shall have to let it go as it is.But the reader must credit the whole of this Episodeof Love, which has forced itself into a theme of a differentnature, to Alice Carter. Without her assistanceI could not have written one word of it. She andCharley, to be entirely honest, are the real authors ofthis book. They have furnished most of the facts; Iam to pocket all the glory.

To show the part Alice has had in the matter, I willmention, by way of example, a conversation we hadyears after the occurrences herein described,—less, infact, than eighteen months ago. We were talking ofthe good old times,—Consule Planco,—and happened tospeak of this particular Christmas at Elmington, andespecially of the week that preceded Christmas Eve.

“Did you know as early as that, that a love-affairwas brewing between Mary and the Don?”

“Of course; at any rate, I feared it. You know howharum-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 goingto remark, I had the regulation number of eyes aboutmy person, and couldn’t well help seeing what laystraight before me.”

“I saw nothing!”

“Ah, but you are a man! and remember that thereare none so blind as those who can’t see!”

“Then you think the affair was well under weighbefore the end of the first week?”

“With the Don, yes; and Mary was far more interestedthan she would allow herself to believe.”

“Do you suppose that she was aware of the criticalstate of the Don’s affections?”

“Of course she was; don’t you know that a womanalways perceives that a man is falling in love with herlong before he finds it out himself?”

“Not to add,” I rejoined, “that she often perceives itwhen the man never does find it out himself. By theway, 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 surpriseis about as real as that felt by a spider when afly, after buzzing about her web for a time, and lightlygrazing first one thread and then another, at last putshimself in a position where he may be made available.”

“Poor fly!”

Upon the authority, then, of Alice, who holds theposition of Editor-in-chief of the Love-department of thiswork, I may assure the reader that by the time thatone week had passed over the heads of our party atElmington this was the state of things:

Mary was sure that the Don loved her, and believedthat she was fancy-free. The Don was aware, nodoubt, of the state of his own affections, and was, wewill suppose,—for there is no way of knowing,—in perplexingdoubt as to the condition of Mary’s. Aliceknew more than either of them; while upon me, theteller of this tale, their various nods and becks andwreathéd smiles had been entirely lost.

I knew no more of what was going forward thanZip did of the amours of Uncle Toby and the WidowWadman.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Christmas Eve had come, and, as usual, the holidayshad been officially ushered in by a noble fire of hickorylogs. A deep mass of ruddy coals was glowing uponthe vast hearth of the Hall. Upon these had been casta hamper of chosen oysters. The guests (it was theway at Elmington) were expected to rake them out,every man for himself and sweetheart, which gave adelightful informality to the proceedings. As soon asthe roasting was well under weigh, two enormous, ancestralbowls, one of eggnog, the other of apple-toddy,were brought in. Later, there was to be dancing. Adozen or so of our neighbors and friends were in thehabit of dropping in on us, on these occasions, to helpus make merry.

“And now, grandfather,” said I, “it is time to bringout the old Guarnerius.”

“The old what?” asked the Don, quickly.

“His old Guarnerius violin; Guarnerius was a celebratedmaker of violins,” I explained.

What was the matter with Charley? Why did hepurse 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 withher first-born. He allows it to be brought out onlyduring the Christmas holidays; though he used to letMonsieur Villemain play on it. The genuine ones arevery 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 thesame result.

“That,” replied the old gentleman, smiling and addressingthe Don, “is a piece of information I havenever given to my friends. You see, when I was ayoung man—”

We all knew what was coming,—the story that mygrandfather always told to strangers when his Guarneriuswas brought out for inspection. It was rather along story,—how he took lessons from a very promisingyoung artist, who took to gambling and drinking, andhad, therefore, to sell his beloved violin to his pupil,—andhow the young man grieved at giving it up, etc.,etc., etc.

“So saying,” concluded Mr. Whacker, “he wrungmy 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 withwhich he was opening it.

If there runs upon the people’s highway a hopelesslyslow coach, it is your writer of English grammars.When will they deem this interjection respectableenough to introduce into their works? If never, howis the boy of the future to parse my works? Surely,it is worth any half-dozen of their genteel alases, ortheir erudite alackadays! Look at it! Ouch! Howmuch body! What an expressive countenance! Whatcharacter in its features! Hebrew verbs have genders;and don’t you see that ouch is masculine? What ladywould use it? Nay, it is more than masculine,—it ismanly!

See those two boys,—the one with a strong pin fixedin the toe of his shoe,—the other absorbed in his lesson,and sitting in an unguarded attitude. Up goes thefoot!

“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, withByron’s dying gladiator, that he consents to start, butconquers agony? He means, as clearly as though hehad used the whole dictionary, “I am no girl. Ididn’t scream. It didn’t hurt, neither. I just wantedto have you understand that I knew you were foolingwith the seat of my trousers.”

All this those four letters mean; and yet this is theirfirst appearance in any serious literary work!

To this masterly interjection did Mr. Charles Frobishergive vent; and he meant, of course, “I havecut my finger with this confounded knife, opening thisconfounded oyster; but don’t disturb yourselves, ladiesand gentlemen, ’tis a small affair.” Accordingly herose, left the room, and soon returned with his fingerbandaged.

“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 toplay for the dancers this evening.”

Charley looked at the bandaged finger with athoughtful air, and shook his head.

Charley, with all his supposed aversion to the fairsex, was ready, at any time, to play all night to thedancing of a party of girls, and the young people weremuch 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 thequestion was raised whether one could not be foundamong the negroes. But it turned out that a “revival”had recently swept over the county, and both mygrandfather’s fiddlers had “got religion.” One of themhad, in fact, already begun to preach; and, in his firstsermon, had taken high conservative ground as to thefuture state of such as drew the bow and repented not.So, as the tyro to whom the new parson had sold hisinstrument was not yet up to the mark, it seemedcertain that we would have to trip it to the less inspiringstrains of the piano.

“I vill blay for de yoong beebles till daylight doafabbear,” quoth the Herr, who was very near the mammothbowl of apple-toddy.

But just as this thorough-going proposal fell from theProfessor’s well-moistened lips, there was heard theclattering of hoofs on the frozen ground. There was astir among the darkies, around and in the door-way,and on the steps of the Hall; for, as was the custom inthe olden days, whenever there was any convivialitygoing forward in the “Great-House,” the negroes hadcrowded about all the doors and windows whence aglimpse of the festivities was to be had; for they knewvery well there was “mo’ toddy in dat d’yar big bowldan de white folks gwine ’stroy, let alone de eggnog.”

I hasten to remark that this mysterious cavalier, sodarkly galloping through night and frost, was noneother than Mr. William Jones,—Billy for short,—theyoung fellow of whom we have heard before, and whowas, at this time, a student at the University. A dozensable youngsters seized his reins, ambitious of the honorof riding his horse to the stable; and as he dismountedand approached the densely-packed steps, he was assailedby a chorus of joyous, friendly voices.

“Dat you, Marse Billy? Lord ’a’ mussy, how dechile done growed, to-be-sho! Jess like he pa, too!”

The light was streaming upon his cheery, manlyface. “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 chuckledblissfully.

“Know you! why, it was only last October that Iwent 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 wasvery gratifying to a middle-aged negro to be thoughtold. There was on every farm a considerable proportionof the ladies and gentlemen of color who hadvoted themselves too old or too infirm to labor. Theirdiseases,—they were all diseased,—while masking theirmalignity behind such empirical euphemisms as rheumatizor misery in de chist, baffled all diagnosis, andwere invariably incurable; for who can minister to amind diseased with that most obstinate of ailments, anaversion, to wit, to putting in movement the musclesof one’s own body? There was, so to speak, an Hôpitaldes Invalides on every farm; and on my grandfather’sthe emeriti and emeritæ were in strong force.

And truly it was a pleasant sight, provided you werenot a political economist or a philanthropist, to walkamong the cabins, on a bright autumn afternoon, andsee the good souls sitting, sunning themselves, and hearthe serene murmur of their prattle, broken, ever andanon, by some mellow burst of careless laughter.

It was tranquillity such as this, I fancy, that Homermust have observed in the old men of his day. Don’tyou remember when there was a truce, and Priam wasstanding upon the battlements,—what book was it?—butno matter,—and he sent for Helen to come andpoint out to him the various Greek heroes who stoodbeneath the walls; and how she had to pass by a knotof ancient men, and how she amazed them by herbeauty? The days of toil and sweat and wounds, forthem, at least, were past; and they, too, had come tocatch, from the turrets, a glimpse of wide-ruling Agamemnonand Ulysses of many wiles; of the brawn ofAjax; and of Diomede, equal to the immortal gods.And there they sat, hobnobbing and a-twittering—sothe master says—low and sweet as so many cicadas—letus say katydids—from greenwood tree.

“No wonder,” they chirped, “the Greeks and Trojans”(they were no longer either Greeks or Trojans,—theywere aged men, merely) “have ceaselessly contended,for now nearly ten years, about her,—for she isdivinely beautiful!”

I think it must have been my childhood’s experiencesof plantation life that caused me to be so profoundlytouched by this masterly passage; for hardlyelsewhere, in this grimly struggling world of ours,could just such scenes have been witnessed. Justthink of it, for a moment! Here, throughout Virginia,there were, in those days, on every farm, threeor four, or a dozen, or a score of servants, who hadrested from their labors at an age when one may saythe struggle glows fiercest with the European races.A roof was over their heads, a bright fire crackled ontheir hearths. Their food, if plain, was abundant. Andthere was not a possibility that these things should everfail them. No wonder they used to rival the ἄσβεστοςγέλως that burst from the ever-serene gods, when lameVulcan, with his ungainly hobble, went to and fro amongthem, officiously passing the nectar.

That sonorous mellowness of unalloyed laughter weshall 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 wecannot bring ourselves to look as others do, upon thestate of things which rendered it possible. As oneman, we rejoice that slavery is dead; but even thevictors in the late struggle—the magnanimous amongthem, at least—will hardly find fault with us if wedrop a sentimental tear, as it were, upon its tomb. Areasonable man is glad that an aching tooth is well outof his mouth; but to the autocratic dentist who shouldpull it out by force, his gratitude would not be boisterous;and then, after all, it leaves a void. But cheerup, brother Virginians, listen to your Bushwhackerishbard while he chaunts you a lay. He would have hissay; but he will be good and kind. He would notwillingly bore you; and hence, ever thoughtful andconsiderate, he serves up his rhetoric in a separatecourse. Skip this chapter, then, if you will. You willfind the story continued in the next.

Yes, it is all true enough, I admit. It was but theother day, so to speak, that the first shipload of negroeswas landed on the shores of a continent peopled by arace which, after all has been said, remain the most interestingof savages, and who, if not heroes, have easilybecome heroic under the magicians’ wands of Cooperand of Longfellow. That shipload and its successorshave become millions; while the genius of a Barnumscarce suffices to bring together enough Redskins tomake a Knickerbocker holiday. The descendant ofthe naked black, whose tribe, on the Gold Coast, stilltrembles before a Fetish, rustles, beneath fretted ceilings,in the robes of a bishop; while some chief of thekindred, perhaps, of Tec*mseh, shivers on the wind-sweptplains, under the fluttering rags of a contractblanket. His half-naked squaw hugs her pappoose toher bosom, and flees before the sabres of our cavalry;but her more deeply-tinted sister struts, beflounced, thespouse of a senator. In one word, the race which theAnglo-Saxons found on this continent remained free,and perished; the people they imported and enslaved,multiplied and flourished. I do not feel myself theŒdipus to solve this riddle of modern morals; but,with my people, I fail to see the consistency of VictorHugo[2] for example, who could whine over the fate ofJohn Brown,—hanged for an attempt to achieve theliberty of the negro through murder,—but who, whenCaptain Jack stood at the foot of the gallows, made nosign. Captain Jack, he too, through murder, soughtto 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 gazedupon the corpses of the fellow-citizens of Washington,of Jefferson, and of Henry, countless dusky legionsrushing to his rescue,—the clear eye of the other showedhim forty millions pouring down upon his less than ahundred braves, to avenge the death of Canby; and yethe slew him. John Brown is a hero, his name is alegend, his tomb a shrine; but where are thy wretchedbones slung away, poor Jack? Hadst thou been fair,and dwelt in Lacedæmon, in Xerxes’ days, the nameof Leonidas shone not now in solitary glory adownthe ages; wert thou living now, and of sable hue, thoumightest 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, beingonly copper-colored?

But leaving these knotty points of ethical casuistryto the philanthropists, I reiterate that I think that thepicture I have drawn of certain aspects of slavery, as itexisted in Virginia, reveals its fatal weakness. Thatweakness consisted in the fact that it realized the idealset forth in Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables.” Thateloquent work of the erratic French dreamer is onelong and passionate protest against the sorrows andsufferings of the poor. In those sorrows and sufferingshe finds the source of all the crimes that dishonorhumanity. How, as things existed with us, povertysufficiently grinding to produce crime was actually unknown;so that our little world was just the worldthat he sighs for.

Victor Hugo plumes himself, I believe, upon neverhaving learned the gibberish that the English calltheir language. Therefore, as I do not design havingthis work translated into the various modern languages(why should I, forsooth, since by the timeyour day rolls round the aforesaid gibberish will bethe only tongue spoken by mankind?) he will neverhave the pain of seeing himself ranked among the upholdersof slavery. Whatever he might say, however,it is very clear that no state of things heretofore existinghas so well fulfilled the conditions of his ideal ofsociety. 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 uponus! We lived in a land in which no one was hungry,none naked, none a-cold; where no man begged, andno 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 herstead stood Hospitality, with open doors. What tidingswe had, meanwhile, of the things of the outer world,made us cherish all the more fondly the quietude of ourSleepy Hollow. The nations, had they not filled theair for a century past with the murmur of their unrest?Revolutions, rebellions, barricades, bread-riots,—agrarianism,communism, the frowning hosts of capital andlabor—the rumor of these grisly facts and grislier phantomsreached us, but from afar, and as an echo merely;and lulled, by our exemption from these ills, into a fatalsecurity, we failed to perceive the breakers upon whichwe were slowly but surely drifting. The lee-shoreupon which our ship was so somnolently rocking wasnothing less than bankruptcy. Spendthrifts, we dreamedthat our inheritance was too vast ever to be dissipated;nay, we fondly imagined that we were adding to oursubstance. Did not our statesmen, our Able Editors, unceasinglyassure us that we were the richest people onthe globe, and growing daily richer? And what hadbeen that inheritance? A noble, virgin land, unsurpassed,all things considered, anywhere,—a land thatcost us nothing beyond the beads of Captain Smith andthe bullets of his successors,—a land which no mortgagessmothered, no tax-gatherer devoured. Butsmothered and devoured it was, and by our slaves.

It is doubtful whether slavery was ever, at any stageof the world’s history, wise, from an economical pointof view, though it was, of course, in one aspect, in theinterest of humanity, when, at some prehistoric period,men began to enslave rather than butcher their prisonersof war. But it seems very clear, that if the conditionsof any society were ever such that its greatestproductive force could only be realized through therestraints and constraints of slavery, then that slaverymust needs have been absolute and pitiless. No half-and-halfsystem will suffice. Severe and continuouslabor is endured by no man who can avoid it. Butlabor, continuous and severe, is the price paid by thegreat mass of mankind for the mere privilege of beingcounted in the census; so terrible is that struggle forexistence, of the Darwinian dispensation, which, whetherwe be Darwinians or not, we must needs live under.This, in our dreamland, we quietly ignored. The politicaleconomists are all agreed that from the sharpesttoil little more can be hoped for than the barest supportof the toilers; and we were not ignorant of politicaleconomy. But is there not an exception to everyrule? And were we not that exception? In ourfavored nook, at least, the cold dicta of science shouldnot hold sway. And so our toilers did half work,—andgot double rations. In one word, we spent more thanwe made. And although we could not be brought tosee this, it became very plain when the war came andsettled our accounts for us; for I venture to assert thatin April, 1865, the State of Virginia was worth intrinsicallyless than when, in 1607, Captain John Smith andhis young gentlemen landed at Jamestown. In otherwords, there had been going on for two hundred andfifty years a process the reverse of accumulation. Forthat length of time we had been living on our principal,—thenative wealth of the soil. While, in other partsof the country, the struggle for existence had causedbarrenness to bloom, the very rocks to grow fat, in oursthe struggle for ease had converted a garden into somethingvery like a wilderness. The forests we found hadfallen; the rich soil of many wide districts was washedinto the sea, leaving nothing to represent them; andwhen the smoke of battle cleared away, we saw a nakedland. It could not have been otherwise. Thoroughlyimbued with the spirit of the nineteenth century, aswell 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 forgetthat our slaves were human. There were ties thatwe felt in a hundred ways. We loved this old nurse.We humored that old butler. We indulged, here areal, there a sham invalid, until, in one word, the thingbegan to cost more than it came to, and it was time weshook off the incubus.

And there was a time when many Virginians, nowliving, began to see this; and had they been let alone,not many years would have passed before we shouldhave freed ourselves from the weight that oppressedus. But in an evil hour there arose a handful of menwith a mission,—a mission to keep other people’s consciences,—often—ascertain national moral phenomenasubsequently showed—to the neglect of that charitywhich begins at home. From that day all rationaldiscussion of the question became impossible in Virginia;and a consummation for which many of thewisest heads were quietly laboring became odious evento hint at, under dictation from outsiders; and on theday when the first abolition society was formed, thefates registered a decree that slavery should go down;not in peace, but by war; not quietly and graduallyextinguished, with the consent of all concerned, butwith convulsive violence,—drowned in the blood of amillion men, and the tears of more than a millionwomen.

Well, they were only white men and women,—so letthat pass, too.

CHAPTER XXIX.

“Git out o’ de way, you nigg*rs! Aint y’ all got nomanners? Git out o’ Marse Billy way! I declar’ fo’Gaud nigg*rs ain’t got no manners dese days. Tain’tlike it used to be. Y’ all gittin’ wuss and wuss.”

So saying, Aunt Polly made an unceremonious openingamong the eager heads of the youngsters that werethrust into the door-way; and Billy pressed laughingthrough the throng, nodding here and there as hepassed. His arrival was hailed with beaming smilesby the ladies, and an almost uproarious welcome bythe gentlemen. The Don had already opened his heartto him before he had gotten within introducing distance,charmed by his frank and manly bearing, hishearty manner with the gentlemen, his gentle deferenceto each lady in turn. So Billy’s sunny face, hiscordial rushing hither and thither to greet his friends,his cheery laugh as he exchanged a bright word hereand there,—a laugh that revealed a set of powerful andlarge, though well-shaped teeth,—all this had lightedup the thoughtful face of the Don with a sympatheticglow,—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 youngVirginian of those days,—so true, and frank, and cordial,and unpretending. But there is one thing—I havementioned it above—that, as a historian, I am boundto confess: Billy was addicted to playing on the fiddle.

“So, young ladies,” said my grandfather (for whoseannual tunes no one, somehow, had thought of calling),“you will have a fiddle to dance by, after all.” A remarkthat elicited a joyous clapping of hands; andthere was a general stir for partners.

“Dares any man to speak to me of fiddling,” saidBilly, “before I have punished a few dozen of thesebivalves?”

“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 hisspouse began to serve him with hospitable zeal.

“How was she, Marse Billy?”

Billy had just disposed of a monster that Dick hadopened for him, and was looking thoughtful.

“Uncle Dick, it almost makes me cry to think howmuch better that oyster was than any we can get atthe University; indeed it does.”

Dick chuckled with delight. “I believe you, MarseBilly; dey tells me dere ain’t no better oysters in allFidginny dan de Leicester oyster.”

Four or five students, who, like Billy, had run downhome for the holidays, had collected round the doorwayleading into the library, and with them severalgirls who were listening in a half-suppressed titter toBilly’s solemn waggery. Lifting a huge “bivalve” onthe prongs of his fork, he contemplatively surveyed it.

“You are right, Uncle Dick; Solomon, in all hisglory, was not arrayed like one of these!”

“Jess so! What I tell you, Polly?” said Dick, straighteninghimself and holding an unopened oyster in onehand and his knife in the other. “Didn’t I say theNuniversity was de most high-larnt school in de NunitedStates?”

Polly, being Mrs. Dick, had too great an admirationfor that worthy’s wisdom to do anything but simperassent.

“Jess so,”—and he held his eye upon her till he feltsure that she had abandoned all thought of protestingagainst 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 exactlywhat a fellow wants?”

“Marse William,”—and Dick drew himself up to hisfull height,—“I ain’t been ’sociatin’ wid de quality alldese years for nothin’.”

The dancing being over at a reasonable hour,—Billyand the Herr furnishing the music,—the ladies retiredto their rooms in the “Great-House,” leaving the gentlemento their toddy and cigars; and a jovial crew theybecame. Billy and the Herr bore a large part in theentertainment of the company,—the former executingreel and jig and jig and reel in dashing style,—the latterimprovising accompaniments,—his head thrownback, a cigar-stump between his teeth, and contemplating,through his moist spectacles, with a serene Teutonicmerriment, the capers of the revellers, one oranother of whom could not, from time to time, resistthe fascination of the rhythm, but would spring to hisfeet and execute something in the nature of a Highlandfling or a double-shuffle, to the great delight of theothers, and of none more than my glorious old grandfather.It is needless to remark that at each one ofthese Terpsichorean exhibitions there was a suppressedroar of chuckles to be heard issuing from the sablethrong that crowded the door-ways, and that theremight have been seen as many rows of ivories as therewere heads massed together there.

“It is refreshing, Mr. Whacker,” observed the Don,whose reserve was unmistakably thawing under theapple-toddy, “to see a man of your age sympathizingso heartily with us youngsters in our enjoyments.”

“Yes,” remarked the old gentleman, lolling comfortablyback in his chair; “but I am not so sure that I haveleft all the fun to the youngsters;” and he nodded towardshis empty glass; “but I believe I enjoy thecapers of the boys more than the toddy.”

“Go it, Billy!” cried a student, as that artist dashedinto a jig with a zeal heightened by the enthusiasm ofthe now slightly boozy Herr.

“Bravo!” cried Mr. Whacker; “you will have tolook to your laurels, Charley.”

“Oh, I resign!” said Charley, examining the rag onhis finger.

“By the way, Charley, you have not yet shown Mr.Smith the old Guarnerius. Do you take any interest insuch things?”

“I have a great curiosity to see it.”

“I am afraid it will not show off to advantage. Ihave forgotten to have it mounted with strings thisChristmas. Do you know that a violin gets hoarse, asit 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,” saidCharley.

“Indeed!” said my grandfather; “but you werealways thoughtful. Let us have it, Charley.”

Charley’s return with the violin made a stir among thecompany. Billy stopped his fiddling and came up, followedby all present, to see opened the case that containedthe wonderful instrument, which was a sort oflion among the fiddlers of the county. My grandfatherunlocked the case with a certain nervous eagerness,raised the lid almost reverently, and removing thepadded silken covering which protected it, “Now justlook at that,” said the old gentleman, his eye kindling.

I have often seen ladies take their female friends tothe side of a cradle, and softly turning down the coverlet,look up, as much as to say, “Did you ever seeanything half so beautiful?” And I must do thefemale friends the justice to add that they alwayssignified that they never had; and I have often seenthe subject of such unstinted praise, when brought beforemales, pronounced a pretty enough baby, but ababy seemingly in no wise different from all the babiesthat are, have been, or shall be; and on such occasionsI can recall, methinks, some maiden aunt, for example,who has ended by getting worried at the persistent inabilityof some obstinate young fellow to see certainpoints of superiority about mouth, eyes, or nose, whichto her were very clear. And so it was on this occasion,as on many previous ones, with my grandfather. Hewas always amazed, when he showed his violin, at thepolite coldness of the praise that it received.

“Look at those f-holes,” said he, taking the violinout of its case; “look at those clean-cut corners!” Andeverybody craned his neck and tried to see the clean-cutcorners. “What a contour!” exclaimed the enthusiasticold gentleman, holding the instrument off atarm’s length and gazing rapturously upon it. Therewas a murmur of adhesion, as the French say.

“Splendid!” ejacul*ted Billy, feeling that somethingwas due from him as the fiddler of the evening; therebydrawing the gleaming eyes of Mr. Whacker full uponhim. “Splendid!” repeated he, in a somewhat lowertone, and looking steadfastly at the violin; for he couldnot look the old gentleman in the face,—knowing—thehonest scamp—that he was a fraud, and saw nothingwonderful in the instrument.

“Why, hand me that old gourd you have been playingon,” said Mr. Whacker; and he snatched the fiddlefrom Billy’s hand. “Look at those two scrolls, forexample,” said the old gentleman, bumping them togetherwithin three inches of Billy’s nose.

Billy took the two necks in his hands, screwed uphis face, and tried his best to look knowing; but hisbroad, genial countenance could not bear the tensionlong; and a sudden flash of humor from his kindlyeyes set the company in a roar, in which my grandfathercould not help joining.

“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose I ought not to expectyou to be a connoisseur in violins. Would youlike to examine it?” said Mr. Whacker, thinking hedetected a look of interest on the part of the Don,—andhe handed him the instrument.

The Unknown took it in an awkward and confusedsort of way. My grandfather looked chopfallen. “Ithought that possibly you might have seen Cremonasin Europe,” observed the old man timidly.

The Don bowed,—whether in assent or dissent wasnot clear; nor was it any clearer, as he gently rockedit to and fro, examining the f-holes and other points ofwhat is known as the belly of the instrument, whetherhe was moved by curiosity or by courtesy. A motion ofhis wrist brought the back of the instrument in view.“By Jove!” vehemently exclaimed the stranger, as aflood of golden light flashed into his eyes from the unapproachablevarnish; but he colored and looked confusedwhen he saw that his warmth had drawn theeyes of all upon himself. Even Charley ceased examiningthe bandage on his finger and quietly scrutinizedthe 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 asingle word. There was an expression of defiance inhis fine brown eyes, not unmingled with solemnity.He held out his upturned hands as though he weregoing to begin a speech, I was going to say,—but it wasnot that. His look and attitude were those of an advocatewho has just brought a poser to bear on opposingcounsel. And such my grandfather felt was his case.“For years,” his looks seemed to say, “I have beenchaffed about my Guarnerius by you bumpkins, andnow here comes a man who puts you all down by oneword.” He looked from face to face to see if any of thecompany had anything to say to the contrary. At lasthis eve met Billy’s. That young gentleman, willing toretrieve his disastrous defeat in the matter of scrollsand 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 rappingthe back of the violin with his knuckles,—“do youcall that shiny?” said he, with another rap, and holdingthe instrument in front of Billy. “Why, a tin panshines,—a well-fed negro boy’s face shines,—and you saythat shines,” he added, with an argumentative rap. “Isthat the way you are taught to discriminate in the useof words at the University?” And the old gentlemansmiled, mollified by Billy’s evident confusion and theshouts of laughter that greeted his discomfiture.

“Why, Uncle Tom, if that violin doesn’t shine, whatdoes 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 awicked smile.

“What would I call it? I would call it—well—theviolin—confound it! I should hold my tongue ratherthan say that violin was shiny.” And the old gentlemanturned upon his heel and stalked across the room; butBilly was not the man to relinquish his advantage.

“How, Uncle Tom, that is not fair,” said he, followingup his adversary, and holding on to the lappel ofhis coat in an affectionately teasing manner. “Give usyour word.”

“Shiny! shiny!” spluttered the old gentleman withtesty scorn.

“Ah, but that won’t do. Let the company haveyour word, Uncle Tom.” And the young rogue tippeda wink to a knot of students. “The violin is—?”

“Effulgent!” shouted his adversary, wheeling uponhim and bringing down the violin, held in both hands,with a swoop.

I shall take the liberty here of assuming that my readersare, as I was myself, till Charley enlightened me,ignorant of the fact that the varnish of the violins ofthe old masters is considered a great point. Collectorsgo into raptures over the peculiar lustre of their oldinstruments, which, they say, is the despair of modernmakers. I have myself seen, or at least handled, butone of them,—my grandfather’s old Guarnerius,—andthat, 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,—tappinggently, with the finger-nails of his right hand,the back of the violin, upon which the light of a neighboringlamp danced and flamed. The students indicatedto Billy, in their hearty fashion, that he had gotwhat he wanted, and Mr. Whacker, spurred on by theirapproval, rose to the height of his great argument.

“Just look at that,” said he, turning with enthusiasmto 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 thevery rays that, a century ago, this maple wood absorbedin its pores from the sun of Italy.”

How much more my grandfather was going to sayI know not; for he was interrupted by a storm ofapplause 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 thecase, “does this effulge any?”

“But, Mr. Whacker,” observed a fat and jolly middle-agedgentleman, “it strikes me that the importantthing about a fiddle is its tone, not its varnish. Now,do you really think your Cremona superior to a twenty-dollarfiddle in tone? Honestly now, is there anydifference worth mentioning?”

“Any difference? Heavens above! Why, listen!”And the old gentleman drew the bow slowly overdouble strings, till the air of the room seemed to palpitatewith the rich harmony. “Did you ever hearanything like that?” exclaimed he, with flushing face;and he drew the bow again and again. There wereexclamations of admiration—real or affected—all aroundthe room.

The Don alone was silent.

I remember looking towards him with a naturalcuriosity to see what he—the only stranger present—appearedto think of the instrument; but he gave nosign,—none, at least, that I could interpret. He wasgazing fixedly at my grandfather with a sort of raptlook,—his head bowed, his lips firmly compressed, buttwitching a little. His eyes had a certain glitter aboutthem, strongly contrasting with their usual expressionof unobtrusive endurance. I looked towards Charley,but his eyes did not meet mine; for he had turned hischair away from the fire, and was scrutinizing thestranger’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 aprofanation 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 wentto hear Ole Bull; and such stuff as he played I wishnever to hear again,—nothing but running up anddown the strings, with de’il a bit of tune that I couldsee.”

“That’s precisely my opinion,” said another. “Confoundtheir science, say I.”

“Why, yes,” continued the jolly fat middle-agedgentleman, encouraged. “The fact is, it spoils a fiddlerto teach him his notes. Music should come from theheart. Why, I don’t wish to flatter our friend Billyhere, but, so far as I am concerned, I would ratherhear him than all the Ole Bulls and Paganinis thatever drew a bow.”

“Rather hear Billy? I should think so! Why, anyleft-handed negro fiddler can beat those scientific fellowsall hollow.”

My grandfather, during the passage at arms that ensuedupon the expression of these sentiments, grewrather warm, and at last appealed to the Don. He, asthough loath to criticise the performance of our friendBilly, spoke guardedly. “I should think,” said he, “thatmusic would be like anything else,—those who devotedmost time to it would be most proficient.”

“Of gourse!” broke in the Herr, who had not allowedthe discussion to draw him very far from the bowl oftoddy. “Now, joost look at unser frient Pilly. Dotyung mon has a real dalent for de feedle,—but vot heblay? Noding als reels unt cheeks unt zuch dinks.Joost sent dot yung mon one time nach Europen, untby a goot master. Donnerwetter, I show you somedink!Tausendteufels!” added he, draining his glass, “vot fora feedler dot yung Pilly make!”

I may remark that just in proportion as the Herrmollified his water did he dilute his English. Just inproportion as he approached the bottom of a punch-bowldid the language of Shakespeare and Miltonbecome to him an obscure idiom.

“Won’t you try its tone?” said Mr. Whacker, offeringthe violin and bow to the Don.

“Oh,” replied he, deprecatingly.

“It’s of no consequence that you can’t play,” insistedthe old gentleman. “Just try the tone. Here, thisway,” added he, putting the violin under the Don’schin.

It may seem strange that I, a bachelor, should be sofond of illustrating my scenes by means of babies; butas the whole frame-work and cast of this story compelsme to marry at some future day, I may be allowed tosay that the Don held the violin just as I have seenyoung fellows hold an infant that had been thrust intotheir arms by some mischievous young girl. Afraid torefuse to take it lest the mother be hurt, they are inmomentary terror lest it fall.

“There! So!” exclaimed the old gentleman, adjustingthe instrument.

While every one else smiled at the scene, Charleywas, strangely enough, almost convulsed with a noiselesschuckle 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’sbetter!—Now pull away! Keep the bowstraight!—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 buthear, once again, an artist play upon that violin!”

The smile passed from the Unknown’s face. Astrange look came into his eyes, as though his thoughtswere far away. His chin relaxed its hold upon theviolin and pressed upon his breast. His right armslowly descended till the tip of the bow almost touchedthe floor; and there he stood, his eyes fixed upon theground. A stillness overspread the company. No onemoved a muscle save Charley. He, with an odd smilein his eyes, softly drew from his pocket a small pen-knifeand held it in his left hand, with the nail of hisright thumb in the notch of the blade.

Slowly, and as if unconsciously to himself, the Don’sright 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 ofa sharp but momentary struggle, when his right armsuddenly sprang from its pendent position, and thewrist, arched like the neck of an Arab courser, stood,for a second, poised above the bridge.

Charley passed the blade of his knife through thethreads that bound the bandage about his finger, andthe linen rag fell to the floor; and he rose and foldedhis arms across his breast.

The bow descended upon the G string. The strangergave one of those quick up-strokes with the lowest inchof the horse-hair, followed by a down-stroke of thewhole length of the bow.

CHAPTER XXX.

The note sounded was the lower A, produced, if Imay be allowed to enrich my style with a borrowederudition, by stopping the G string with the first finger.Whimsical as the idea may seem to a musician, I havealways considered this the noblest tone within theregister of the violin; and such an A I had never beforeheard. I have already mentioned the extraordinaryacoustical properties of this room, the very air ofwhich seemed to palpitate, the very walls to tremblebeneath the powerful vibrations. The deep, long-drawntone ceased, and again the wrist stood for a momentarched above the bridge. A breathless stillness reignedthroughout the room, while the Don stood there, withpale face, his dark eyes “in a fine frenzy rolling,”—stoodthere, one might say, in a trance, forgetful of hisaudience, forgetful of self, unconscious of all else save theviolin clasped between chin and breast. Down camethe fingers of the left hand; with them the bow descended,this time upon all four strings; and four notesleaped forth, crisp, clear, and sparkling, brilliant asshooting-stars! Then chord after chord; and, in madsuccession, arpeggios, staccatos, pizzicatos, chromaticscales, octaves, fierce, dizzy leaps from nut to bridge,cries of joy, mutterings of rage, moans of despair, allwere 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 cancompare it to, the mad carolling of a mocking-bird as heflaps and sails from the topmost branch of a youngtulip poplar to another hard by, pouring forth in scornfulprofusion his exhaustless and unapproachable tideof song, little recking what comes first and what next,—whetherthe clear whistle of the partridge, the shrillpiping of the woodpecker, or the gentle plaint of theturtle-dove.

And the mad dancing of the bow went on, amid asilence that was absolute. But it was a silence likethat of a keg of gunpowder, where a spark suffices torelease the imprisoned forces.

The spark came in the shape of an interjection fromthe 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. Andstraightway there ensued a scene which—

But future ages must first be told precisely whatUncle Dick said; for, as all Virginians, at least, know,when you limit yourself to reporting of a man that hesaid umgh-umgh, you have given a meagre and inadequate,certainly an ambiguous, interpretation of hissentiments.

Not to go into any refinements, it suffices to saythat besides a score of other umgh-umghs of radicallydistinct significance, there are umgh-umghs whichmean yes, and umgh-umghs which mean no. For example,“Dearest, do you love me?” Now the umgh-umghthat may be supposed in this case is a kind offlexible, india-rubber yes, ranging all the way from“Perhaps” to “Oh, most dearly!” (but Charley saysthat it is umgh-humgh, not umgh-umgh, that meansyes;) now follow up your question with a demonstrationas though you would test matters,—umgh-umgh!What a no is there! “Are you crazy? Right outhere in the summer-house! with people strolling allaround, and the vines so thin that—”

Now, Uncle Dick’s umgh-umgh was not at all anumgh-umgh affirmative, still less an umgh-umgh negative.’Twas rather an umgh-umgh eulogistic, as thoughhe said, Words are inadequate to express my feelings.Now, a less painstaking author than myself would sayno more just here; aware that every Virginian, atleast, knows what is meant by the umgh-umgh eulogistic;but the contemporary reader must pardon mefor reminding him that this book has not been writtenentirely, or even mainly, for him, but rather for generationsyet unborn,—notably the generations of theWhackers. I esteem it, therefore, singularly fortunatethat my friend Charley happens to have made an exhaustivestudy of this same umgh-umgh language, andespecially so that he has been at the pains of elucidatinghis subject by means of a musical notation. Know,then, oh, propinqui longinqui!—oh, manus innumerabilesWhackerorum!—that the exact sound uttered by thatunapproachable Automedon was:

“An andante scherzando?” exclaimed my grandfather,on seeing the notation; “how is that?”

“’Tis because mine Uncle Richard hath neglectedthe study of thorough bass; hence he warbleth his nativewood-notes wild,” quoth Charley.

But to return to the scene in the Hall. And I begthat the reader will place himself entirely in my hands,while I endeavor to make him realize every feature ofthat scene,—for it really occurred just as he will findit recorded.

Figure to yourselves, then, my countless readers andadmirers, first the Hall itself, with its lofty ceiling andits spacious, well-waxed floor of heart-pine so nicelyjoined that it was a sound-board in itself. At one endof the room stood a piano; at the other was a vastopen fireplace, in which, supported by tall and glisteningandirons, there glowed a noble fire of hickory logsfive 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 yourlittle finger,—all with a view to the least possible weightupon the floor,—though I must say that they wereoften the means of bringing heavy weights in contactwith 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 thefloor, except four cases containing the instrumentsneedful to a string quartet; and these stood each in itsown corner, as though on ill terms. The old gentlemanhad banished from the Hall even his collection ofmusic, great piles of which were stowed away in theadjoining room; for he insisted that its weight wouldmar the resonance of the Hall. It remains but toadd that upon the walls no painting or engravingwas allowed. Their smooth finish showed no crack,—sothat the Herr used to say that the hall, ifstrung, would have been a very goot feedle for Bolyphemoos,or some oder of dem chiant singers to blayon.

So much for the Hall, around which, on the ChristmasEve in question, were grouped nearly all my grandfather’sslaves 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 nothaving a merrier time than the insiders. For everynow and then, throughout the evening, my grandfathermight have been seen passing glasses of toddy or eggnogto one or another of the favorite old servants, ashe observed them in the throng; and Charley and Isaw that the rest had no cause to feel slighted. All hadtheir share,—if not of toddy, at least of that withoutwhich all toddy is a delusion and a shadow. Then thesound of Jones’s fiddle could not be kept within-doors,and such of them as despaired of forcing their waythrough the masses around the windows and doorshad formed rings, where, by the light of the wintrymoon, the champion dancers of the two farms exhibitedto admiring throngs what they knew about the double-shuffleand the break-down; and the solid earth resoundedbeneath the rhythm of their brogans. To me,I remember, they seemed happy, at the time; whichgoes to show how little I knew about happiness,—andI 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 myreader. The first note drawn forth by the Don hadarrested their attention, and there was a rush for everyspot from which a view could be had of the performer.See them, therefore, a few of the older ones just insidethe door, the less fortunate craning their necks behind,and upon their faces that rapt attention which is aninspiration to an artist. See those others who, huddledupon boxes and barrels piled beneath the windows, areflattening their noses, one might almost say, againstthe lower panes. At the library door stood one or twotidy house-maids. Uncle Dick, alone, stood near theroaring fire, he assuming that his services were required.

“Hi! what dat?” exclaimed a youngster, when thestrange sound first broke upon his ear; for he couldnot 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 thefiddle?” And silence reigned again,—a silence broken,from time to time, by a low, rippling chuckle of intensedelight, and illumined, one might say, by the whites ofan hundred pairs of wondering eyes.

And now let us glance at the dozen gentlemen whosat within, beginning with my dear old grandfather.

At the first long-drawn, sonorous note he had sprungto his feet; and there he stood, with both hands raisedand extended as though he commanded silence. Andhis countenance! never had I seen it look so beautiful!A happy smile lit up his noble face, and heseemed to say as he looked from Charley to me, andfrom me to Charley, “At last!” And Charley stoodleaning against a corner of the mantel-piece, with hisarms folded, replying to his friend with sympatheticglances. It was plain to see that he was happy in hisold friend’s happiness, but there was a droll twinkle inhis eyes that even he could not suppress, though he bithis 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 toyingwith the stem of his goblet, he leaned back in his chairand smiled, through his gold-rimmed spectacles, witha 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 lipsand drained it to the last drop. Even then he watched,out of the corner of his eye, the fantastic caperings of thebow and the labyrinthine wanderings of the performer’sfingers; and slowly replacing his glass upon the table,stroked his long and straggling beard so softly that heseemed to fear that the sparse hairs would mar themusic by their rattling.

One word will suffice for the jolly, fat, middle-agedgentleman. He sat with his mouth wide open, tiltingback 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,—thatof young Jones, the University man, uponwhom it flashed, like a revelation, that he had been,without knowing it, fiddling away for hours in the presenceof an artist. It naturally occurred to Billy that ahuge joke had been perpetrated at his expense; andafter the first few notes, he tried to nerve himself tomeet the explosion of laughter that he momentarily expected.But his furtive glances from side to side detectedno one looking his way,—no symptom of a joke, infact,—so that the flush of confusion began to recede, supplantedby a glow of enthusiasm. I leave it to thereader, then, to imagine the play of expression on thecountenance of this big, manly fellow,—rejoicing in hisstrength, and brimful of rollicking humor, loving a jokeeven at his own expense, as he stood there before theDon; at one time carried away by the impetuosity ofthe performer, at another flushing up to his eyes whenhe reflected that, if no one else had served him thatturn, he, at least, had made a fool of himself.

This is tableau No. 1, but, for clearness’ sake, let meretouch its outlines.

A large room, with a roaring fire at one end, anddoors open, Virginia fashion. In the doors and windowsa background—or blackground—of colored brethrenand sisters, exhibiting a breathless delight, all theirteeth, and the largest surface, functionary practicable,of the whites of their eyes. Within, stands my grandfather,on tiptoe, with outstretched arms, which wavegently up and down, as, from time to time, snatches ofrhythm drop out of the chaos of chords and runs thatare pouring from his Guarnerius. Next the jolly fatmiddle-aged gentleman, tilting back, open-mouthed, inone of Mr. Whacker’s phantom chairs, and rather nearthe fire. Then Mr. William Jones himself, who just atthis moment has compressed his lips, and resolved thathe will smash his fiddle and break his bow just so soonas he reaches No. 28, East Lawn, U. V. Then thereis the Herr Waldteufel, smiling through clouded glasses,but not darkly. Then—to omit half a dozen gentlemen—therewas the inscrutable Charley, leaning, witha certain subdued twinkle in his eyes, against one endof the mantel-piece, while near the other stood, in respectfulattitude, Uncle Dick, his hands clasped in frontof his portly person, his bald head bent low, his left eartowards the music, his eyes fixed askance upon the fireto his right.

Midst this scene of perfect stillness stood the Don,—hisbody swaying to and fro. The old Guarneriusseemed to be waking from its long slumber, and, as ifconscious that once more a master held it, to be warmingto its work. The music grew madder. At lastthere came some fierce chords, then a furious fortissimochromatic scale of two or three octaves, with a suddenand fantastic finish of fairy-like harmonics,—the snarlingof a tiger, one might say, echoed by the slenderpipings of a phantom cicada:

CHAPTER XXXI.

It was a match to the mine, that umgh-umgh eulogistic,and the explosion was tremendous; for mygrandfather’s toddy-bowl, though wide and deep, wasnow nearly empty. In an instant every man was onhis feet, cheering at the top of his voice. Such hats aswere available, seized without regard to ownership,were frantically whirling in the air; tumblers wentround in dizzy circles; centrifugal toddy was splashingin every direction; while the rear ranks of the coloredcohorts were scrambling over the backs of those infront, to catch a glimpse of the scene. In the midst ofit all, the honest Herr was to be seen rushing to andfro, lustily shouting out some proposition as to thehealth 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 allcomers, when, as ill luck would have it, he ran into oneof the students as enthusiastic as himself, and the twainsuddenly found themselves holding in their hands nothingbut the stems of their goblets.

“Ah, mein freund,” said he, with a glance at hissoaked shirt-front, “vot for a poonch vas dat!”

“Very good, very good!” cried the student, with arousing slap on his shoulder; for a vague feeling cameover the young man that one of the Herr’s puns waslurking somewhere in the mist.

But the most striking figure in tableau No. 2 wasthat of my grandfather. As soon as Uncle Dick’s applaudinggrunt had broken the spell that held the company,and while all were cheering lustily, he rushed upto the Don, and placed his hands in an impressive wayon his shoulders. The cheering suddenly ceased, andall listened intently save the Herr and his student, who,having found fresh tumblers, were busy scooping upthe last of the punch.

“My friend,” said my grandfather, “Charley and Iare but two in this big house,”—and there was a simplepathos in his manner and tones.—“Won’t you live withus—for good?”

Tremendous applause greeted this rather thorough-goinginvitation; and tableau No. 2 dissolved in confusion;in the midst of which stood the Don, bowingand laughing, and wisely holding high above his headthe precious violin.

“Ah, dere spoke de Barrone!” quoth the Herr, balancinghimself, and clinking half-filled glasses with hisstudent.

“Good for Uncle Tom!” echoed the latter.

“So!” chimed in the Herr, blinking at the ceilingthrough the bottom of his tumbler.

“I am in downright earnest, I assure you,” urgedMr. Whacker, on remarking the pleased merriment ofthe Don. “Eh, Charley?”

“So say we all of us!” said Charley, with jovialearnestness, and shaking, with great cordiality, thestranger’s right hand, whence I had removed the bow.

Uncle Dick now came to the fore again. UncleRichard was a humorist, and, with all the tact of hisrace, knew perfectly well, how, while preserving asevere decorum of form, to make his little hit. Sonow, turning to Aunt Polly, with a look on his face ofchildlike simplicity, beneath which lurked a studiedunconsciousness, he asked, in the most artless stage-whisper,—

“Polly, whar’s Marse William Jones?” And risingon his toes and letting his under jaw drop, as one willwhen peering over the heads of a crowd in search of afriend’s face, he ran his eyes, with a kind of unobtrusivecuriosity, over group after group, till they metMarse William’s; then instantly dropped them as if hesimply desired to be assured that his Marse Williamwas there. ’Twas perfect art, and the effect electric.In an instant all eyes were fixed on Billy. Uproariouslaughter burst forth from the company, in the midst ofwhich the students made a rush for the unhappy fiddler.He had hardly one second’s time given him todecide what to do; but before his friends reached himhe had bowed himself, and, with one leap, sprung farunder the table, where he lay flat upon the floor, withhis face buried in his hands, convulsed with almosthysterical laughter.

“Haul him out! haul him out!” rose on all sides, and—

But just here I must permit myself a philosophicalreflection, the truth of which will be readily acknowledgedby all publicans and sinners, and such other disreputablepersons as, in company with those like-mindedwith themselves, have looked upon the wine when itwas red. It is this: That fun is literally intoxicating,At a wine-party of young men, for example, all thingswill go on smoothly for hours. Conversation is goingforward pleasantly, or speeches heard with decorum.A pleasant exhilaration is to be observed, but nothingmore. 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 theclose of that song you shall wonder what has happenedto everybody. Why does your right-hand neighborthrow his arm across your shoulder and call you oldboy? What sudden and inexplicable thirst is this thathas seized upon the man on your left, that he shouldbe calling for champagne so lustily? What is thatlittle fellow, at the other end of the table, doing there,standing up in his chair, and waving his glass? Whatstrange glow is this that has flashed through yourframe, bearing along with it the conviction that youare all glorious fellows and having a glorious time?

“Haul him out! haul him out!” And instantly thestudents dived, pell-mell, under the table. It would besimply impossible to describe the scene that followed.Under the table there was an inextricably entangledmass of vigorous young fellows, some on their heads,others on their backs, with their heels in the air, tuggingaway with might and main at each other’s armsand legs; for safety, as to the Greeks at Salamis, hadarisen 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 uproariouslaughter as one could not expect to hear twice in alife-time.

“Mein Gott!” gasped the Herr, falling up against thepiano, and wiping his streaming eyes, “mein Gott, howmany funs!”

But the scene did not last half so long as I have beenin painting it. It was the middle-aged fat gentlemanthat, in the twinkling of an eye, put an end to all thistumultuous laughter, or, at any rate, drew its bruntupon himself.

The M. A. F. G., as above stated, was tilting back inone of my grandfather’s slender chairs, in front of thefire, balancing himself on tiptoe, and rocking to andfro with uncontrollable laughter. In front of him astudent was backing out from under the table, alldoubled up, his head not yet free from its edge, andtugging away manfully at the leg of a comrade. Suddenlythe foot he held resigned its boot to his keeping.The M. A. F. G. could hardly tell, afterwards, what itwas that, like a battering-ram of old, smote him at thejunction of vest and trousers; but it would seem tohave been that student’s head. Up flew his heels,crash went the chair, and, quicker than thought, hewas sprawling upon his back in the midst of that roaringhickory fire. A dozen hands seized and draggedhim forth. Jones and his fiddle were forgotten; andhe and his young friends emerged from under the tableto join in the shouts of laughter that greeted the M. A.F. G., as he capered briskly about, brushing the coalsand ashes from his broad back, and belabored by hisfriends, who were assisting him in saving his coat.

“Tausendteufels! vot for a shbree!” And the Herrsank exhausted upon the piano-stool.[1]

CHAPTER XXXII.

“Christmas gift! young ladies, Christmas gift!”chirped Aunt Phœbe, bustling briskly, in her resplendentbandanna, into the room, and courtesying andbowing, and bowing and courtesying in turn, to thetwo fair heads that lay deep-nestled in their pillows.

“Christmas gift!” modestly echoed the handmaidenMilly, her sable daughter, modestly bringing up therear and showing all her ivories.

I don’t think the relations between Virginia masterand Virginia slave ever appeared in a gentler or moreattractive aspect than on Christmas mornings. Theway the older and more privileged domestics had ofbursting into your room at the most unearthly hour,shouting “Christmas gift! Christmas gift!” beamingwith smiles and brimful of good nature, was enough towarm 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-eyedAlice. “I am s-o-o-o sleepy!” And turning over inbed with a toss, she closed her eyes and pouted asthough she had much to endure.

“Daybreak? Daybreak? Why, Lor’, chile, ain’t Pollydone put on her bread to bake? Git up, git up, youlazy things! Don’t you know all de beaux is up anddressed, and a-settin’ round, ’most a-dyin’ for to seeyou?”

“Poor things, are they?” mumbled Alice against herpillow.

“To-be-sho, to-be-sho dey is,” reiterated Aunt Phœbe;though, as a veracious historian, I must let the readerknow that it was a pious fraud on the old lady’s part,inspired by solicitude for the reputation of the Elmingtonbreakfast; for not one of the sinners had stirred.

“I believe,” added Aunt Phœbe, observing thatMary’s eyes were open,—“I believe,” said she, going upto Alice and looking down upon her with an admiringsmile, “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 enoughawake for you, isn’t she?”

“Lor’ bless you, honey, I b’lieve you; she cert’n’y dobeat all.” And the floor trembled beneath the goodold soul’s adipose chuckle. “She is a pretty chile, too,she is mum,” continued the old lady, assuming, withher arms akimbo, a critical attitude. Mary rose on herelbow to observe Alice’s countenance. Her lips beganto 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 triumphantsagacity.

“Who is it? who is it?” And Mary rose and sat upin bed.

“Nebber mind, nebber mind!” replied she, withdiplomatic reserve. “Nebber mind; Phœbe ain’t beenlivin’ in this world so long for nothin’. De ole nigg*rgot 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.” Andthe good soul threw herself back and gave vent to avery audible h’yah, h’yah, h’yah.

“Is—it—Uncle—Tom?” droned out Alice, in analmost inarticulate murmur.

“Now jess listen at dat chile! Ole marster! Sheknow better! She know who ’tis I’se ’spressin’ ’boutf’ all she a-layin’ d’yar squinched up in dat bed, makingout she ’sleep. D’yar now, what I tell you!” exclaimedshe, as Alice sprang suddenly up in bed, her eyes sparkling,her color high, her dishevelled hair in a goldenfoam 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 dewakinest-up talk for a young lady dat eber dis ole nigg*rdid see. To-be-sho! To-be-sho! Lord a’ mussy!”added she, rocking to and fro and clapping on herknees with both hands, as Alice, with a light bound,sprang into the middle of the floor. “Ef I didn’t fotchher clean out o’ bed!” And the hilarious old domesticwiped the tears from her eyes with a corner of hercheck apron. “Well, now, and what is she up to?”added she, as Alice ran nimbly across the room andopened a closet.

“Aunt Phœbe,” said Alice, advancing with all thesolemnity of a presentation orator, “permit me to offeryou, 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 themost fashionable store in Richmond. Wear it, and restassured that the dress will not become you more thanyou will become the dress.” And after executing, withher tiny little feet, a variety of droll capers, all thewhile maintaining a look of preternatural solemnity, sheplaced the package in the arms of the amazed Phœbe,with a tragic extension of her right arm, immediatelythereafter dropping one of the most elaborately grotesquecourtesies 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 theroom, shrieking and slamming the door after them.

The chemists tell us that if you separate two gasesby a membrane, they will insist upon mingling; and,not knowing why this takes place, they have christenedthe process endosmose and exosmose. Sociology furnishesa noteworthy parallelism in the endosmose andexosmose of girls dressing for breakfast in a countryhouse. You may stow as many as you will into asmany rooms as you choose, but every one of themwill find her way into every other room before hertoilet is complete; and, by the end of a week, the raimentof each will be impartially distributed throughoutthe several chambers allotted to their sex. Theirmovements on these occasions are peculiar. “Whereis that other stocking of mine? Oh, I know!” Andshe approaches the door of her room, opens it a coupleof 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 aneighboring room—

“I say, girls, have any of you seen a stray stocking?”etc., etc.

And so, upon the present occasion, a pair of beautiesunadorned came bounding into the room, breaking inupon Alice’s impromptu tableau. This, however, theyhad not time to remark; but wheeling round, as soonas they were safe within the door, they opened it aninch or two, stuck their several noses into the opening,and uttered to some person in the hall a few words ofsaucy triumph. Mr. Whacker had, in fact, stepped intothe hall just as they were crossing it; and, seeing them,had given chase. Having made a few mocking facesat the old gentleman, and shut the door with anotherslam and another pair of pretty shrieks when he madeas though he would follow them, they turned to theirfriends.

“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 notwake 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 wasthere 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; whileMilly grinned ungainly in her wake.

“You see, I jess stepped in on dese two youngladies fust, and cotched ’em Christmas gift, and verynice presents they had, all ready and awaitin’ for olePhœbe,”—and she courtesied to each,—“and for Milly,too, bless their sweet souls un ’em, jess like dey knowedPhœbe was a-comin’ to cotch ’em,—bless de pretty littlehoneys!—and so says I, says I to myself, says I, I’lljess step in and catch dese two fust; and so, I creepsup to de door, I did, soft as a cat, I did, and turns deknob, easy-like, and I flings open de door and ‘Christmasgift’ says I, jess so, says I, and dey had de mostloveliest presents all wrapped up and a-waiting forPhœbe, jess as I tell you, and for Milly too, and Idunno what Milly gwine do wid all de things she donegot, and dey is all nice and one ain’t no prettier dan deothers, and Phœbe is uncommon obleeged to one andall,”—and she gave a duck in front of each,—“andMilly too. Gal, what you a-standin’ dere for, wid yourfingers in your mouth, like somebody ain’t got no sense?Ain’t you gwine to make no motion? Is dat de way Idone fotch you up, and you b’long to de quality, too?Dese young nigg*rs is too much—too much for Phœbe!”

It would be going too far, perhaps, to say that Millyblushed; but she managed to look abashed, and contrivedto appease her mother by sundry uncouth wrigglings,meant to express her thanks.

“Howsomedever, as I was sayin’, year in and yearout ole marster have had a heap o’ young ladiesa-spendin’ Christmas at Elmin’ton,—fust one Christmasand den another; but ef ever Phœbe saw morelovelier—”

“Oh, Aunt Phœbe!”

“Fo’ de Lord, I hope de crabs may eat me ef tain’tso, jess as I tell you. Why, Lor’ bless my soul, ain’t Ihear all the young gent’men say de same?” [generalsatisfaction.] “On course I has! I wish I may dropdead if I don’t b’lieve ole marster must a’ picked Richmondover pretty close.”

The merriment elicited by this remark gave suchpause to the old lady’s eloquence that Alice was enabledto 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-fangledRichmond doin’s ’bout him; thar warn’t nothin’but apple-toddy and eggnog.”

“But the music, Aunt Phœbe?” persisted Alice, repressinga smile.

“De music!” ejacul*ted Phœbe; “de music! Didn’tyou hear it through de window? You didn’t?” Andshe clasped her hands, shut her eyes, and began rockingto and fro, her head nodding all the while with certainpeculiar little jerks, “Umgh-umgh!—umgh-umgh!—umgh-umgh!”This inexplicable dumb-show she keptup some time. “Don’t talk, chillun; don’t talk—umgh-umgh!—don’ttalk,—I axed Dick dis mornin’, says I,Dick, says I, huckum, you reckon, nobody never toldole marster as how Mr. Smith drawed sich a bow, saysI?”

“Mr. Smith!” exclaimed Alice, looking at the twogirls with amazement in her wide eyes.

The two girls nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Smith was de very one. Phœbe neverdid hear de like, never in her born days. Sich ascrapin’ and a scratchin’, and sich a runnin’ up anddown a fiddle, Phœbe never did see, though she thoughtshe had seen fiddlers in her time.”

And she went on and gave such an account of theperformance 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 matterof 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 MarseBilly Jones. When I seed him and all dem younggent’men a-scufflin’ and a-bumpin’ under dat table, oh,Lord, says I, how long! But when Marse Raleigh, heupsot into de fire, thinks I to myself, my legs surely isgwine for to gin way under me!—but Marse Charley,he cert’n’y do beat all. I reckon all you young mistisseswas a-thinkin’ he had done gone and cut he fingerwhen he let de knife fall and went for a rag? Ibe bound you did; but Lor’ me, nobody don’t neverknow what Marse Charley is up to. Dey tell me ashow he knowed all along ’bout Mr. Smith playin’ onde fiddle; but he never let on even to ole marster; andI heard ’em all a-questionin’ him ’bout it; but MarseCharley, he jess laugh and laugh, sort o’ easy-like, andnever tell ’em nothin’.”

“Mr. Frobisher knew what a great musician Mr.Smith was?” asked Alice, her incredulity beginning togive way.

“Jess so, Miss Alice, jess so. Why, Dick says hereally do b’lieve into he soul dat Mr. Smith b’longs to ashow 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 whendey give de dinner to Ginrul Laughyet, and hear debrass band play and all? Great musicianer? I b’lieveyou! Umgh-umgh! To-be-sho! To-be-sho!”

“Well!” said Alice, dropping down into a chair witha bump. “Well!” repeated she, with emphasis.

“Why, what is the matter?”

“Never mind!” said she, tossing her head as shepulled on a stocking. “I’ll make him pay for it!” sheadded, jerking on the other with a rather superfluousvigor; and then, discontinuing her toilet, she droppedher two hands upon her knees and gazed at vacancyfor a moment.

“What is it? What is it?” cried the girls, as theysaw, gradually diffusing itself over her flushed countenance,an intensely quizzical smile. For her onlyanswer Alice threw herself into an exceedingly comicattitude of exaggerated stiffness, and began playingupon an imaginary piano, tum-tumming, in the mostludicrous way, a commonplace air much in vogue atthe time.

“Oh, what geese we have made of ourselves!” criedthe girls.

“Yes,” continued Alice, “here have we, all this time,been playing our little jiggetty-jigs before him, andhe affecting not to know Yankee Doodle from HailColumbia!” And she tossed off a few more bars withinimitable drollery. “Oh, it is too funny!” cried she,springing up, her sense of humor overriding her senseof chagrin; and from that time till the party wereready to descend to the breakfast-room, she was in oneof her regular gales, causing the upper regions of thehouse to resound with incessant peals of laughter.

“Why, you dear, crazy little goose,” said one of thegirls at last, “the breakfast-bell rang fifteen minutesago, and all the rest of us are dressed, and there youare still in a most unpresentable costume.”

“There, then, I’ll be good,” said Alice, cutting shortsome caper; and instantly assuming the busiest air, shetrotted briskly about the room, laying hands first onone article of dress and then on another, contriving,somehow, to combine with a maximum of ostentatiousactivity a minimum of actual progress in hertoilet.

“Here, girls,” said Mary, “I’ll hold her while therest of you dress her.”

So saying, she seized her, and in a moment the submissivevictim was surrounded by as lovely a band oflady’s maids as one could wish to see. First onebrought her—but, somehow, there seems to arise likean exhalation, just here, a mysterious haze, impenetrableto my bachelor eyes.

“There now, girls, you need not wait for me. Ishall be down in a moment. Go down. No, I won’thave you wait for me! Aunt Phœbe will never forgiveyou if you let the muffins get cold. Moreover, I wishto 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 thedoor. Thus dismissed, they soon found their way tothe breakfast-table; and, as was to be expected, thereimmediately arose a very animated talk upon the eventsof the preceding evening.

A Virginia breakfast, in those days, was not wont tobe a lugubrious affair; but I think that this was, perhaps,the brightest that I remember. The events ofthe previous evening were told and retold for thebenefit of the ladies. Young Jones was invited to describethe emotions which caused him to dive under thetable, the middle-aged fat gentleman got what sympathywas his due, when, just as each girl had, for thetwentieth time, exclaimed that it was “really mean,”Alice stood upon the threshold.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

No one had heard her approaching footsteps. Thecharming little actress stood there, her arms akimbo,her head tossed back, her eyes fixed upon the Don withthe blackest look she could command. To the salutationsof the company, to my grandfather’s request thatshe be seated, she deigned no reply; and suddenlywhisking herself to the side of the table, she poured inupon the Don a still more deadly fusillade of fierceglances at short range; then, as the only unoccupiedseat was next his, she advanced to take it, but in thetwinkling of an eye her whole manner had changed,though why it changed I cannot explain, nor she anymore than I, doubtless. I record facts, merely. Asshe went mincing around the table to reach her seat,she suddenly became converted into a prim and absurdlyaffected old maid. Her manner of shaking outher napkin would have been alone sufficient to convulsethe company. In fact, for a time, all breakfasting, consideredas a practical business, came to an end. Thevery streams of hot muffins, waffles, and buckwheatcakes stood still, in presence of this joyous spirit, as ofold the river forgot to flow when Orpheus touched hislyre. I can see her now, it seems to me, nibbling atthe merest crumb upon a prong of her fork, sippingher coffee with dainty affectation, ogling the gentlemenwith inimitable drollery.

“Ah, Mr. Smith,” said she, suddenly turning to theDon and dropping the rôle she had assumed for one ofthe most artless simplicity,—“I am so delighted to hearthat you are a musician. Do you know, I had an ideathat you knew little of music, and cared less; so that—doyou know?—we girls actually feared that ourplaying bored you? Indeed we did!” she added, withemphasis, and looking up into his face with an ingenuoussmile. “Didn’t we, girls? But it is such a nicesurprise to find you were only pretending to be an ignoramus.Why, it was only yesterday morning that Iwas explaining to you the difference between the majorand the minor keys!—and you knew all the time!”And she gave a delicious, childish little laugh. “It issuch a comfort to know that you have been appreciatingour music all this time. Oh, Mr. Smith!” exclaimedshe, 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—letme see—” And with eyes upturned and fingers wanderingup and down the table, she seemed to search forthe 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 smilestraight into his eyes,—“oh, it is called the JennyLind Polka;” and she beamed upon our artist as thoughawaiting an answering thrill. “What! You neverheard 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 intensesurprise). “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—recognizeit? Tee-dum, teedle-um tum, tum, tum—Youare quite sure? Tump-ee, tump-ee—Quite? Youshall have it immediately after breakfast—tump-ee,tump-ee.” And apparently unable to restrain her impatience,she recommenced the strain, and rattled it offwith an ever-increasing brio, till, at last, as thoughtransported with enthusiasm, she pushed back her chairand launched forth into a pas seul, tripping round thetable, her dress spread out with thumb and forefingerof either hand, the graceful swaying of her lithe figurecontrasting comically with the tin-pan tone she contrivedto give her voice, and the ludicrous precision ofher steps; but, changeful as the surface of a summerlake, 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 imaginarypartner, and stilling her own voice, and asthough drunk with the music of a mighty orchestra,she floated about the room, with closed eyes, in a kindof swoon.

Just at this juncture, there chanced to be standingnear the outer dining-room door our friend Zip. Zip—but,as these were Christmas times, let us call himMoses—stood there, with hanging jaw, and rolling hisrather popped eyes, first towards his chief, and then inthe direction of the table, in manifest perplexity as tothe disposition to be made of a plate of waffles he hadjust brought from the kitchen. Confused by the merriment,he failed to observe the fair Alice bearing downupon him. Away went the waffles over the floor.“That’s the way it goes!” said Alice to the Don, withouteven a glance at the waffles; “and you have neverheard it before?” asked she, resuming her seat by hisside. In fact, the most amusing feature of her entireperformance was how utterly unconscious she seemedthat any one heard or saw her save the new-foundartist. Every word, every look, every gesture seemeddesigned solely for his edification. I shall not permitmyself to describe the deportment of the companywhile Alice was on her high horse; for Lord Chesterfieldhas pronounced laughter, save in children, vulgar.And so, I shall declare breakfast over, and allow ourmerry friends to betake themselves whither fancyimpels.

“What kind of a day is it?” inquires one; and thewhole party soon find themselves scattered in groupson the southern veranda.

It was one of those enchantingly beautiful wintermornings, never witnessed, perhaps, out of America.The ground was frozen hard; while every tuft of drygrass, every twig in view, bedecked with hoar-frost,danced and flashed and sparkled beneath the dazzlingyet hazy sunlight, with the mingled glow of opals andof diamonds. And what an atmosphere! Still, butnot stagnant; for behold the dreamy undulations ofthat slender column of smoke, so peacefully rockingabove yonder whitewashed cabin! Cold, not chill;descending into the lungs as a stimulating and refreshingbath; clear, but not colorless; tinted, rather,—nay,transfigured, with the translucent exhalations of namelessgems,—such was the air that floated over lawn andriver on that bright Christmas morning.

It was a day too fine to be lost; and a vote beingtaken, it was decided that a walk should come first.And forth the joyous procession sallied, Alice and youngJones—kindred spirits—taking the lead. Let them gotheir way, rejoicing in their youth; and, while awaitingtheir return, I shall, with the consent of the contemporaneousreader, say a word or two about Virginiasociety, as it was, to that reader of the future for whoseedification these slight sketches are drawn; to wit, mygreat-great-great-etc. grandson.

In my Alice, then, I have endeavored to place beforeyou and future generations a type taken bodily fromthe joyous, careless life of ante-bellum days. Many ofmy contemporaries will recognize her and her merry-glancinghazel eyes. My friends—all Richmond, allVirginia, in fact—will know the original of the picture,—eachone his own original. But the truth is, in paintingthe portrait of our jolly little Alice I have aimedat more than representing the features of a charminggirl. I have striven to place before you a markedphase of Virginia society,—its freedom. It was thiswhich gave it a charm all its own, and it would be interesting,did it not lead me too far from the path ofmy narrative, to point out the contrasts it affords toEnglish society. Both eminently aristocratic, it is singularthat the former should have been so unshackled,so unconventional, so free, while its prototype is, withoutdoubt, the most uncomfortable, the most stiflingtyranny that men and women—and men and women,too, of one of the grandest races of all time—ever voluntarilysubmitted to. And, strangely enough, Virginiais almost the only one of the United States whereanything like a fair type of the mother society has survived.The English gentleman, like the Virginian, hashis home in the country; but this is true, in this countryit may almost be said, of Virginia gentlemen alone;if, at least, the terms be not understood in a sense tooliterally geographical. The Southern planter was wontto betake himself to New Orleans in winter, with halfhis cotton crop in his pocket, reserving the otherhalf 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 hisvilla on the Hudson, retired to it rather to avoid thanto seek society, or else, still unsated with the joys ofcity life (the detestation of your true John Bull), evenwhen driven out of town by the dust of summer and theglare of wall and of pavement, he hastens to Newport,there to swelter through the dog-days in all the pompof full dress and fashionable fooleries. Some stray lordhas mentioned in his hearing—or some one who hasseen a stray lord—that summer is the London season(none other being possible in that climate), and straight-wayhe trims his whiskers à la mutton-chop and buysa book of the peerage; nor suspects that the moreclosely you imitate an Englishman the less you resemblehim,—one of the strongest characteristics ofthat great race being their disdainful refusal to imitateany other.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Three o’clock was, in those days, the dinner-hourof the Virginia gentry; but my grandfather andCharley, being but two in family, and not caring to bebothered with three meals a day, had gotten into thehabit of dining at five; and so, shortly before thathour, on this Christmas day, all the company, havingmade their toilets, had assembled in the drawing-room.But, as far back as I can remember, I don’t think thatAunt Polly had ever let us have our Christmas dinnerbefore six. Aunt Polly could never explain this factto our satisfaction. “Ready,” she once made reply tomy boyish impatience, “no, dat tain’t, How you gwine’spect de fire to cook all dese things quick like a fewthings? Jess look at dat pot! I set it d’yar to bileand d’yar it sets a-simperin’ and a-simperin’ like peoplenever 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 offdat d’yar skillet. Moss! Moss! Who talkin’ ’boutmoss, I’d like to know? And all de white folks a-waitin’for dinner!” And she mopped her face with hersleeve.

“I meant to rubserve,” rejoined Dick, with offendeddignity, “dat a watched pot never biles.”

On the present occasion Mrs. Carter gave the companyan intimation that they had an hour on theirhands.

“Why not adjourn to the hall,” suggested Mr.Whacker, “and while away the time with somemusic?”

The company rose with enthusiasm. “Oh, hownice!” And all the girls clapped their hands.

“Mr. Frobisher,” said Jones, dryly, “if your fingerbe sufficiently healed, suppose you lead off. As for me—I—havea sore throat.”

“Ah, that poor finger!” cried Alice, “how remissin us girls not to have inquired after its health! Howis the dear little thing?”

“I beg your pardon?” inquired Charley, with aninnocent look; but his hands had somehow found theirway 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 imperiouslittle gestures; at the same time looking fromface 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,—“thereis my hand,—you may h-h-h-h-ave it if you want it.”And immediately, as though he had said more than hehad intended, blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Nonsense!” said she, coloring slightly. “Why doyou 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 shoutsof laughter interrupted his question, and, turning toa group of students, he pursed up his mouth and emitteda long but inaudible whistle. Charley, meanwhile, wasassailed with questions by the girls as to what madehim suspect that the Don was a musician; but hepassed, smiling and silent, towards the western door,and he stood there bowing the ladies out on their wayto the Hall.

“Fiend in human shape!” breathed Alice, as shepassed 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 herhead, as she stood with one foot upon the pavementand the other on the step above, turning her head, allgilded and glorious with the mellow rays of the settingsun, gave him one Parthian glance, half saucy, halfserious, and bounded forward to overtake her companions.Charley, with his eyes riveted upon her retiringfigure, stood motionless till she had disappeared withinthe Hall. Did he hope—the simpleton—for another look?

The Don and I were lingering on the Hall steps whenCharley came up.

“By the way, how on earth did you divine that Iplayed on the violin? You have no objection to tellingme?”

“None in the world. There was no divination aboutthe matter. When you were knocked senseless by therunaway horses, I helped to undress you. On removingyour coat a paper fell out of the breast-pocket, andI remarked, on picking it up, that it was a sheet ofmanuscript music.”

“Oh yes, I remember,—a little waltz that I hadcomposed that day.”

“I didn’t know who had compo-po-po-sed it,” repliedCharley, dryly, “but I have m-m-m-ade it a ruleall m-m-my life never to play before people who wentabout the country, getting run over, with m-m-m-anu-scriptm-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, laughingheartily. “Thanks,” added he, suddenly seizingCharley’s hand,—“thanks.” And he sprang lightly intothe room.

“Charley, you are a rare one. The idea of your notletting the old man or myself into the secret.”

“W-e-l-l, y-e-s,” said he, abstractedly. He seemed inno hurry to enter the room, holding me back by a firmthough 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 agroup 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 onthat Christmas afternoon our story enters upon a newphase,—one, too, in which Mary Rolfe will figure moreprominently than she has hitherto done. Of her friendAlice—Alice with the merry-glancing hazel eyes—thereader has, I trust, a tolerably clear conception. Thepicture we have of her is a pleasant one, I think,—apicture drawn not by me, but by herself. But fromMary—shy, reserved, and shrinking as she is—we canexpect no such boon. Her portrait must be my work.

And first, I must repeat that she was Alice’s closestfriend. When their acquaintance began, it would behard to say. Their mothers before them were warmfriends, and had been so fortunate as to have theirhomes, after marriage, separated only by one of Richmond’speaceful streets; so that, even in long clothes,Alice and Mary, introduced by their respective nurses,had contracted such intimacy as might be gained bya reciprocal fumbling of each other’s noses and thepoking of pink fingers into blinking eyes. Across thisstreet, a few years later, these little crafts had madevoyages innumerable; beneath its branching treestrundled their unsteady hoops, and along its not verycrowded sidewalk had swung proudly, hand in hand,one bright October day, going to their first school. Andever since that day they have been going, so to speak,hand in hand. One circ*mstance, no doubt, that contributedmuch to binding their hearts together, was thefact 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, rendereda warm friendship between them both possibleand lasting, was the singularly sharp contrasts presentedby their characters. Two girls more radically unlikein disposition it would be hardly possible to find.

Now, among other traits of Mary’s character, totallylacking in Alice, was one of importance for mypurposes, in that it was destined to make her play aconsiderable rôle amid the scenes to be pictured in theensuing pages. It was a trait that goes by differentnames. According to some of her acquaintance,—kindredspirits they were,—Mary was full of enthusiasms,while to others of the hard-headed, practical type, sheseemed sentimental. I, as umpire, must compromiseby admitting that she was certainly what is calledromantic. And I was about to bring in a little cheapphilosophy to explain that this was due to the vastamount of novels and poetry with which she hadstuffed her head, when I recalled the fact that someof the most clear-headed, energetic, and every wayadmirable women that I have known devoured everynovel that they could lay their hands on. I, therefore,abandon the reflection, uncopyrighted, to such moralizersand others as have leisure to explain things ofwhich they know nothing. But the fact was as I havestated it; Mary was a thoroughly romantic, or, if youwill, sentimental young person, though I regret tohave to say so. For it will lower her in your estimation,I fear, when I make known to you, by a fewillustrations, what I mean by saying she was romantic.

It is more necessary for me to do this than wouldappear to the average contemporary reader. For it ismore than likely that the expression, a romantic youngfemale, will be totally unintelligible in your day, or,rather, that it will have an entirely different meaningfrom that which those words convey to us. You, too,of course, will not be without your romantic virgins,—thatis to say, maidens of tender years, who, standingupon the hither brink of that dark and troublous seacalled life, and watching the pitching and tossing ofthe numberless barks that have gone before,—who, seeingsome struggling amid the breakers, others going topieces on the reefs, still others drifting, dismantledand shattered, upon a shore already thick-strewn withwrecks,—yet love to dream of smooth and sunny pathsacross that pitiless waste of waters,—if—if only theIdeal Pilot may be found.

Yes, your girls will have their ideals,—but what ideals?

I cannot tell; but very different, doubtless, fromours. We have but to glance at here a page and therea page of the past records of the race, to feel quitesure that woman’s ideal man has varied much in thetide of time. Passing by prehistoric man, lest Iwound the susceptibilities of such as claim that henever existed, and coming forward to the days ofHomer, we must suppose that the sentimental daughtersof the literary gentlemen of that day—the chiefs,to wit, who patronized the blind bard—for rhapsodydivine bartering the prosaic but sustaining bacon—wemust reckon it as probable that these young womenyearned—if yearning were in vogue at that earlyperiod—yearned to be led from the parental roof bysome Achilles of a youth, tall, broad-chested, agile as apanther, strong as a lion, with thews of steel, soul ofadamant, eye of consuming fire. Juvenal, again, if wemay pluck a leaf at random, tells us that, in his day, asentimental married woman who would shriek at amouse, let us say, was capable of braving the sea ina leaky old hulk, eloping with all that was left of agladiator after twenty years’ hacking in the arena.And now, making a spring forward into the last quarterof the nineteenth century, we find the ideal of theupper ten dozen of New York society, for example, tobe a nice young man who parts his hair and his namein 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, thebest society of New York has grown more exacting,and no one need now aspire to be looked upon as alion—a knight without fear and without reproach—unless,after devoting for some years half his time andall his mind, as it were, to the art, he can “handle thereins” 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 imitatorsand rivals (just as mock-turtle soup is deemed by manysuperior to the genuine decoction). They may actuallybe hired at two dollars a day, more or less, and seempositively glad to get that, being to all outward seemingentirely unconscious of the glamour attaching totheir ennobling art.][3]

But to judge by the books they devoured with sucheagerness, and the heroes they thought so captivating,the ideals, thirty years ago, of the Virginia youngwomen—I may not speak for others—were very differentfrom any of those above depicted. At that period theinfluence of Byron’s powerful genius was still plainlydiscernible in many works of fiction, especially thoseby female authors. Now, just ascertain cordials loseall their piquancy by being diluted, so the morbid creationsof Byron’s unhealthy muse emerged, after passingthrough the alembic of female fancy, very pale heroesindeed; pale, in truth, in a double sense. For, at onetime, I remember, a bloodless countenance was aboutall that was required to constitute a hero over whomall our girls went mad. The fellow was invariably dismallycold and impassive “in outward seeming;” butthe authoress would contrive to suggest to the reader,by a hint here and there, that this coldness was in outwardseeming only,—that this stern, haughty possessorof the broad, pallid brow (against which he ever andanon pressed his hand as though in pain) was theclandestine owner of feelings fit to be compared only toa stream of lava,—a cold crust above, concealing a fieryflood beneath; an iceberg, in a word, with a volcanoin 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 weresuch, and one of this type were found hanging arounda girl, the circ*mstance would afford her big brother’sboot legitimate occasion for an honorable activity. AndI still think that this heroic treatment, as the facultywould term it, would find its justification, at least froma sanitary point of view. For it is to be remarked thatin 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 myacquaintance, assigning jealousy as the source of theseferocious sentiments, could not be brought to my wayof thinking; and of all of a certain bevy of girls withwhom I associated, I believe that Mary Rolfe wasfurthest gone in her adoration of these august animalsthat dwelt apart.

Now, although a romantic temperament has its compensations,—compensationsso varied and so valuablethat, on the whole, it must be regarded as a blessing,—yetit* dangers are as obvious. For of what avail is anIdeal without its Counterpart? Now, it is in searchingfor and finding this Counterpart that lies the dangerto a girl of imaginative turn,—the danger, in plain English,of falling in love without a just and reasonableregard for the loaves and fishes of this prosaic world.

Now, even from the preliminary and partial sketchof the Don already made, you will see (though lessclearly than when the drawings shall have been completedand the colors rubbed in) that he was a manlikely to make a vivid impression on the imaginationof a girl like Mary. I should be sorry, indeed, to haveyou suppose that such likelihood arose from any resemblanceon his part to the type of novel-hero so fascinatingto her imagination. And yet he appealed to thatimagination most strongly. Of course the mystery surroundinghim had much to do with this. Of late she hadfound herself continually asking herself who he couldbe. Was he a Virginian? Hardly, else some one wouldknow him. Then, why had he come to Virginia? Washe an English nobleman, travelling incognito? Perhaps!But no! from several observations that he hadlet drop, he could scarcely be that. He was a gentleman,certainly; but then, what need has a gentlemanof mystery? Had he committed any—? Impossible!And so, da capo,—who can he be? More than onceshe had caught herself stamping her little foot andmuttering impatiently, “What is he to me?” But hisimage kept returning to her mind. The truth is, shewas getting what the girls used to call, in those days,“interested,”—a word which means far more withwomen than with us men. “In love” is what weshould call it; but that is an expression which womenare chary of using, unless of men. According to theirphilosophy, it is tacitly assumed that, as it is not theproper thing for a woman to fall in love until she hasbeen asked to, she never does; and I believe this to betrue, as a rule. In fact, it seems to me that falling inlove, as it is called, is, with women, a purely voluntaryact. When entreated to lose their hearts they losethem, should it seem judicious, all things considered, soto do; if not, not. But as in Latin grammar, so in life:there are exceptions to all rules; and while, in ninecases out of ten, women are guided by judgment andreason, men impelled by passion and instinct, in theirmatrimonial ventures, yet there is, after all, a tenthcase (all my readers are tenth cases if they will) wherea woman, deluded by her imagination, wrecks her lifeon breakers that seemed, to others at least, too apparentto need a beacon. Nor are the weaker sisters most liableto blunders of this kind; for it seems to me that I haveremarked that gifted women are most apt to throwthemselves away on men entirely unworthy of them;led captive by the ideals their own hearts have fashioned;making gods of stocks and stones.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Never, perhaps, was there a merrier Christmasparty than that which was now laughing and chatteringas they seated themselves before that noble hickoryfire which lit up the Hall with its ruddy glow. Thepleasantest thing of all was to see the happy changethat had come over the Don. He was a different man.That air of self-restraint and conscious reserve, whichhad never left him before, had entirely vanished. Itwas evident that, whatever his motives for concealinghis musical talents, it was an immense relief to him tohave abandoned the singular rôle he had been playing;and his long-imprisoned feelings had bounded up likea released spring. We hardly knew him. He was notonly 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 thattrap for you yesterday evening. My playing waspurely unintentional,—even involuntary. But whocould have resisted Uncle Tom?” This was the firsttime 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 waryfeet out of it, that was all.”

“But wasn’t it capital!” cried Jones; and showingall his massive white teeth, he made the hall resoundwith a laugh that echoed contagiously from group togroup.

But there was one person in the room who did notshare in the general joyousness,—our friend Mary.She had taken her stand apart, by a window that commandedthe western horizon; and turning with a half-startledair, at the sound of the laughter, responded toit with a faint and preoccupied smile. In truth, thepoor child was ill at ease; though what it was thattroubled that young heart none of my readers, I feelassured, would ever guess. Yet, while to most of themthe cause of her annoyance will appear whimsical inthe extreme, as it was characteristic of her to sufferfrom such a cause, I must state it, and towards this enda few prefatory words will be necessary.

Neither the Virginians nor the American people, norany branch of the great race from which they spring,are lovers of music. Our boys, it is true, will troop upand down the streets of village or city, following theband-wagon of a circus. We manufacture an enormousnumber of the very best pianos in the world, and thousandsof our girls labor for years learning to play a fewtunes on them. Mothers without number pinch themselvesthat their daughters may have the desired instruction.It is the correct thing. Yet, her graduatingconcert over, her piano soon ceases to constitute anymore considerable element of a girl’s happiness, or thatof her family, than her copy of Euclid.

Yet, although English of the purest breed, there areVirginians who really love music; just as you shallfind Spaniards with red hair, bashful Irishmen, womenwith beards, hens that crow, bullies with courage, muleswithout guile, and short sermons and true happiness.I do not allude to our charming girls who flock to theoccasional opera that visits Richmond,—for in Richmond,as elsewhere, there are dozens of reasons forflocking to the opera.

No; I had in my mind the far-famed Virginia fidddler—mockhim not, ye profane—who, though frownedupon 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 loadof 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 theworthlessness of the whole fiddling tribe as axiomatic.Nay, worse, there is a vague feeling that the thing isvulgar.

Now, in that word lies the key to Mary Rolfe’s distressof mind. Born and bred in the midst of thatsingularly pure, and simple, and refined society of Richmondin the ante-bellum days, inheriting from herfather a love of all that was most beautiful in Englishprose and verse, as well as led by his hand to the nookswhere were to be culled its choicest flowers; her mannersformed and her instincts moulded by her motherupon the classic types of Virginia patrician life of theolden time, she was more than a representative of herclass. The refined delicacy of her nature amounted,if not to a fault, at least to a misfortune. In the societyof those like herself she was easy, affable, winning;but the slightest deviation from high breeding chilledher into silence and unconquerable reserve. The mosttrivial social solecism shocked, vulgarity stunned her.

And fiddling!

According to her high-wrought soul the thing wasunworthy of a gentleman. Nor is this so much to bewondered at, for, although distinguished violinists hadvisited Richmond, it so happened that she had neverheard one. Her knowledge of violin music was confinedto fiddling pure and simple,—the compositions,jigs and reels; the performers, as a rule, negroes.

If, then, I have in any measure succeeded in depictingMary as she really was,—an exquisitely refined,oversensitive girl just out of school, her head full ofpoetry and romance, her heart beginning to flutter witha 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 Christmasmorning. It will be remembered that it was AuntPhœbe who had been the first to describe the Don’sperformance to the young ladies.

“Play de fiddle? Can he play de fiddle? I b’lieveyou, honey! Why, Lor’ bless me, I do p’int’ly b’lieveinto my soul dat Mr. Smith is de top fiddler of deNunited States!”

A fiddler! And a top fiddler! Shades of Byron andof Bulwer! Mary felt an icy numbness at her heart.

Half an hour afterwards, when the two girls werenearly ready for breakfast, she was standing behindAlice, pinning on her collar.

“Oh, Alice,” cried the little hypocrite, suddenly, asthough 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 tohear him play,—and play he shall, or my name is notAlice Carter. There you go again! Bear in mind,please, that the collar is to be pinned to my dress, notto my lovely person. What could have induced him tohide such an accomplishment!” added she, stampingher little foot.

“There! That sets very nicely! I don’t knowwhat made me so awkward. So you think it is—waita moment,—ah, that’s just right,—an accomplishment?”

One man in a thousand may acquire somewhat of theart, but every woman is born a perfect actress. True,you shall not see this perfection on the stage. Therethe ambition of women is to be actresses, rather thanactresses women.

It was perfect! But Alice was not thrown off thescent.

Men can deceive men; men may hoodwink women,and be hoodwinked in turn; but it has not been givento one woman to throw dust into the eyes of another.The silliest girl can see through the most astute asthough she were of glass.

“An accomplishment? What? To pin people’s collarsto their necks?”

“Of course not, goosey! An accomplishment forgentlemen 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 whatI think about it.”

“But I do,” replied Alice, quickly, turning and facingher friend.

“And what do you know that I think, that I do notknow myself?” said Mary, putting her hands on Alice’sshoulders, drawing her close, and smiling affectionatelyinto her eyes.

“Don’t you remember my laughing, once, at school,over the story about Alcibiades’ refusing to learn toplay on the flute, because he deemed the necessarypuckering of the mouth undignified, and that youthought he was right? Heroes, my dear, according toyour romantic notions, must always be heroic.”

“Heroes!” exclaimed Mary, with wide-eyed innocence.“Who, pray, mentioned heroes!” But a heightenedcolor tinged her cheeks.

Alice, without making reply, placed her hand overMary’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 herright hand, she shook her forefinger at her friend.“Take care!” said she, with a voice and look halfserious, half jocular.

“Oh, don’t be uneasy about me!” And with a brightsmile on her flushed face Mary frisked away to joinsome of the other girls who were descending to thebreakfast-room.

Falling in love is like getting drunk,—we blush whenwe betray symptoms of the malady, yet rejoice in itsprogress!

CHAPTER XXXVII.

We now return to our friends assembled in the Hall.

Especially among the ladies who had not heard theDon’s first performance, expectation was on tiptoe.The excellent Herr is bustling about, rubbing his hands,and smiling through his spectacles the vast Teutonicsmile. Charley places the case containing the Guarneriusupon the table. The Don opens it with an almostnervous eagerness. She is to hear him, and he willoutdo himself.

But where is she? Presently he espies her partlyconcealed behind the stalwart form of Jones. She isgazing at the western sky,—she alone of all the companyunconscious that he is about to play.

The thought is a sudden shock. And then he remembersthat she alone of the ladies had made no allusion,during the day, to the performance of the eveningbefore,—had expressed no regret at not having beenpresent.

The artist nature is caprice itself,—changeful as anApril sky; and the Don with sudden impulse releasedthe neck of the violin, which sank back upon its luxuriouscushion of blue satin. He would excuse himself,—hecould not play. But the strings, vibrating beneathan accidental touch, gave forth a chord, and instantlyreversed the current of his feelings. Yes, he wouldplay; and taking up the instrument, he sauntered over,with as careless an air as he could command, to thewindow by which Mary stood, touching the stringslightly as he went, as though to see whether they werein tune. Mary felt his approach; and partly turningher face and raising her eyes to his, as he reached herside, she said, with what was meant for a smile, “Nowwe shall have some merry music.” And she droppedher eyes.

“Why merry?”

Mary, startled as well by the abruptness of the questionas by a certain hardness in his voice, gave a quickglance at his face.

“Why, is not the violin—” began she, but could getno farther,—held, as was the Wedding Guest by theglittering eye of the Ancient Mariner.

“Is this, then, a merry world?”

The smile faded from Mary’s face. These words hadthrilled her; for it was not by nature a blithesomeheart that beat in that young bosom, and its stringsgave forth readiest response to minor chords. A slighttremor ran through her frame as she met the gaze ofhis darkly gleaming eyes, and a vague sense of havingin some way wounded his feelings oppressed her mind.

Perhaps he read her thoughts; for in an instant areassuring smile—sad, almost pathetic—came into hiseyes, followed by a look,—one momentary, indescribableglance; and her untutored heart began to throb sothat 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 thefaint streaks of red that tinged the western horizon,—“stillanother Christmas Day—and the only happy onethat I have known since I was a child—one moreChristmas Day—is dying!” And his voice trembled ashe averted his face.

Mary felt a choking sensation in her throat; for akindred thought had been weighing upon her naturallymelancholy spirit, as she stood there gazing upon thewestern sky; and the Don, in giving voice to her inmostthoughts, had touched a chord that thrilled withovermastering power. As he moved away to take hisplace by the piano, she sank into a chair tremblingfrom head to foot. They had stood together by thewindow hardly one minute, and had not exchangedabove a dozen words; yet as she followed his retiringform with her eyes, he was no longer the same personto her that he had been a moment before. She wasstricken 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 adjoiningroom he soon returned, bearing in his handsome sheet music. “Thanks,” said the Don, placingthe piano-part before the Herr, and laying the violinscore 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, helooked at the title of the piece. “De Elegie von Ernst!Ah, das ist vat you call very sat, very vat you callmelancholish,”—and he struck a chord. “So!”—andpoising his hands, he glanced upwards to signify hisreadiness to begin.

A sudden stillness came over us at the sight of thesombre face of the Don. Obviously, we all felt therewas to be a change of programme. There were to beno musical fireworks on this occasion.

Had the Don been a consummate actor, posing foreffect, he could not have brought his audience into moreinstant, more complete harmony with the spirit of thepiece he was about to render. Tall, broad-shouldered,gaunt, he seemed in the ruddy glare of the great bankof coals to tower above us, while his eyes, fixed for amoment with a far-away look upon the fire, seemeddoubly 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 inthis scene. To have heard pathetic music only intheatres and concert-halls, amid a sea of careless facesdistracted by bright toilets, and under the glare of gaslight,is to have heard it, indeed, but not to have feltit. The “Miserere” chanted in the dim religious lightof St. Peter’s rends the heart of the listener. It hasbeen found to be meaningless elsewhere. For thepower of music, as of eloquence, lies in the heart ofthe hearer,—a heart prepared beforehand by the surroundings.

On the present occasion everything was in theartist’s favor,—the dying day, the spectral glare andshadow wrought by the glowing coals, the reactionafter a week of frolic gladness.

The bow descended upon the G string, softly as asnow-flake, but clinging as a mother’s arm.

Ernst has obeyed Horace’s maxim, and plunged atonce into the middle of his story. With the very firsttone of the violin there seems to break from the overwroughtheart a low moan, which, rising and swelling,leaps, in the second note, into a cry of rebellious anguish,—anguishtoo bitter to be borne; despair weremore endurable; and in the fourth bar the voice of thecrushed spirit sinks into a weird, muttered whisper ofresignation unresigned. The whole story is there,—therein those four bars, but the poet begins anew andsings his sorrow in detail; pouring forth a lament sopassionate in its frenzy that it almost passes, at times,the bounds of true music (for can you not hear thesobs, see the wringing of the hands?), and rising, atlast, to a climax that is almost insupportable, the voiceof wailing then sinks—for all is over—into a low plaint,and dies into silence.

The Marcia Funebre of the Eroica symphony is thelament of a nation of Titans; in Ernst’s Elegie one poorhuman heart is breaking—breaking all alone. I haveheard the piece since in crowded halls and beneath theblaze of chandeliers, and performed by artists morefinished, no doubt, than was the Don; but the effect hewrought I have never seen approached. All eyes wereriveted upon him while he played, and when he ceased—whenthe last despairing sigh died upon the air—noone moved, not a note of applause was given, and theonly sound heard was that of long-drawn breaths ofrelief.

It was an intense moment. My grandfather was thefirst to break the spell. Approaching the Don with atender look in his eyes, he tried, I think, to speak a fewwords, but could only press his hand. Then there arosea subdued murmur of whispered enthusiasm, each oneto his neighbor. At last—

“Billy,” said the middle-aged-fat-gentleman, “I giveit up,—he can beat you.” And a ripple of laughter relievedthe tension.

And Mary?

She and the Don happened to be among the last toleave the hall, and he offered her his arm. Neitherspoke for a few moments.

“How silly you must have thought me!”

“I assure you—”

“Oh, but you must. But I had never heard anythingbut fiddling before. Do you know,” she addedgravely, “I doubt if any of the company understoodall that you meant, save myself?”

“And are you quite sure that you understood all thatI felt?”

Mary looked up and their eyes met. Releasing hisarm 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 justdescribed. “It is? Then this is the day for the Poythress’sreturn. Ah, now we shall have music.”

A man talking with another may look him in theface for an hour without knowing one of his thoughts;a woman will flash a careless glance across your face,—acrossit—no more,—and read you to the heart.

Alice and Mary beamed upon each other and ejacul*ted,“Lucy!” But Mary’s eyes had had time to sweepthe features of the Don. “Won’t it be charming tohave Lucy with us!” said she; but she hardly knewwhat she said. Her face, turned towards Alice, worea mechanical smile; but she saw only the Don andthe startled, almost dazed look that came over hisface on hearing Mr. Whacker’s words. How bravea little woman can be! She turned to the Don andsaid,—a seraphic smile upon her face,—“You havenever heard Lucy play. You have a great treat instore.”

“No,” replied he, dropping his napkin. “No,” repeatedhe, his eye fixed upon vacancy. He had heardwith his ears and answered with his lips. That wasall. Suddenly recollecting himself, he turned to herwith a bow and a courteous smile: “Yes, it will be agreat treat,—very great;” but his thoughts, mightierthan his will, swept the smile from his features and leftthem pale and rigid as before.

How many thoughts crowded upon Mary’s heart inthat instant! “What a silly school-girl I have been!A word here and a word there, during these last tendays, have made me forget the intense interest he obviouslytook in Lucy at first sight. After all, whathas he said to me? Nothing, absolutely nothing! Andyet I was so weak as to imagine—and now he haslearned of a new bond of sympathy—music—betweenLucy and himself. Why did I learn nothing butwaltzes and variations and such trash? If only—toolate! And he has seen so little of her! That dream,too,—that strange, terrible dream,—should have warnedme. 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 shestamped her foot—“yet Alice has thought so too—elsewhy—surely, he cannot have been trifling with me?Never! Of that, at least, he is incapable! Such a noblecountenance as his could not—” And for a second shelifted her eyes to his—

“Yes, Zip, I’ll take one.”

“Girls,” said Alice, “just look at Mary; an untastedwaffle on her plate and taking another!”

Mary gave one of those ringing laughs that so infestthe 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-writingher initials with the spoon.

To all the rest of the company these words seemedas light and careless as the wind. Not so to Mary.Her heart leaped; but, by some subtle process knownonly to women, she forbade the blood to mount intoher cheek.

“I warn you to beware,” said Mr. Whacker. “Fullmany a heart has been lost in this house!”

“All hearts, I must believe,” rejoined Mary, with abow and half-coquettish smile.

My grandfather placed his hand upon his heart andbent low over the table, amid the approving plauditsof the company. Charley did the same. “There aretwo of us,” he explained; “Uncle T-T-Tom andmyself.”

“He is laughing now; how he seems to admire Mr.Frobisher! But why did he turn pale, just now, atthe mention of Lucy’s name? I have never read anywhereof love’s producing that effect, certainly. Perhaps—perhaps,after all, he did not change color. Myimagination, doubtless. No, I am not mistaken! Why,his brow is actually beaded with perspiration! incomprehensibleenigma! would to heaven I had never methim! and yet—”

If any of my young readers shall be so indiscreet asto fall in love with enigmas, let them not lay the follyto my charge. I most solemnly warn them against it.

Poor little Mary watched the Don all that day withthat scrutiny so piercing, and yet so unobtrusive, ofwhich a woman’s eye alone is capable,—hopefully fearingto discover the truth of what she fearfully hopedwas not true; but it was not before the sun had sunklow in the west, and she had begun to convince herselfof the illusory character of her observations at thebreakfast-table, that she got such reward as that of thewoman who, after twenty years’ searching, at lastfound a burglar under her bed.

As the time approached at which the Poythressfamily should arrive (at their home across the river),my grandfather would go out upon the piazza everyfew minutes, and after looking across the broad riverreturn and report that there were no signs of thecarriage.

“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 marineglasses so much used at that time. “This is a remarkablyfine glass,” said he to the Don.

The Don was seated behind Alice’s chair, helping herto play her hand at whist, if that name be applicableto a rattling combination of cards, conversation, andbursts of laughter.

“Last summer,” continued Mr. Whacker, “I countedwith it a hen and seven small chickens on the Poythress’slawn—”

“Mr. Frobisher!” cried Alice. “There you aretrumping my ace!”

“Charley!” exclaimed Mr. Whacker, with reproachfulsurprise.

“And, Uncle Tom, would you believe it,—he hasmade three revokes already? What ought to be doneto such a partner?”

Jones, who ought to have been back at the Universitylong since, was, on the contrary, seated at a neighboringcard-table. He remembered the scrape thatCharley had gotten him into on Christmas Eve.

“I don’t think,” said he, soliloquizing, as he slowlydealt out the cards, “that I could love a partner whor*voked.”

A smile ran around the tables. Charley bit his lip.

“What, Charley!” exclaimed Mr. Whacker. “Theace 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, theirchairs almost touching. Jones turned around, and, withhis 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 cheeksrivalled the tints of the conch-shell; and Mary, charmedto see her for once on the defensive, clapped her handstill half her cards were on the floor.

I should not have said that everybody laughed, formy grandfather did not even smile. No suspicion ofthe state of things to which Jones had maliciouslyalluded had ever crossed his mind. He was totallyabsorbed in contemplation of the enormity of playingout one’s ace of trumps second in hand. And thatCharley—Charley, whom he had trained from a boy tothe rigor of the game according to Hoyle—that heshould 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 nosedilated with a noble indignation, his snowy hair contrastingwith his dark and glowing eyes, that sweptfrom 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 impatientwave of his hand. “Nothing can justify suchplay.”

“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 assumeda 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 hostof those who believe in playing “according to theirhands” rose before his mind.

“Go on,” added he, controlling himself with aneffort.

“Suppose there is a certain hand that a fellow—ahand that a certain fellow—for example—wants—wants—toget possession of.”

Charley winced, and Alice’s color rose in spite ofher utmost efforts to look unconcerned.

“A hand that he wants to get possession of!” criedMr. Whacker, with unspeakable amazement. “Whatgibberish is this? I was supposing all along that hehad the hand!”

“No; but he wants it aw-ful-ly,” said Jones, withsepulchral solemnity.

Peal after peal of laughter arose, while Charleyshuffled his cards with the vigor of desperation. Poorfellow, he had never been in love before, and—keenhumorist that he was—he knew full well that no mancould 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 byboth ears.

“On the contrary, it is a case—ouch!—of the verydeadest earnest that I have ever—smi-ling-ly beheld.But, honestly, Uncle Tom, suppose there was a suit—asuit, mind you—”

“C-c-c-cut the cards,” yelled Charley.

“A suit,” continued the implacable Billy, “that youwere prosecuting—”

“Wished to establish, you mean.”

“Yes, a suit—”

“Uncle Tom,” cried Charley, almost upsetting thetable, “I give it up. ’Twas an idiotic play I made.”

Billy threw back his head so that it rested on Charley’sshoulder. “When,” asked he, under cover of thegeneral laughter,—“when are you going to cut yourfinger again?”

Just then Mr. Whacker appeared at the window andgave three brisk raps, and the girls went scamperingout on the piazza, followed by the gentlemen, the Donbringing up the rear. There was a general waving ofhandkerchiefs, and the telescope passed from hand tohand.

“There they all are,” cried Alice, cheerily, peeringthrough the glass with one eye and smiling brightlywith the other: “Lucy and Mrs. Poythress on theback seat, her young brother and Mr. Poythress infront. They see us now,—there go the handkerchiefs!Ah, just look at little Laura, sitting in Lucy’s lap andwaving for dear life! Here, Mary, take a look. Howdistinctly you see them!”

“Yes,” said Mary; but with the eye which seemedto be gazing through the telescope she saw nothing,while with the other she took in every motion of theDon. He was striding with irregular steps up anddown the piazza, now mechanically waving his handkerchief,now thrusting it back into his pocket; at onetime, as he stopped, his eyes fixed upon the floor; atanother rolling with a kind of glare as he started suddenlyforward. He strode past her, and his arm grazedher shoulder. She shivered. Had her companions observedit? She gave a quick glance, and was reassured.They were all waving in frantic, girlish glee, in responseto the vigorous demonstrations across the River.The rainbow knew not of the neighboring thunder-cloud.

“What a terrible love,” she mused. “But, oh, tohave inspired it!” He had not yet had the glass inhis hand; she would offer it to him. Woman alone iscapable of such self-sacrifice. She turned towards himas he was passing again, and, though a glance at hisdark face almost unnerved her, she stood in his pathand offered him the glass. A surprise was in store forher. Brought to himself, he looked startled at first, asthough suddenly realizing who stood before him; andthen, sudden as a flash of light, there came into hiseyes a look so gentle and tender as to set her heartviolently beating. Such a look, she felt, would havebeen a declaration of love in any other man,—but inan enigma?

“Take a look through the telescope,” said she, in avoice scarcely audible.

He raised the glass to his eye.

“Lucy is on this side,” said she, “with Laura in herlap.”

Her eyes were riveted upon his face now. What achange had come over it!

“Her mother sits next her; can’t you make out herwhite 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 andstood 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 thepiazza, muttering half a dozen notes of a popular song;but his serene face gave no sign.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Friday came, and the Poythresses, having missedthe Leicester Christmas festivities, were to dine withus that day. In the evening there was to be (no wondermy grandfather was out on the porch a dozen times,looking for the first oar-splash on the other side)—in theevening there was to be a quintet; and Mr. Whacker,who was as proud of Lucy as though she were his owndaughter, wag eager to exhibit her prowess to thestranger. It must not be supposed, from my silenceon this point, that we had had no music since Mr.Whacker’s discovery what a treasure he had in theDon. During this period we had had quartets, duets,solos innumerable. Christmas times, in fact, as understoodat Elmington, had irresistible charms for HerrWaldteufel; and he had hardly left us for an hour.

And now the company at Elmington stood on thepiazza watching the boat that, with measured stroke,approached the foot of the lawn.

“How charming to sail forth in a boat to dine!” saidAlice.

“And then the moonlight row home,” added Mary;“it suggests Venice.”

As the boat neared the landing, there was a generalmovement from the piazza to meet the coming guests,my grandfather leading the way. He had not mademany steps before he looked about him, and seeing theDon bringing up the rear, he slackened his pace. TheDon came up biting his nails vigorously, with his eyesfixed upon the ground, but from time to time glancingnervously 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 upturnedface the soft nothings of some young man; but shechanced to turn her head sufficiently to catch the startwith which the Don aroused himself from his reveryat these words of his host.

“I thought you would like to see little Laura, too.”

“Ah, yes, little Laura; it was very thoughtful ofyou.”

“Have you ever heard the little thing sing? Uponmy 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 brisknessof 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.” Andshe 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; “hereis Don Miff, sister Lucy.”

There was a general smile, and he stooped and kissedher several times.

“And here is Mr. Fat-Whacker, sister Lucy,” criedshe, running up and taking my hand.

“Sister Lucy,” her right hand held by one gentleman,her left by another, stood at this moment one footon a seat, the other on the gunwale of the boat, balancingherself for a spring. It is certain that the colorrose in her cheeks; but that may have been due to therocking of the boat. Sister Lucy steadied herself forthe leap.

“Mr. Fat-Whacker,” began our merry tattler, addressingherself to the Don, “is the one—”

Lucy, remembering Richmond and Laura’s side-walkconfidences to the Don, on the occasion of her first interviewwith him, gave Mr. Fat-Whacker, as she sprangfrom the boat, a quick, appalled glance. He was equalto the occasion. “Yes,” cried he, seizing the explanatorycherub and tossing her high in the air, “here’sMr. Fat-Whacker; and here,” he added, with anothertoss, “is Mr. Uncle Whacker; and here,” he continued,raising her at arm’s length above his head and holdingher there while he made at her some of those faces thatwere her delight, “here is everybody!”

Lucy gave Mr. F.-W. a glance, as she hurried pasthim to shake hands with the Don, that he thought wasgrateful; and he was stooping slightly to pat his littlebenefactress on the head, when he was sent whirlingby a blow against the shoulder like that of a battering-ram.

It appears that Mrs. Poythress, during the merryconfusion wrought by her little daughter, whether inher eagerness to shake hands with the man who, asshe felt, had saved Lucy’s life, or else thinking that sheneeded no assistance, had attempted to alight from theboat unaided; but tripping, in some way, she was fallingat full length upon the frozen ground. The Donsaw her danger. He was almost six feet away fromthe boat, my shoulder was in the way, and Lucy’s fairhand was extended,—had touched his in fact,—whenhe sprang forward. ’Twas the spring of a leopard,—asswift and as unerring. Crouching, he alighted beneathher before she reached the ground, caught heras though she had been a ball, and springing to oneside lightly as a cat, placed her feet, without a jar, uponthe ground.

“Are you much hurt?” asked he, with a singularmixture of respectful deference and eager interest.

Women, whether old or young, generally form theiropinion of a man during the first five minutes of theiracquaintance. Mrs. Poythress, at least, was won bythose few words, that one look of the stranger, andbelieved in him from that hour.

“Our introduction has been informal,” said she, extendingher hand with a smile; “but you made myLucy’s acquaintance in a manner equally unconventional.I have long desired to greet you and thankyou.” And she raised her eyes to his. “I—” Mrs. Poythresspaused. The Don stood holding her hand, bendingover it, listening, but with eyes averted and castupon the ground, reverence in every curve of his stalwartframe.

“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 ratherweak. Perhaps I was a little jarred,” said she; “mayI lean on your strong arm?” Bending low, he offeredher his arm as a courtier would to a queen, but withoutthe courtier’s smile; and they moved slowly towardsthe house.

“He is a gentleman of the old school,” thought Mr.Whacker.

“One would think,” mused Mary, “that he wasalready an accepted son-in-law.”

“A case of nubbin,” chirped Alice (a phrase I leaveas a kind of sample bone of contention to the philologistsof your day, my boy). She was leaning onCharley’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 ripplingsmile 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 vigorousa pull as visibly to disturb his balance.

“Why don’t you answer people?” said she, a littletestily.

“You would not have a man hasty? Is it not bestto treat people’s remarks as a hunter does wild ducks?Save your ammunition. Don’t fire at the first thatcomes; wait till you can bring down three or four at ashot. Besides, it is rude.”

“Rude?”

“Yes, to interrupt the current of people’s observations.”

“Well, you must interrupt the current of mine whenI speak to you.”

“The tr-tr-tr-ouble is I’d rather hear you talk thantalk myself.”

Three persons, walking behind this couple, had overheardthese words,—to wit, Jones, Jones’s girl, and myself.By Jones’s girl I would be understood as referringto one of our Christmas party, through whose influenceJones had been led to infer that the lectures at theUniversity immediately after Christmas were of comparativelyminor importance. We were all struck bythe absence of banter in Charley’s last remark. Joneslooked at me, and opening wide his eyes, and droppinghis chin, formed his mouth into a perfect circle.

“The old fox is caught,” whispered he; and takinganother look, “sure pop!” he added,—an inelegant expressionwhich I record with regret, and only in theinterests of historic accuracy. Jones’s girl, while wesmiled at Charley, had her woman’s eyes on Alice, andwith raised brows and a nod directed our attention toher. Alice had obviously noticed the peculiar tone ofCharley’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 twinklecoming into his eyes, “it didn’t hurt a bit. I ratherliked it. D-d-d-d-o it again.”

Just then Jones turned quickly, and, with the delightedlook of a discoverer, snapped his head, first athis 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’the?”

Jones’s girl looked assent.

“Hard?”

She nodded again,—laughter-tears bedimming heryoung eyes.

“The villain!” breathed Billy; and throwing backhis head, he showed two rows of magnificent teeth,while his mouth, though emitting no sound, wentthrough all the movements of Homeric laughter.

“Will,” said she, turning towards him,—“Will,” saidshe, softly, as she raised her eyes admiringly to hisfrank and manly face, “you are the greatest goose inthe world.”

“And you the dearest duck on earth.”

So, at least, they seemed to me to say; but perhaps—forI admit that they spoke in whispers—perhapsI say this less as a hearer than as a Seer.

CHAPTER XL.

“Where is Mr. Smith?” asked Mrs. Carter, as shehelped the company to soup.

“Yes, where is he?” repeated Mr. Whacker, lookingup in surprise. “Perhaps he does not know that weare 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,—andrising from the table and bowing his excuses, heleft the room.

“I am a little afraid,” continued Mrs. Poythress,turning to me, who chanced to be her nearest neighborat table, “that your friend over-strained himself in thattremendous leap he made to save me from falling. Iam sure I felt his arm tremble as we walked towardsthe house. Then he was so very silent. Is he alwaysso?”

“Generally; though I do not think it is altogethernatural to him. He seems to constrain himself tosilence from some motive or other; but every now andthen he loses control of himself, it would seem, andbreaks forth into a real torrent of brilliant talk,—no,brilliant is not the word—though torrent is. When hebursts forth in this impassioned way, he carries everythingbefore him. By the way, his leaping is of thesame character. Do you know I had to change myshoes? For when he sprang to catch you, he actuallyknocked me into the water.”

“What eyes he has! Such a concentrated look!And no one,” she added after a pause, “has any ideawho he is?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Is it possible? What a number of strange peopleyour dear old grandfather has contrived to bring toElmington from time to time! Where he has foundthem all, or how they have found him, has always beena mystery to me.”

“Yes, but the Don is not one of grandfather’s captures.Charley must have the credit of bringing himin.”

“Then he is a good man,” replied she, with decision.“Charley never makes any mistakes. But here comesMaster Charles.”

Every one looked up on Charley’s entrance. As forthat young man, he looked neither to the right nor tothe left. “Mr. Smith will be down presently,” said heto Mrs. Carter. As he strode around the room to takehis chair, his firm-set lips wore a rather dogged expression,as though he would warn us all that, so faras he was concerned, the conversation was ended; and,hastily taking his seat, he began a vigorous attack onhis soup, as if to overtake the rest of the company.Somehow every one was silent, and the isolated andrather rapid click of Charley’s spoon was distinctlyaudible. Alice smiled, and conversation beginning tospring up around the table, “I fear your soup iscold,” she began.

“The soup was cold?” asked he, looking up. “I amvery sorry.”

“I didn’t say that,” replied she, quickly. “I remarkedthat 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 calledyou.”

Charley leaned forward.

“Nothing serious, I hope?” asked Mrs. Poythress.

All eyes were fixed on Charley, every ear intent tohear his answer to this question, which Mrs. Poythressalone had ventured to ask. For a moment thismaster of fence and parry stood confounded; but onlyfor a moment. “Nothing to speak of,” replied he,with careless simplicity, and, leaning back in his chair,he glanced at Uncle Dick. Richard, briskly, thoughwith averted face, came to remove the soup-plate, andthen hurried out of the room to have a quiet chuckle.

“Tain’t no use, Polly; dey jess as well let MarseCharles alone. He is a keener, he is, umgh—umgh!Dey ain’t gwine to git nothin’ out o’ him, ef you b’lieveDick, dey ain’t, mun.” And the old worthy’s sidesshook with laughter. “Dey has been tetchin’ her uppretty lively dis mornin’, dat’s a fac’, and dey wetDick’s whistle for him, dey did, ef you b’lieve me, andmore’n once, too. Well,

“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 kinhurry up already? I b’lieve you is drunk, anyhow!”

“Pretty close to it, thank de Lord.

“I tell you git out o’ dis kitchen, and mind youdon’t fall and break dat dish, wid your ‘Christmascomes but once a year.’ Go ’long, boy. Dat ham’sseven 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 Virginianshad in those days the very irrational habit of drinkingbefore dinner; and it was to this fact that Uncle Dickalluded in the somewhat figurative language recordedabove. If the truth must be told, our venerable serving-mannever doubted but that the Don stayed up-stairssimply because he was too drunk to come down. Thefacts were far otherwise.

“Charley,” said I that night, as we were smokingour last pipe, “what was the matter with the Don to-day?Why was he not with us when we sat down todinner?”

“Because,” said Charley, lazily lolling back in hisrocking-chair, and sighting with one eye through aring of smoke that he had just projected from hismouth,—“because he was in his room.”

“Another word, and Solomon’s fame perishes.”

“It is a well-known physical law” (Charley used toavenge himself on me in private for his silence in generalcompany),—“it is a well-known physical law,” saidhe, inserting his forefinger with great precision into thecentre of the whirling ring, “that a body cannot occupytwo—”

“To be continued in our next. But why was he notpunctual, as usual?”

“Nothing simpler,—because he was behind time.”

“Solon, Solon!”

“Yes, Sir William Hamilton has well observed thatit is positively unthinkable that the temporal limitationsof two events occurring at different times shouldbe identical. Let’s have another pipe.”

Charley had forced me to change the subject; but Icontrived to make the change not very satisfactory tohim. “By the way,” I began, “what were you andthe charming Alice saying to one another on your wayfrom the landing to-day?”

Charley laid his halt-filled pipe on the table and gavea frightful yawn. “Let’s go to bed,” said he, and immediatelybegan to doff his clothes with surprisingswiftness.

“Two bodies,” said I, striking a match, “cannot”—Charleykicked off one boot—“occupy the samespace”—off flew the other; “but, as Sir William hathwell put it,—or was it some other fellow?”—andleaning against the end of the mantel-piece, and poisingmyself on my elbow, I assumed a thoughtful attitude,—“twobodies are sometimes fond of being veryclose together. Why this sudden and uncontrollablesomnolency? Were we not to have another pipe?”But not another word could I get out of Charley; andnearly four years passed by before he gave me the account(which I will now lay before the reader) of whathe saw that day.

The Don, as we know, had escorted Mrs. Poythressfrom the landing at the foot of the lawn to the house,and had gone immediately to his room. As she leanedupon his arm, he had seemed to her to be tremulous;and a certain disorder in his features as he left the parlorhad led her to fear that he was not well; having,as she surmised, given himself an undue wrench in hisefforts to arrest her fall. Then, when the Don hadfailed to put in an appearance at dinner, Charley hadgone in person to his room. To a gentle tap there wasno reply, and successively louder knocks eliciting noresponse, a vague sense of dread crept over him, andhis hand shook as he turned the knob and entered theroom. “Great God!” cried Charley, stopping short, ashe 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 withagitated strides, and leaning over the prostrate figure,with lips apart, intently watched and listened for signsof life. “Thank God!” breathed Charley. For replythe Don, with a sudden movement, threw back hisright arm obliquely across his motionless body, andheld out his open hand. The released pillow fell. Itwas wetted with tears. Charley clasped the offeredhand with a sympathetic pressure that seemed quite tounnerve the Don; for the iron grasp of his moist handwas tempered by a grateful tenderness, and convulsiveundulations 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 andpoured out some water and moved some towels in anaimless sort of way.

“I’ll go down now; come as soon as you can.”

Another nod.

Charley moved, half on tiptoe, to the door, andplacing his hand on the knob, turned and looked at theDon. A sudden impulse seized him as he saw thestrong man lying there on his face, his arm still extendedalong 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 outof the room. But he had not reached the door beforethere 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 notoften hear and can never forget,—the sob of a strongman, bursting, hoarse, guttural, discordant, from anover-wrought heart,—a stern, proud heart that wouldstifle the cry of its bitterness, but may not. A look,—aword,—the touch of a friendly hand,—has sufficed tounprison the floods.

So, once, the dimpled finger of childhood pressed theelectric key; and the primeval rocks of Hell-Gatebounded into the air.

CHAPTER XLI.

Charley hurried along the upper hall, and arrivingat the head of the stairs, blew his nose three times witha certain fierce defiance. This strictly commonplaceoperation he repeated in a subdued form as he nearedthe dining-room door, and stopping again, with onehand upon the knob, he passed the other again andagain across his forehead and eyes, as though he hadbeen an antiquated belle who would smooth out thewrinkles before entering a ball-room. Then, with thatsevere look of determined reticence of which I havespoken above, he entered the dining-room; exciting inall breasts, male and female alike, a keen but hopelesscuriosity. This feeling, however, soon subsided; for theDon had entered shortly after Charley, and, beggingMrs. Carter to excuse his tardiness, had taken his seatand passed out of our minds. For besides that thedinner was good and the wine generous, most of us hadour own little interests to look after. Jones, for example,and Jones’s girl were too happy to care whetherany one in the world were late or early for dinner.My grandfather, Mrs. Carter, and myself were sufficientlyoccupied as hosts,—and Charley, too, though hedevoted his time principally to one guest. As a matterof fact, therefore, during the early part of the dinnerthe Don sat unobserved by the greater part of the company;and but for one faithful pair of eyes, I shouldhave had nothing to record.

In the spirit of mischief, Alice had so manœuvredthat the seat left vacant for the Don was between Lucyand little Laura. “Won’t it be sweet, mother, to seeall three of them in a row,—Lucy—Mr. Don Miff—Laura?Quite a little family party!”

“Very well,” replied Lucy, laughing, “arrange it asyou 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 hisapologies to Mrs. Carter, scarcely audible. Charley,the moment the Don entered, had begun stammeringaway at Alice with a surprising volubility, and in avoice loud for him. He never stammered worse; andsuch a pother did he make with his m’s and his p’s thathe drew upon himself the smiling attention of all thecompany; so that even Jones and his girl ceased murmuring,for a moment, their fatuous nothings. It wasunder cover of this rattling volley that the Don hadtaken his seat and begun intently to examine the monogramon his fork.

“Will you have some soup?” asked Charley, in afrank, off-hand way.

The commonplace nature of this question was anobvious relief to the Don, and he raised his eyes andlooked about him. “Thanks, no soup. What!” saidhe, for the first time espying little Laura seated by hisside, “you here by me!” And taking her sunny headbetween his hands, he bent over and kissed her on theforehead.

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 passedover the Don’s face. “He’s the one, mumma, thatbuilt me the block-houses.” And the smile came back.

Mary watched the play of the Don’s features duringthe triangular conversation that followed between himself,Mrs. Poythress, and Laura, and was much puzzled.Light and shadow, shadow and light, chased each otherover his changeful countenance like patches of cloudacross a sunny landscape. Presently, chancing to turnhis 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 feelthat I am indeed among friends.”

“You may be sure of that,” said Lucy, in her lowand sweet, but earnest voice.

The Don’s pleasure at finding that Lucy was hisneighbor at table was very obvious, and we must notblame Mary if it gave her a pang to see it. She couldnot but recall the stranger’s manifest interest in Lucywhen he first met her, at breakfast, in Richmond.Then she had not cared. Now it was different. Forthe next half-hour, while contributing her share tothe conversation at her end of the table, she had managedto see everything that took place between theDon and Lucy. She saw everything, and yet sheseemed to herself to see nothing. The meaning of itall—that she could not unravel. All she knew wasthat she was miserable; and her wretchedness madeher unjust. She was vexed at Lucy,—vexed for thestrangest of reasons; but the human heart—if the plagiarismmay be pardoned—is full of inconsistencies.Had Lucy made eyes at the Don, coquetted with him,Mary would doubtless have thought it unkind on herpart; though that would have been unjust, as Lucyhad no cause to suspect that her friend felt any specialinterest in the mysterious stranger. It was the entireabsence of everything of this kind in Lucy’s mannerthat nettled Mary. In her eyes the Don was a heroof the first water. Why didn’t Lucy try to weave fascinationsaround such an one as he? What kind of aman was she looking for? Did she expect the wholeworld to fall at her feet, whence to choose?—or didshe, perhaps,—and the thought shot through her heartwith a keen pang,—did Lucy feel that the quarry washers without an effort on her part to grasp it?

The Don’s deportment, too, if incomprehensible, wasat least irritating. “His lordship,” thought she, bitterly,“has hardly vouchsafed me a glance since hetook his seat. Yet, before the Poythresses came—therehe sits now, patting Laura’s head in an absent way,and studying Lucy’s features, as she talks, as thoughhe were a portrait-painter. One would think he hadquietly adopted the entire Poythress family. Uponmy word, Mr. Sphinx is a marvel of coolness! Howlittle he talks, too!—and yet he has contrived to bringLucy out wonderfully. She is rattling away like achild, 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 regularPoythress, with her high color and golden hair; mineis just like mother’s. I don’t mean now,” said she,with a little laugh and glancing at Mrs. Poythress’ssnow-white hair; “but mother’s was coal-black once.It turned white—years ago—suddenly;” and shesighed softly, with downcast, pensive eyes, so that shedid not observe the look of pain that her words hadwrought and that had startled Mary. Looking up andseeing his face averted, Lucy thought he was admiringher little sister’s curls. “What beautiful hair Laurahas!”

“Lovely,” replied he, tossing a mass of ringlets onthe tips of his fingers.

“Won’t you make me a boat, after dinner, withrudder and sails and everything?” And Laura lookedup 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 acigar or so,” said Mr. Whacker, “we shall have thehonor of joining the ladies in the parlor and of escortingyou to the Hall, where we shall have some music.”

“But when he hears her play!” thought Mary, asshe left the room, arm in arm with her dreaded rival.

“I drink your health,” cried the Herr, droppingdown into his chair as soon as the ladies had left theroom. “I drink your very good health,” said he, fillingthe Don’s glass. Of course he pronounced the wordsafter his own fashion.

One would err who supposed that Herr Waldteufelfelt any unusual anxiety as to the physical conditionof his neighbor. A decanter of sherry invariablywrought in his responsive mind a general but quiteimpartial interest in the well-being of all his friends.But on this occasion Mr. Whacker was particularlyanxious that some limit should be put to the expressionof that solicitude; and he checked with a glance thezealous hospitality of Uncle Dick, who was about toreplenish 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 pintor so more sherry might disable the ’cello.

My grandfather had been looking forward to thisglorious occasion with nervous joy. It had been severalyears since he had taken part in so august a performance;and before the first cigars were half burnedout 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 theparlor, “I, for one, cannot understand how it is thatthere are some people who don’t love music; but thereare such people, and very good people they are, too.Now, this is Liberty Hall, and every one must do ashe pleases. We are going to make some music; butno 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 havesofter things to say than any our instruments can produce”(Jones and his girl looked unconscious), “letthem remain and say them. Here is the parlor, thereis the dining room; arrange yourselves as you would.And now, Mrs. Poythress, will you take my arm andlead the way?”

Jones and Jones’s girl were the first to move, and wewere soon on our way across the lawn; while darkcohorts brought up the rear and covered the flanks ofthe merry column.

“To me!” said Mary, when the Don had offered herhis arm. “I feel much honored.” And with a formalbow she rested the tips of her fingers upon his sleeve.

The irony of her tones grated upon his ear, and heturned quickly and bent upon her a puzzled thoughsteady gaze.

“Honored?”

That look of honest surprise reassured her woman’sheart, but made her feel that she had forgotten herselfin meeting a courtesy with an incivility.

They always know just what to do.

Passing her arm farther within his, and leaningupon him with a coquettish pressure, she looked upwith a gracious smile.

“Certainly. Have I not the arm of the primo violino,—thelion of the evening?”

And the primo violino wondered how on earth hehad ever imagined that she was vexed.

Very naturally, I cannot remember, after the lapseof years, what quintet they played that evening. Allthat I distinctly recall is that it was a composition inwhich the piano was very prominent. My grandfatherwas (as I have, perhaps, said before) as proud of Lucy’splaying as though she had been his own daughter; andI suspect that he and the Herr made the selection witha view to showing her off.

Mary thought she had never seen Lucy look sograceful as when, sounding “A,” she turned upon thepiano-stool, and, with her arm extended backwardsand her fingers resting upon the keys, she gave thenote to each of the players in turn; her usually sereneface lit with the enthusiasm of expectancy. It was atruly lovely face,—lovely at all times, but peculiarly sowhen suffused with a certain soul-lit St. Cecilia look itwore at times like this. Alice sparkled, and Maryshone; but Lucy glowed,—glowed with the half-hiddenfire of fervid affections and high and holy thoughts.Alice was a bounding, bubbling fountain, Mary a swift-flowingriver, Lucy a still lake glassing the blueheavens in its unknown depths. Wit—imagination—soul.

It chanced that the piano had to open the piecealone, the other instruments coming in one afteranother. Nervously smoothing down her music withboth hands, rather pale and tremulous, Lucy began.

“Why,” thought Mary, gazing with still intensityfrom out the isolated corner in which she had seatedherself,—“why does he look so anxious?”

For, coming to a rapid run, Lucy had stumbled badly,and the Don was pulling nervously at his tawnybeard. But soon recovering her self-possession, she executeda difficult passage with ease and brilliancy.“Brava! brava!” cried he, encouragingly, while theHerr nodded and smiled. As for my grandfather, amomentary side-flash of delight was all he could sparethe lovely young pianist; for with eyes intently fixedupon his score, and head bobbing up and down, he wasin mortal dread of coming in at the wrong time. Withhim the merest nod of approval, by getting entangledwith the nod rhythmic, might well have introduced afatal error into his counting, while even an encouragingsmile 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 Donand Herr Waldteufel, then the second and the viola;and away they went, each after his own fashion;Charley pulling away with close, business-like attentionto his notes; the Herr calm but smiling good-humoredly,when, from time to time, he stumbledthrough rapid passages where his reading was betterthan his execution; Mr. Whacker struggling manfully,with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, and beating timewith his feet with rather unprofessional vigor. As forLucy, relieved of her embarrassment, when fire hadopened all along the line, she made the Herr proud ofhis pupil; while the Don, master of his score and hisinstrument, kept nodding and smiling as he played;watching her nimble fingers, during the pauses of hispart, with undisguised satisfaction.

Mary, sitting apart, saw all this. Nor Mary alone.

“He is a goner!” whispered Billy to his girl, in objectionablephrase.

“Oh, yes; hopelessly!” looked she.

“Mr. Frobisher, too,—he’s another goner.”

The beloved of William glanced at Charley and bither lip. Somehow it seemed comic to every one thatCharley 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 forme—”

His girl placed her finger upon her rosy lip, and reprovedhis chattering with a frown that was very, veryfierce; but from beneath her darkling brows therestole, as she raised her eyes to his manly face, a glancesoft as the breath of violets from under a hedge ofthorns.

The allegro moderato came to an end with the usualtwang twing twang.

“Unt we came out all togedder!” exclaimed theHerr. “Dot is someding already. Shentlemen undladies, I tell you a little story, vot you call. Berliozwas once leading an orchestra, part professionals,part amateurs. Ven dey vas near de ent of de stuckevot you call morceau, ‘Halt, shentlemens!’ cry Berlioz,rapping on the bulbit-desk, vot you call. ‘Now, shentlemensamateurs,’ says he, ‘you just stop on dis bar untlet de oders blay, so dat we all come out togedder.’”

The excellent Herr, after laughing himself to theverge of asphyxiation, explained that “Berlioz, youunterstant, vas a great vit, vat you call, unt makemany funny words.” It was a peculiarity of ourfriend Waldteufel that his pronunciation of Englishvaried with the amount of water that he had neglectedto drink; and as this was an uncertain quantity, youcould never be quite sure whether he would say vasor was, words or vords. At certain critical moments,too, when his soul stood vascillating between contentmentand thirst, the two systems were apt to becomemixed as above. I will add that I make no attemptat accuracy in reproducing his dialect, preferring toleave that, in part at least, as I have done in a parallelcase, to the resources of the reader.

The remaining movements of the quintet wereplayed in somewhat smoother style; but the only onerequiring special mention, for our purposes, was thelarghetto, or slow movement. In this number, the technicaldifficulties of which were inconsiderable, Lucy’stender religious spirit revealed itself most touchingly.It so happened that the composer had placed this partmainly in the hands of the piano and the first violin,the other instruments merely giving an unobtrusiveaccompaniment. First the violin gave out the theme,and then the piano made reply.

“It is the communing of two spirits,” felt Mary, inher imaginative way.

Now the piano gave forth its tender plaint, and theviolin seemed to Mary to listen; at one time silent, atanother interrupting,—assenting rather,—breaking intolow-muttered interjections of harmonious sympathy.And then the violin would utter its lament, finding itsecho in the broken ejacul*tions that rose from beneathLucy’s responsive fingers; so, at least, it seemed toMary.

The quintet and the congratulations to the performersover, Mr. Whacker took pity on the thirstyHerr and ordered refreshments. Jones, finding amongthe rest a glass of double size, filled it and handed itto the ’cellist.

“Goot!” cried he, with a luminous wink; “I play debig fiddle already.”

Mary smiled, wondering what “already” could mean;but she had other things to occupy her thoughts. Whenthe Don rose from his seat and laid his violin upon thepiano, she had been struck with the serenity of hiscountenance, whence the music seemed to have chasedevery cloud. He was looking for some one. Yes, itwas for her. Catching her eye, he filled a glass, or two,rather, and coming to her side and taking a seat, heexpressed the hope that she had enjoyed the music.

“More than I can express. You have convinced methat I have never heard any real music before. Doyou know, your quintet was as pleasing to the eye asto the ear? You would have afforded a fine subjectfor a painter. Three young men, a lovely girl, and agrandfather, all bound together as one by the goldenchains of harmony! You can’t imagine what a lovelypicture you made.”

“Thanks!”

“Oh,” said she, smiling, “there were five of you, soI 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 tomake a confession to you; will you promise not tothink me very foolish?”

“Such an idea, I am sure—”

“But, you know my friends all say I am so verysentimental,—that is to say, silly. You shake yourhead, but that is what they call me, and that is whatit 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 verypathetic to me about old age. The sight of an oldman sympathizing with the young, hearing up bravelyunder the ills of life and his load of years, alwaystouches me to the heart. Now, you and Mr. Frobisherand Mr. Waldteufel—well, I need not comment onyour appearance. Lucy—well, Lucy was just toolovely. She had what I call her inspired look, andwas simply beautiful.” And lifting her eyes for asecond,—no, a second had been an age, compared withthe duration of that glance so momentary and yet sointensely questioning,—she flashed him through andthrough. Through and through, yet saw nothing.The Don, felt he or not the shock of that electricglance, sat impassive, spoke no answer, looked no reply.She raised her eyes again to his. No, his look was notimpassive; he was simply awaiting with interest therest of her story. That, at least, was all she couldsee.

“Where was I?” she began again, driving from hermind, with an effort, a tumultuous throng of hopesand fears. “Oh I well, you gentlemen handled yourbows gracefully, of course, and all that, and Lucy wasirresistible” (another flash), “of—course; but the centralfigure of the picture was Mr. Whacker. DearUncle Tom! Isn’t he a grand old man? I don’t knowwhy it was, but when I saw in the midst of you hissnowy head contrasting so strongly, so strangely, withLucy’s youthful bloom, with the manly vigor of therest, my eyes filled with tears. Was it so very foolish?”And her eyes, as she lifted them to his, halfinquiring, half deprecatory, were suffused afresh withthe divine dew of sympathy.

“Foolish!” exclaimed the Don, with a vehemenceso sudden that it made her start, his nostrils dilatingand a dark flush mounting even to his forehead,—“foolish!”And bending over her he poured downinto her swimming eyes a look so intense and searchingthat she felt that he was reading her very heart.

“Thanks!” said he, with abrupt decision. “Thanks!”

Mary breathed quicker, she knew not why. Thetension 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 theoffice of music,—to give rest to the weary, to smoothout 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 suddenlyto her with a changed expression: “It was alwaysso,” said he; then looking up quickly, “Do you likeHomer?”

“Homer!” exclaimed she, startled by the abrupttransition. “I cannot say that he is one of my favoriteauthors.”

“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,—eternalmovement and eternal repose. But what you saidjust now, as to the Lethean effect of music, remindedme of that grand scene in the Iliad, where Ulysses andPhœnix and Ajax go, as ambassadors of Agamemnon,to Achilles, with offerings and apologies for the wrongthat has been done him. This man, whose heart wasfull of indignant shame because of the insults whichhad been heaped upon him,—who, though the bravestof the Greeks, had gone apart by the sea-shore to weepbitter tears,—him they found solacing his sorrows withmusic. But a little while ago and he had been readyto 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 Myrmidonsseated with his friend Patroklus, peacefully singingto his lyre the illustrious deeds of heroes! What amaster-stroke!” cried he, with flashing eyes. “It islike the sudden bursting upon the view of a greenvalley in the midst of barren rocks. And you don’tlike Homer?”

“Oh, that is beautiful, really beautiful!” she hastenedto say, abashed at the sentiment she had just uttered.“One often fails to see beauties till they are pointedout. Won’t you talk to me some day about Homer?”

“Gladly,” said he; and he smiled, then almostlaughed aloud.

“Ah, it is really unkind to laugh at me!”

“Not at all. I was laughing to think how little youdream what you are drawing down upon your headwhen you ask me to talk to you about Homer. Yousee I, too, have a little confession to make.”

“What is it?” she asked, eagerly.

“Perhaps I should have said confidence rather thanconfession; 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 heput his forefinger and thumb in his vest-pocket andlooked at her and smiled.

“Well?”

“Will you promise not to think me so very, veryfoolish?” said he, mimicking her tones of a little whilebefore. And he drew an object from his pocket andheld it up.

“What is it,—a book?”

“Yes, a book;” removing from a much-worn moroccocase a small volume.

“Oh, yes, your Testament!”

Mary had not forgotten what I had told of a certainincident that had occurred in the Don’s rooms in Richmond,and had heedlessly alluded to it.

“My Testament!” said he, with a quick, suspiciouslook.

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 hasjust the look of some of those little English editions.”And she held out her hand.

“Oh!” said the Don, looking relieved. “No, it isnot a Testament.”

“What is it, then?” said she, her hand still extended.

“It is a copy of the Iliad; and my little confessionis, that I have carried it in this pocket ever so manyyears.”

“Indeed!” cried Mary, much interested.

“So, you see, when you ask me to talk to you aboutHomer, you are getting yourself into trouble, mostprobably.”

“Let me have it.”

The Don smiled and shook his head.

“What!” cried she, with amazement, “I may nottouch it?”

“Well, as a special favor, you may; but it must notgo out of my possession. Here, you hold that lid andI this. No, this way,” added the Don, rising. He hadbeen seated on her right; but now placing his chair toher left, he held out the little volume to her, holdingthe left lid, together with a few pages, between fingerand thumb. What could be his object in changing hisposition? Was there something written on the flyleaf?She gave a quick glance at his face, but instantlychecked herself and broke out into a merry laugh.

“How perfectly absurd!” said she. “We look, forall the world, like two Sunday-school children readingthe same hymn-book! What!” exclaimed she, withquick interest, and looking up into his face: “Theoriginal Greek?”

“Yes,” replied he, quietly; “no real master-piececan 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 justcast upon himself.

For her, being such as she was, this man of surpriseshad acquired a new interest.

CHAPTER XLIII.

“Ladies unt shentlemens, I have de pleasure to announcedot Miss Lucy will now favor de company mita song.” The Herr was seated at the piano, whileLucy stood by his side.

“What! does she sing, too?” inquired the Don, withinterest.

“Oh, yes; Lucy has a very sweet voice.”

The Don sat and listened, with a pleased smile, noddingapprovingly from time to time. “Not verystrong,” 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 Marynoticed a peculiar expression on the Don’s face. Itwas a face which, when in repose, was always grave,to say the least; and there were times when it seemedto many stern, even grim. But now as he gazed, wide-eyedand dreamy, upon the bank of coals before him,the firm lines of his features melted into an inexpressiblesoftness.

“Oh, that I were a musician, to bring that beautifullook into his face! Lucy’s fingers have stolen half hisheart, her voice the rest.” Thus sighed Mary in thedepths of her troubled spirit.

The Don rose softly from his seat. “Excuse me,” saidhe; and moving silently and on tiptoe across the room,took up his violin, placed it under his chin, and poisingthe bow over the strings, stood there waiting for apause 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 herand close to her ear, the vibrating tones of the Guarnerius,echoing her own, she gave a quick start and apretty little “oh!” but turning and seeing the Donbehind her, she beamed upon him with a radiant smile.

“Aha, an obligato! so!” cried the Herr. “Verygoot, very goot.” And he bent him over the piano withrenewed zeal.

If I knew what an “obligato” was, I would tell youmost cheerfully; but even Charley could never get itinto my head. It was not an accompaniment, that Iknow; for the Herr was playing the accompanimenthimself.

“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 uponLucy’s song in a fragmentary kind of way, as it seemedto me, and just as fancy dictated, producing a veryweird and startling effect; and when the pause camein her score, he continued the strain in an improvisationfull of power and wild passion. “Wunderschön!Ben trovato!” cried the Herr, lapsing into and out ofhis mother-tongue in his enthusiasm.

I gave the reader to understand, when I broughthim acquainted with Waldteufel, that he was a musicianof far greater ability than one would have expectedto find teaching in a country neighborhood; regretfullygiving the reason for this anomaly. Arousednow by the Don, he showed the stuff that was in him;dashing off an improvisation full of feeling on the themeof the “Serenade.” “Now,” said he, striking the lastnotes, “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 eyessparkling with excitement, nodding approval, first toone, then to the other of the rival artists, as each inturn gave proof of his virtuosity. Schubert’s “Serenade”is of a divine beauty, and improving upon it is likeadding polish to Gray’s “Elegy.” But such considerationsdid not disturb our little audience. Our localpride was up. The stranger had been carrying everythingbefore him, and when our honest Herr cameback at him with a Roland for his Oliver, as describedabove, there had been a lively clapping of hands. Andnow, first one or two, then the entire company hadrisen 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 everheard him improvise before, and, besides, he seemed todeserve special encouragement for his pluck in contendingwith this Orpheus, newly dropped among usfrom the skies, as it were.

Mary had not at first risen with the rest. An unconquerablereserve was her most marked trait. Butat last even she rose (not being able, perhaps, to seethe Don from where she sat), but did not join thecluster that surrounded the piano. She stood apart,resting her elbow upon the mantel-piece, her cheekupon her hand, listening to the music,—the music halfdrowned by the fevered tattoo her own heart was beating.For now Lucy was singing the last stanza of thesong, and the Herr had dropped into something likean accompaniment, while the Don, seeing that hisantagonist had called a truce, had reined his own musedown into a “second.” Sustained by this and risingwith her enthusiasm, Lucy’s voice came forth with apower and a pathos it had not shown before; and themellow Guarnerius, kindling and enkindled in turn,rose to a passion almost human in its intensity. Andbefore Mary’s eyes there seemed to float, as voice andviolin rose and fell, and fell and rose, a vision (and itwas her nature to dream dreams); there floated avision as of two souls locked in eternal embrace andborne aloft on the wings of divinest music.

She did not close her eyes that night; for, to add tothe perturbation of her spirit, Mrs. Poythress, seeingCharley making ready to cross the River and spend thenight under her roof, as he did every Friday, had socordially invited the Don to accompany him that he,when the invitation was warmly seconded by Mr. Poythressand Lucy, had, after some hesitation, consentedto do so.

He had entered the very grotto of Circe.

CHAPTER XLIV.

The Poythresses were cordiality itself. No soonerhad the Don’s foot crossed their threshold, than Mr.Poythress, taking him by the hand, gave him a warmwelcome to Oakhurst. “Yes, you are truly welcome,”said Mrs. Poythress, taking the other hand; whileLucy, too, smiled in hospitable assent.

The latter has told me since that she was struck, atthe time, with a certain something very singular in hismanner of meeting these courtesies. As the boat hadneared the shore, she had observed that the Don grewmore and more silent; and now, in response to greetingsof such marked cordiality, he had merely bowed,—bowedlow, but without a word. “Are you cold?”asked Mrs. Poythress, looking up into his face, as theyentered the sitting-room. “Why, you are positivelyshivering! Mr. Poythress, do stir the fire. Are yousubject to chills? No?”

“The wind was very keen on the River,” said theDon. He spoke with difficulty, and as he leaned overthe fire, warming his hands, his teeth chattered.

Charley whispered to Mrs. Poythress.

“Not a drop,” replied she; “you know Mr. Poythresswill not allow a gill of anything of the kind tobe kept in the house. I am so sorry.”

“Well, it does not matter. Do you know it is pastone o’clock? Suppose all of you go to bed and leavehim to me.”

“Now,” said Charley, when he and the Don wereleft alone, “let’s adjourn to the dining-room and havea quiet pipe, after the labors of the evening. I don’tknow why it is,” continued Charley, as they enteredthe room, “but fiddling—” Here Charley quickly drewback, as a horse when sharply reined up, with a lookthat seemed to show that his eyes had fallen uponsome unwelcome object. The suppression of all appearanceof emotion was, as we know, a foible of his.There was one thing, however, which he could notsuppress; and it was this which often betrayed him tohis friends; to wit, his infirmity of stammering; ofwhich, as I do not care either to deface my pages or tomake sport of my friend, I shall give but sparing typographicalindication, leaving the rest to the reader’simagination. “F-f-f-f-iddling,” continued he, “alwaysgives me a consuming thirst for a smo-mo-mo-moke.By the way, thirst for a smoke strikes me as a mixedmetaphor, but ‘hunger’ would scarcely improve matters.I presume that if our Aryan ancestors hadknown the divine weed, we should have had a betterword wherewithal to express our longing for it.”

Whenever Charley began to stammer and philosophize,he always suggested to my mind a partridgetumbling and fluttering away through the grass; therewas always a nest somewhere near.

“As it is,” continued he, “we must be content toborrow from the grovelling vocabulary of the eater andthe drinker, leaving to civilization—there, toast yourtoes 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 ofour friend,—a smile that broadened into a laugh whenCharley, having succeeded, after a protracted struggle,in shooting a word from his mouth as though from apop-gun, parenthetically consigned all p’s and m’s toperdition; that being the class of letters which chieflymarred his utterance.

There is, about the damning of a mere labial, a grotesqueimpotency that goes far towards rescuing theoath from profanity; and we may hope that UncleToby’s accusing angel neglected to hand this one infor record.

“This is very snug,” said Charley, drawing togetherthe ends of logs which had burned in two.

Charley had neglected to light the lamp, but thelogs soon began to shed a ruddy glow about the room,in the obscure light of which the stranger began tolook about him, as was natural. Charley could alwayssee more with his eyes shut than I could with mine wideopen; but I cannot very well understand how, in thatdimly-lighted room, he contrived to observe all that hepretends to have seen on this occasion; especially ashe acknowledges that he was steadily engaged at hisold trick of blowing smoke-rings, sighting at themwith one eye, and spearing them with the forefinger ofhis right hand.

The stranger did not stroll about the room with hishands behind his back, examining the objects on thesideboard, and yawning in the faces of the ancestral portraits,as he might have been pardoned for doing at thathour, and in the absence of the family. “Yes, this isvery snug,” echoed he, in a rather hollow voice, whilehe glanced from object to object in the room with aneager interest that contrasted strangely with the immobilityof his person; his almost motionless headgiving a rather wild look to his rapidly-roving eyes.Presently, seeming to forget Charley’s presence, hegave vent to a sigh so deep that it was almost a groan.Charley removed his pipe from his mouth, and withthe stem thereof slowly and carefully traced a veryexact circle just within the interior edge of one of hiswhirling smoke-wreaths, in the spinning of which hewas 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 eyeshalf closed, was lazily admiring another blue circle,that rose silently whirling in the still air. Had heheard the moan? And in his embarrassment thestranger seized the tongs and, with a nervous pull,tilted over one of the logs which Charley had drawntogether on the hearth.

They flashed into a blaze.

“Why, hello!” exclaimed the stranger, chancing tocast his eye into the corner formed by the projectingchimney-piece and the wall. “There’s a dog. Heseems comfortable,” he added, glad, seemingly, to havehit upon so substantial a subject of conversation.“That rug seems to have been made for him. Doeshe sleep there every night?”

“That’s his corner, whenever he wants it,” saidCharley, rather dryly, and without looking towardsthe dog. “Let me fill your pipe for you.”

Charley, somehow, did not seem anxious to talkabout the dog, but his companion, not observing this,very likely, would not let the subject drop. Rising alittle in his chair and peering into the somewhat obscurecorner: “He seems to be a—a—”

“Pointer,” said Charley. “He is very old,” addedhe, by way of a finisher.

“Oh, I understand,—an old hunting-dog of Mr. Poythress’sthat he cherishes now for the good he has donein his day.”

This was not exactly a question, but it seemed torequire 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, Ibelieve.”

Charley pulled out his watch in rather a nervousway, looked at the time, and, thrusting it back into hispocket, gave a yawn.

“What rolls of fat he has along his back!” said thestranger, rising, and taking a step or two in the directionof the sleeper.

“Yes,” said Charley, rising, and knocking the ashesfrom his pipe with a few rapid taps, “it is the waywith all old dogs.”

“Ah, I am afraid I have disturbed the slumbers ofthe old fellow,” said the Don, softly retracing hissteps.

“He is as deaf as a post,” said Charley.

The old pointer had raised his head, and was rockingit from side to side with a kind of low whimpering.

“Speaking of slumbers,” said Charley, looking at hiswatch 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 hisfeet, and, with staggering, uncertain steps, was movingfirst in this direction then in that, sniffing the air witha whine that grew more and more intense and anxious.

“He will soon get quiet, if we leave him.” AndCharley made two or three rapid strides towards thedoor, then stopped as suddenly, stopped and stood bitinghis nails with unconscious vigor, then slowly turned,and, walking up to the mantel-piece, rested his elbowupon it and his cheek upon his hand. The attitude wasone of repose; but his quick breathing, his quiveringlips, his restless eyes that flashed searchingly, againand again, upon the face of his companion,—these tolda different story.

“He is trying to find you,” said the Don, with asympathetic smile. “Poor old fellow, he seems blindas well as deaf. Hello! he is making for me. What!is he in his dotage? Whom does he take me for?” headded, as the old dog, coming up to him and sniffing athis feet and legs with an ever-increasing eagerness,kept wriggling and squirming and wagging his tailwith a vigor that was remarkable, considering his apoplecticfigure and extreme age. Growing more andmore excited, the old creature tried again and again torear 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 thatwas almost human, he laid his head between the kneesof the young man; and rolling his bleared, opaqueeyes, as if searching for his face, he whimpered asthough for help. The Don looked bewildered, andglancing at Charley, saw him standing, motionless,leaning upon the mantel-piece, his eyes fixed upon thefire. The Don started, then bent a sudden, eagerglance upon the dog. The latter again strove to rearup, but falling back upon his haunches, lifted up hisaged head, and rolling his sightless eyes, gave forth alow howl so piteous as must have moved the hardestheart.

It was then that the stranger, that man of surprises,as he had done once or twice before in the course ofthis story, revealed by a sudden burst of uncontrollableimpetuosity the fervid temperament that ordinarilylay concealed beneath his studied reserve. Stoopingforward like a flash, he lifted the dog and placed hispaws upon his breast, sustaining him with his arms.

It was touching to witness the gratitude of the oldpointer, his whining and his whimpering and his eagernessto lick the face that he might not behold. He washappy, let us hope, if but for a moment. Suddenly hefell,—fell as though stricken with heart-disease, all in aheap; then tumbling over and measuring his lengthalong the carpet, his head came down upon the floorwith a thump.

There he lay motionless,—motionless, save that everynow and then his tail beat the floor softly, softly, andin a sort of drowsy rhythm, as though he but dreamtthat he wagged it,—gently tapped the floor and ceased;once more, and stopped again, and yet again; and hewas still. The stranger knelt over the outstretchedform 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 nameand that voice seemed to penetrate the fast-closingchannels of sense; and with two or three last flutteringtaps—he had no other way—he seemed to sayfarewell, and forever.

The young man rose, and, staggering across theroom, threw his arm over his face and leaned againstthe wall. Charley made two or three hasty, forwardstrides, then halted with a hesitating look, then springingforward, placed a hand on either shoulder of thefigure before him, and leaned upon his neck.

“Dory!” whispered he, in a voice that trembled.

A shiver, as from an electric shock, ran through thestalwart frame of the stranger. For a moment heseemed to hesitate; the next he had wheeled about,and, clasping his companion in his mighty arms, huggedhim to his breast.

“Charley!” cried he, in a broken voice; and hishead rested upon the shoulder of his friend.

CHAPTER XLV.

I greatly fear that when I stated, somewhere in thecourse of the foregoing narrative, that I had firmly resolvedto exclude love-making from its pages,—I greatlyfear that none of my readers gave me credit for sincerity.Yet it was not a stroke of Bushwhackerishhumor; I was in sober earnest, and was never moreconvinced than at this moment of the folly of breakingmy original resolution. Here I am with three pairsof lovers on my hands,—all sighing like very furnaces—I,who am quite incapable of managing one couple. Isuppose I have only myself to blame. I assembled anumber of young Virginians in a country house. Ishould have known better. Yet, when I brought themtogether, it was an understood thing (on my part, atleast) that there was to be no nonsense.

The truth is, I think I have a just right to complainof my characters. I had a little story to tell,—thesimplest in the world—the merest monograph,—and Iintroduced the main body of my personages as a setting,merely; just as a jeweller surrounds a choicestone with small pearls to bring its color into fullerrelief.

And here they are, upsetting everything.

Look at Billy, for instance. I could not have gottenon at all without him. In the first place, no Christmasparty at Elmington could have been complete withouthim and his jovial laugh. It would have been againstall nature not to have invited him, and equally againstBilly’s nature to have stayed away. But as ill luckwould have it, his girl, though of a different county,must needs be of the party; but I, knowing nothing ofthis, caused him to gallop up to the Hall, that coldChristmas Eve, simply that he might enliven the companywith his “Arkansas Traveller” and the rest of hisnot very classic repertoire, and still more by his memorabledive under the table. Now I like my Billy; buthis loves are not to our purpose. And so—for I cannothave the course of my story marred any longer byhis antics—I have shipped him off to the University.Imagine him bursting into No. 28, East Lawn, andshaking his room-mate’s hand to the verge of dislocation.Five or six cronies have crowded in to welcomethe truant back (writhing, each in turn, under the graspof his obtrusively honest hand).

“No, Tom, you need not take that old gourd out ofthe 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 hearme scrape,—wh-e-e-w!”

“What is it?”

Jones threw back his head and gave a roar as thoughNiagara laughed. While he is telling the story of hisdiscomfiture we will take our leave of him; for as soonas the chorus have departed, he will begin to tell hisfriend Tom about his girl, and we have no time tolisten to any more of that. But he is such a good fellowthat I think we may forgive him the delay his loveshave cost us.

It is somewhat harder to pardon Charley’s falling inlove so inopportunely; but even as to him my heartrelents 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 castingout of the corners of his eyes timid, admiring glancesat the inimitable Alice; drinking in deep, intoxicatingdraughts of her merry, laughter-spangled talk; happyin her presence; in her absence fiercely wondering why,in this otherwise wisely-ordered world (as we Virginianshave been taught to believe it), he alone was astammering idiot. Let all this go on, and more; butas with Jones, so with Charley, their loves must equallybe 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 ofthe Don, I have unwittingly entered into an impliedobligation to my readers. Unwittingly, for I solemnlyassure them that when (for instance) I described thegallant rescue of Alice and Lucy by the stalwartstranger, it did not so much as cross my mind whattacit promise I thereby held out. Had I been a novel-writeror even a novel-reader, instead of the philosopherand bushwhacker that I am, it could nothave escaped me that by suffering two of my heroinesto be valiantly rescued from deadly peril by a handsome,nay, a mysterious and hence painfully interestingyoung man, I had, in effect, signed a bond to bringabout a marriage between the rescuer and one of therescued, or both; the more charming of the two beingreserved for the end of the book, the less to be thrownin earlier as a sort of matrimonial sop to Cerberus,—anhymeneal luncheon, as it were. Yes, I allowed oneof my heroes to rescue two of my heroines, while athird gazed trembling upon the scene from her latticedwindow. Nay, worse; for whether drawn on insensiblyby the current of events, or hurried thereto bythe entreaties of my friend and collaborator, Alice, who,woman-like, declared that she would have nothing todo with my book unless I put some love in it,—whetherinveigled, therefore, or cajoled, it is a fact that I havemade allusion here and there, in the course of thesepages, to such sighings and oglings and bosom-heavingsand heart-flutterings, accompanied by such meaningstarts and deep ineffable glances, that I am willing toadmit what Alice claims: that it would be almost anactual breach of faith not to tell people what it allmeant.

“If you are going to write a novel, Jack” (I havebeen plain Jack since she married Charley), “why don’tyou write one and be done with it?”

“How many times must I tell you that I am notwriting a novel, but a philosophico-bushwhackerianmonograph on the theme—”

“Bushwhackerian fiddlestick!” cried Alice, impatiently,but unable to suppress a smile at the rollingthunder 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 toedit the love-passages that illumine these pages. Butwhat love-passages? After much debate we effected acompromise. If she would engage to spare the readerall save a mere allusion to the heart-pangs of the jovialJones, she should have full liberty to revel throughwhole chapters in the loves of the Don. “As for yourlittle affair with Charley,” I added, “I agree to dressthat up myself.”

“Indeed, indeed, Jack, if you were to put Mr. Frobisherand myself in your book—and—and—makehim—”

“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 arenow arrived, his conduct became more perplexing thanever. The neighborhood was divided into two camps,one maintaining that Mary found favor in his eyes, theother that Lucy and music had carried the day. Mostof the gentlemen were of the latter party. Theypointed out his frequent visits across the River, thehours he spent playing for or with her, his obviousefforts to win the good-will of her mother. Some fewof the girls were on our side; and I remember thatthey, at times, commented with some asperity on thealleged court that the Don paid Mrs. Poythress,—ratherplainly signifying that in their case a swain would findit to his interest to make love to them rather than totheir mothers. But a majority of the girls, headed byAlice, scouted the idea of the Don’s being enamouredof the gentle Lucy; the difference between their partyand that of the men being that they could give no reasonfor the faith that was in them. They thought so—theyknew it—well, we should see—persisted they, intheir irritating feminine way.

As a natural result of this state of things, therearose among us a sort of anti-Don party. His popularitybegan to wane. What did he mean by playingfast and loose with two girls? Why did he not declarehimself for one or the other? Who was he, in fact?

But against this rising tide of disapprobation Charleywas an unfailing bulwark. It was obvious to all thata close intimacy had sprung up between Frobisher andthe Don. They were continually taking long walkstogether. Secluded nooks of porches became theirfavorite resting-places. The murmur of their voiceswas often to be heard long after the rest of the familyhad retired for the night. Charley, therefore, gave thissuspicious character the stamp of his approval, and thatapproval sustained him in our little circle. I say ourlittle circle, though I, of course, had long since returnedto Richmond, and my supposed practice at the bar.Fortunately for the reader, Alice remained on thescene; else where had been those delicious love-passagesthat are in store for us?

Of all this circle, Alice was most eager to ascertainthe actual state of the Don’s sentiments. Nor washers an idle curiosity. Her penetrating eyes had notfailed to pierce the veil of bravado by which Mary hadsought to hide her heart from her friend. But did helove her? She believed so,—believed half in dread,half in hope, Now was the time to learn somethingdefinite.

For the Poythresses had given a dinner, and she andCharley were promenading up and down the Oakhurstpiazza. Presently, there sounded from the parlor the“A” on the piano, followed by those peculiar tones of aviolin being tuned,—tones so charmingly suggestive, tolovers of music, so exasperating to others.

“Ah, they are going to play!” said my grandfather,quickly; and he turned to go into the parlor, followedby all of the promenaders save Charley and Alice, whostill strode to and fro, arm in arm.

“They are going to play,” repeated he, as he got tothe door, turning and nodding to Charley, and thenpassed 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 hisruddy countenance and snowy hair between the fairheads of two girls who were just entering the door,—apleasing picture.

“The Kreutzer Sonata!” he ejacul*ted at Charley,and disappeared.

At this the two girls fairly giggled aloud, and, dartingParthian glances at Alice, tumbled through thehall 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, whatyou are laughing about,—or thinking about, for thematter of that.”

“What! do you deem us such riddles,—you who,they say, can read one’s thoughts as though we weremade of glass?”

“I? And who says that of me, pray?”

“Everybody says it. I say it,” she added, with asmile 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 itcontained. His face was red when he had stumbledand floundered through it, and his eyes a trifle stern.He had been a stammerer from boyhood, but of latehis infirmity had begun to annoy him strangely.

“Then, modest young man, I suppose you have yetto learn the alphabet of mind-reading?”

“Yes,—that is, women’s minds.”

“Women’s minds? Do you think that we are harderto read than men? Do you think, for example, thatpeople find it harder to see through such an unsophisticatedgirl as myself than such a deep philosopher asyou?”

“You? Why, you are an unfathomable m-m-m-mystery?”(“Confound it!”)

“The idea! I a mystery? And this from you, unreadablesphinx!”

“Yes, and unfathomable! Why, I have no idea whatyou think upon the—upon—well, all sorts of subjects.”

Charley caressed with a shy glance the toes of hisboots, and felt red.

“Indeed? How strange!” And she gazed upon thedots of boats and felt pale.

“Yes; for example, I have often wondered whatin fact, for example, you thought, for instance, of—of—of—me,for instance. Oh, no, no, of course not, Ibeg your pardon; of course I never imagined for amoment, of course not, that you ever thought of me atall, in fact. What I mean is, that whenever you didthink of me,—though I presume you never did for aninstant, of course,—I mean that if by chance, whenyou had nothing else to think about, and I happenedto pass by—Oh, Lord!” cried Charley, clasping in hishand his burning brow.

What is the matter with my people? Chatterboxreduced to monosyllables, and the Silent Man pouringforth words thick as those that once burst from thedeep chest of Ulysses of many wiles; and they, as weall know, thronged thick as flakes of wintry snow.

“Don’t you think I am an idiot? Have you theleast doubt of it?” exclaimed the poor fellow, withfierce humility.

Alice gave a little start and looked up.

“A confounded stammering idiot?”

“Mr. Frobisher!”

He didn’t mean it. Charley could never have donesuch a thing on purpose; but his left arm suddenlythrew off all allegiance to his will, and actually presseda certain modest little dimpled hand against his heartso hard that it blushed to the finger-tips. Alice lookeddown with quickened breath, slackened pace; but Charleyswept her forward with loftier stride, drawing inmighty draughts of air, and glaring defiance at theuniverse. He did not, however, stride over the railing atthe end of the piazza. Taking advantage of the halt—

“Strange!” said Alice, in a low voice; “do you knowthat I, too, have often wondered what you thought ofme? Seeing you sitting, silent and thoughtful, whileI was rattling on in my heedless way, I often wonderedwhether you did not think me a chatterer destitute aswell 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 everwere caught out of it. ✻ ✻ Richmond ✻ week✻ ✻ ✻ out of sight, out of ✻ ✻.”

“✻ ✻ ✻ ey, fiercely, ✻ ✻ ✻ whilelife ✻ 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 herlight ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ 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 ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ rayof 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 learnedcounsel allude, when he speaks of the “adagio,” tothe andante con variazioni of Beethoven’s so-calledKreutzer Sonata,—A major, Opus 47? But did alawyer ever count for anything outside of his briefs?Ch. Frobisher.[1]]

“The adagio be—” thought Charley, with a flash ofheat; but reined himself back on that modest littleverb; so that no man will ever know what he intendedto think. [A thousand pities, too, for as his mind,though originally sound, never had the advantage oflegal training, ’tis a recreation that he treats it to butseldom. 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 leaveto psychologists to determine.

The two giggling girls had popped into seats nearthe door; and when they saw him moving past them,bent on his errand of mercy (Charley was not to missthe adagio), they fell upon each other’s necks andwept 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, UncleTom;” but his flushed face, and his voice, pitched in astrange key, as it were, rather upset his old friend;and he had retreated rather precipitately, a littletroubled in mind (he knew not why), but none thewiser for what he had seen.

“Won’t they come in to hear the adagio?” asked oneof the gigglers. The little hypocrite had brought herfeatures under control with an effort, and had evenmanaged to throw into her voice an accent of sympatheticsolicitude.

“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, bendingupon them a look wherein the glory of his dark eyeswas veiled with a gentle pathos that ever dimmedthem when he looked upon happiness and youth.“Laugh while you may! You will have plenty oftime for tears in the journey of life, poor things. Inthis poor world, my daughters, the height of foolishnessis often the summit of wisdom. Laugh on.” And heplaced his hands upon their sunny heads, as though tobless them and to avert the omen. And they, with oneaccord, arose, and, throwing around his neck a tangleof shining arms, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Andhe went his way, none the wiser,—went his way inthat simplicity of age which is more touching than thatof childhood; since it has known once—and forgotten.And between his departing form and their eyes, thatlaughed no longer, there arose a mist that seemed tolend a tender halo to his gray hairs—and they blessedhim in turn.

“Mr. Frobisher,” said Alice, halting in front of thedoor, “I think we should go in.”

“Go in?” repeated Charley, with a rather dazedlook.

Things were so interesting on the piazza!

“Yes, we must!”

Could he be mistaken? No, there was an unmistakablesomething 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 witha kind of shrinking frankness.

“You say,” said Charley, “that we must go in tohear the adagio; but—tell me—just one little word:while they are playing that, may my heart beat in thefrolic rhythm of the scherzo?”

She made no reply, nor raised her head; but thesame gentle pull upon his arm seemed to say,—andplainer than before,—Come with me.

“Tell me, dearest?”

“Oh, don’t bother people so!”

Then, for the first time, her face, pallid before, wassuffused with a sudden glory of roses.

CHAPTER XLVII.

The reader can hardly be more amazed at the lastchapter than is the writer,—amazed not so much at itscontents as at its existence. I agree, at the close ofthe forty-fifth chapter, to exclude all save the loves ofthe Don from these pages, and then devote the wholeof 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 athand.

Your modern Genius is an out-and-out business man.He may be trusted to furnish his publisher just so manychapters, 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 hisherring, could be more exact. Pegasus no longerchamps his bit, as of old, nor paws the earth. He goesin shafts, in these days, and is warranted not to kickin harness. He trots up to your front door, goods aredelivered, and he jogs off to another customer, his flankscool, no foam upon rein.

Now, I, being a mere Bushwhacker, bestride, ofcourse, an untrained, shaggy mustang,—an animalsorely given to buck-jumping and to unaccountablebursts in every direction save along the beaten track.And how, pray, am I to know, astride such a disreputableprairie-Pegasus, whither I am going, and howfar; and when, if ever, I may hope to return?

The average reader would probably accept thisapology, but as I am (in a small way) a disciple ofEpaminondas (who, as every school-boy knows, wouldnot fib, even in jest), I shall not offer it in palliation ofmy conduct. The true explanation (and therefore theonly one that that unique Grecian would have thoughtof giving) is to be found in the rather peculiar way inwhich this story is being written.

The romantic among my readers doubtless pictureme to themselves seated in my arm-chair, my feet encasedin embroidered slippers, my graceful person (forthey did not believe me when I admitted that I wasfat) wrapped in the folds of a rich dressing-gown. Myintellectual brow is half shaded by my long hair, halfillumined by the pale light of the midnight lamp.Meantime, with upturned eyes I await inspiration.

This, though a pretty enough picture, is not such aswould have earned the approval of the hero who firsttaught the Spartans how to yield; for, on the contrary,this tale, so far, has been put together in a verydifferent fashion—and as follows:

Whenever Charley and Alice are accessible to me,—when,that is, either they are spending a few weeks inRichmond, or I can run down to Leicester for a littleholiday,—it is understood that we three are to get together,alone, of course, and at such hours as we areleast liable to interruption. The door is then locked(never double-locked,—to Alice’s great regret,—for shesays that this precaution is invariable in novels; but,for the life of us, none of the three could ever find outhow to double-lock a door), and we begin talking overthose old times, Alice and Charley doing most of it.For, as the reader may recall, either one or the otherof them was an eye-witness of most of the scenes depictedin this volume. My part in the transactions issimple. From time to time I contribute some little incidentwhich may have come within my personalknowledge; but, as a rule, I confine myself to takingnotes; by the aid of which, I, in my leisure moments,draw up, between meetings, as clear a narrative as Ican; and this being submitted to my coadjutors, isbrought into its final shape by the combined efforts ofthe trio.

This method of composition explains, though I fearit will not excuse, what many readers will deem a gravedefect in our joint production. Confined to what eitherAlice or Charley or myself saw or heard with our mereoutward eyes or ears, there was obviously no place inthese pages for any of that subtle analysis of thoughts,that deep insight into feelings, that far-reaching penetrationinto the inmost recesses of the mind and heart,that marks modern Genius.

But it is just on this point that Charley and I havehad battle after battle with Alice. She will insist onInsight, on Analysis. People must be told, by theream, what Mary felt, what the Don thought; and shecites 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 arewriting, as I understand it, a—by the way, Jack-Whack,what are we writing—for instance?”

“A symph—”

“Exactly so! We are composing a SymphonicMonograph,—precisely. Now show me, in the wholerange of literature, one solitary instance of a writerof symph—ic—graphs—”

Charley was not stammering. He has of late yearsalmost entirely freed himself from this infirmity. Theverbal fragments above represented escaped from alternatecorners of his mouth, Alice having dammed themain channel of utterance in the most extraordinarymanner. [It was a way she had. During the compositionof this entire work, whenever Charley hasseemed on the point of saying something that she waspleased to consider humorous, she would fly at him inthe most barefaced manner, shaking with laughter,and cut him off. Then Charley glances at me, andtries to frown: “Oh, it is nobody but Jack,” says she.]

“Besides,” went on Charley, without even wipinghis lips, “you know perfectly well, Alice, that you alwaysskip that stuff. Look me in the eyes,” said he,seizing her firmly by the wrist,—“look me in the eyesand 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 forthose passages where the characters are either actingor speaking? Is it not so, you little humbug?”

“But should we not always seek the praise of thejudicious?”

“Oh, the simplicity of your soul, to imagine thatwe are making a book for the edification of the wise!As I understand it, Jack-Whack, it is composed exclusivelyfor 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 ahypocritical frown still lingering on his features,—“thefact is, all that kind of stuff which you profess toadmire, but confess you never read, reminds one of theannotations of the classics for schools. They are notintended to instruct the boys, but are written by onepedant to astound other pedants. By the way, Jack,a capital idea strikes me. It will give our book such ataking and original air. Suppose we go through itfrom beginning to end, and simply cut out all theskipienda,—every line of it,—and leave only what isintended to be read?”

“And then publish it in the kingdom of Liliput?”inquired Alice.

This, then, my reader, is the way we talk while wewrite this story; some account of which I thoughtmight interest you; and it was after a discussion likethat just recorded that we three agreed (by a strictlyparty vote of two to one) that our lovers must, for therest of the book, be reduced to a single pair. Wereached this decision at the conclusion of our laborson the forty-fifth chapter. We also settled it to ourown satisfaction, that by the time our future readershad reached this stage in our story, they would probablybe consumed with curiosity to know whether itwas Lucy or Mary, that, with the Don, was to constitutethat favored pair. The fact is, it had now begunto dawn upon us that (although we knew better)we had actually given the supposed reader some rightto look upon our mysterious hero as an emissary fromUtah. So putting our heads together, we decided thatit was time that he showed his colors. With a view toforwarding this end, therefore, I requested Alice andCharley to give me some account of a certain interviewhad between them, when the former had endeavoredto discover from him which of the two girlshad captured the Don. For Alice had often told methat she had made up her mind, on the night beforethat dinner at Oakhurst, to make an attack on theredoubtable Mr. Frobisher on that day, with this informationin view. And she had formed this resolutionowing to something that had occurred between Maryand herself.

It appears that on the night previous to this dinner,that reserve which Mary had shown Alice ever sincethe Don had crossed her path had suddenly given way.The two girls had gone to bed together, as was theirwont. The Don’s visits to Oakhurst had been growingin frequency, and it was understood that this dinnerwas given in his honor.

“What, aren’t you asleep yet?” said Alice.

“No,” said Mary. Something in her voice touchedher friend.

“You must not lie awake in this way,” said Alice.And she began to pass her fingers across Mary’s foreheadand through her hair.

It was a simple action, but Mary broke down underit. Throwing her arms around her life-long friend,she pressed her convulsively to her bosom, and hidingher face in her pillow, wept in silence. After a whilethey began to talk, and they talked all night, as I amtold that sex and age not unfrequently do. Alice arosenext morning with a fixed determination to unravelthe 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 shewas a plucky little soul. And so, when Charley hadoffered her his arm, that day, after dinner, for a promenadeon the piazza, she felt that she had her opportunity.But it would appear that Charley had beenlooking for an opportunity himself; and so, the otherday, when I asked this couple to let me have an accountof the matter, with a view to the forty-sixthchapter of the Symphonic Monograph, it leaked outthat Master Charles had, on this occasion, taken upAlice’s time not in telling her whom the Don loved,but whom Charles adored. This discovery, comingupon me so suddenly, upset my determination to excludethe loves of Charley and Alice from our story,and I called for an account of the courtship. For Ifelt assured that an authentic account of the first andonly love-making of Charles The Silent would be themost delicious morsel in the whole Monograph. Butat the merest allusion to such a thing, Alice blushed inthe most becoming way; and when Charley, clearinghis throat and putting on a bold look, made as thoughhe were about to begin, her face became as scarlet;and rising from her seat she gave him the most dignifiedlook that I have ever seen in those merry-glancinghazel eyes. Thereupon Charley and I laughed soheartily that Alice saw that she had been taken in byher husband’s serious face. “I thought not!” said she,laughing in turn. But the idea of a chapter given tothe amours of Charles The Silent and Alice The Merryhad seized upon my mind with so strong a fascinationthat I could not shake it off; and, as soon as I reachedmy bachelor quarters that night, I seized my pen. Myeyes 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 practisedeye (with my assistance).

What I mean is, that chapter was composed in themanner in which true Creative Genius is in the habitof composing, as I understand; made, that is, out ofthe whole cloth,—woven of strands of air. But evenhere, though mounted on a genuine (though borrowed)earth-spurning Pegasus, I have not swerved far fromthe line that the great Bœotian would have markedout for me. Charley’s courtship was quite real. It wasthe words only that I have had to invent, left in thelurch as I was by my two collaborators. And I wasgoing to add that, in all probability, Charley made useof not one of those I have put in his mouth, when Irecalled a coincidence so singular that I feel that thereader is entitled to hear of it. When I read to mycoadjutors my version of their amours, their merrimentwas uproarious. Charley, I may mention, who onlysmiled when he was a bachelor, has, since his marriage,grown stout and taken to laughing. So far as he wasconcerned, my putting the word “abyss” in his mouthwas the master-stroke of the whole chapter.

“Why,” said he, choking with laughter, “I am sureI never made use of the word in my whole life!”

“Neither had you ever before in your life made loveto a girl,” I objected.

“Don’t be too sure of that!” said Charley, with aknowing look.

“H’m!” put in Alice.

“What makes the thing so truly delicious,” saidCharley, “is the lachrymose and woe-begone figureyou 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 veryfirst time she ever saw me,—love?—if she did not doteupon—”

“Dote indeed! Very well! very well! He felt sure,did he? Now, Jack, I’ll leave it to you. I’ll tell youjust what he said, and let you decide whether theywere the words of a ‘chirpy’ lover. Chirpy, indeed!Mr. Frobisher, you are too absurd! We were walkingup and down the piazza, and I had on my green andwhite silk dress,—plaid, you know; and he said—thefirst thing he said was—I remember it as well as if ithad been yesterday—”

I drew forth my pencil. Here, after all, providentiallyas it were, we were to have an authentic version of theamours of the silent man and her of the merry-glancinghazel eyes.

“My dear,” began Charley, with nervous haste, “weare interrupting Jack; let him go on with his reading.”

“Aha!” cried Alice, in triumph, “I thought—”

Here Alice detected Charley giving me, with his offeye, a wink so huge that its corrugations (like wavesbursting over a breakwater) scaled the barrier of hisnose and betrayed what the other side of his face wasat.

Charley ducked his head just in time; and immediatelythereafter began a series of dextrous manœuvresamong the chairs and other furniture in the room, inevading Alice’s persistent efforts to smooth out someof the wrinkles that wicked wink had wrought. Atlast he tumbled into his seat rather blown, and withone cheek redder than the other.

Amid such scenes as this has this tale been tackedtogether. Can the reader wonder at its harum-scarumway of getting itself told? Am I not driving a teamof mustangs?

“They are all alike,” puffed Charley; “they love us todistraction, but we must not know it. Go on, my boy.”

I read on amid much hilarity; and it was such receptionof this solitary effort of my individual musethat induced me to retain it in the body of the work.At last we came to the passage where occurred thecoincidence to which I have alluded.

In my fabulous and starry account of the billing andcooing on the piazza, I make Charley ask, May myheart beat in the frolic rhythm of the scherzo? This—forwhy should I hide my harmless self-content from myfriend, the reader?—this I don’t deny that I thoughta very neat and unhackneyed way of asking a girlwhether she gave you leave to consider yourself ahappy dog. It was my little climax, and—I confess it—myheart 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; andlooking 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—notso bad?”

“Mr. Frobisher, I am astonished at you!” [At thatperiod it was not usual for Virginia wives to call theirhusbands by their Christian names.]

“Indeed, my dear—”

“You need not say one word! I should not havethought 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 beenblabbing to you.”

“Thinks!”

“But I have not!”

“Do you mean to tell me that Jack, without a hintfrom you—actually—” she hesitated.

“‘Frolic rhythm of the scherzo!’” I shouted, in joyousderision; “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 revealingtheir 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 somany kinds of an idiot as that amounts to.”

And so—I swear it by the shades of Epaminondas—Ihad actually hit upon the very word,—and truth isagain stranger than fiction.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

Time was pressing. In another week these long-continuedand long-to-be-remembered Christmas festivitieswould come to an end. Yesterday, Alice hadfailed 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 seemedto dissipate the groups that chanced to be sitting there.One by one, on one pretext or another, the young peoplewould steal away; and it was astounding how oftenCharley constituted the sole social residuum. Charleythought it famous luck; but Alice detected distincttraces of design in this sudden avoidance of hersociety. “They seem to be engaged,”—she knew thatinnocent phrase of Uncle Tom’s was passing frommouth to mouth, and it annoyed her; for, at theperiod in question, it was fashionable for our Virginiagirls to be ashamed of being engaged; and so deep-rootedwas this feeling, that whereas we are assuredby Cornelius Nepos that Epaminondas was such a loverof truth that he would not lie even in jest—but enoughof the virtuous Theban—

Alice, then, being superior neither to her sex nor toher age, as I am glad to say, was half vexed at beingso constantly left alone with Charley,—yet half willingto be so vexed. There was an innuendo, it is true, inthe very absence of her companions; but then the softrubbish that Charley was pouring into her pink ear!

Of all passions, love is the most selfish; not exceptinghunger and thirst. Yesterday, Alice had beeneager to speak with Charley, alone, in the interests ofher friend Mary. To-day she has already had threetalks with him; and although he had given her nothingmore to do than to listen to the conjugation of onelittle verb, she had not thought of Mary once. Lefttogether for the fourth time, they were sitting on thepiazza; and Charley, having already exhausted andre-exhausted the other tenses, was about to tackle thepluperfect,—that is to say, having persuaded himselfthat it was true, he was beginning to explain to Alicehow it was that, before he had ever seen her, andmerely from what he had heard of her, etc., etc., etc.[Fib! Alice F.] Just at this juncture, Mary brushedpast them. Charley raising his eyes and seeing inMary’s a casual, kindly smile, returned it with interest,—thehappy dog! Alice raised hers, and seeing thecasual, kindly smile,—and more,—looked grave.

“What is the matter?” asked Charley.

Compared with your infatuated lover, your hawk isthe merest bat.

Alice rose. “I want to have a talk with you. Letus walk down to ‘the Fateful.’”

“The Fateful”—“Fateful Argo,” to give the name infull—had been christened by Billy. It was neithermore nor less than a large and strongly-built row-boat,which had been hauled up on the shore; and being oldand leaky, had been abandoned there. It had becomeimbedded in the sand, and being protected from thewind by a dense clump of low-growing bushes, was avery pleasant resting-place for the romantic, in sunnywinter weather. It has been sung that Venus sprangfrom the waves. The truth of the legend I can neitherdeny nor affirm; but it is certain that their gentlesplashing had a strange intoxication for many a couplethat ventured to take their seats in this “Fateful Argo.”

Alice took her seat in the stern, and Charley (althoughthere were several other seats in good repair) sat besideher.

I think it will be allowed me that no book was everfreer than this from satirical reflections upon women(or, in fact, freer from reflections of every sort uponany 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, youcannot always tell, from what they have just said,what is coming next.

“I have asked you,” began Alice, “to come with meto this retired spot that I may have a talk with you.I have a favor to—Mr. Frobisher, you must be besideyourself! And the piazza full of people!” [Shades ofEpaminondas! 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 besideyou.”

“But you won’t be beside me long, if you don’t behaveyourself. Don’t,—oh, don’t! Are you crazy?”

“Perfectly,—and glad of it,” replied Charley, withbrazen resignation.

“Well, then.” And with a supple grace disengagingherself from his proximity, so to speak, she whiskedaway to the seat in front.

That’s the reason I always did love women. Theirmemories are so short. No matter how angry theymay be, if you will watch them while they are scoldingyou, you will see that they are forgiving you as fast asthey can.

“You are perfectly outrageous!” said Alice; at thesame time readjusting her collar,—and with both hands,—justto show how dreadfully provoked she was.

“Outrageous? Presently you will be calling meArgo-naughty,” said Charley. [This is too bad! Inever made one in my life. Chs. F.]

Alice had purposed looking indignant for two orthree consecutive seconds, but surprised by this totallyunexpected sally, she burst out laughing. She hadopened her batteries on the enemy, but, by ceasing tofire, she had revealed the exhaustion of her ammunition;and he, so far from being stampeded, showed symptomsof an advance. As a prudent captain, all that was lefther 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 andadvancing.

“Oh, but there is not room on this for two. Go backto the stern.” And she threw out skirmishers.

The now exultant foe grasped one of the skirmishersin 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 thepiazza—”

“The piazza is nearly a hundred yards away, blessits 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 anotherreason I could never make a woman out.

It was then that Charley heard the sound of heavyfootsteps crunching through the sand, and, turning hishead, saw through the twilight an approaching figurealmost at his elbow.

Alice, like most, though not all of her sex, was, as Ihave mentioned before, a woman. Raising her placidface and serene eyes, she pointed out to her companion,with the tip of her parasol, a gull that hurried abovethem in zigzag, onward flight. “Yes,” continued she,—orseemed to continue,—“she seems to be belated.I wonder where she will roost to-night? On somedistant island, I suppose.”

“Sam, is that you? Sam is one of my men,—one ofthe best on my farm. Sam, this is Miss Alice—MissAlice Carter.”

“Sarvant, mistiss,” said Samuel, hastily removinghis hat and bowing, not without a certain rugged grace;while at the same time, by a backward obeisance of hisvast foot, he sent rolling riverward a peck of shiningsand.

“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 walkover here every night for the news, do you? Sam iscourting one of Uncle Tom’s women,” added Charley,addressing Alice. “I am in daily expectation of havinghim ask my consent to his nuptials.”

Sam threw back his head and gave one of thoseserene, melodious laughs (as though a French hornchuckled), the like of which, as I have said before, willprobably 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 alwaystells ’em as how a nigg*r k’yahnt do no better’n walkin de steps o’ de mahrster, and Marse Charley and me isnigh onto one age; and Marse Charley ain’t married,leastwise not yet.”

“You mean to say,” said Alice, “that when Mr. Frobishermarries it will be time enough for you to thinkof taking a wife?”

“Adzackly, young mistiss, adzackly, dat’s it. ButLor’ me, I dunno, neither. I ain’t so sartin ’bout dat.Sam don’t want to be hurried up. He want to take hetime a-choosin’. A man got to watch hisself dese times.D’yar ain’t no sich gals as d’yar used to be. De factis, ole Fidjinny has been picked over pretty close,and Sam ain’t after de rubbage dat de others doneleff.”

“I am afraid you are rather hard to please, Sam?”

“Yes, mistiss, Sam is hard to please.” [Three weeksfrom this date Sam led to the altar a widow with oneeye and eleven children,—making an even dozen,—whowas lame of the left leg, black as the ace of spades, andold 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 howmany beautiful young ladies has been a-fishin’ for him;but pshaw! dey mought as well ’a’ tried to land aporpoise 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! Leastwisenot by dem baits. ‘Never mind, Marse Charley,’ saysI to myself, ‘never you mind. You g’long! Jessg’long a-splashin’ and a-cavortin’ and a-sniffin’!’ ’ForeGaud dem’s my very words, ‘but d’yar’s a hook somewharas will bring you to sho’ yet,’ says I; ‘and dathook is baited wid de loveliest little minner,’—umgh-u-m-g-h!Heish! Don’t talk!”

Charley could scarcely suppress his delight. “Andhow soon,” said he, carelessly dropping his hand intohis pocket,—“how soon am I to be landed?”

“How soon?” repeated Sam, leaning upon his heavystaff and reflecting with a diplomatic air. “Howsoon? Lor, mahrster, what for you ax a nigg*r datquestion? How is a nigg*r to know? But I do believe,”said he, turning his back upon the river, and atthe same time landing his metaphor, “dat you havedone jumped over into de clover-field already, and youain’t gwine to jump back no mo’.” (Here Charleywithdrew his hand from his pocket and threw his armcasually behind him, across the gunwale of the Argo.)“Leastwise,” he added with a perceptible-imperceptibleglance at Alice,—“leastwise I don’t see how you couldhave de heart to do it.”

Here Charley gave a slight movement of his wrist,invisible to Alice; and Sam, with a few sidelong, carelesssteps, placed himself behind his master. Hestooped and rose again, and Alice saw in his handthree or four oyster shells. These he dropped fromtime to time, pouring forth, meanwhile, a wealth oftropes and figures drawn from both land and sea; butthe last shell seemed to fall into his pocket.

An Anglo-Saxon, if he have a well-born father, acareful mother, and half a dozen anxious maiden aunts,you shall sometimes see hammered into the similitudeof a gentleman; but in your old Virginia negro good-breedingwould seem to have been innate.

“Some says dat d’yar is as good fish in de sea asever was cotched out of it; but I tells ’em, when youdone pulled in one to suit you, you better row for desho’ 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 blackploughman sent rolling the shining sand.

“There, now,” said Alice, “you see! What did Itell you?”

“Oh,” replied Charley, “Sam will keep dark!”

Yes, those were his very words! And Alice acknowledgesthat he made the one recorded above(though I see he has denied it). Such is ever the ruinwrought by love, even in the mind of a philosopher.

“By the way,” said Alice, as she stood with her feetupon the gunwale of the Argo, ready to spring, “inthe rather mixed metaphors of honest Sam, which ofus was the fish and which the hook? ‘Porpoise,’”quoted she, laughing, “I trust I don’t remind you ofone?”

Charley, who stood in the sand, held one of Alice’shands in each of his with a degree of pressure entirelyincommensurate with the necessities of equilibrium:“✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻” sang he, with a rapt andfatuous smile. “✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻Absence of wings ✻ ✻ ✻ vision ✻ ✻✻ ✻ eyes beheld.” For, upon my word, thereader must not expect me to transcribe more than aword, here and there, of such jargon.

Yet, though my tongue be harsh, I do not in myheart blame Charley; for Alice, at all times a prettygirl, was, just at this moment, as she stood abovehim with the dark sky for a background, radiantlybeautiful 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-instinctsto break the current of my story with anythinglike a thought, original or selected,—though Ihave promised the reader to place before him a successionof pictures merely, without even adding, Thisis Daniel, and, These are the Lions!—I feel that I haveused an expression requiring an explanation. Thatexplanation I cannot give save through the mediumof what—disguise it how I will—wears the semblanceof a thought.

Buckle, in his “History of Civilization in England,”lays it down that no man can write history without aknowledge of the physical sciences. Now it is equallytrue that no one can discuss human nature scientificallywithout an acquaintance with zoology. It isDarwin and the naturalists who have opened up thisnew field of inquiry; and Comparative Zoological Naturehas now become as needful a study to the playwrightand novelist as Comparative Anatomy is to thephysiologist. For my own part, whenever I would knowwhether a certain proposition be true of man, I firstinquire if it holds good as to the lower animals,—tospeak as a man; and in the course of my desultoryinvestigations on this line I have stumbled upon sundryvaluable truths.

Among the convictions which I have reached in thisway is the one which led me to say just now thatour pretty little Alice, perched upon the gunwale ofthe Argo, bethought her of making poor Charleycrazy with love, by simply looking very, very beautiful;and did so look accordingly, then and there. Ofthe mere fact there can be no doubt, since I haveCharley’s word for that. [Fact. C. F.] [Goose! A. F.][Who? J. B. W.] But a scientific explanation of thephenomenon can be given only by a student of ComparativeZoological Nature.

The way in which I hit upon the truth in questionwas as follows. A vexatious incident in my own privatehistory had occurred just at the time when I hadset myself the task of weaving this Monograph, and Iwas ruefully ruminating upon woman and her ways,and bringing up in my mind, and contrasting with her(in my Comparative Zoological fashion) all manner ofbirds and fishes and what not, when all of a suddenthere popped into my head eels, and how marvellouslyslippery they were.

But, thought I, if you can but get your finger andthumb 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 willpersist in calling them—no traces have for ages beendiscovered in the genus hom*o,—at least in the adultstage. Far from it; for the Egyptian mummies, evenin their day, for example, got on perfectly withoutthem.

The case was hopeless, therefore; but still I went onruminating about women and eels and eels and women,in the most aimless and unprofitable fashion, till, wanderingoff from the eel of commerce and the pie, Ichanced to think of the electric variety of that fish.Here faint streaks of dawn began to make themselvesfelt; and so, making a rapid excursion through theanimal kingdom, and recalling the numberless appliancesfor offence, defence, and attraction to be observedtherein, I returned flushed with victory. I had madea 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 abouther person more or less bottled beauty, which she hasthe 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 theAnolis principalis (the so-called chameleon of the GulfStates) can change at will from dingy brown to a lovelypea-green, by reversing certain minute scales along itsback; but to jump from this fact to the conclusion thatthe woman you saw at breakfast old and yellow, butyouthful and rosy at the ball, indued all this glory bysimply reversing her scales, is, in the present state ofour knowledge, premature. Besides, we have justseen that the gills of the prehistoric sister have longsince disappeared; so that the woman of the periodmay, upon investigation, turn out not to have anyscales, minute or other, to reverse; so unsafe are analogiesin matters of science.

But the fact remains (no other hypothesis coveringall the observed phenomena) that women carry abouttheir persons bottled beauty.

As to the thing itself, female beauty, I do not pretendto know any more about it than other people. Thatit is in its nature a poison has been notorious for thousandsof years, attacking the male brain with incrediblevirulence. This pathological condition of that organhas been spoken of for ages as Love, as everybodyknows. But what everybody does not know, is thatwoman possesses the power of concentrating this toxicexhalation upon a doomed male,—dazzling him withwhat I may provisionally term beauty’s bull’s-eye lamp.Love is not blind. Just the reverse. The lovelorn seewhat is invisible to others, that is all; the focussed raysof the most magical of all magic lanterns.

Before I made this discovery, I was continually wonderinghow most of the women I knew had managedto get married; but it is a great comfort to me nowto know that they are all beautiful (in the eyes of theirhusbands).

Setting in motion, then, this subtle mechanism, whichall women possess (though in some it don’t seem towork), Alice showered down upon Charley, from hazeleyes and sunny hair, from well-turned throat and dimpledhand, from undulating virgin form and momentaryankle-flash,—showered down upon him as she stoodthere graceful as a gazelle ready to spring, a sparklingwealth of youth and beauty.

No matter what Charley said.

“I am glad you think so,” said she, fluttering downfrom her perch.

The shining sand was deep; and that’s the reasonthey walked so slowly; and that’s the reason Aliceclung so closely to his arm; and that’s the reasonCharley thought he was walking on rosy morningclouds.

“Oh!” cried Alice,—and Charley’s face was corrugatedwith sudden care: had some envious shell daredbruise her alabaster toe?

“Did you hurt your foot, — — —est?”

“Oh, no; I just remembered that I had forgottenthe very thing that I came to the Argo to talk overwith 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 thatyou are a very queer creature?”

“Your fault; I was just like other people till I metyou,—a little cracked ever since.”

“Oh, I like you that way.” And she gave his arm alittle 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 lastday or two.”

“Only one thing, but that a good many times. ButI am not a bit tired of hearing it.”

Here Charley gave her hand a voluntary little squeezeagainst his heart. [Inadequate statement of an actualoccurrence. C. F.]

“The fact is, I want to ask you a question, and amactually afraid you won’t answer it. There, I knewyou would not! A cloud passed over your face at thevery word question. You are so strange about somethings!”

“Let’s hear the question; what is it about?”

“About the Don. There! Why, you are positivelyfrowning!”

“Frowning!”

“Yes; your face hardened as soon as I uttered theword Don.”

“The Don! What am I supposed to know abouthim? Have not you known him as long as I, andlonger?”

“Oh, I am not going to ask you who he is, or anythingof that kind. I presume he alone knows that.”(Charley’s face grew serene.) “It is something entirelydifferent. Is the Don—I know you will think it idlecuriosity, but, indeed, indeed, it is not—is the Don—inlove?”

“Is the Don in love?” cried Charley, with a suddenpeal of laughter. “Is the Don in love? And that isthe weighty question that you have made such a potherabout! Is the Don in love!”

“That sounds more like my question than an answerto it.”

“Now, seriously, my —ous —ing, you did not expectme to answer such a question as that?”

“No, I didn’t!” (A little snappishly.) “Any otherman—under the circ*mstances—”

“Yes, I believe I am very different from other men,and it is well; for if every man were of my way ofthinking, every girl in the world, save one, would bedeserted; and soon there would be but one man left onearth,—such a Kilkenny fight would rage around thatone girl!”

“I knew you would not answer my question.” (Notsnappishly.)

“How am I to know anything about it?”

“You and he are inseparable—”

“And hence he has made a confidant of me, and Iam to betray him? No, he has never alluded to anysuch matter. Upon my word, I know nothing whateverupon the subject.”

“Indeed? You are a droll couple, to be sure,” andshe looked up, admiringly, at one-half of the couple,“talking together for hours, and never telling one anotheranything! Well, then, I shall answer the questionmyself: The Don is in love: there!”

“What extraordinary creatures women are, to besure! You ask a question, are vexed at getting noanswer, and then answer it yourself! The Don is inlove, then; but with whom?”

“That I don’t know; I only suspect. Oh, yes, Imore than suspect; in fact, I know, but some of thegirls don’t agree with me, and I want to know whichside you are on.”

“On yours, of course—”

“No joking; I am in earnest. The question betweenus girls is this: it is plain to us all that heis in love—”

“Then, why on earth—”

“Don’t you know that when you wish to find outabout one thing the best way is to ask about another?”

“That aphorism, I must confess, is entirely new tome.”

“Well, it is a household word with women. Ofcourse he is in love; we—all of us girls, I mean—knowthat. But with whom? That is the questionwhich 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, lookingpuzzled. “Surely, you cannot be in earnest; for ofall the men I know, Dory—the D-D-D-Don” [What,Charley, stammering on a mere lingu palatal!] “is theleast 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, “islike a mustang,—buck-jumps occasionally, and unseatsits rider—her rider.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said Alice, with tenderearnestness, and gave his arm—this time consciously—anaffectionate, apologetic squeeze. [I don’t deny it!Al Frob.]

“So the Don is not only a lover, but a double-barrelledone?”

“No, we don’t think that,” said Alice, laughing;“but there is a dispute among us which of two birdshe wishes to bring down.”

“Which of two birds? Really, you puzzle me,” saidCharley, reflecting. “I could guess the name of one,perhaps; but the other—I am completely at sea.” Andhe looked up in inquiry.

“Is it possible! How blind, blind, blind you menare! And yet they tell me that nothing ever escapesyour lynx eyes! Why, Lucy and Mary, of course.”

“Lucy and Mary!” cried Charley, and, throwingback his head, he exploded with a shout of single-barrelledamazement.

“Wit and humor!” “Repeat, repeat, Alice!” criedvoices from the piazza.

The strollers looked up in surprise at finding themselvesso near the porch, while the occupants of thisfavorite lounging-place were in no less wonder at hearingFrobisher giving forth so unusual a sound. Aliceswept the faces of her friends with a bright smile ofgreeting, but there was a certain preoccupation in herlook. Charley’s laugh had startled her. “Unconsciouswit, then;” and turning, she looked up into her companion’sface with a puzzled air.

It would seem that that sudden and unusual draftupon Charley’s cachinnatory apparatus had exhaustedthat mechanism, for he was not even smiling now, butin what is called a brown study. He slowly turned onhis heel as though to return to the Argo, or, rather, asif he had no intentions of any kind, his movementsbeing directed by what Dr. Carpenter calls unconsciouscerebration. Alice, holding her companion’sarm, turned upon him as a pivot (though with consciouscerebration, for she could almost feel upon the backof her head the smiles raying forth from the porch).

“Mary and Lucy, did you say?” inquired he, turningquickly upon her as though it had suddenly flashedupon 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 smilingstiffly, he threw up his head with a sort of shake andmade 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 asturdy pull upon his arm, and began to move slowlyforward, as though to return to the Argo. “What isit?” asked she, looking up into his face with eagerinterest. “Do tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Why you act so strangely? Which of the two,then?”

These words threw Charley into his brown studyagain. Looking far away, with drawn lids, he wassilent for some time. “Alice,” said he, turning slowlyand 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-throngingbreaths. “O-o-oh, I know,” cried she, with a look ofpain. “He is married already!”

Yet why with a look of pain? Ought she not ratheron her friend’s account to have rejoiced? But herewas a hero evaporated; and in this humdrum treadmillof our life there is so little of romance! And do we notall of us, men and children alike, strain our eyesagainst the darkened sky, regretful that the flashingbut all too evanescent meteor has passed away into theabyss of night?

Charley smiled. “How fearfully and wonderfully iswoman made! You first ask me for information whichI do not possess, but which it appears you do, thenanswer your own question; then when I am about tosay something, you tell me what I am about to say;and then—with a little shriek—discover the mare’snest I am about to reveal! No, I was not going tosay ‘neither Lucy nor Mary,’ nor yet that the Donwas married. I was about to make a proposition toyou. Are you really very anxious to have it decidedwhether 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 withgreat 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 lookinginto 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 youto know, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“It is of no earthly importance to me to know; it isof 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 itis 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 thefoible, curiosity. And so you would make a cat’s pawof me?”

“Well, yes; for it is you who want the chestnuts.”

“And my fingers, therefore, are to be burnt; for thissame 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 theapproaches of the man and the happy moment. Howoften have I seen every one quaking with awe whenyou are attacking him with your saucy drolleries, andhow charmed he always is, and how he laughs!”

“And poor dear mamma,” said Alice, with a tendersmile, “how she shakes and weeps and weeps andshakes! Do you know, Mr. Frobisher, though I say it‘as shouldn’t,’ I am not, by half, so giddy and brainless asI seem? Do you know why I cut up so many didoes?(By the way, I wonder whether that rather colloquialphrase has any reference to Æneas’s girl?) But it is thetruth, that half the time that I am cutting my nonsensicalcapers, it is just to make mamma laugh. Ah,Mr. Frobisher, you have hardly known what a mothercan be, and you will have to love mine! You won’tbe able to help it.” And the cutter of capers and ofdidoes passed her hand across her eyes. “Look,” saidshe after a pause, “there she sits now, and beside theDon, too. Don’t she look serene? See how she issmiling at me over the banister!” And throwing herselfinto an attitude, she blew kiss after kiss to HerSerenity, in rapid succession, from alternate hands.“There! she is off. As her eyes are shut tight, shewill not be able to see me for half a minute, and I willtake the opportunity of telling you, for your comfort,that she does not think there is a man living half goodenough for me. How do you feel?”

“I feel that she is right.”

“And I feel that she is twice wrong. First, becauseshe does not know me, and secondly, because she doesnot know—somebody!” And skipping up the steps, sheran to her mother and bounced into her lap: “Are youglad to see me? Did you think I was never comingback?”

“A bad penny is sure—”

“Who’s a bad penny?” And taking the plumpcheeks between her palms, she squeezed the serenefeatures into all manner of grotesque and rapidly-changingshapes. “Who’s a bad penny? Isn’t she abeauty?” said she, twisting the now unresisting headso as to give the Don a full view of the streaming eyesand ludicrously projecting lips. “Behold those æstheticlines! Ladies and gentlemen,” said she, turning, with aquick movement, her mother’s face in the oppositedirection, “I call your attention to the Cupid’s bow soplainly 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 heedof the general hilarity that she had aroused,—“by theway, Mr. Don, are you glad to see me?” But withoutwaiting for him to find words to reply, a quizzical lookcame into her face as she observed that with the beatof her mother’s laughter her own person was gentlybobbing up and down, as though she rode a pacinghorse: “Snow-bird on de ash-bank, snow-bird on deash-bank, snow-bird on de ash-bank,” she began, in asort of Runic rhythm, or shall we say in jig measure?“snow-bird on de ash-bank;” and from her curvingwrists, drawn close together in front of her bosom, herlimp hands swung and tossed, keeping time, jinglinglike muffled bells. The pacing horse now broke into acanter, and the canter became a gallop: “Ride a co*ck-horseto Banbury Cross, ride a co*ck-horse to BanburyCross! This steed is about to run away; discretion isthe better part.” And springing from her mother’s lap,she stood before the Don.

“Have you prepared your answer yet? Are youglad to see me once more?”

The Don put his hand upon his heart. Alice extendedhers. The Don took it.

“You have not answered my question.”

“Words cannot ex—”

“Words? Who is talking about words?” And she extendedher hand again. “Press that lily fair,—just onelittle squeeze. She—the rotund smiler—won’t be ableto see for half a minute yet. Quick! She is wipingher 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 thatbetter than the reader, who has had merely a glimpseor so of the irrepressible Alice in her relations with thesubject of this Monograph. For Charley had, as mentionedin the last chapter, witnessed innumerablescenes between the two, which had caused him to wipehis eyes and look as though something hurt him; thatbeing his way of laughing before he was married.This being a Monograph, however, I have not felt atliberty to place those scenes before the reader; for aMonograph is, if I understand the term, a paper rigidlyconfined to one subject; alien topics being admittedonly as illustrations throwing light on the main theme.So that the monotony of this narrative, which a hastyreader might attribute to poverty of invention, is infact due to my rigidly artistic adherence to the Unities.A Monograph I promised, and a Monograph this shallbe.

And the theme is not Love.

“Then why did you not say so at first?” I hear youask, my Ah Yung Whack,—hear you say this in plainEnglish, for in your day all other languages will be asdead as that of Cicero.

I cannot blame you for asking the question, thoughthe answer is ready.

Because I should else have found no readers amongmy contemporaries. The readers—that is, the peopleof leisure—of my day are mostly women and preachers(the third sex usually having all they can do totake care of the other two), and neither will bite freelyat any bait save Love. They will nibble at the hook,but a game rush—bait, hook, and all, at a gulp—thatis 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—butI cannot guess what, and you will know, my almond-eyedboy,—almond-eyed and yellow of skin, thoughswearing by Shakespeare, and perhaps by Magna Chartaand Habeas Corpus.

If, indeed, in your day—but enough! and so farethee well, Confucian of far Cathay!

The piazza after breakfast, next morning. A bright,sunny day in the beginning of February, with a voluptuousnessin the air hinting at the approach of spring.“How beautiful and sparkling the river looks!” saidone of the girls. “And just to think,” she added, witha little stamp of her little foot, “we must bid farewellto it so soon!”

“That reminds me,” said Alice, rising briskly fromthe rocking-chair, in which she reclined, drinking inthe balmy air and bright talk in half-dozing silence.But the silence and half-closed eyes were those of puss*awaiting the appearance of Mistress Mouse.

“That reminds me.” And giving a quick glance atCharley, as she passed him, she marched with a rapid,business-like tread, straight up to the Don. Charleyprepared to weep. I must mention, in passing, thathis way of weeping over Alice differed from hermother’s in this, that when the tears stood in his eyes,those windows of the soul were wide open, therebyrevealing the fact that his ribs ached; whereas Mrs.Carter’s being shut tight, it was left entirely to conjecturewhether she wept from pain or pleasure.

Alice planted her little self square in front of thetowering figure of the Don, and looked him in the eyesas 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 longershe would become, as usual, speechless; and a premonitoryshake or two passing through her jolly figureshowed that her prudence was not ill-judged. “Whatare you up to now?”

“Well?” said Alice, with her eyes fixed on those ofthe Don.

Charley dried his with his handkerchief, for he wantedto see everything. The Don (I regret to have to usethe expression) was in a broad grin. As to Mrs. Carter,the faintest thread of hazel was still visible betweenthe lids of her fast-closing orbs of light. Alice turnedpettishly on her heel, and with her eyes retorted overher shoulder, twirled her thumbs.

It was evident that there was something amiss aboutCharley’s ribs. Not so with Mrs. Carter; for to anyone surveying her person, ribs remained the meresthypothesis, based upon the analogy of other vertebrates;but the upper part of her spinal column gaveway; that is, she lost control of her neck, and herhead rested helplessly against the back of her chair.

“Well?”

“What an ornament is lost to the stage!” laughedthe 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—solong!”

“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 playhas come. There is but time to come before the footlightsand say our last say!” She paused. “Hastthou naught to say to me?” resumed she, with avertedeyes, and in a stage-whisper.

“Naught to say to thee?” replied he, falling into hervein. “Can’st believe thy slave so flinty-hearted?”

“Forbid the thought!” cried she, in melodramatictone and gesture. “No; long have I felt that thouhad’st some sweet whisper for me o’er-hungry ear, butthy bashful reticence—I deny it not—did breed in megirlish heart a most rantankerous doubt. Speak! Removethis doubt rantankerous! But st! One approaches!Let’s seek some secluded nook! Beholdestyon fateful Argo? On!” And passing her arm throughhis, she advanced down the piazza with the tread andlook of an operatic gipsy-queen full of mezzo-sopranomystery, 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 cautioustread of the approaching bandit; to which nothing waslacking save the muffling cloak and the pizzicato on thedouble-basses.

Reaching the steps. “On!” cried she, flashing forthan arm. “Descend!”

“Encore! Encore!” shouted the audience, to whichshe deigned no reply, and the pair stepped upon theturf.

“Have you ever heard the ‘Daughter of the Regiment’?”asked she, halting and speaking in her naturalmanner. “But of course you have. Strange to relate,I have myself heard it twice. You remember theRataplan duet? Of course. Well, I am what’s-her-name,and you are the old sergeant! Come!” Andwith that she strutted gayly off, rattling an imaginarydrum 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 bowedlow.

“Unprecedented enthusiasm!” (whispered Alice)“the Gallery has tumbled into the Pit!”

Which was true; for the audience had rushed pell-mellupon the lawn, Mrs. Carter alone remaining uponthe porch, unable, for the present, to rise, her chubbyhands darting in every direction in vain search for herhandkerchief.

For the moment the household service at Elmingtonwas disorganized, and grinning heads protruded fromthe chamber windows. Let them grin on! In thosedays there was time for play, as well as for work.

“Umgh—umgh, heish!” ejacul*ted Uncle Dick, fromhis pantry window. “Miss Alice are a oner, I tellyou!”

What our august butler meant by “hush!” I cannotsay, as Zip had uttered no word. Perhaps he wasshutting up some imaginary person, conceived as aboutto 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 gwinefor to ’dress no remarks to de likes of you ’bout ayoung mistiss? Mind you business, and stop gapin’through de window!”

Moses made a show of obedience, rattling the platestogether with unusual vigor; but for all that he cranedhis neck for a view of the lawn, keeping a weathereye out, the while, upon the ready right hand of hischief,—a man of summary methods with his subordinates.

“Come,” said Alice, “a repeat is demanded.” Andaway 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 inimitablemixture of reckless coquetry and military precision;her jaunty little figure stiffened and thrown back; tappingthe ground with emphatic foot-falls, she was, inall save costume, an ideal vivandière. She glanced atCharley as she approached him.

“Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!” thundered theDon.

“Rataplan! Rataplan! Rataplan!” chirped Alice.

In obedience to the glance he had received, Charleyleaned forward; and just as she passed him a saucytoss of her head brought her lips within an inch or soof 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 joyousapplause of the Pit; while Alice, her hand restinglightly in his, after the manner of prime donne, executeda series of the most elaborate courtesies everwitnessed on or off any stage.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, hasten to the sideshow!Within this tent,” said she, waving her handtowards the porch, “sits enthroned the Fat Woman,better known as The Great American Undulator. Onlytwenty-five cents, children a quarter of a dollar! Astrictly moral show, and all for the benefit of thechurch! Unlike the fiendish hyena, her mockinglaughter never curdles the blood of the living, whileshe ravens among the bones of the dead. Twen-ty-fivecents! Warranted not to laugh aloud in any climate;but has been known to smile in the face of the fabledhyena aforesaid, well knowing that she has no bones,herself, for his midnight mockery. Children, a quar-terof a dollar! Walk in, gentlemen, and take your sweetheartswith you, and see The Unrivalled AnatomicalParadox, or The Boneless Vertebrate; known throughoutthis broad land as The Great American Undulator.A strictly moral show, only twenty-five cents, and allfor the benefit of the church! Children—but I detainthe primo basso,” said she, bowing gravely to thatgentleman, as she passed her arm within his. “Wewill now hie us to the Fateful; since you insist onasking me, at that spot only, ‘what are the wild wavessaying?’ or is it some other question, perhaps?—bestill, my heart!”

The Don was never so happy as when Alice wasgirding at him in one of her frolic moods, and he salliedforth in high good humor. The audience watchedfrom the piazza for some new mad prank on Alice’spart, but she walked slowly forward, and even seemedto be talking about the weather. At any rate, sheraised her hand towards certain flying clouds.

“The saucy jade!” said Mrs. Carter, with ill-concealedadmiration. “Well, I suppose she is a privilegedcharacter, as the saying is.”

“I should like to know, Mrs. Carter, how we are toget on without her?” said Mr. Whacker. “If I werethirty or forty years younger—but there is Charley;eh, Mr. Mum?”

“If,” replied Mr. Mum, “I were such as you werethirty or forty years ago, Uncle Tom, I don’t thinkshe could possibly escape.”

“And what would become of me, then?” said Mrs.Carter. “How far are they going? I believe she isactually going to take him to the Argo, as they call it.There they go, straight on; he is helping her into theboat now; well, upon my word! What is she up to?This bright sun will tan her dreadfully, of course, butlittle she cares! She might raise her parasol, at least,instead of poking holes in the sand, as she seems to bedoing.”

“Frightened? Yes, dreadfully,” said Alice, givingher collaborators an account of the interview. “Ofcourse I was; but I was ‘intermined,’ as poor old UncleDick used to say, to go through with it. You see, myliege-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 forefingeras an exclamation-point into the middle of asmoke-ring.

“Yes, commanded me to do it. I see, Jack, that youhave left out that part of our talk (to make room formore of your own nonsense, I suppose) in your accountof our conversation; but just as I was about to run upthe steps, he stopped me and whispered, ‘Mind, I wish*t!’”

“Oho!” cried Charley, brushing away with a sweepof his hand a wreath that would not work, “that’s theway I talked then, was it?”

“Yes, that was what you said, and I—rather—likedit.”

“Hear, hear!” murmured Charley, his left eye shut,and slowly moving his head, so as to keep the opencentre of a whirling smoke-wreath between his righteye and a certain portrait on the wall.

“You know, Jack, every real woman likes the manto be master.”

“Hear, hear!” gurgled Charley, in a rather chokingvoice; for by this time, in his effort to keep his eyeon a fly on the ceiling (the ring having floated awayfrom the picture and over his head), he had leaned hishead so far back that (to speak rather as a Bushwhackerthan as an anatomist) his Adam’s apple wasimpinging on his vocal cords.

Alice glanced from Charley to me, and tapped herforehead gently with her fan, just as Charley snappedhis head back from its constrained position. “Clothed,”said she, “but not altogether in his right mind. Butwe shall never get done if we go on in this way. Come!But before I go any further, Jack, I must ask you toremember that I was not as well acquainted with theDon at this time, as any reader would be who had readyour book up to this point. I see that you call him a‘man of surprises’ (a rather Frenchified phrase, by theway); but please bear in mind that the only surprisehe had ever caused me was when he bloomed forth asa violinist. All the other surprises were devoured bythis Silent Tomb,” said she, glancing towards Charley.Him, detected in the act of smoothing with his pipe-stemthe jagged, interior edges of a blue annulus, shebrought to his senses by a sharp fan-tap on his head.

“What is to become of our Monograph if you go onin this way?”

“Monograph? I thought you were on a polygraph,or a pantograph, and was amusing myself till you cameback to the subject.”

“Very true. Well, I took my seat in the stern, andhe sat opposite me, looking much amused, and verycurious 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 inHuman Shape?’ He burst out laughing. He obviouslythought that I was unusually crazy, even for me.‘No,’ said he, ‘I can’t say that I ever appeared tomyself in that light; but we will suppose that you areright; what then?’ And he settled himself to beamused. I was far from amused, I assure you. I wasat my wit’s end, not knowing what to say next, so Ibegan to make holes in the sand (as observed by thelynx-eyed Boneless). Give a dog a bad name and killhim; get the reputation of being a wag—should I saywaggess?—and your simplest acts amuse. As I lookeddown I could see, out of the corner of my eye, hiswondering smile. I felt that he mistook my embarrassmentfor archness, and that my silence was, in hiseyes, an artistic rhetorical pause. By the way, tochange the subject” (Charley groaned and received arap), “that’s where we women have the advantage ofmen. You are the besieging army, we the beleagueredcity. We can see any confusion in your ranks, whilea panic behind our walls is invisible to you. If youfeel confused, you imagine that you look so; and thenyou do look so. It is different with us. We know—”

Here Charley seized his pipe and began filling it withthe most obtrusive vigor. “Conundrum!” said he,claiming attention with uplifted forefinger.

“Well?”

“What is the difference between a woman’s tongueand a perpetual-motion machine? Answer: I give itup!”

As I could never learn to whirl smoke-wreaths, Itwirled my thumbs during the interruption of our sessionthat ensued. The bashful and evasive Charleyupset every chair in the room, save mine, behind whichhe was ultimately captured and punished. “Pshaw!Who minds Jack?” said Alice, stooping to right herrocking-chair. “Ugh! How smoky your moustacheis!”

“I never heard anything like that while we wereengaged.”

“And for a very good reason,” said she, with a tossof 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 withouta shore.”

“On the contrary, I was on the shore, and pokingholes in the sand. ‘Well,’ said the Don, ‘what shouldbe done to a man who was so unfortunate as to be aFiend in Human Shape?’

“‘I should say that he needed a guardian. He lacksthe warning voice of a mother.’

“‘But we will suppose that he has no mother.’

“‘Then let him find one. How, for example,’ saidI, feeling my way, ‘how do you think that I wouldlook 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, beginningto 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 somewhatwith the expression of a child when some one isabout to touch the spring of a Jack-in-the-Box. Up Iwas going to bounce, in some high antic or other. Butjust here his countenance took on a look of perplexity.I suppose my voice became one of warning. Can’t Italk seriously sometimes, Mr. Frobisher?”

“You? Oh, Lord!”

“Well, you needn’t be so emphatic. What will Jackthink?”

“Pshaw! Who minds Jack? Ouch!”

“Well, where was I? Ah! ‘No, with a voice ofwarning,’ said I, looking rather grave, I suppose.‘Very well,’ said he, ‘with a voice of warning.’ ‘Iam your mother, then?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you are myson?’ ‘Yes, mumma,’ said he, smiling, and holding uphis knee with interlaced fingers and looking very comfortable.

“‘My son,’ said I, with perfect gravity, and feelingvery uncomfortable. ‘My dear child, I need not tellyou that I feel all a mother’s affection for you. I havegiven you so many proofs of this ever since I trottedyou on my foot, a wee thing,—you, not the foot,—thatI do not feel called upon to add any more evidence ofthe love I bear you.’ ‘Darling mumpsy!’ said he.You may look incredulous, but he said it. ‘But no oneis perfect,’—he nodded; ‘then you will not be surprisedto hear that your loving mother sees in you, mingledwith many excellencies that make her proud, somefaults,—one fault at least? You will not feel hurt?Consider your head patted.’ And I began again pokingholes in the sand. ‘What is my crime? Speak, motherdear?’ ‘You are a handsome young man.’ ‘Ah, buthow could I help that, with such a lovely little mother?’‘No frivolity, my child; no bandying compliments withyour old mother. No matter whence your good looksare 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, youknow.

“Upon that he threw back his head and gave ashout of laughter. ‘Go on,’ said he, lolling back andnursing his knee as before. ‘No,’ said I, ‘the fatal giftof beauty is not a crime in itself; it is the use one—’

“‘Do you know,’ said he, interrupting me and leaningforward with deep conviction in his eyes, ‘that youare the most extraordinary girl—I mean mother—thatI ever encountered? You ought to write; it is yourpositive duty. So much brightness—tit for tat, youknow—ought not to waste its sweetness, etc. Haveyou never thought of writing a book?’ ‘Not I,—MaryRolfe is our genius; I leave that to her.’

“His face flushed slightly, and instantly I changedmy whole plan of campaign. I had been making areconnoissance under cover of the mother and son fiction;but like a wide-awake general, I now, seeing theenemy in confusion, unmasked my batteries and openedfire; that is, I dropped my parasol and sprang towardshim 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 ofa certain threadbare trick of the novelists. It wouldseem that characters in romances never have the leastidea that any one is in love with any one. One partycasually mentions to a second party the name of a thirdparty. Instantly party No. 2 changes color. ‘Are youill?’ cries No. 1. ‘It is nothing,’ gasps No. 2; ‘it willpass in a moment.’”

“Yes,” said Charley, “and how singular it is that No.1 never for a moment suspects the truth, but invariablygoes off under the conviction that the poor heroine haseaten something indigestible,—has a pain—nay, even—whominds Jack?—an ache!”

“How shrewd a device!” said Alice, laughing. “Theauthor lets the reader know, while concealing it fromthe actors in the drama, that the poor girl is desperatelygone.”

“Yes,” added Charley; “the author may be said totip the reader a wink, ‘unbeknownst’—behind No. 1’sback. Now don’t, Alice; do sit down and let’s go on.That’s right. Why, in a novel, even a physician wouldask, ‘Are you ill?’—even he could not distinguish betweenthe indications of love and the symptoms ofcolic.”

“In one word,” said Alice, “those words make a booka novel,—and their absence makes this—a sym—”

Charley here burst into a quotation, speaking fearfullythrough his nose: “Of this disease the great Napoleondied. Some say that Napoleon was a great man;some say that Washington was a great man; but I saythat true greatness consists in moral grandeur. Withthis brief digression, gentlemen, we will resume oursubject.”

“Why, who on earth could have said that?” criedAlice; “it is immense!”

“Have you never heard Jack or myself quote itbefore? It was the one solitary gem of rhetoric in theannual course of lectures delivered by old P-P-P-P—toomany confounded p-p-p-p’s! Imitate his example,—resume!”

“Where did I leave him? Ah! ‘Are you ill?’ saidI, 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 thequestion, Mr. Don,’ said I, folding my arms,—these two,not the bayonets,—‘you are in love!’ I looked himstraight in the eyes, for my blood was up! My fearwas 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 solong with a bevy of charming—’

“‘A bevy! Are you enamoured of the whole flock?Is there no bright particular star? May I make aguess? Ah, I see I need not name her.’

“‘Miss Carter,’ said he, after a pause, ‘you seem sodifferent from your usual self this morning! Or areyou merely laying a train for a phenomenal display offire-works? Are you in earnest, or are you preparingto 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, Imust say one word on Mary Rolfe.’

“‘I had thought that she was to be the main themeof your sermon.’

“‘Of course you thought so,—perfectly natural, thewish being father to the thought.’ How that madehim blush and stammer,—almost as badly as the SilentTomb in its courting days. Now, boys” (meaning herhusband and the subscriber), “I leave it to you: wasn’tI a regular Macchiavelli? Didn’t I manage it neatly?You see it would not have done to let him see that Iwas acting as Mary’s friend, even though without herknowledge and consent; and she would never haveforgiven me. So, at the very outset, I planted an interrogation-pointin his mind. ‘What is she coming to?’he kept thinking; but I was there already. I had mademy reconnoissance and found out where the enemy wasweak; 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, ‘withMary Rolfe. Her you love. That’s admitted? Well,silence gives consent. Now, whether you have told herso in words or not is more than I can tell; for, althoughMary 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 youshould have kept her alone in darkness. You must beaware that you have told every one else, as plainly aslooks, at least, can speak. But I must proceed; I haveno time to discuss that.’ ‘One moment,—you say thatmy looks have revealed my sentiments. Are you quitesure of this?’ ‘The fabled ostrich and the sand!’ saidI, laughing. ‘Confound it! Excuse me,—well, I supposeI deceive myself, as other men do. There is our friendCharley, for instance, the woman-hater! Now, hefondly imagines that nobody knows that he adoressomebody!’”

“Fondly! H’m! Well, go on,” said Charley.

“I colored faintly at this, for blushing is becoming tome. ‘And, yet,’ said I, ‘I venture to say that thesomebody in question knew what was taking place inhis mind even before he suspected it.’ ‘Did you really?’asked he. ‘I have no doubt she did,’ said I. ‘Allwomen are alike in that,’ I added; ‘but let us proceed.’‘One moment,’ said he; ‘if all women are alike in thisintuitive power, then I infer that Miss Rolfe cannotfail to have remarked that I—’ Here I gave my shouldersa diplomatic shrug, which brought him to a deadpause. He nodded his head gently up and down a littlewhile, and seemed in great perplexity. ‘Miss Carter,’said he, suddenly looking up, ‘will you be my friendand advise me?’ ‘I am your friend,’ said I, ‘and willdo what I can in the way of advice.’ Then he lookeddown for a long time, his face all corrugated with cross-purposes.My blood began to run a little chill. Wasthe great mystery about to be revealed?

“‘You say that by my bearing and looks I have, toall intents and purposes, declared myself a lover of MissRolfe. Now, suppose—and I pledge you my word thatit is so—suppose all this was unintentional on my part;suppose that I have striven not to show just what yousay I have shown,’—he paused again as before. ‘No,’said he, resuming, in a half-musing way, as though hethought aloud, ‘I don’t see how I can lay the wholecase before her’ (meaning me, I suppose). ‘Ah,’ saidhe, his face brightening, ‘let us suppose a case. SupposeI loved you dearly,—a very supposable case, bythe way,—and you did not suspect it.’ ‘Not a supposablecase; but go on.’ ‘Well,’ said he, smiling, ‘at thatwharf, yonder, lies a ship ready to sail. I am to go inher to seek my fortune in the wide world, somewhere;ought I to speak, or would it not be nobler to bid youfarewell with my secret locked in my breast?’

“I saw, of course, how matters stood. The supposedcase was a purely imaginary one. His perplexity hadbeen due to the difficulty of avoiding all allusion to hisincognito. ‘I don’t pretend to know which would bethe nobler course for you; but I should want to knowit, and hear it from your own lips, too, were you to be offfor Japan in fifteen minutes. The sweetest music in theworld to a woman’s ears is the voice of a man telling herthat 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 ahorse taking the bit between his teeth. It was plain thathe had formed a resolution of some sort. By the way,Jack, I could never understand how so transparent aman as the Don, showing his inmost feelings with everyglance 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, andit is like dropping a stone into an artesian well. It isthe last you ever hear of it. There may be a subterraneansplash, but you never see it. But the Don’s facealways reminded me of a lake that the merest pebblecauses to ripple from shore to shore.

“Well, the reconnoissance was a perfect success, andall that was left, as I thought, was to retire undercover of a rattling skirmish fire.[1] Very naturally, I didnot 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 gettired of hearing me talk about Mary, but you havenever heard the mother’s “warning voice” yet, and youknow 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 lightbehind it, and began puffing away, with his headthrown back, and nursing his knee, as before; the pictureof serene contentment. His face was calm as theplacid little lake of which I spoke just now, and helooked as though, the absorbing question in his mindbeing set at rest, he was at my service, to be amusedand entertained.

“‘A man of your wide experience, Mr. Don,’ said I,beginning the skirmishing, ‘must have remarked thefact that girls will talk.’

“‘True, very true!’ And with dreamy, half-smiling,uplifted eyes, he thrust his cigar into the other cornerof his mouth, as though by anticipation he rolledunder his tongue some morsel of my nonsense. ‘Goon, laughter-compelling siren!’

“‘Again, you cannot fail to have observed that girls,being wound up to talk, by nature, must needs talkabout one another or—the rest of mankind. As weare 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 didyou say about me?’

“‘With one accord, that you were in love!’

“‘You have already entrapped me into a confessionon that point. Chaunt, Circe!’

“‘But the accord ends there; we are not unanimousas 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 theFaculty at Elmington assign, as the source of yourtrouble, Mary’s soulful eyes; but one or two, even ofus, and most of the neighboring physicians, urge anothername; while one or two, with the frankness socommon among doctors, admit that they do not knowwhat is the matter with you.’

“‘You surprise me! I had gathered from what yousaid but a moment ago, that the symptoms in my casewere so pronounced as not even to require a formaldiagnosis.’

“‘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 whatyou mean by suggesting that I have the credit ofadoring two or more young persons?’

“You may recall, Jack, that the Silent Tomb wasequally perplexed on the same point, and that when Iasked him ‘Mary or Lucy?’ he amazed our whole circleby bursting into a laugh. Then the wretch, in repeatingthe names after me, so carefully abstained fromplacing the accent of astonishment on either, that noteven a professional piano-tuner could have detected anydifference in the sounds—oh, the artesian well! I rememberedthis. The Don had expressed no surprisewhen I named Mary Rolfe; probably, then, it was themention of Lucy that had amazed the S. T. It flashedacross my female mind, in the tenth part of a second,how singularly Mr. Frobisher had acted, after the firstflush of astonishment was over,—how he pursed up hisbrow, gazed far away, in fact, mooned around in themost absurd fashion, instead of telling me all about itat once. Would the Don, too, laugh, when I mentionedLucy’s name?

“‘We do you that honor, at any rate,’ said I.

“‘We? Who are we? Which of you belong to theRolfe faction, and which to—you have not mentionedthe name of the other dear charmer?’

“‘Well, so and so are for Mary, and so and so for theother.’

“‘Her name? But one moment,—Miss Rolfe herself—youfailed to place her. Would it be a breach ofconfidence to do so?’

“‘She has not taken me into her confidence; thereforeI have the right to make what surmises I choose. I placeher between the two. She does not know what to think.’

“Again he snapped his head backwards, as thoughhe said that he would settle that shortly. Tranquillized,he relit his cigar, which had gone out, and againlolled back; and co*cking up his cigar in the corner ofhis 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 Ishall have to give it up. Oh, how dull I have been!How intolerably stupid!’ And placing his hand on hisheart, he made me a low bow; then throwing back hishead, with a merry laugh, ‘Capital, capital!’ he ejacul*ted.

“‘No,’ said I, ‘her name is not Alice. Guess again.’

“A flash of surprise followed by a look of risingcuriosity. ‘Really, you perplex me!’

“‘You cannot recall any of the girls except Mary, inwhom you have shown marked interest?’—he shookhis head—‘an ever increasing interest?’ ‘An ever increasinginterest?’ repeated he, opening his eyes wideupon me; then, looking upon the ground, he appearedto reflect. ‘Not Miss Kitty? No? Nor Miss Jennie?Not Miss Jennie either! Upon my word! But youseem serious; are you really?’

“‘I am. You cannot think of any girl whom youhave visited again and again, of late?’

“‘Visited!’ exclaimed he. ‘Why, then she is not oneof our Elmington guests!’

“I fixed my eyes upon him, and saw nothing, thoughI had always thought him as transparent as glass. Itwas 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 totallylost his reckoning, he shook his head slowly from sideto side. I was positively vexed. There came over methe impatient feeling of a teacher who is striving invain to hammer an idea into the head of a numskull.‘Well, then,’ said I, with some heat; and throwing outmy arm at full length, I pointed across the River.

“‘Across the River, too,’ said he, with contractedfeatures. ‘Upon my word, this conundrum grows interesting.’And with his eyes fixed upon the sand, hestroked his tawny beard. ‘Across the River—let mesee—Miss Jenny Royal—dinner-call—no other visit.The Misses Surrey—party-call. Miss Adelaide Temple—breakfast—goingto pay my respects to-morrow.Anywhere else? No. Well,’ said he, suddenly throwingup his hands, ‘I give it up! What is the answer?’

“I looked at him for a moment, but could makenothing of him. ‘There! There! There!’ I exclaimed,at last, stabbing at Oakhurst with my forefinger.

“‘Where?’ asked he, looking across the River and upand 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 naturallook of surprise. ‘You don’t mean Oakhurst? Why,there are no guests there! There is no one but Lucy—MissLucy!’

“‘That’s true,’ answered I, dryly. ‘No one butLucy.’

“He leaned forward and scanned my features with amixture of amusem*nt and curiosity. ‘Surely youhave 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 cigarflew out of his mouth and over his shoulder upon thesand; and then, without the least warning, his laughterended in an abrupt ‘Oh!’

“He rose to his feet; not with a spring, but slowly,slowly, thoughtfully tugging at his moustache, and hiseyes intently glaring into vacancy, as he rose and rose,till he seemed to my excited imagination to assumealmost colossal proportions. Then he slowly subsidedagain into his seat, and sat there raking his beard withhis long fingers. A chilly sensation crept over me. Itried to speak, but could think of no word wherewithto break the spell of silence. At last he turned hiseyes upon mine.

“‘So it seems to you that I have been paying LucyPoythress much attention?’

“‘Seems, Mr. Don? How can you use that word?It is a patent fact that must be as clear to your eyes asto mine.’

“‘Yes, but what kind of attention? She is musical—soam I. I have rowed across the River frequently,to play with her. Nay, my object has not been pleasurealone. I have been giving her what are called, inParis, accompaniment-lessons. Does that amount towhat is called attention, in a technical sense? Andyou acknowledge yourself that these visits never deceivedyou. You never thought that they were promptedby love.’

“‘No, they did not deceive me. What if they havedeceived—’

“‘HER!’

“The word shot from his lips like a ball from acannon. He sprang from the boat and began to strideto and fro in the sand, his nostrils dilated and his eyesfixed. (He used a dreadful expression, too, which wasnot at all patriotic, though it did end in —nation.)Presently he turned quickly towards me, and leaningforward, with his hands grasping the gunwale of theboat, eagerly asked, ‘But, Lucy, surely you do notthink 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 gripthat made me wince; and he began to stride to and froagain, till I stopped him.

“‘But, Mr. Don,’ said I, ‘though she may not beinterested now, it does not follow that she may notbecome—’

“‘Never fear,’ said he, biting his lip with a look offierce 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, andwithout even a smile for my compliment. ‘What afool I have been!’

“He stood reflectively stroking his moustache for awhile, and I thought the scene over, when turning impetuouslyupon me, and seizing me by both wrists witha grasp of steel, ‘You don’t think so?’ he cried. ‘Tellme you do not, for heaven’s sake!’

“He seemed totally unconscious of the force he wasusing, for he jerked me against the gunwale with suchviolence that I should have been hurt had I not beenso frightened. Oh, what eyes he had! I can feel theirglare now, as I remember how he held me as in a vise,and, bringing his face close to mine, looked me throughand through.

“‘Tell you what?’ I gasped.

“‘Lucy—she—the poor child—she has not—fallen inlove with me: you know! Tell me so, for God’s sake!’

“His fingers sank into my wrists, and his fearful eyesburned into my brain.

“‘No! I am sure she has not!’

“‘Thanks, thanks, thanks!’ he cried; and lifting bothmy hands to his lips, he covered them with fervidkisses. I was not surprised; I was past that point.Had he thrown his arms around me, I honestly believeI 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 eyesupon the fire.

Alice, with a look of tender sympathy, took her husband’shand in hers.

CHAPTER L.

The return of our Jason and Medea from the Argowas very different from their departure for that fatefulcraft, if their going had been operatic, their comingwas elegiac. A salvo of salutations was preparing asthey approached, and the Gallery watched the coupleas they drew near, momentarily expecting some outburstof jollity on their part; but expectancy slowlyfaded as their nearer and nearer approach broughtinto ever clearer view the faces of the Argonaut andthe Enchantress.

I have called the Don a man of surprises. Whathad he been saying to Alice? thought every one as shetripped up the piazza steps with an effort to appearjaunty and careless; but her cheeks showed splotchesof burning red, while his features were pale and set.What had happened?

I cannot say what others thought, but I happen tohave learned since what flashed across Mary’s mind.The Don had proposed to Alice and Alice had rejectedhim, had declined his first proposal merely, for ofcourse she could not have meant to reject him forgood and all. What passed her comprehension washow Alice had had the hardihood to propose a walkwhich she must have known was to have that result.She was amazed to think how blind she had been allalong. How could she have failed to remark whatwas patent to all, that the Don hung upon every wordthat fell from Alice’s lips?

I happen to know, too, what Charley thought: “Shetackled him! What a girl! what a girl! Bless herlittle heart!”

“Well, Alice,” said my grandfather, “you know therule.” Alice looked up. “Whenever any of my girlshave had a trip on the Argo—”

“Oh,” said Alice, “we kiss you on our return.” Andshe suited action to word.

“I accept the amendment, but that is not what Imeant. Give an account of yourself. What luck?”

Alice’s face grew serene under the old-time courtesyof my grandfather’s manner, and she was herselfa*gain.

“You will have to excuse me, Uncle Tom. A girlwho has been properly brought up cannot fail to feelthat there are occasions when her mother is her onlyproper confidant.”

Even the Don laughed at this, and the hard linespassed out of his face. He looked at Alice with an expressionof admiring amusem*nt, seeing how easily shehad laughed away the awkward pause that their returnhad caused.

When Mary, poor tempest-tossed soul, saw that admiringglance, she stamped her foot, though inaudibly,—stampedit with vexation, and inwardly beggedAlice’s pardon; for it was not the glance of a lover,rejected or other.

“There they come down the lawn,” suddenly criedmy grandfather. “Charley, where is the glass? Thankyou. They are getting into the boat,—Mrs. Poythressis 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, asthe 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 (therewere 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; andAlice, too; saying, when she saw her mother leaningon Mr. Whacker’s arm, that she thought it prudent tolook after her father’s interests, when her motherwas carrying on so in his absence. I am afraid, however,that she did not keep a very strict watch on hermother; for she and Charley were soon considerably inthe rear of the rest, and engaged, as was obvious toMary (who remained on the piazza), in a very earnestconversation, the subject of which it hardly needed awoman’s instinct to divine. She felt sure that herfriend was describing to Charley her interview withthe Don; and as Alice grew more and more earnest inher manner and vehement in her gestures, her curiosityrose at last into a sickening intensity, for a voice whisperedin her ear that she, somehow, was deeply concernedin what those two were saying. She forgotwhere she was, forgot the girls seated near her, sawonly Charley and Alice; and leaning farther and fartherforward, as they receded, strove to drink in with hersoulful eyes the words that her ears could not hear.

“Gracious, Mary, what is the matter?”

She had seen Alice stop and turn towards Charleyand gaze at him with an almost tragic earnestness.Then, suddenly springing towards him and seizing hiswrist, she had given him a pull that shook his equilibrium.With nerves unstrung by the harassing doubtsof the last few weeks, and wrought up to the highestpitch of painful curiosity as to the subject matter ofthe singular interview between Alice and the Don inthe Argo that morning,—seeing Alice detailing thatinterview to Charley,—when she witnessed Alice’s violentillustration of what must have occurred betweenher and the Don, Mary had leaped, with a cry, from herseat.

“Gracious, Mary, what is the matter?”

At these words of her neighbor Mary sank back inher chair with a vivid blush and a confused smile, andwas silent.

“You frightened me so! I thought some one hadfallen out of the boat, perhaps. What was the matter?”

“I am sure I can’t tell; I suppose I must have beendreaming.”

The neighbor cast her eyes towards the boat, andseeing among the approaching guests Lucy leaning onthe 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 thehouse; and our friends soon grouped themselves totheir liking on the sunny piazza; the elders at one end,in the middle the young people, except Charley andAlice, who sat by themselves at the other end of theporch.

These twain often found themselves isolated now.Wherever they chose their seats every one seemed tothink they needed room, and moved off,—treatmentthat Charley bore like the philosopher that he was.The fact is that, from being a man who seemed to havenothing to say, he became, about this time, one whocould 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 overin his mind the things that he had omitted to say toAlice the evening before, and resolving to say themall immediately after breakfast next morning. On thisoccasion a mountain torrent of words had risen in hissoul during the hour’s absence of his charmer in theArgo. But he was not uttering them. Nor did itmatter in the least, as they would have been as likethousands of others that he had been whispering andwhispering into her rosy ear, as one drop of water ofthe supposed torrent was like another. The twainwere rather silent, in fact. They were quietly watchingthe Don and Lucy.

One other pair of eyes took in every movement ofthe Don, another pair of ears lost never a word nor aninflection of his voice. (Mary was, it is true, engagedin an animated discussion with Mr. Poythress on thesubject of Byron,—he denouncing the man, while shelauded the poet,—but then she was a woman.) “Howchanged he is!” sighed she. “A moment ago, pale asashes; how bright and cheerful now! And Lucy! Ithink I should try not to look quite so happy, if I wereyou! 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 isacting his part! He knows we are looking at him, andsee the easy air of an old friend that he has assumedtowards Lucy! Not assumed, either, for his bearingtowards her has always been just that.”

“So I have always thought,” said Charley.

“Certainly; only that manner is rather more pronouncedthan usual. The merest glance would convinceany one that he was no lover of Lucy’s.”

quoted Mary.

No voice that I have ever heard quite equalled Mary’sin sweetness, even in familiar talk. Soft and tender, itwas yet singularly clear, though marked by a certainpatrician absence of that exaggerated articulation socharacteristic of other communities, where not thenorma loquendi of gentle ancestors is the touchstone ofspeech, but the printed word, and the spelling-book,and the unlovely precision of the free school. But nowthat she was uttering a wail over her own crushedheart, and, in unison therewith, Byron’s passionatelament over the dead glories of the Greece of Thermopylæand of Marathon, the tremulous fervor of hervibrating tones was touching beyond description. Twoor three fair heads had clustered near hers to catch herlow-breathed words; and when, turning to Mr. Poythresswith a certain triumphant enthusiasm in hersoulful eyes, she, with a slight but impassioned gesture,ended with the words, “’Tis Greece, but living Greeceno more,” there was a sense of choking in more thanone snowy throat.

As for Mrs. Carter,—sympathetic soul,—I am toldthat there were actually tears in her eyes.

“Upon my word,” began Mr. Poythress, ready toyield.

Perhaps Mary heard what he said as he re-definedhis position; but his words can be of no interest to thereader.

“See,” mused she, “what an easy air he has assumedtowards Lucy! And Lucy! how matter-of-fact!Any one could see at half a glance that they wereacknowledged lovers. See with what an air of contenthe looks about him! There, he is exchangingglances with Alice; and she understands him, ofcourse. 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 eyesoff her! He is just dying to say something to her;and it will be to the point. Ah, Uncle Tom has puthimself just between us.” And she leaned forward soas to put Charley almost behind her back, but went ontalking, all the same, in a low voice: “How couldthose girls have thought that he was in love with Lucyor Lucy in love with him!”

“Horrible!” ejacul*ted Charley, in a voice that startledAlice. She turned and looked at him. Had sheturned more quickly, she might have caught a differentexpression on his face. As it was, he was gazingout upon the River with a stony calm upon his features.

“What did you say?” asked she, beginning to doubther ears. “‘Horrible?’”

“Who? I?” And the gray eyes met the hazelwithout blinking.

“Did you not say that the idea of the Don and Lucybeing lovers was horrible?”

“Very likely. Of late I have been capable of sayinganything.”

“What did you mean?”

“If I said it,—which I don’t admit; and if I meantanything,—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’tit be sad if Lucy loved him? And you tell me thatMary loves the Don. Now wouldn’t it be too bad ifthe Don loved Lucy? Ought not true love to runsmooth if it can?”

Alice fixed her eyes upon Charley’s, and scanned hisfeatures long and intently. There was nothing to beseen there save a smile that was almost infantile in itssweetness and simplicity. “Do you think I am handsome?”asked he, languidly. “They tell me I am good.”

“Do you know, Mr. Frobisher, I sometimes thinkyou know more about the— There she goes, and heafter her!”

“Mr. Poythress,” Mary had said, laughing, “mydefence 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 patricianhead.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” interrupted theDon, moving towards the door.

“Ah, thank you, never mind.” And rising hastily,she made for the door with a precipitancy that vexedAlice; for she saw in it a pointed indication of unwillingnesson Mary’s part to accept even this littleservice at the hands of the Don. She moved so rapidlythat she had passed in at the door before the Don couldreach it; but he, whether or not he interpreted hermotives as Alice did, followed her within the house.Instantly the cloud that had passed over Alice’s facewas gone, and a sudden smile shone forth. She sprangto her feet. “Why do we tarry here all the day? Itis moved and seconded that we adjourn to the Hall.Fall in, company! Attention! Shoulder—I meanseize arms!” And skipping away from Charley, shelaid hands upon Mr. Poythress (“You take Mrs. Poythress,”she had whispered to Charley; “that willmake them all come”), and away they marched downthe steps and across the lawn, towards the Hall, Aliceleading with her rataplan, rataplan, and enacting asort 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. Happyand careless themselves, when they saw their bettersunbend they realized more clearly, perhaps, that theywere men and brothers.

“Lord ’a’ mussy!” cried Aunt Polly at the kitchendoor, letting fall a dish-cloth.

“What dat, gal?” carelessly asked Uncle Dick, whosat breakfasting in his usual stately and leisurely fashion.Aunt Polly made no reply, being seized with asudden paroxysm which caused her to collapse intohalf her normal stature. Straightening herself outagain, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “Oh,Lord, how long!” she ejacul*ted, giving the door-silltwo simultaneous flaps with slippers that were a worldtoo wide. “What’s a-comin’ next? dat’s all I wants toknow.” And she began to rock to and fro. Seeing herfor the second time telescope into a three-foot cook:

“What de matter wid de gal?” said Uncle Dick, risingwith dignity, and wiping his rather unctuous lips.

“’Fore Gaud,” cried his spouse, “I do b’lieve dat chilegwine to make everybody at Elmin’ton crazy befo’ shedone. Mussiful heaven, jess look at ole mahrster, andhe 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 apretty 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 justevaded the sweeping palm of his chief. “What is deseyoung nigg*rs a-comin’ to?” exclaimed this virtuouspersonage. “Boy, don’t you see dem flies.” And hepointed 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 juniorbutler was waving a feather brush over the bald headof his senior when he sat at meat. Dick had electedhim to this office on the plea of fotchin’ of him up inthe way he should go; and, being a strict disciplinarian,had resented his abandoning the post of duty withoutorders.

Zip made a perfunctory dash, with his brush, at theflies,—whom, by the way, he somewhat resembled indisposition; for as you shall not ruffle the temper, oreven hurt the feelings of one of these, during yourafternoon nap, by a slap, be it ever so violent and contumelious,if it but miss him; so Zip-Moses accountedall blows that failed to reach that anvil-shaped head ofhis not as insults and injuries, but clear gain rather.Zip, therefore, was not long in finding his way back, ontiptoe, to where he could get a glimpse of what wasgoing forward on the lawn; even as that reckless insectblanches not as he tickles the somnolent nose of ablacksmith; for hath he not his weather eye upon thedoughty fist of his foe?

“Left face!” cried Alice; “forward, file right,march!” And her company went tumbling with burstsof 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, rathervaguely.

“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 inAlice’s ear,—

“This is a solo; that?” And he nodded slightly inthe 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 beenbrewed, our patrons have already been duly informed.Up to this point the firm, as a firm, has been responsiblefor everything that has been written; for thoughour 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 saidwares. And we desire to say to the public that ourjoint labors have been, thus far, carried forward mostjoyously, and with perfect harmony.

Save only in one particular.

Our female associate has been grumbling, from thevery first, at the treatment that Love has received atthe hands of our Mr. Whacker. She has again andagain protested against what she calls the mockingtouches of his pencil, when he would portray that passionwhich is so tender, and yet hath power to movethe world. He, on his side, has defended his handiwork,if not with success, at least with a certain manlyvigor, having observed more than once that he couldnot for the life of him get it into his head how it couldbe High Art to make your heroes say in a book what aChristian would be hanged before he would say, or beoverheard saying, at least, in real life; adding, with atartness born of his wrangles at the Bar, that it passedhis comprehension why authors should be at the painsof causing imaginary beings to make fools of themselves,when nature had served so many real ones thatturn. In reply, our Alice said that, if that were so,they were but holding the mirror up to nature; a retortthat seemed to dispose of our legal brother; and soour Alice was encouraged to go on and add (using thebluntness of a friend) that all this talk about love-makingbeing an exhibition of an aggravated type ofidiocy was, to use the mildest name, the merest affectation,and could have originated only in the brain of asore-headed old bachelor, who is forever talking ofmarrying, but who has not the vaguest conception ofwhat 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 chuckledon both sides of him, neither of us belligerents had theleast pretext for claiming the victory. Yet, in the end,it was he who closed our debate.

“Jack-Whack,” said he (ever judicious), “turn aboutis fair play. Suppose we let Alice write this fifty-firstchapter. Let it be hers entirely, and let her acknowledgeit as such, while you may disown it.”

To this we are all agreed. In testimony whereofwe have hereunto, etc., etc., etc.

[✻Porpoise. Ha! ha! ha!]

When Charley came out with his Compromise Resolutions,Alice was at first much taken aback, turningred and white by turns; nor do I believe she wouldever have consented, had I not permitted myself tosmile a rather triumphant smile of defiance. It wasthen that, nettled by this, she brought down her plumplittle 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. “Idon’t believe you think I can do it.”

“I believe you capable of anything.”

“Well, I will show you. Decamp forthwith, bothof you!”

Charley and I decamped accordingly, and betookourselves to a very pleasant beer-garden (for this colloquychanced to be held in Richmond), where wespent a couple of hours. On our return we foundAlice sitting with dishevelled hair and looking verydisconsolate.

“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 forthe basket. The result was a battle royal, at the end ofwhich the shreds had become bits of the size of postage-stamps,mingled with which, all over the room, lay theruins of the basket.

“You give it up, then?”

“Not for a moment,” replied she, panting.

A week passed before Alice summoned us to hear herchapter read. Not with a view to criticism, however;for it was agreed that neither Charley nor I shouldutter one word, either of praise or censure. Whatevershe produced was to be printed just as she wrote it;and here it is, word for word, just as it came from herpen.

And if any reader, during its perusal, shall come todoubt whether it be, in truth, her production; if heshall fail to discover one solitary trait of our merry-sparkling,laugh-compelling enchantress, it will be butanother proof that what people are has nothing to dowith what they write. If, for example, the readershall find this work dull—but enough.

Moving nearer the lamp, Alice read with a resolutespirit but faltering voice as follows:

CHAPTER LI.

BY ALICE FROBISHER, LOVE-EDITOR.

They stood face to face, these two; he with outstretchedhand to receive the goblet which she held.

“I’d rather help myself.”

“Why? But of course, if you prefer it.” And hestood aside.

She glanced at his face. “Oh, I didn’t mean to berude. Help me, then; thank you.” And barely moisteningher lips (for somehow a choking sensation seizedher), she handed him back the tumbler.

It is in our premonitions that we women have somecompensation for our inferiority in strength to men.It was not an accident that the Pythia and the Sibylwere women. The delicate, responsive fibre of hernervous 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 crisisin their lives was at hand. It is thus, I am told, thatsoldiers will often joke and babble of nothings whencrouched along the frowning edge of battle.

“Only imagination,” said he, catching at the words.(They were walking slowly, side by side, from thedining-room to the parlor.) “And is there anythingelse in life worth living for? The facts of life, whatare they but dry crusts, the merest husks, which contentthe body, perhaps, while leaving the soul unsatisfied?”

It was to minor chords, as I have said somewhereabove, that Mary’s nature gave readiest response; andthese had been struck with no uncertain hand.

“You speak feelingly,” said she, without looking up.

“And no wonder; for of these husks of life—huskswithout a kernel—I have had my share; but of late—”

They had reached the parlor window and found thepiazza deserted. How inconsistent is the human heart,more especially that of woman. Mary had longed tofind herself alone, for one short quarter of an hour,with this man who had so troubled her peace. She hadconfidence in her woman’s tact,—felt sure that, ifopportunity were given, she could pluck away themask which concealed his heart, without revealing herown. Strangely enough, during all the time they hadbeen under one roof, she had not had such an opportunity.This had, in fact, been one cause of hertroubled curiosity. He had seemed studiously to avoidfinding himself alone with her, and with her only of allthe girls. It had come now,—come so suddenly,—andshe trembled. She leaned out of the window.

“They are all gone,” said she, withdrawing her headand looking up at the Don with a scared look.

Was not that sinking of the heart a presage ofsorrow? 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 soundsof merry music, and found safety in numbers? Somethingwhispered 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 shefelt herself compassed round about by a nameless spellthat would not be broken; entwined in cords soft assilk 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 tenderflame, she saw into his heart of hearts; and no imageof Lucy was imprinted thereon; nor had ever been.’Twas her own, instead, sat enthroned there.

Wrung as she had been, for weeks, with conflictingemotions, the revulsion of feeling that now came overher was too great for her strength. Her knees totteredbeneath her; the room swam before her eyes.

“Somehow I feel a little tired,” said she; and shesank down upon a sofa which stood near.

Where was all her tact gone? Was she not to unveilhis heart while hiding her own?

All is fair in love and war; and in both the best-laidschemes are undone by a surprise. The enemy hadfound the citadel unguarded and rushed in.

“Will you allow me?” said he.

She made no reply beyond a faint smile, and he tookhis seat beside her.

“You spoke of music just now. Lucy has a charmingtouch; but I know a voice that is, to me at least,richer than all the harmonies of a symphony, softerthan an Æolian harp, gentler than the cooing of adove.”

She made a brave effort to look unconscious. “Oh,how beautiful it must be! How I should like to hearsuch 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 grewnarrower. She could feel his eager, frequent breathupon her cheek, whose burning glow lent a more liquidlustre to her dark eyes. They spoke little. Whatneed 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 whichalways manage to happen can be said to come bychance—somehow their hands met. Met somewherealong the back of the sofa, perhaps—but no matter.

Hardly their hands, either. It was the forefingertip, merely, of his right hand that chanced to rest itsweight across the little finger of her left.

A taper and a soft and a dainty little finger,—and aweak, withal. Why should it scamper off before itwas hurt? After all, it was but an accident, perhaps,and a neighborly sort of accident, at the worst. Whocould say that it was a bold, bad forefinger? Perhapsit did not know it was there!

And so that weak little digit lay there, still as amouse, though blushing, blushing (ah me, how it didblush!), and all of a flutter.

After all, are not even strangers continually shakinghands? 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 inhappening. The thrill had barely flashed through thatrose-tipped little digit when he seized her hand, andtaking it in both his, pressed it again and again to hisheart; then the other; and drawing her towards him,bent over her and breathed into her ear words neverto be forgotten. Not many, but strong,—vehementwith long-suppressed passion.

As though a mountain-torrent had burst its bonds.

She had read of innumerable wooings and imaginedmany besides; but never one like this. She tried tospeak, she knew not what, but her tongue refused todo its office.

“And have you no word for me? No little word ofhope?”

She raised her eyes to his. It was but for a moment;for she could not longer withstand his impassionedgaze. But in that brief glance, half wondering, halfshrinking, he read his answer, and in an instant shefound herself enveloped in those mighty arms,—foundherself lying across that broad chest, his right armaround her, his left supporting her head, that nestledwith upturned face against his shoulder. With upturnedface and closed eyes.

She had surrendered at discretion. When she feltherself, again and again, pressed to his heart, she madeno protest;—gave no sign when he devoured hercheeks, her lips, with kisses, countless, vehement-tender,—layupon 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,—withupturned face but closed lids, from beneath whichforced their way drop after drop of happy tears.Happy tears? Did not they too tremble, tremble, asthey lingered, waiting to be kissed away?

Lay there, nestled upon that strong arm, and drunkwith the wine of young love; the past forgot, the futurebanished,—living in the present alone. A present, delicious,dreamy, and wrapped in rose-colored incense-breathingmist. Shutting out all the world save onlyhim and her. From afar comes floating to her ear,from the Hall, the sound of muffled laughter,—comesfloating the drowsy tinkling of the piano, meaninglessand inane! All things else are shams. Love alone isreal!

Yes, pillow thy head upon that arm, thy heart uponthat hope, while yet thou mayest!

For dost not heed how within that deep chest, againstwhich thy fair young bosom palpitates and flutters,—markestthou not how ’tis a lion-heart seems to beattherein? 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 thydewy lids, thou hast felt their caressing glances), andthose 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 onthe table, and hastily left the room. Charley shotforth, with a vigorous puff, a ring of heroic proportions.

“Upon my word, Jack, I didn’t think it was in theold 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 hadlowered his voice to a confidential whisper.

“It is very clever in the old girl, and all that, youknow. 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 gotto 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 ahigh, romantic vein; but—now you won’t tell her?—butbefore I would have it thought that I wrote thatchapter, you might shoot me with a brass-barrelledpistol.”

With that he took up the manuscript, and beganrunning his eye over it and reading aloud passageshere and there. We both (I am ashamed to say) soongot to laughing, and Charley at last went off into analmost hysterical state, the tears streaming down hischeeks. Just then Alice suddenly re-appeared, and hisfeatures snapped together like a steel trap. Charley,in point of fact, was not laughing at his wife, butrather at the inherent absurdity of all love-scenes;but he felt guilty when she entered the room, andlooked preternaturally solemn.

“What is the matter?” asked Alice.

“I thought it was agreed that there were to be nocriticisms?”

“Yes; but you and Jack have been criticising mychapter already.”

“In your absence, of course.”

“And I heard you laughing.”

“Laughing? What do you suppose there was tolaugh at? In point of fact, I said it was capital; didn’tI, Jack?”

“Yes; and I agreed with him.”

“Really?” asked she, looking from one to the otherof 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 fromthat being the case, I’ll bet you a box of gloves thatwhen the book comes out, the critics will say that notone line of it was written by me, and that I am apurely mythical personage, invented out of the wholecloth.”

“Done,” said he; “they will say nothing of the kind.By the way, can you tell me, Alice, why it is thatwomen always put so much hugging and kissing intheir books?”

“I believe they do,” said Alice, laughing.

“Jack would not have dared to make that chapterso—so—warm, in fact. Why, it took away my breath,the brisk way in which you enveloped Mary in theDon’s arms. Jack could not have brought about sucha consummation in less than three chapters.”

“So much the worse for Jack. It was human nature,—woman’snature, at any rate.”

“Oho! live and learn, Jack!”

“I am taking notes.”

“And act on them,” rejoined Alice, with a rathermalicious allusion to certain recent incidents in my ownpersonal career. “Women like aggressive lovers; sonext time—”

“But really, Alice,” said Charley, coming to myrescue, “that chapter of yours—such as it is,—now nooffence,—I mean giving, as it does, a love-passage froma woman’s point of view, is very well done. And onething, Jack, seems to me especially to be commended.It is positively artistic, the way in which she contrivesto cast a shadow upon the pair, as they sit basking inthe sunshine of—ah—in fact—sunshine of young love—ahem—match,Jack—thank you—ahem.” Charleyreddened a little, conscious of having been betrayedinto an unwonted burst of eloquence. “And verycleverly indeed,” added he, “that shadow is wroughtby the very flash of light which will give our readers amomentary glimpse of certain lines in the nature ofpoor Dory, which you had not previously brought out.”

“Inexorabilis acer,” said I, musing.

“Oh, yes,” said Alice, turning to her husband; “howoften have I heard you apply those words to your poorfriend. They are not to be found—in—Virgil? At anyrate, I cannot recall such a passage.”

“No; they are part of a verse in which Horace givesa characterization of Achilles.”

CHAPTER LIII.

I have said that Mary was romantic; and I don’tknow that I could give any clearer proof of the factthan this: as she lay sleepless that night, reviewingthe scenes and events of the last few months, and moreespecially of the preceding day,—as she lay theresilently pondering, and realized that she knew nothingof the history, and was far from sure that she kneweven the name of the man to whom she had so thoroughlycommitted herself,—she felt no wish that mattersstood otherwise. Nay, she even found herself rejoicingin the cloud of mystery that surrounded herlover; and, to tell the truth, it was with a feeling ofrelief that she had heard the sound of footsteps andthe hum of voices, the day before, announcing the returnfrom the Hall, just as she had gathered from theDon’s manner that he was on the verge of a revelation.But they had been interrupted, and she had, for onemore day, at least, the privilege—a delicious one to agirl of her temperament—of allowing her imagination,unshackled by hard fact, to play around this strangelyinteresting man, who had shot like a meteor athwarther path. Singularly enough,—or it would have beenstrange, did we not all know the confidence withoutreserve which a woman ever places in the man towhom she has given her heart,—strangely enough,Mary felt not the slightest misgiving on the score ofthe revelation she had reason to look for on the morrow.She had not the least dread that that revelationmight prove of such a character as to make imperativean 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-morrowshe would know.

And so, next day, when our friends sallied forth fora walk, and it fell out, partly through the manœuveringof Alice, that Mary and the Don began to be fartherand farther isolated from the rest, her heart began tobeat so quick and hard that utterance became difficult.Her companion, too, seemed preoccupied, and their conversationbecame a tissue of the baldest commonplace.At last he stood still, and with eyes fixed upon theground, was silent,—silent for an age, as it seemed toMary. At last he looked up.

“Mary,” he began,—it was the first time he had everaddressed her thus, and her heart gave a quick beat ofpleasure,—“Mary, there is something I must say toyou, and we could not find a better opportunity. Thereis the Argo; let us take seats in it.”

She assented in silence and with a sudden sinking ofthe heart; for there rushed before her mind, in tumultuousthrong, all the dreadful possibilities of the comingrevelation.

“Is not this,” said she, as she took her seat upon oneof the benches, “the first visit that you and I havemade to the ‘Fateful’?”

“‘The Fateful,’” she repeated to herself. Was thename ominous? And she strove to hide, beneath acareless smile, the deep agitation that she felt. “Doyou know, I feel that I have a right to quarrel withyou? For I alone of all the girls have never beenhonored 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 shesaid; anxious only to put off for a few brief momentsthe explanation which she had suddenly begun to lookupon with genuine terror.

It is thus that, when, with swollen cheek, we havetaken our seat in his elaborate chair, we strive to delaythe pitiless dentist (while he, adamantine soul, selectsfrom his jingling store the instrument most diabolicallysuited to our case), happy with a happiness all toobriefly bright, if he will but turn and admit that theday 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 imaginewhy, though but vaguely.

“Ah! I am glad you ask that question. It enablesme 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 thesame thing.”

“‘Great minds will,’ etc., you know—”

“Say loving hearts.” And he took her hand. “Yes,I admit that I have studiously avoided finding myselfalone with you.”

“Were you afraid of me? I am very little!”

“I was afraid of myself; yesterday proved howjustly so.”

“Do you regret yesterday?”

“I am afraid I do not. But I ought to. I had noright to tell you I loved you.”

“It is an inalienable right of every man to tell hislove.”

“At any rate, I beg your pardon for having spokenmine.”

“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 awoman is, as Alice says, loving words. Why shouldwe 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 haveknown you, such as you are, for months. I wish toknow no more, just now. Let me dream on; do notawaken me. Let me float on,” she continued, realisticallyclasping the gunwale of the Argo, “over rose-tippedwaves, careless what shores lie beyond. Letme dream yet a little longer.” And rising from herseat, she dropped on one knee in front of him, andbringing her two hands together, placed them withinhis. “Not one word. I trust you; I am satisfied,” saidshe, with a voice low yet ringing, ringing with proudenthusiasm,—a voice full of strange thrills, vibrating,eloquent. This, her speaking attitude, and the impassionedfaith that illumined her eyes, fired his breastwith an indescribable glow of ecstasy. Pressing herhands between his and raising his eyes, he exclaimedwith a fervor that was almost religious,—

“Adorable Mary! I have dreamed dreams, I haveseen visions, but none could compare with this!”

The exaltation of his voice, the spiritual glory ofhis upturned eyes, the sudden burst of fervor, theovermastering force of his impetuous manhood, hurriedMary’s imagination to giddy heights. She could havefallen down and worshipped him.

“Come,” said he, more gently; “take that seat andlisten to me for a moment.”

She made as though she would place two fingers onhis lips.

“No!” said he (placing his lips on the two fingers).“Since you wish it, I will leave unsaid what I purposedsaying. It is a strange whim on your part, but analtogether charming one to me, since it gives me theright to believe that you value me for myself alone. Ishall, therefore, respect this fancy of yours as long asyou desire. But if I may not tell you who I am, I mayat least say what I am not. I am not an adventurer.You toss your head; your faith is lovely, but youknow 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 expelme when you condescend to hear what I have to say.”

“Do you know,” said Mary, with a merry twinkle inher eyes, “I believe you are just dying to tell me allabout yourself?”

“And you wild to have me do so.”

The sun sparkled upon the River, the waves murmuredsoftly at their feet, beneath a gentle breezeladen with the mysterious breath of awakening spring;and these two sat there bantering one another, likechildren, gleefully. Mary no longer recognized the manwho sat before her. Every line had passed from his face;and but for his Olympic beard, he might have seemed agreat jolly boy just come home for his holidays. Shecould not take her eyes off his face. She was scrutinizingit, wondering where could be lurking thoseambuscades of passion that she thought she had detectedmore than once. And the fire-darting flashes,where were they hidden, beneath those ingenuousglances, 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 itsyouth. Each had told the other everything. That is,they did what they could; for there was always noend left to tell. Not a word was wasted, not a momentspent on any subject but one. Never had two youngmen been more talked about.

“We are both so well suited,” said Alice. “To amatter-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 yougoing to let him tell you who he is? Oh, I’ll tell you.Suppose we let them both come up to Richmond at thesame time to interview our respective and respectedpapas. Oh, won’t it be dreadful!” And with that theyfell on each other’s necks and giggled.

“Mr. Frobisher says he will be hanged if he speaksto my father. He says he thinks it a liberty to askany man for his daughter; so he intends to speak tomother. Bashful? O-o-o-oh!”

Charley and the Don, too, had their confabulations,but how was any one to find out what they said? Buta merrier, jollier soul than the latter it would havebeen hard to find. (I believe my grandfather wouldhave been somewhat scandalized at the way he profanedthe Guarnerius with his jigs, had not Charleymade casual mention of the gigas of Corelli and theold Italian school; which seemed to lend a certain airof classicity to their homely Virginia descendants.)

These four, then, were happy. But upon the horizonof Mary’s dreams there hung a speck of cloud. It wasno bigger than a man’s hand, but its jagged edges,splotching the rosy east, marred the perfection of thedawn.

To say what that cloud was, brings up a subjectupon which I touch with extreme reluctance.

A Bushwhacker discussing the problems of religion,—whatwill be said of him? Love—feeling my inabilityto depict that, I accepted the kind offices ofour friend Alice. But where, among the bishops andother clergy—regular officers,—am I to find one willingto be associated with a guerilla like myself? Whoamong 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 incidentsrecorded in this narrative; where the writer callsupon the Don at his rooms in Richmond, to invite himto spend Christmas at Elmington. It will be rememberedthat I found him reading a small book, which helaid down upon my entrance, and that chancing toglance at the little volume as I passed out of theroom, I saw with surprise that it was a copy of theNew Testament. With surprise. I would not beunderstood (not for the world) as casting a slur uponthe youth of Virginia. They read their Bibles, ofcourse; but generally, I believe, at the beginning andend of the day. At any rate, whether it was the hourof the evening or the man himself, I was astonished.

When I told the girls what I had seen, they werevariously affected, according to their several natures.Here, thought Lucy, is one more good young man,—goodnot being, with her, a term of contempt. Mary’simagination 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 themain an average Virginia girl,—Alice could not help it,—thelittle scamp laughed. I don’t know that it occurredto her that these very good young men are, takethem “by and large,” no better than the bad youngmen (and not half so interesting); all I know is thatshe laughed, and made the others laugh, too, thoughagainst their will.

And not once only. For weeks afterwards she neverspoke of the Don save as Parson (or, rather, Pass’n)Smith. Her merry fancy played countless variationsupon this single string; but it snapped one day,—snappedvery suddenly, the first Sunday after her andMary’s arrival at Elmington.

“I wonder,” said Alice, as she and the other girlswere getting ready for church,—“I wonder whether thePass’n will go with us? Has any one heard him inquiringabout a meeting-house? What a favorite hewould be among the sistern of the county!”

As they went down-stairs, they could see him leaningagainst 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, “herewe 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 piazzathere was the rustle of dresses and the subdued humof preparation. The Don alone seemed to have nopart in the proceedings. Alice drew two girls’ headstogether.

“The exhorter looks solemn! The drive will behilarious in the carriage that takes him! Listen!”

“By the way,” Mr. Whacker was saying, “I hadforgotten to ask you,—will you take a seat in the carriage,or would you prefer going on horseback?”

“Horseback, by all means,” whispered Alice; “thejolting might cheer up his Riverence.”

The Don, looking down, changed color, and wasvisibly embarrassed. “I remember,” said he, presently,raising his eyes to those of Mr. Whacker, “that one ofthe first things you said to me, when you welcomedme to Elmington, was that it was ‘Liberty Hall.’”

“Certainly, oh, certainly,” rejoined my grandfather,in his cordial way. “Choose for yourself. That pairof thoroughbreds may look a trifle light; but you willfind they will take you spinning. Then there is thebuggy. But perhaps you would prefer to ride? I canrecommend that sorrel that Zip is holding.” (Zip gavea furtive pressure on the curb which made the sorrelarch his neck and paw the ground.)

“I have not made myself clear,” said the Don, witha constrained smile. “I meant to beg you to—to letme take care of ‘Liberty Hall’ to-day.”

“You mean,” said my grandfather, taking in the ideawith some difficulty, “that you do not wish to go tochurch to-day?”

The Don bowed.

“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Whacker, with some eagerness;for he felt that he had inadvertently pressed hisguest beyond the limits of good breeding. “Certainly,of course, I had not thought of it. Of course you havenot yet quite recovered your strength.”

The Don bowed his head deferentially, as thoughwilling to let this explanation of his host pass unchallenged;but a certain something that lurked beneathhis rather mechanical smile showed that thatexplanation was Mr. Whacker’s, not his. A suddenconstraint came over the company, and they were gladto get off.

When the party returned, the Don was absent, walking;and when, at dinner, there was the usual ramblingdiscussion of the sermon, the singing, and so forth, hetook no part in the conversation. The next Sunday,when the vehicles and horses came up to the door, theDon was found to be missing; having absented himselfpurposely, as seemed likely; and so on the next Sunday—andon the next—to the end.

It was remarked, too, that never once did he takepart in those innocent little theological discussionswhich are apt to spring up in Virginia homes, aroundthe family hearth, after tea, Sunday evenings. As hewas not a talker, as a rule, his silence would not havebeen obtrusive, save for his persistency in maintainingit. As it was, in the end his very silence seemed asort of crying aloud. Alice had called him “Pass’n”for the last time.

All this gave Mary, for reasons of her own, greatconcern,—far greater concern than an average girlwould have felt. What those reasons were I shall explainat the proper time. Suffice it to say at present,that just in proportion as her interest in this singularman deepened did her anxiety as to his religious viewsgrow keener. The time had come, at last, when shefelt that she had the right to question him; but thevery thought (though ever in her mind) of asking himwhy he never went to church made her shiver.Strange! Now that he was her avowed lover, herawe of him was greater than ever before. He wasnow frank, joyous, playful—

But even when a caged lion is romping with hismate, you shall ofttimes see the glitter of his mightyteeth!

CHAPTER LV.

My grandfather was looking serious. Mr. Carterhad come down from Richmond, and, next day, thegreat American Undulator and Boneless Vertebratewas to leave Elmington, taking with her Alice andMary; and these notable Christmas holidays wouldcome to an end.

It was late in the afternoon of one of those deliciousdays in February, which every year (in the Land ofthe Free and the Home of the Brave) delude us withthe hope of an early spring (though we all know that wenever have any spring, late or early); deceiving evenyonder pair of bluebirds, who, warmed into forgetfulnessof that March which lies between them and theabundant and nutritious worm of summer, go gallivantingup and down the orchard, chirruping eternal fidelity;peering into this old tree and into that, in questof some hollow knot, so suggestive (to the bluebirdishmind) of matrimony.

Where Charley and Alice were on this bright afternoondoes not much matter. No doubt they weretogether and happy; or, if wretched, wretched withthat sweet wretchedness which makes the tearful partingsof young lovers so truly delicious.

There’s your Araminta. Nineteen years of her lifehad she passed, ignorant of your existence. T’otherday you met; and now, she who gave you not so muchas a sigh during all those nineteen years, cannot hearyou speak of a month’s absence but she distils uponyour collar the briny tear! She has found out duringthe last few days, your Araminta, that she cannotbreathe where you are not.

Absurd Araminta—but nice?

Wherever else they may have been, they were not inthe Argo. The Don and Mary were there; and in thethen infancy of naval architecture row-boats were notbuilt large enough to hold, comfortably, two pairs oflovers.

Mary was seated in the boat, he lounging around it;now leaning against the gunwale, now stalking idly toand fro in the shining sand, rejoicing in his youth. Theytalked of the passing sea-gulls, the twittering bluebirds,the rippling waves, the rosy clouds, the generous sunlight,—ofeverything, of nothing, it mattered not; forlove hath power to transfigure the plainest things.

Presently the Don said, standing with fingers interlacedbehind his back, and looking far away down theRiver, “Do you know, it would be hard for me to liveat a spot remote from salt water? All the greatthoughts that have moved the world have arisenwithin sound of the sea-waves. She is the mother ofcivilization. It is the land which separates the peoplesof the earth, not the water. It thrills me to thinkthat, as I stand here, this river which splashes againstmy foot is part of that ocean which washes the shoresof England, of France, of Italy, of Greece, of Palestine.”

Palestine! Strange word on the lips of a man whonever went to church.

“Then, again,” continued he, with a smile, “I love thesea because it reminds me—I don’t mind telling you,since I have let you into my little secret—because itreminds me of Homer, and the epithets he has appliedto it.”

“Ah, that reminds me of something! Have youforgotten your promise to talk to me about Homer?Have you that little copy of the Iliad in your pocketnow?”

“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 notthe right to command me now? Speak, and I obey!”

“Ah! Then I command you, on your allegiance, todeliver that book into my hands.”

He hesitated for a moment, and his hand shook alittle when he placed the book in hers. She took theleft lid between finger and thumb; but his look of ill-suppressedagitation made her hesitate, and her handbegan 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 willtell you what you have forbidden me to reveal.”

“Oh!” cried she, with a start. And the book fellupon the shining sand.

He stooped and picked it up. “Have you had enoughof it?”

“More than enough,—for the present, at least,” shereplied, smiling faintly. “However,” she added, “Ishould like to look at the outside of it. How very oldit looks,” said she, as she took it in her hand. “Why,the corners are worn perfectly round; you must knowit all by heart.”

“Almost,” said he.

“And the back—what!” exclaimed she, with astonishment.“Why, this is not the Iliad! It is a copyof the New Testament!” And she held up the fadedtitle before his eyes.

With a black look of annoyance, but without a word,the Don seized the book, thrust it into his pocket, andbegan striding to and fro. Presently he stopped infront 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 asoothing voice. “Carrying a Testament in one’s pocketis 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 carrythe Iliad in one pocket and the Testament in the other.”But it was not now of the Iliad that she wished tohear him talk.

“Yes; a rather ill-assorted couple, you would say?”

“Very! One might suppose you either a—Greekprofessor in disguise—or—a—minister.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “I neverthought of that; so one might. We generally looktoo deep for motives. Truth is not often found in thebottom of a well. I carry these two books simplybecause—”

She looked up.

“Because,” he added, gravely, “they were given tome by—people that I—cared for.”

Constituted as she was, these few words affectedMary 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 hehad carried all these years, saw how they had beenworn away against his heart, a feeling of awe cameover her. She found herself comparing, in her imaginativeway, 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 cloudcharged with thunder, that seems, at first, but to mutterin its sleep, like a Cyclops in a battle-dream, butwhen yonder mountain dares to rear his crest in itspath—

“You value them very highly on account of thegivers,” 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 asshe had been as to her lover’s religious convictions, shehad shrunk, hitherto, from a direct question. But itwould be easy now, she saw, to lead him on to a fullconfession of his faith without seeming to interrogatehim.

She began by drawing him out on Homer; but whathe said she hardly heard, so tremulously eager was sheto know what he thought of that other little bookwhich he held in his hand. One thing struck her atthe time, and she had cause to remember it afterwards:the strong admiration he evinced for the character ofAchilles, the flinty-hearted captain of the Myrmidons.

Presently she said, in a low voice, “You hold themside by side; but could two books be more different?”

He laid the Iliad upon the seat beside him, and takingthe other little volume in his hand, held it up beforehim. As he did so, there was something in his lookthat thrilled her with expectancy. While he had beenindicating the clear-cut outlines of Homer’s marvellouscreation, she had felt (though hardly hearing with morethan her outward ear) that he spoke admirably, andremarked the high intellectuality that illumined hisfeatures; but now a sudden glow suffused his countenance,and strange, soft lights danced in his eyes. Shehung upon his opening lips with deep suspense; forsomething told her that upon the words he was aboutto utter her own happiness depended.

The hour that followed was passed in a way whichis probably rare with parting lovers.

“No. I have never read Chateaubriand’s Genie duChristianisme, and,” added he, with an admiring glance,“I am glad of it; for otherwise I should not haveheard your brilliant version of what he says. I amafraid, however, that, well as he puts it, I am hardlyfrank enough to admit that parts of the Old Testamentare superior, as mere literature, to everything that theGreeks have left us. The truth is, however, that Iknow so little of the Old Testament that I have noright to an opinion; but this little book,” continuedhe, holding it up, “I know by heart. I mean the gospels,”he added, quickly; “and I don’t hesitate to saythat in all literature you shall not find such a gem.”

The gospels a gem of literature! A weight seemedto press on Mary’s heart.

“Listen!” And he opened the book, and turning afew pages with nervous eagerness, found a passage.“Listen! Could anything be more beautiful?”

His lips parted; but, without reading a word, heclosed the volume upon his forefinger. “Pardon me;but do you know, I fear you can hardly have more thana suspicion of how divinely beautiful this little bookreally 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 flashof bitter disdain that accompanied these words checkedher; and she was silent.

“Let me read you,” said he, after a pause, “a fewof my favorite passages, in the voice of a mere man.”

He read and commented, commented and read, forperhaps an hour; commented without rhetoric, readwithout art. He merely gave himself up to that wondrousstory.

And what an hour for Mary! For weeks she hadlonged to know what he thought upon the one greatsubject 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 thathe had been reading and talking so long, did he—asshe had so often and so fervently prayed that heshould—did he think as she did? Alas, it was but tooclear that he did not! But what did he think? Thatshe could not tell, so strange and bewildering were theflashes that came from his words. Her Virginia theologygave her no clue. As though a mariner boredown upon a coast not to be found upon his chart: thelights are there, but have no meaning for him.

Equally bewildered was Mary. How did he regardthe central figure of that wondrous drama? As heread and talked and talked and read, a will-o’-the-wispdanced before her eyes, leading her here, there, everywhere,but not to be seized!

How tender his voice now! borrowing pathos notfrom art, but from the narrative itself. A voice full oftears. And do not his eyes answer the fading sunlightwith a dewy shimmer?

He was right, she thought, when he said she knewnot 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 sheheard him not (so the trooping fancies evoked by musichave power to dull the mere outward ear)—rose beforeher soul a vision of ineffable softness,—a vision of onewith a face full of sorrow, but a sun-lit head; and hebeckoned to little children, and they followed him; andas he passed, the burdens of the heavy-laden grewlighter, and the weary smiled again and forgot theirweariness, and rose and followed, they too. And ashe passed (he read on but she heeded not)—as hepassed along his stony path, violets seemed to springfrom beneath his feet,—violets shedding perfume. Andalong the roadside lilies nodded. And sinners beattheir breasts, but lifted up their hearts. And one ofher own sex followed,—one who had loved much; andas she followed she dried her tears with her sunnyhair—

“GENERATION OF VIPERS!”

She started from her seat and clutched the gunwaleof the boat. As he towered above her, his nostrilsbreathed defiance, his white teeth glittered with scorn,his dark eyes gleamed, his whole figure was eloquentwith indignation. ’Twas but a bunch of dry sea-weedthat he held aloft, crushed in his right hand; but toher he seemed to brandish the serpent-thongs of Tisiphone;and the milksop ideal of Raphael and the restvanished from her mind. In its stead there rose beforeher exalted imagination the heroic figure of a valiantyoung Jew. He stands before a mob that thirsts forhis blood. Alone, but intrepid. He knows full well,O Jerusalem, that thou dost stone thy prophets (forwhat land doth not?), but though his face be palebeneath the shadow of approaching death, his bravespirit is undaunted. He is willing that the cup shallpass from him; but, being such as he is, he may turnneither to the right nor to the left. If he must drainit, 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 notrather that of a godlike man?

The Argo stands firm in its bed of shining sand; buttempest-tossed is the soul of the young girl who sitstherein, straining her eager eyes for a sight of land.Every now and then a glorious mirage seems to springinto the air, gladdening, for a moment, the darkeninghorizon, and then to fall as suddenly, dispersed by aword.

“Yes, Rousseau was right; Socrates did die like aphilosopher, but Jesus like a God!”

Mary leaned forward and held her breath.

He clasped his hands, and uplifting his face that waspale with emotion: “My God,” cried he, in a voicethat made her shiver—“my God, my God, why hastthou forsaken me?”

The mirage vanished,—for a mere tone may outlinea 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 aman.

“With that cry” (he added), “the bitterest that everbroke from mortal lips—”

She heard but heeded not; she knew more thanenough already.

“With that cry there burst the grandest heart thatever beat for mankind. Who can wonder that sixtygenerations of men have worshipped him as a God!”

Mary rose, and, descending from the Argo, took hisarm. She needed its support.

Just before reaching the piazza, she stopped suddenly,and, wheeling in front of him, fixed her gaze upon hisface. A gaze long, wistful, pitiful-tender. As thougha mother learned by heart the features of her boy justgoing forth to battle, not knowing what may happen.

She tried to answer the smile that greeted this burstof feminine impulse; but the soulful eyes were swimmingwith 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 wouldbe so much Choctaw to thee. Still, thou must read it;for in that chapter I strike the key-note of this, mySymphonic Monograph.

I know it is Choctaw to thee; nay, Comanche; butI rejoice, rather, in that; for it gives me a pretext forwriting an entire chapter for thine enlightenment.Nor exclusively for thine; for I would make mattersclear 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 mycanvas a young person who has had the misfortune tofall in love with a man of whom she may be fairly saidto know nothing. (Her feminine intuitions cannot, ofcourse, pass muster as knowledge with us Bushwhackersand philosophers.) And this young person, so faras is made to appear, is anxious to know but onething in regard to her lover. Had she been a goodsensible girl, with no nonsense about her, it mighthave been supposed that she would have been curiousto know whether he were rich. Then, being but justturned of eighteen, who could have blamed her if shehad wondered whether he were of a jealous temper,and likely to put an end to her dancing with othermen? Again; many women have a pardonable ambitionto shine in the eyes of their friends; and was he,if rich, generous as well? And was she likely to dazzleAlice with her diamonds, perhaps, or beam upon Lucyfrom a handsome equipage? He had shown, too, somefondness for field sports, and would he—ah, would he(harrowing thought to every truly feminine bosom)—wouldhe bring her into the country, there to drag outa weary, dreary life, and shoppinglessly vegetate?Nay, was this splendid creature (as is too often thecase with splendid creatures), was he, perhaps, a slaveto creature comforts? Would he be an exacting criticof her housekeeping? Might not muddy coffee exacerbateeven an heroic soul? Could it be that a roast notdone to a turn might corrugate that admirable brow?

No; we have not painted her as anxious in respectto any of these things. Yet I beg the reader will notaccuse me of drawing a monstrosity of a girl, one destituteof the common instincts of her sex. Far from it.She, very likely, trusting implicitly to her intuitions (aswomen will), felt too confident as to these possibilitiesof 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 samething, so far as this book is concerned) that there arewomen who, if but deeply enamoured, would scornsuch thoughts, as a degradation to true love. At anyrate, the fact was as I have stated it. Mary, whileseemingly careless (though that may have been due toconfidence) as to the mere details of her destiny in thisworld, was morbidly solicitous touching her lover’sviews as to the next.

Laugh not, gentle reader. True, I am a humoristicBushwhacker by trade; but I would not have yousmile out of order. And as for thee, my great-to-the-tenth-power-grandson,brush the wrinkles from thyyellow brow, lest thou crack, not this nut, but thineaddled pate, instead.

Know, then, all men (and by all men I mean, ofcourse, all women and clergymen, who, alone, in thesebusy days, have leisure to read symphonic monographs)—

Know, all women and clergymen, of this and moreor less future generations, that the story I am tellinghas very narrow limitations, as well in time as inspace. It is of Virginia[1] alone that I am writing. OfVirginia not in the fourth quarter, but Virginia in thebeginning of the second half of the nineteenth century.Strolling through this narrow field, at this particularharvest-time, I have selected three sheaves wherewithto fashion such rural picture as my hand should havecunning to form.

Lucy, I chose, originally, as symbolizing the purityand simplicity of the womanhood of our old Virginialife. But of her I am conscious that I have given themerest outline; and I find that I cannot fill in thepicture adequately, and at the same time maintain therigidly monographic type of my work. Let her stand,therefore, just outside of our central group (where thefull light falls), illumining the half-shadow with hergentle, St. Cecilia look. Is that a smile that lights hereye, 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 howour democratic-aristocratic Virginia girls could be gaywithout being indiscreet, joyous yet not loud, unconventionalyet full of real dignity; how, in the hundredsof years that separate them from the mother-country,they have shaken off English stiffness, while clingingfast to English love of liberty. But she is fully capableof speaking for herself; and we pass on to Mary Rolfe.

The reader has already, I hope, a tolerably clear conceptionof this young person. Stature below the average,eyes full of soul, a manner painfully shy withstrangers, childlike and confiding with intimates; amind admirably stored, considering her years, with allthat can adorn; often silent, and preferring to hearrather than to be heard, but murmuring, when, forgettingher reserve, she does speak, like a brook, and in avoice of such surpassing sweetness that one could havewished that, like the brook, she would go on forever.Eloquent rather than witty. And I fear few wouldhave 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 assuch has sufficed for the reader, so far. But a crisis isapproaching in Mary’s life; and to foretell how peopleare going to act in crises, it is not enough to knowwhat they are in themselves, merely. What they areis something; the where and the when are more. Doyou see that pleasant, genial-looking man walking alongthe streets of a Southern city? Could anything begentler than his look, kinder than his eye? Yet itwas but the other day that he went out, deliberately,to a secluded spot called the Field of Honor, and senta ball through the person of an excellent gentleman,who at the same time was addressing a bullet to hiscare. These worthy persons were no worse than otherpeople (true, they were editors), but they lived in theSouth. That was the trouble. In the North the sameman would have simply said, you’re another, and calledthe 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, youmust be acquainted with their environment, as HerbertSpencer would call it. To use an illustration that thisleader of modern scientific thought would not objectto; you strike that white ball with your cue. Thetable being smooth, it would seem that it would maintainits 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 thecue and were conducting the experiment in person, ourillustration would now be at an end (for I am told thathe is the worst billiard-player in all England); but letus suppose that that cue-thrust was delivered by oneof those solid-headed young men (in shirt-sleeves) whodelight in what they humorously call the scientific game.The white strikes the light red and darts away; butclick! and off it speeds along a different track. It hascarromed on the dark red.

And are we not, we mortals, so many billiard-balls,launched forth upon our little arena by we know notwhat force, and rolling we know not whither? It maybe a little wider or a trifle narrower, perhaps, the stageon which we play our several parts; but all the same,around it rise the unscalable barriers of human life, theadamantine limitations of human endeavor. And we,embracing within our little selves (as did the tuskwhence that ball was cut) countless conflicting forces, theinextricably intermingled traits, that is, of numberlessancestors,—fashioned, too, by the loving hands of father,mother, brother, sister, teacher; we spin forth on thejourney of life. And a seemly roll of it we may have,and a safe, perhaps, if we be but smooth and roundand mediocre (not bulging on this side, say, withbig 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 arewe? Nay, may not a pinch of cigar-ashes wrest victoryfrom an expert? And hath not, sometime, a mererumpled thread sufficed to bring triumph to a tyro?Surely it is not a great matter to stoop and pick up apin; but was it not enough, once, as we are told, tomake a beggar a millionaire? And who shall say that themerest casual fly, alighting on the intent nose of somegunner in beleaguered Toulon, might not have sowarped the parabola of a shell as to have renderedneedless the slaughter of Waterloo?

I have made life a parallelogram, I see, though it isnotoriously a circle; and I have symbolized failure inlife by carroming on the light and dark reds; whereas,as we all know, that is success in billiards. But, myAh Yung Whack, is it not night in China when it isday with us? And does not white raiment signify griefthere? And do they not take off their shoes insteadof their hats when calling on a friend, and shake theirown hands rather than the other fellow’s? We will letthe illustration stand, my boy, for your sake; for, inthe new Flowery Kingdom which is coming, all thingswill be changed. In that day, when the wielder of thecue shall also wear one (spell it how he will), the gamewill be to miss rather than to hit; so that what seemed,at the first blush, to be due to the buck-jumping of amustang Pegasus, turns out to be, in reality, the propheticvision of a philosophic Bushwhacker.

But the environment of Mary?

And now, at last, it has come,—that chapter which Ihave 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 ejacul*toryclapping together of her plump hands, one shoutof laughing amazement was her answer.

“I?” said Charley. “You must have forgotten thatI am hard at work on that Essay on Military Glorywhich you say you will shortly need.”

CHAPTER LVII.

Here I am, then, since it must be.

Every one has heard the story of the Frenchmanwho, after a tour through America (or was it England?),had but this to say of us: that we were apeople with thirty religions and but a single sauce. Ihardly think that we in Virginia, at least at the periodof this story, were quite so rich in religions as this.Very likely, some of the sects discovered by our observantGaul 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 distinctvarieties. I did not count, I admit, a certain flockof migratory Mormons that I once encountered on thewing; just as, I presume, a naturalist would hardlyclass the Canada goose among Virginia birds, from themere fact that they refresh themselves, in the springof the year, in our wheat-fields. Nor did I think thata man and his wife and a boy whom I once knew,could fairly claim to be numbered as a sect merelybecause, as their fellow-villagers asserted, they professedto believe something that nobody could understand.Then I am afraid that even the very sectsthemselves would insist on my leaving out the Bushwhackers,—slack-twistedChristians like myself, that is,who can’t abide uniforms, and find it hot marching inranks, and irksome to keep step; though we do coverthe flanks of the main column, and, while we don’tattack in line, yet keep up a rattling fire upon suchstray sinners as we find prowling about.

And so forth, and so forth.

Still (for I would not incur the suspicion of nigg*rdliness),it is very possible that, had I searched withgreater diligence, I should have found more than fifteen.We will allow, then, that, at the period which we aresketching, there were, say, a dozen and a half religionsin Virginia.

And when I say religions, I have not in my mind amilk-and-water, namby-pamby, good-enough-for-mekind creed, but one of your up-and-down, robustious,straight-from-the-shoulder dogmas, that could ship offentire churchfuls of heterodoxers to—(but since theRevised Edition the word is scarcely parliamentary)without a wry face. Thither our Virginia Catholicsused to despatch all our Protestants, to a man; but,inasmuch as their numbers were few (and, strictlyspeaking, the thing was, perhaps, contrary to the Constitutionof the United States), they did it all verydecently 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 thefollowers of the scarlet woman of Babylon, they rattledthem 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 Virginianwould ever reach heaven. That thought gave mepause, one day; and ever since I have hoped that somebodyhad made a mistake, somehow. At any rate, saidI 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 theyhave 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 withone regiment and now with another, I found that thingswere even worse than I have represented them. Yousee they didn’t mind me, and so talked very freely inmy presence; and I was shocked to find that thesevarious companies and battalions privately nourished akeener animosity one against the other than towardsthe common enemy, Ah Sin. If each could have heardwhat the others said of them (as I did), and where theysent them! I came to the conclusion, at last, that therewas not the shadow of a chance for any VirginiaProtestant. There were not enough Catholics to keepthem busy; they fell upon one another, and so manycars did they couple on to the through mail (ole Virginnynebber tire!) that it became a most UnlimitedExpress, choke-full of Virginia gentlemen,—Virginiagentlemen who had erred in the interpretation of aphrase or so, or, it may be, of a word merely, of HolyWrit.

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

I say Virginia gentlemen advisedly.

Environments may have their environments (just asfleas have other fleas to bite ’em, and so we go ad infinitum),and, thorough-going as was our theology, ithad to succumb in the presence of our chivalry towardsthe sex; for throughout all our borders there lived nota man, lay or clerical, who would not have scorned tosend a woman to the bottomless pit.

But as for the Virginia gentlemen, we shovelled themall in with an industry (ole Virginny nebber tire!) andan undoubting zeal that were above all praise.

That’s the reason I always did love a Virginian; hewon’t stand any nonsense. “Do you believe that aprodigious majority of mankind were elected untodamnation, ages before they were born? No?” Swish!and that is the end of you! Another: “And so you saythat baptizo means baptize, do you?”—“Why, don’t thedictionaries and all the Greek profess—” budjum! andwhere are you now?

For, in matters of this kind, we Virginians of thatday, if you would agree with us, would agree with you;but—if not—you might go—your way,—for the KingJames version obtained in those times.

Ah, but we were out-and-outers in those good olddays!

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

Strange! for time was when things were very differentin the Old Dominion. Our ancestors had broughtover with them the spirit of the merrie old England ofhundreds 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 notphilosophers tell us that a people’s conception of theDeity is but the reflex of the powers of nature (be theykindly or hostile) by which they are surrounded? Andwas not this a fair land? and if their sun was bright,but not too fierce, and their wheat-fields nodded to softbreezes, but knew not the hurricane, and if their snowswere a fairy mantle for mother-earth, rather than ashroud, and Jack Frost spread, over pond and creek, icejust thick enough to store against what time the mint—thejolly jolly mint—should sprout,—if all naturesmiled, why should these merry Norman-English pulllong faces? Nor did they, but laughed and danced,bless their jovial souls!

But a time came when merrie England was merryno longer.

Somebody had invented a new religion.

It floated down upon her, a dense fog, impenetrableto the mild radiance of the star of Bethlehem. Floatedacross the Atlantic, and darkened our life, too. Withus, as well, laughter became frivolity, and dancingblasphemous. There are rifts in the fog now, andhere and there the sun is bursting through; but at theperiod of our story the shadow was unbroken. Therewas laughter, it is true. Do not the condemned oftenmake merry in their cells? and young people willdance,—just as lambs frisk, even upon a bed of mint—heedless,—for’tis their nature to. But they laughedand danced under a shadow,—the shadow of the nextworld. That world, alone, was real,—so we thought,—whilethis, from Greenland’s icy mountains to India’scoral strand, was (though it seemed so solid) but a fleetingshow, for man’s illusion given.

And of this theology, which spread, like a black pall,over the land, this was the central conception; and Igive it for the reason that you will not find it laid downin the books, or in any single discourse. It is theepitome of the thousands upon thousands of sermonswhich I (not that I would boast) have heard in my day.Listen; for this was the atmosphere that our Marybreathed:

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 unceasinglybattled together, the one to save him, theother to destroy. To save mankind—to destroy mankind—thathas been the sole contention these thousandsof years. Incidentally, of course (for such is war), theEvil Spirit has, beyond the harm done the humanfamily, wrought immense damage to earth’s fauna andflora (as the innumerable imperfections of naturetestify), but man, alone, has been the objective point ofall his strategy; and with every new soul that comesinto the world the conflict is renewed.

And perhaps I am wrong,—for there are those whomaintain 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-topsthat in the vast majority of these struggles thegood spirit is worsted; nor glory in announcing to theworld that Satan held the field, and that the only hopewas that a few of us poor captives might elude hisvigilance and escape. Captives! They told us thatwe were his when we were born!

Is there any harm in saying that to a mere Bushwhacker(who has not had the privilege of passingthrough a theological seminary) it seems that we havehardly a fair chance? It were better we were bornorphans! Better that than to be the children of sinand Satan, as those who know tell me we are,—thoughI will say that I cannot help hoping that there is somemistake about it.

But if it be, indeed, too true,—if it be a fact that allthe poor souls that flit darkly, for a season, about thislittle ball of earth, are, in very deed, condemned beforethey are born, may we not hope that it is otherwise inVenus, for example, or Mars? I, at least, sometimes,overborne by the immense tragedy of human life, stealforth alone into the night; and lifting my weary eyesto the blue spangled dome above, try to drown thedarkness here in the light I see shining there; and ofttimesI find myself wondering whether they be indeedas bright as they seem,—find myself praying, even,that it may be so.

For indeed it were pitiful, were all those worlds suchas ours!

And sometimes I have felt, as I swept, with brimmingeyes, constellation after constellation, and galaxyafter galaxy, that I could bear up with a braver heartcould I but know that there was, wandering somewherein the immensity of space, one little planet, atleast, upon which the prince of darkness had not sethis foot,—one little world in which poverty and hungerand thirst, and toil and failure, and blood and tears,and disease and eternal farewells were unknown,—oneworld where a mother could smile back upon her babe,as it lay kicking and crowing in her lap, and laughingin her face, and not feel that the Grip of Hell was uponits throat.

Alice buried her face in her hands; but Charley satbolt upright in his seat.

For such was our creed in those days. If any oneshall say that Virginians do not believe that now, Ishall not argue the point. It was notoriously orthodoxthen to hold that every infant came into the world undersentence. Not under sentence to be hanged by theneck, as murderers are—

Alice shivered. Charley lifted his hand. I ceasedreading.

CHAPTER LVIII.

It must, in former days, before we Christianized them(at any rate, if we didn’t do that, quite, we did whatwe could; we cut their throats for their heathenismand lands),—it must have been a comfort to an old Indianbrave (before the Pale Faces had taught him whatwas meant by peace on earth) when his stalwart son,heir to his prowess, returned to the parental wigwamand cast into his veteran lap his first string of scalps.And so, in our day (for conditions change, not man), theyouthful sparkle comes back to a mother’s eye, andnascent wrinkles on her fading cheek become twinklingdimples again, when her blooming daughter returns,flushed with victory, from her first campaign.How did you leave your uncle and your aunt? AndI hope all the children are well? And so you have hada good time? Glorious! Well, you must be tired;you need not go up-stairs; come into my room andtake off your things.

But she has not had time to unbutton her left glovebefore her mother wants to know all about the scalps:how many and whose.

And here there makes its appearance a seeming differencebetween our young campaigner and the braveI have mentioned. He, as he dances around the campfire,waving in one hand the sinister trophies of hisvictory, and brandishing his tomahawk in the other,proclaims, not without ingenuous yells, what a singularlyBig 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 truthin it. Pooh! He was making love to another girl.But in the end, young man, your scalp is nailed abovethe door of that young woman’s chamber, where allmay see,—nailed up with laughing protests and mysterioussmiles.

Which is as it should be. There are ways and waysof blowing one’s little trumpet—or of getting it blown.Conditions change, not man. The vanity of Ajax wasnot greater than that of a nineteenth century hero.Where, pray, was the son of Telemon to find a bottleof champagne to crack with a war-correspondent?

Alice and Mary managed things economically. Eachwas the war-correspondent of the other. In their lettersto Richmond, during these notable holidays, Maryrecounted the victories of the enchantress, while Alicenumbered the slain of Mary and her soulful eyes. Forbe it understood, fair reader, that while as a monographistI have indicated one scalp, merely, apiece, inreality a pile of corses lay in front of each of theselovely archers. They were Big Injuns, both. Butthis by the way.

“Which one of them all did you like best?” askedMrs. Rolfe.

“All!” laughed Mary, letting down her hair as shedropped upon a lounge. “How many were there,pray?”

“Alice wrote me that—”

“Oh, she’s been telling tales, has she? And you believedall she wrote?”

“Oh, yes, I knew his father, when I was a girl, andI don’t wonder at the son’s being stupid, as you say.He could talk of nothing but horses, I remember. Bythe way, speaking of horses, what has become of thatpoor Mr. Smith who was so badly hurt last October?”

“He is still at Elmington, I believe; that is—yes, ofcourse he is there. I mean we left him there.”

“You believe!” laughed Mrs. Rolfe. “Upon myword,” added she, “that is a summary way of disposingof a young man. He must be a nonentity indeed.I often wondered that you never mentioned him inyour letters. Alice, on the contrary, could write of noone else. It was the Don did this and the Don saidthat.”

“Her beloved Charley and Mr. Smith are closefriends.”

“Oh, I see; but I don’t understand how it was thatAlice seemed to take such a lively interest in ‘theDon,’ as she calls him, while you can scarcely rememberthat he is still at Elmington. She never wrote aletter without singing his praises.”

“As I said just now, ‘the Don’ has the good taste toadmire Mr. Frobisher.”

“Ah, that accounts for Alice’s liking ‘the Don.’ AmI to suppose” (something in Mary’s manner made hermother feel sure that she was on the right track)—“amI to suppose, then, that you are interested insome one whom the Don has not the good taste toadmire?”

“You are a marvellous guesser, to be sure,” criedMary, with a bright laugh, and springing from thelounge and into her mother’s lap.

“Ah, I have hit the nail on the head, have I?” askedMrs. Rolfe, with a pleased look of conscious sagacity.

“What a subtle brain is here!” continued Mary,smoothing back the white hairs from her mother’sforehead, and gazing tenderly into her loving eyes.

“And so you have been hiding something from yourpoor old mother? But you are going to tell her now,aren’t you?” added she, coaxingly. “Who is this personin whom you are interested?”

“Mary Rolfe!”

“Yourself? Ah, I see. Mr. Smith does not likeyou, and therefore you do not fancy Mr. Smith. Am Iright?”

“Not entirely.”

“Oho! Then he is another of those upon whom youhave found it impossible to smile. Well, I cannotblame him, poor fellow.” And she kissed her daughter’sforehead. “The idea of your having never—butwhy did Alice never allude to this affair? She gaveme an account of all the others.”

“I can’t say,” replied Mary, leaving her mother’slap for the lounge.

“So you did not fancy him. Of course not, of coursenot. He is a handsome fellow,—very; but really, Icannot see how he could have had the hardihood tomake love to you while maintaining his incognito, asAlice writes that he still does.”

“Hardihood in making love is just what some girlswould like.”

“Of course,—some girls; but not a girl brought upas you have been. Did he make no apology? Yes?Well, that was to his honor. He is a gentleman, therecan be no doubt about that. And you?”

Mary was lying at full length upon the lounge. “Iforgave him,” said she, averting her face.

“Ah, we can’t help that, my daughter. A womanwould not be a woman unless”—and reminiscent lightsand shadows flitted across her face—“unless she kepta soft place in her heart for every man who ever lovedher. But forgiveness and love are different parts ofspeech.”

No answer.

“To pardon, I say, and to love, are different things,”repeated she; and her heart began to throb, she hardlyknew why.

“Sometimes,” said Mary, covering her face with herhands.

CHAPTER LIX.

It was not many minutes after this before Mrs. Rolfefound herself across the street and closeted with Alice.“I am too tired and nervous to talk now,” Mary hadsaid; “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 twentiethtime, at the close of a two-hours’ investigation, “who isthis Mr. Don or Smith? Who is his father? Who ishis mother? How am I to know that my daughter isnot 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 notrely upon her own judgment, solely,—that e-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-ywas sure that the Don was all that he shouldbe.

“E-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y! Then why don’t you take himyourself? I suppose this same e-v-e-r-y-b-o-d-y objected!”

“Oh!”

That was all that this whilom merry babbler couldsay. Her chin (just as though it thought itself themost highly improper little chin in the world) tried tohide between her shoulder and her throat, nestlingdown somewhere. In those days we thought it wasbecoming,—that sudden rush of roses to a young girl’scheek. Now she will look you straight in the face,and tell you without blinking that next spring she is tomarry a man weighing (just as likely as not) two hundredpounds. 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 ofthe whole business. You tell me that Mary’s suitor isentirely devoted to her, and that every one has thehighest respect for him. His incognito need not troubleme, you say, since its removal is only delayed,—anddelayed, too, through some romantic whim or other ofMary herself. But there is one thing which nothingyou say explains; that everything you say darkens;why is the poor child so wretched?”

Alice was silent.

“Alice,” continued Mrs. Rolfe, placing her hand affectionatelyon the young girl’s shoulder, “have youtold me all? It is Mary’s express injunction that youdo 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 wassomething dreadful,—a living wife in a lunatic asylum—or—”

Alice smiled. “No, it is nothing of that kind. Totell you the truth, it is all nonsense. Mary is makinga 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. “Forheaven’s sake, Alice,” she cried, pale with anxiety,“you do not mean to say that he is a Catholic! Don’ttell me that. Tell me that he is a—a—an Atheist,—anythingbut a Catholic!”

“An Atheist rather than a Catholic?” said Alice,raising her eyes to those of Mrs. Rolfe for the first timefor several minutes.

“Most assuredly; a thousand times rather. Why,when I was a girl, several of my acquaintances marriedyoung men who were pleased to consider themselvessceptics,—it was rather the fashion in those days,—but,bless you, the last one of them was a vestrymanbefore five years of married life had passed. But aCatholic! Heaven forbid! One of two things, Alice,invariably happens to a Protestant girl who marries aCatholic. Either, halting between opposing claims,she loses all interest in religion itself, or else she goesover to the enemy. Oh, Alice, Alice,” cried she, withsudden vehemence, “do not tell me that my poorMary 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 herwith a merry laugh. She was going to add, “lost inthe next.”

It was, indeed, as I have hinted in earlier chaptersof this work, the settled conviction of the Protestantsof Virginia, at that day, that all Catholics were assurely destined to the bottomless pit as the veryheathen who had never so much as heard a whisper ofthe Glad Tidings. (My Catholic friends often complainedto me of this bigotry. For my part, I hardlyknew whether to laugh or to weep when I rememberedthat they had made precisely the same arrangementsfor 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 hitthem off to a nicety. Sceptical or something,—that’sjust it. You see, my dear, when the beard begins tosprout on a youth’s chin, he fancies that it is time hehad opinions of his own. At this period he begins tosneer at the ‘fiery furnace’ story, and discovers thatwhales, though their mouths be large, have smallthroats, and could never have swallowed Jonah. Histhroat, at any rate, is too small to swallow such mustytales,—leave that to the old women! Sceptical orsomething! Excellent, excellent, Alice! Ah, thatmerry tongue of yours!”

“I am delighted that you take so philosophical aview of the case,” said Alice, much taken aback at thisunexpected praise of her wit. She might have addedthat she was amazed. How often do those we knowbest utterly confound us in this way! Mrs. Rolfe waswhat some lukewarm people called fanatically pious;and Alice had been looking forward with dread to thescene that poor Mary must have with her when shelearned that her daughter had given her heart to asceptic (or something). Strange! it was the veryenergy of this fanaticism which wrought the resultwhich so surprised Alice. It is possible for convictionsto be so strong as to inspire a merry incredulity touchingthe honesty of opposing beliefs.

“Why, of course,” rejoined Mrs. Rolfe, smiling complacently.(It was the word philosophical that did thebusiness.) “The fact is, my dear, there are no infidels.It is all the merest affectation. Most young men passthrough an attack of scepticism, just as, earlier in life,teething must be gone through with. It is a cheapmode 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 soafter leaving school, not having seen enough of mankindto know that a satirical turn infallibly indicatesthe combination of a bad heart with an empty head.But people of experience learn to pardon these foiblesof youth. The fact is, Alice,” added Mrs. Rolfe, smiling,“I know nothing in life more deliciously comic than ayoung graduate posing as a ‘thinker.’ Of course, ifthey are loud-mouthed—”

“That, at least, he is not.”

“Of course not, of course not; since I hear he is agentleman. But how, pray, does he show that he is asceptic, or something? (Capital phrase, upon my word,Alice!) How do you know it?”

“During the whole time that he has been at Elmingtonhe has never once—I am afraid it is more seriousthan 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 littlelaugh. “You don’t know him!”

“What! paying court to my daughter, and allowingher to go to church, Sunday after Sunday, withoutever offering to attend her? I should just have likedMr. Rolfe to have tried that game with me! Even now,—andwe have been married thirty years! just fancyme marching off to church alone!”

To do Mr. Rolfe justice, those who knew him and thepartner of his bosom best would never have suspectedhim of trying to play any such game on Mrs. Rolfe intheir courting days, still less now. He discoveredduring the first month of the first year of the thirtyalluded to, that his Araminta was a woman of views;and he had spent the twenty-nine years and elevenmonths immediately preceding these observations ofMrs. Rolfe in learning just what those views were, thathe might the better conform to the same.

“The i-d-e-a!” chirped Alice.

“Yes, indeed. And if Mary will be guided by me— Uponmy word, Alice, aren’t we both too absurd! Hasthe wedding-day been fixed? If so, I have not heardof it. Before that happens, your Mr. Don, or whateverhe is, will have to have a talk with me—I mean Mr.Rolfe.” (Which, as she went on to explain, was, as inall harmonious households, one and the same thing.She could not remember, in fact, when she had expressedan opinion different from Mr. Rolfe’s.)

Sly was Mr. Rolfe, they say; who always let his wifehave the first say,—and then he had her just where hewanted her.

“He won’t find me,—or, rather, Mr. Rolfe,—so sentimentalas to refuse to hear who he is!”

In the end our spirited matron was much mollifiedat learning that the Don had not been “paying court”to her daughter, and yet, at the same time, publiclyslighting her. The affair had been so sudden, etc., etc.But Alice’s master-stroke was delivered when she toldhow the Don had fought against the avowal of his love.

Ah! they never, as we men do, get so old as quite toforget 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 ableto manage that,” she added, with a slightly influentialexpression about those lips which had so often carriedconviction to the peace-loving bosom of the harmoniousMr. Rolfe.

“Provided, of course—” continued she.

“Oh, of course,” chimed in Alice.

CHAPTER LX.

If there was one feeling which swayed Mrs. Rolfequite as strongly as her religious fanaticism (to use theword of the lukewarm), it was her absorbing love andadmiration of her daughter. Not a specially intellectualwoman herself, Mary’s gifts and wide culture werea source of continual exultation to her. “She getsher literary turn from her father,” she used to say,truly enough; for he was a cultivated man (there wereno “cultured” men in existence then, thank God), whowould have made his mark in letters had he lived in amore stimulating atmosphere. In fact (though Mrs.R. always denied it with a blush), he had carried theday over more than one suitor for her hand, and wonher young heart by means of his endowments in thisvery direction; for while they had been confined, bythe limitations of their several geniuses, to sighing likefurnaces, he had made a woful ballad to his mistress’seyebrow; bringing victory; and the defeated went theirway, full of strange oaths.

So that a sort of sentimental interest in literatureheightened Mrs. Rolfe’s admiration for her daughter’saccomplishments.

She was her only child, too; and no one can blameher for looking upon it as axiomatic that few men weregood enough for her Mary.

Judge of her dismay, then, when she learned so suddenlythat her daughter was profoundly interested ina man whom it was quite natural for her to look uponas a suspicious character. No wonder, then, that shesurprised her neighbors by the rapid pace at which shehad crossed the street. She walked briskly, too, whenshe returned from her long talk with Alice, but her facewore a different expression.

For she was rehearsing a pleasant little drama as shehurried back across the street.

Her daughter’s sad face had deeply pained her. Itwas plain to see that if she loved not wisely, she loved,at least, too well; and she pitied her from the bottomof her heart. Perhaps some anger had been mingledwith the softer feeling at first; but Alice had put anew face upon the matter; and she was hurrying hometo say to her daughter that she for one (and her fatherfor another) looked upon the alleged scepticism ofyoung men as the most harmless of eccentricities; andher face wore a determined smile. She did not intendto commit herself. It would be time enough to expressher views (that is to say, Mr. Rolfe’s) when thisEnigma had given an account of himself. But if thatwas all that could be said against him, etc., etc., etc.,etc.

And, would you believe it? the very incognito ofour hero had begun to make the imagination of thisstaid matron cut fantastic capers. Who could tell?Strange things had happened before. Why not?

“Sceptic or something!” She almost laughed as sheturned the knob of the door. “The poor child shouldlaugh, 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 donot know me.” And after all, what mother, of themall, knows her daughter, enveloped as she is in a doubleveil? For between the old heart and the young liesthe mist of the years; and what eye can pierce arightthe diffracting medium of maternal love?

Even Doctor Alice, when called in consultation, nextday, could not probe to the bottom of the mystery.

And are there not ever some little nooks and cornersof our hearts unsuspected by our dearest friends, even?—aspirationsthat they would have laughed at, perhaps,—fearswhich we should have blushed to confess,—hopes,alas, withered and fallen now,—that we havenever revealed to mortal ears?

Now, within our Mary’s breast there was, I shall notsay 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, andcut the allegory short.

Suppose we try to put ourselves in her place, andsee how things looked, not to an average girl of thatperiod (still less to any one of this), but to one such asMary was.

At the time in question, the dogma of what is knownamong theologians, I believe, as that of the plenaryinspiration of the Scriptures, was held from one end ofVirginia to the other.

That is to say, my Ah Yung, that every chapter,every sentence, every word, and every syllable of theBible had been literally inspired, and was absolutelytrue. This we were expected to believe and did believe;and by what ingenuity we were to escape thedogma of eternal damnation I, for one, cannot see.But we made no effort to escape it, regarding it, to aman, as the mainstay of society and the sheet-anchorof all the virtues. A belief in hell was ranked amongthe necessaries of life.

“’Twas the merest luxury,” quoth Charley.

Now, what is the imagination but a kind of innereye, 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! Hermother thought it was her duty, so let that pass; buthardly had she shed her long clothes when her precociouslittle head began to teem with burning lakes, andwrithing souls, and mocking demons, and worms thatdie not. And, ofttimes, her little heart almost ceasedto beat, as she lay in her trundle-bed, and, with wide-staringeyes, saw her own baby-self engirdled with unquenchableflames. For had she not fretted over herSunday-school lesson that very morning (longing todress her new doll), and said it was too long, and oh!that she hated the catechism?

Now, among those who accept this dogma, there arevarious ways of dealing with it. The immense majorityinscribe it among the articles of their creed,fold the paper, label it, and file it away in some dustypigeon-hole, in an out-of-the way corner of their heads,and go about their business. They are satisfied toknow that it is there, and that there is no heresy aboutthem. A true Virginian looks upon his faith much ashe does upon a Potomac herring, and would no morethink of finding fault with the one because of a knottypoint or so, than with the other for the bones it contains.He wouldn’t be caught carrying a stomachabout with him that was capable of making wry facesover 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 tobelieve is to realize. To such this article of their faithassumes abnormal proportions, dwarfing all others.Upon this alone their glassy eyes are fixed. Let uspass them by with bowed heads. Seeking heaven inthe world to come, they have found a hell in this.

Our Mary stood between these two classes, belongingto neither; but by the nature of her mental constitutionshe leaned fearfully towards the latter. Seeingis believing; but with Mary to believe was to see.And from her infancy to her womanhood her fondmother had done all that in her lay, unwittingly, tooverthrow her reason. That that fair mind did notbecome as sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh,was due to her father. It was he that saved, her,—unwittinglyas 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 inhis study; and she became, like him, an omnivorousreader; and the baleful phantasms of her distemperedspirit grew paler in the presence of other and brighterthoughts. The process went further. As she read andread, drawing upon all the great literatures (when shecould, in the original—else in translations), there graduallydawned upon her a sense of the immense diversityof human opinion.

And yet, with what undoubting tenacity each peopleclung to its faith! Hindu, Turk, Greek, Spaniard,Scotchman,—each was in exclusive possession of theEternal Verities!

The materials of the generalization were all there;and one fine morning she said to herself: Religious truthis simply a question of geography.

Mary Rolfe was a sceptic!

And yet she had not read one sceptical book. Wherewas she to find such in Richmond?

But this demure little miss of sixteen summers didwhat she could to keep her doubts to herself. Howshockingly ungenteel to be an infidel! And a femaleinfidel! An agnostic would have been different. Thevery sound of the word is ladylike; but, unhappilyfor our heroine, their day had not yet come. And fora whole year there was not a more wretched littlewoman in all Richmond.

Two clocks shall stare at each other, from oppositewalls, year in and year out, and agree to disagree withoutthe least discomfort to either. And would that wemen 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 rivalsewing-machines! And why, because our whilomchum now goes about with the pellets of the Homœopathin his vest-pocket, forsaking the boluses of theRegulars, why should we turn and rend him?

Dreading to be rent, our sweet-sixteener kept herdaring speculations locked within her bosom, and waswretched; for man’s opinions, like man himself, aregregarious,—and a thought is as restless in solitude asa bird cut off from its mate.

So this state of things could not last. And whenAlice, after looking very serious for a week, announcedher intention of being confirmed on the approachingvisitation of the bishop, Mary had to speak. Alicewas 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 downher vague objections to the credibility of Christianitywith such ease, that, at the close of a two-hours’ interview,she begged, in deep humiliation, that he wouldnot consider her an entirely brainless creature; so utterlyfrivolous had all her objections been made toappear. Two or three books, left in her hands, finishedthe business. And, a few weeks later, Mary and Aliceknelt side by side, and took upon themselves their baptismalvows.

Now, among the various phases of infidelity, thereare two forms which are strongly antithetical,—thescepticism 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 ofriotous passions,—who has not seen such a one masqueradingas a freethinker? Never fear, reverend anddear sir; thinking will have to be wondrous freebefore any of it passes his way. Sooner or later youshall number him among the meekest of your lambs.A hemorrhage—a twinge of gout in the stomach—anyreminder that he is mortal—and you shall see himpassing the plate along the aisles, and offering to takea class in your Sunday-school. In fact, a few such reclaimedsheep are a positive necessity in every flock.They point a moral. Remember what he was, and seewhat he is. And the blasphemer of yesterday becomesthe beacon-light of to-day.

But when doubts have their origin in the higherrather than the lower nature,—when a mind, at oncecandid and searching, gradually finds itself forced toquestion dogmas learned from a mother’s lips,—for thisphase of scepticism, the cure is far more difficult, andrarely radical. You may mow down the doubts withirresistible logic, they may be crushed into the veryearth by the enormous weight of unanimous opposingopinion, but they are not dead. Remove the pressure,and the mind bristles, instantly, with interrogation-points.

“No,” said her kindly pastor, patting her brownhair, “I am far from thinking that this little head isbrainless. The trouble lies in the opposite direction.Stop thinking about things that are above the reach ofthe human mind,—above it, for the very reason thatthey are of God. Honestly, now, if we could grasp themeaning of every word in that Bible of ours, as thoughit 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 botheryour head about such subtleties. Stop thinking, andgo to work. You will find that a panacea worth allthe logic in the world.”

And such Mary found it to be. And her class in theSunday-school was soon recognized as the best. Andshe taught the servants of her mother’s household, andread to them till they nodded again.

And so, when she went down to spend Christmas inLeicester, 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 herfeet. She repeated to herself, over and over again, thearguments of her pastor; she read and re-read his books.Their logic seemed irresistible; yet it did not give herrest. Her head was convinced,—’twas her heart thatwas in rebellion. And she was woman enough to knowthe danger of that.

Faith or love,—which should it be? One cannotserve two masters.

“Nonsense!” said the cheery Alice, one day. “Ican imagine now how he will look, marching to churchwith your prayer-book in his hand!”

“No, it is not nonsense.”

“Pooh! we shall have him singing in the choirbefore you have been married six months.”

Mary laughed (for who could resist the Enchantress?);and Alice, seizing her advantage, drew picture afterpicture of the reclaimed Don, each more ludicrous thanthe other (throwing in parenthetical glimpses of herown Charley), till both girls were convulsed withmerriment.

“No, Alice,” said Mary, at last, wiping the tearsfrom her eyes, “it is a very serious matter. Do youknow what would happen? He would not be saved,but I should be lost.”

That was what troubled Mary. That was why shecould not laugh when her mother made merry oversceptical youths. He who had spoken so well and sostrangely, down there by the Argo, was not a scepticalyouth, but a man of most vehement convictions. Andshe felt that she would be clay in his hands. His faith,was formed; hers would be formed upon it. Formedupon it? Crushed against it, rather! For, after all,though of a deeply religious nature, as was plain, hadhe any religion?

That was the way we Virginians[1] looked at it. Ifyou were not orthodox, you didn’t count. If youwere not for us, you were against us. “I look uponall Protestant ministers as wolves in sheep’s clothing,”said a Catholic to me. Per contra, I once asked aPresbyterian minister—a friend of mine—how he ratedCatholicism. “What do you mean?” “Do you lookupon it as a religion, for example?” He was a goodfellow, 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, heanswered, in a voice full of sadness, “I do not. I regardit as worse than nothing.”

Ah, we were out-and-outers in those days! An errorwas worse than a crime. That could be atoned for,with the one, by confession and absolution; with theother by repentance, even at the eleventh hour. Butgetting into the wrong pew! “A blind horse tumblesheadforemost 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 proportionas her faith weakened did its terrors grow darkerto her mind. That yawning gulf, upon the brink ofwhich she used to tremble as a little child, seemed tohave opened again. She believed less—she feared more.The peace she had gained was gone. The old darkdays had come back. One cannot serve two masters;for either—

But faith or love—which?

CHAPTER LXII.

One day, Mary burst into Alice’s room. “Readthat,” 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 faceand tear-stained cheeks upset her, and her hands shooka little as she unfolded the letter. She read the firstpage with eager haste and contracted brows; thenturned nervously to the last (the sixteenth), and readthe concluding sentence and signature.

“Why, what can the matter be, Mary? It beginswell, it ends well?”

“It is the same all through.”

“The same all through! And you crying! Uponmy word, Mary, you—”

“Read it.”

Those satirists who claim that nothing can stop awoman’s tongue have never tried the experiment ofhanding her a love-letter. Over Alice there now camea sudden stillness, chequered only by exclamations ofdelight,—

“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? Yougoose! A-a-a-h, too beautiful,—too sweet for anything!—Ideclare I shall be heels over head in lovewith him myself before— Gracious, what a torrent!What vehemence! Do you know, Mary, he almostfrightens me? Well, I have read the letter; and now,miss, be so good as to explain what you mean byscaring people so with your white face and redeyes?”

“It is hard,” said Mary, after a pause, and trying tocontrol 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 scarcelyclosed my eyes for two nights. I feel that I cannotstand 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 youcould bring him over, you who are so brilliant and allthat, you know. I wouldn’t say so to your face, butI don’t care what compliments I pay the back of yourhead.”

Mary turned and laughed.

“I am glad,” continued Alice, “I am not a geniuswith a bee in my bonnet; and let me tell you, there isa gigantic one, of the bumble variety, buzzing, at thisvery moment, just here.” And she rapped Mary’s headwith the rosy knuckle of her forefinger.

Mary adopted Alice’s suggestion; and there sprangup, between herself and the Don, a correspondencewhich lasted for two months. Eight or nine weeks oftheological discussion between two lovers! Think ofit!

Ole Virginny nebber tire!

Think of it, but tremble not, my reader. Not oneline of it all shall you be called on to read. Were Ian adherent of the Analytical and Intellectual School,as it is called, of American Novelists, you should haveevery word of it. Then you would be able to tracethe most minute processes of our Mary’s soul, and realize,step by step, how she reached the state of mindto 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 keenestInsight and most Intellectual Dissection, and that wehave reached the end of it. Here is where we findourselves. (No thanks; it would have bored me asmuch to write it as you to read it.)

During these two months Mary has been in a perpetualferment. She has read all the books of evidentialpolemics that she could lay her hands on, and hermind has become a very magazine of crushing syllogisms.She has been pouring these out with all thateloquence that love is so sure to lend a woman’s pen.Day by day she has become more thoroughly convincedof the impregnability of her position (just as lawyers’convictions bloom ever stronger under the irrigationof repeated fees,—retainer, reminder, refresher, convincer).From a trembling doubter she has growninto a valiant knight-errant of the faith, ready tomeasure 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 thatif ever she turn preacher, he will be there, every Sunday,to hear. And, instead of answering her letters, hastold her that every one made him love her a thousandtimes more than before. Not an argument any morethan 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 armorglanced harmless away and left him smiling.

Left him smiling. So she thought. But it was notso. Our little heroine stood upon a volcano.

When she was with the Don, there was somethingabout him which told her what she could say to him,what not. But the paper on which he wrote was likeother paper, and gave no warning. How could she, sofar away, see the dark look that came into his face ashe read this in one of her letters:

“How can you,” she had said, at the close of an impassionedburst on the beneficence of the Creator, asevinced in the beauties of nature,—“how can you, asyou look upon that beautiful, shining river, and therosy clouds that float above it, and breathe this balmyair of spring,—how can you lift your eyes from such ascene of loveliness and bounteous plenty as surroundsyou,—how dare you raise your eyes to heaven and say,there is no God!”

She could not see his look when he read that. Allshe saw was something like this:

“I cannot pretend to argue with such a wonderfullittle theologian as you,—I who know nothing of theology.But where did you get the notion that I wasan atheist? I could almost wish I were one, for themere happiness of being converted by you. In pointof fact, I am nothing of the kind. How could I be?I need not look at the rosy sunset, or the smiling fieldsabout me, to learn that there is a God. I have but togaze into my own heart, and upon your image imprintedthere. A fool might say that land and sea cameby chance; but my Mary! Her arguments are notneeded. She herself is all-sufficient proof, to me atleast, 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 arelabelled angel!”

How was she to know that she stood upon a precipice?But Charley saw that all was not well. Lookingup from a letter he was reading (his face was redfrom a sudden stoop to snatch, unobserved, some violetsthat had fluttered out as he unfolded it). Lookingup from this letter—

But Charley had his troubles, too, of which I musttell 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 didall the arguing.

The proposition that young Frobisher maintained, inletter after letter, was this: that when a girl had promisedto marry a fellow, she should never thereafter writeto him without telling him somewhere—he did not carea fig (not he!) whether it was in the beginning, or theend, 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. Hewould 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 withouta postscript; but whether from the love of teasing,which is innate in cats and young women, when theyhave a mouse or a man in their power, or from genuinemaidenly modesty, she never said, in plain English, exactlywhat Charley wished to hear; as, P.S.—Unreasonableold goose, or, How could I? or, I wonder if I do? or,What do you think? But they were the merriest lettersthat ever were seen, and made Charley so happy (forall his grumbling) that at this period of his life he usedto wake up a dozen times a night, smiling to himself,all in the dark; then float off again into a dreamlandpopulous 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 saidto me, I love you?”

Opening the reply hastily (to read the postscriptfirst), the violets had dropped out, covering the poorboy with blissful confusion. I don’t hate you a bit, saidthe postscript.

Some metaphysical notion must have come intoCharley’s head, as he read those words don’t hate. Didhe, perhaps, think, that somewhere between the negativedon’t and the positive hate there must lurk,though invisible, the longed-for word love? At anyrate, selecting a spot midway, he kissed it with accuracyand fervor.

“Umgh—umgh!” grunted Uncle Dick, who had happenedto step up on the threshold just at this criticaland 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 whencethe 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 andhelp yourself!”

“Much obleeged, mahrster; my mouf is a leetletetched wid de drought, dat’s a fac’. And here’s manyhappy returns to you, likewise all enquirin’ friends;and here’s hopin’ dat de peach may tase as sweet in youmouf as it look to you a-hangin’ on de tree!” And hevanished, backing out of the room, smiling and bowing—

As though a courtier quitted the presence-chamberof Louis Quatorze!

It was looking up from this very same violet-scentedletter that Charley saw the Don gazing out of thewindow with a troubled look. “What has Mary beenwriting to the Don?” he asked Alice. “He and Idon’t compare notes, as I suppose you do. For sometime past his face has been clouded after reading oneof her letters. What does it mean?”

Alice acquainted him, in her next, with the natureof the correspondence, and was surprised at theearnestness of Charley’s protest against the courseMary was pursuing. “If you have any influence overMary, stop this thing; stop it instantly. She is treadingon a mine. You and Mary are deceived by thegentleness and courtesy of his replies. You don’tknow the man. I do; and, as Uncle Dick says abouta certain mule on the place here, he isn’t the kind ofman to projick ’long o’. ‘She am a sleepy-lookin’ animil,Marse Charley, and she look like butter wouldn’tmelt in her mouf; no mor’n ’twouldn’t, eff you leffher ’lone; but I rickommen’ dat you don’t tetch hernowhar of a suddent, leastwise whar she don’t wantto be tetched. De man what tickle dat muil in deflank, to wake her up, sort o’, will find hisself wakedup powerful, hisself. Lightnin’ ain’t a sucku*mstance todat d’yar self-same Sally-muil when she are tetchedonproper 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 itenforced, but for a postscript in these words: “It is ahabit with me—an affectation, if you will—always tosay less than I mean. C. F.”

Startled by this ominous hint, Alice fluttered acrossthe street and into Mary’s room; and there was a field-daybetween them.

The conflict lasted for hours, and seemed likely toend in a drawn battle,—a defeat, that is, for the attackingparty. Alice’s old weapons, with which she hadso often gained the victory over her less ready adversary,seemed to have lost their edge. In vain didshe coruscate with wit, bubble with humor, caper aboutthe room in a hundred little droll dramatic impromptus.Mary was unmoved, and sat with her eyes bent uponthe floor. At last, with a flushed face, Alice rose togo; and it was then that she shot a Parthian arrow.

“Very well, Mary.” And her eyes looked so darkthat you would never have said that they were hazel.“Very well; have your way; but I should not havethought it of you!”

“You are not angry with me?” said she, seizing herhand.

“No, not angry; but disappointed. I never pretendedto have anything heroic about me, Mary. I amonly an every-day sort of a girl; but I can tell youthis. 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—oreven Deuteronomy.” And a twinkle danced,for a moment, in her flashing eyes. “What he thoughtof Alice,” added she, with a parenthetical smile, “thatwould be the main point with me. And if he loved meas the Don loves you, I would follow him to the endsof the earth. Yes, and to the end of the world. Tothe end of the world—and—and—beyond!”

A noble devotion illumined her face as she utteredthese words, and Mary’s eyes kindled in sympathy.

“Then you would marry an unbeliever?”

“Mary, if you were to fall into a river, the Donwould leap in to save you. You see him battling withwaves of another kind—and—you hesitate! Plungeboldly in,—throw your loving arms around—”

“Oh!”

“Metaphorically speaking!”

“Ah!”

“Of course!”

CHAPTER LXIII.

The two friends sat down and talked ever so muchmore. Alice did not show Charley’s letter to Mary,but before she said good-night she exacted a promisefrom her to give up her religious warfare upon theDon.

Mary meant to keep her word, but the fates were toostrong for her.

Among her relatives there was a young man—asecond cousin, I believe—whose society she greatly enjoyed;for he was well-read, naturally bright, and acapital talker. He had studied law, and, in fact, been admittedto the bar; but he was not strong enough forthat laborious profession, and, being an ardent student,soon broke down. During Mary’s stay at Elmington hehad had an alarming hemorrhage. This visitation (ithad occurred on Christmas Day, too) he looked uponas a call to the ministry, to use the language of theperiod. And so the man whom she had left, twomonths before, a bright ambitious young lawyer, shefound, on her return, an exceedingly serious theologicalstudent.

In Virginia, the relations existing between cousinsof opposite sex are pleasanter, I believe, than in mostother parts of the world. At any rate, these two werealmost like brother and sister.

What kind of man was this Don? and, most importantof all, in his eyes, how did he stand as to the questionof questions? It was some time before he got thewhole truth out of Mary; partly because she was loathto tell it, partly because, as a Virginian of the period,it was difficult for him to take it in. But it dawned onhim 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 oncethe ice was broken) she was as unreserved. She feltthat her heart would burst if she could not pour forthher troubles into some sympathetic ear. She hadAlice, it is true; but there are many things which awoman would sooner say to a man than to one of herown sex.

And especially, during these conferences, was shenever tired of sketching the Don. But, as line afterline of his character came out in bolder and bolder relief,more and more convinced became her cousin thatit would be a fatal blunder on Mary’s part to unite herdestiny with that of this man, whose convictions wereas firm as they were objectionable. It was easy to seewho would lead and who follow in such partnership.

And at first he had joined the crusade against theerroneous tenets of the Don: lending books and suggestingarguments to Mary; but he soon gave up eventhe slender hopes he at first had of success, and fromthat day, to Alice’s great indignation, left no stone unturnedto induce Mary to break with her lover.

And his words had great weight with Mary. Hisstrength was rapidly failing. The hectic flush on hiswan cheeks and the unnatural lustre of his eyes showedbut too plainly that he was not long for this world;and his hollow voice seemed to Mary, at times, almosta warning from the next. Between him and Alice itwas an even battle; victory inclining first to one standardand then to the other. Just at the present junctureshe is perched on Alice’s banner. For Mary haspromised to let Hume and Voltaire take care of themselvesfor the future; and, since logic had failed, totrust to love.

She slept well that night, and awoke next morningblithe and gay. Awoke singing rather than sighing.Her song was short.

That evening her cousin came. She told him of herresolution. He seemed unusually ill that day; andwhether from that cause (he coughed a good deal) orbecause he deemed it useless to remonstrate, he saidlittle, and soon took his leave, giving her, as he badeher good-night, a look full of affectionate compassion.

Two or three days after this, on Sunday, Mary tookher seat in her mother’s pew, nestling in her accustomedcorner. I hardly think she heard much of theservice; and when the pastor gave out chapter andverse (of his sermon), his voice fell upon her outwardear merely. Her thoughts were far away.

Ah, brother and sister Virginians, who can wonderthat we stream to church so, on Sunday? What serenerhalf-hour can there be than when the good man is talkingto us? Have we not sat under his teaching foryears? And doth not all the world allow him to beorthodox? Shall we watch him, then? Shall we weighhis words? That, being a safe man, he will do. Lethim talk! He will say the right thing, never fear!Trust him! Give him room! While we, free from theanxieties of business and the petty cares of home, sitthere, peacefully dreaming, each one of us the dreamsthat each loves best!

No; I am afraid Mary did not even hear what chapterand verse the text was from that Sunday. ThatSunday, particularly; for the very day before she hadreceived a letter in which her lover had said somethinglike this: Yes, he went to church now; that is, he satin the Argo every Sunday, from eleven till one; satthere and thought of nothing but her,—and so foundthat heaven which she sought.

Strictly speaking, these were what were thoughtwicked words in those days (ole Virginny neber tire);but Mary forgave, though she did not even try to forgetthem. And no sooner had she taken her seat thanher thoughts flew to the Argo. She could see him asplainly as though he stood before her; and he wasthinking of her. And of her only, of all the world!

Are you in love, lovely reader? Then you will notbe hard on my poor little heroine, who ought to havewaited, 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 Rolfeswere 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 castmy eyes over the placid faces of a congregation, Ialways 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 allknow, of the people making themselves comfortable.Here a little foot peeps cautiously around, and, findingthe accustomed stool, draws it deftly beneath snowyskirts. There a wide sole seeks unoccupied space;while length of limb penetrates unexplored regions,avoiding cramp. Let us adjust ourselves, you in thatcorner, I in this, where we can sit and muse accordingto the bent of our several backs and minds.

“II. Corinthians, vi. 14.”

My eye chanced to fall on Mary’s face just at thatmoment. It wore the usual Sunday-dreamy look.

“Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”

She shivered.

Alice glanced quickly towards her; but the thrillhad already passed. She had regained outward composure,and sat looking at the preacher, calm and unobtrusivelyattentive.

The cousin fidgeted in his seat and coughed softlyin his hand.

Alice fixed her eyes upon him.

Perhaps he felt them, for a deeper glow suffused hishectic cheek.

The preacher, after a few introductory remarks onthe state of things which led the apostle to use thesewords, began with a sort of apology for calling theattention of his flock to such a text. And again Alicefixed her eyes upon the cousin, and again he seemed tofeel their glow.

I shall not attempt to reproduce the sermon. Hissketch of the advance of skepticism in Europe, in England,and in the North, struck me as labored; showingclearly that he had been set upon the task. But Ishall not criticise it. He was at home, certainly, whenhe pictured the life of a pious, Christian woman whoseyoke-fellow was an atheist. It was a fearful picture(from the point of view of his hearers,—and he waspreaching to them), of which every detail was harrowing.But I leave that picture to the imagination ofmy 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 theplenary inspiration of the Scriptures was held, at thisperiod, throughout the length and breadth of Virginia.It was held, in truth, in a way to warm the heart of athoroughgoing theologian; for to doubt it was to betotally bereft of reason. But many of my middle-agedfellow-citizens who are accustomed to laugh at theCatholic doctrine of papal infallibility, will be surprisedwhen I remind them that, at that day, we believed,also, in something very nearly akin to the plenary inspirationof sermons (those of our own sect, of course).

And my Bushwhackerish candor compels me to gofurther, and to add that it seems to me that we VirginiaProtestants, at that day, carried the dogma ofparsonic infallibility to even greater lengths thanCatholics do that of the papal. For, as I understandit, it is only in matters of faith that the Pope cannoterr (and if he be infallible more than that, I kiss hisholiness’s toe and beg absolution); whereas, our Protestantpontiffs did not hesitate to pronounce on allmanner 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 dictionaryyou shall lay your hands on)—dancing is but therhythmic capering of the young of our species for abrief season (ah, how brief and fleeting!). The rhythmiccapering 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 thelamb, most scriptural of animals, frisketh where helisteth. ’Twas the rhythm of motion that was hurtful.

“Miss Sally,” cried a colored slave and sister to heryoung mistress, “you jump de rope and swing in dehammock, and you a member o’ de church!” [Hervery words; nor were they the remains of a half-forgottenAfrican fetich. They were a legitimate deductionfrom the theology current in my young days.]

“Thou shalt not dance!” they thundered.

As though one bade the birds cease singing. AndVirginia bowed her head and obeyed.

We had our youthful sinners, of course, who wickedlyrefused to be content with Blind Man’s Buff and Who’sGot the Thimble? (just as His Holiness is botheredwith his heretics). The Pope, however, wisely rememberingthat this is the nineteenth century, would probablyleave it to the astronomers to say whether theearth revolves around its axis; but as to the exclusivelyphysiological question whether it were injuriousto dance a Virginia reel, no Virginian of those daysever dreamed of consulting his family physician.

Am I beyond the mark, reader, when I say that thepapal infallibility pales in presence of the parsonic?

Can you wonder, then, that our poor little Mary waspale as ashes as she hurried home that day?

Her mother walked beside her in silence. That wasbitter; for during these two months past Mrs. Rolfehad been more and more won over to the side of theDon by what she had heard, not only from Mrs. Carterand Alice, but from several of her acquaintance whohad met him in Leicester during the winter; and theaggregate of her favorable impressions had been greatlystrengthened by a little incident that had recently cometo her ears.

It appears that Mrs. Poythress had been greatly interestedin having a new roof and other repairs putupon the old church, and had succeeded in raising thewhole amount, with the exception of eighty dollars.Now, one Sunday, as she was coming out of churchwith the congregation, a negro man, taking off his hat,handed her a small parcel, saying, “I were inquestedto han’ you dis, ma’am,” and immediately bowed himselfaround the corner of the building and disappeared.When this was opened it was found to contain fivetwenty-dollar gold-pieces and a strip of paper on whichwas written the word roof in a disguised hand. Theincident made some stir, as such things will, in acountry neighborhood. Who was this, who was hidingfrom his left hand what his right hand did? The negrowas hunted down by amateur female detectives, andproved to be none other than our friend Sam (who, itwill be remembered, caught Charley and Alice at theirlove-making in the Argo). But nothing could be gottenout of honest Sam. “I was not to name no names,”—thatwas all he would say (adding thereunto, in theElmington kitchen that night, that eff a five-dollarnote wouldn’t shet a nigg*r mouf, twan’t no use towase stickin’-plaster on him).

It was never discovered who had contributed thehundred dollars, but it was generally believed that itwas the Don. As for Mrs. Rolfe, she never doubtedfor one moment that it was he, basing, too, upon thisconclusion, half a dozen inferences, all favorable to theyoung man,—first, that his not going to church was atransient eccentricity; secondly, that he was a man ofmeans; and, thirdly, that he was freehanded with thesaid means, etc., etc., etc.

This trait, as I presume everybody knows, is thatwhich, next to personal courage, women most admirein a man. With what enthusiasm will a bevy of girlshail a bouquet, costly beyond the means of the giver,while the recipient of it, as she passes it from nose tonose, actually tosses hers with pride,—yes,—becauseher lover has not had the prudence to lay by what hegave 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 levellinga sneer at the whole sex; and I’ll do it yet, one ofthese days, and come out as a wit,—one of these dayswhen 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 morefavorable she grew to his suit the more frequently didshe allude to the absolute necessity of Mr. Rolfe’s seeingthe young man and hearing his account of himself, beforehe could be allowed even to look at her Mary. Itwould be time enough, etc., etc.; but let a cloud appearon her daughter’s brow,—let her come down to breakfastpale and worn—

“I believe, Mary,” Alice used to say, “that you oftenassume a rueful countenance simply to lead your motheron to sing his praises.”

Never, in truth, had Mary felt herself so drawn toher mother as during this trying period of her younglife; and to her ineffably tender, maternal solicitudeher heart made answer with an unspoken yet passionategratitude.

And now this mother, who was always ready with asoothing word, walked by her side in silence.

And Alice,—Alice, the merry and the brave,—wherewas she? Why does she, contrary to her custom, hangback so far in the rear, talking to Mr. Whacker inundertones? See, she has crossed over, and is walkingdown the street on the other side! Has she, too, desertedme? Oh, that terrible, terrible sermon! Sheran up-stairs, locked her door, and threw herself uponthe lounge.

Mary was right. The same words of the preacherwhich had stunned her had staggered her mother andAlice. Such was the power of the pulpit in those days.To both, as they stepped from the church-door into thestreet, the responsibility of combating the fulminationsof their pastor seemed too heavy for their shoulders.

But our plucky little Alice was only staggered, andsoon 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 shadesof 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 bellrang! 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 almostscreamed; “tell him that!” cried she, advancing uponher late pupil in Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” withlooks so fierce and gestures so vehement as to driveher back in alarm upon the door which she had justentered with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am,” stammered the Pilgrim,fumbling over the door-knob in her confused effort toescape. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him,” added she, courtesyingherself out, and shutting the door softly behindher.

“Hi!” half whispered, half thought she to herself,as she stood upon the landing, collecting her breathand her wits. “Hi, what de matter wid Miss Mary?Fore Gaud, I was afeard she was gwine to bite me, Iwas! 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’ andcoughin’, same like one o’ dese here little fice-dogs whatbark and bark and never tree nothin’, dough he dodrive off de oder varmints dat you mought cotch; andno gal don’t like dat, be she white or black. He’s anice gent’mun, I don’t ’spute dat; but he are powerfulwizzened up, dat’s a fac’. Howsomdever, I ain’t gotde heart to give him no sich message. A gent’mun isa gent’mun, for all dat, and I ain’t had no sich raisin’.Nebberdeless, I ain’t a-blamin’ Miss Mary. She tiredo’ dat kind. Well, I likes ’em spry and sassy myself,I does, and I s’pose folks is folks, dough dey be diff’entcolors. Ahem! Ahem!”

She was nearing the parlor-door, and was clearingher throat for a polite paraphrase, when she saw thefront door gently close.

He had heard, and was gone.

Mary never saw him again. When he died, about ayear afterwards, she said that she had forgiven him;but I doubt if she knew her own heart. There aresome things a woman can never pardon.

Nor do I think that Alice has ever quite forgivenherself for her delay at this crisis. For she feels tothis day, I suspect, that had she gone to see Mary thatevening this story might have ended like a fairy-tale,with everybody happy, just as it fares in real life. Butshe waited till next morning.

And she awoke with the first twittering salutationsof the birds to the dawn; the dawn of a lovely Aprilday. She too (for she was young and happy) salutedAurora; but with a sleepy smile; and readjusting thepillow to her fair head, dozed off again; dozed offa*gain, just as her friend across the way, exhaustedwith pacing her room, had thrown herself, all dressedas she was, upon her bed. Her mother, stealing softlyin, found her lying there, shortly afterwards, pale, haggard,breathing hard, her features bearing, even whileshe slept, traces of the struggle through which she hadpassed. And every now and then her overwroughtframe shook with a quick nervous tremor. Her motherwrung her hands in silence, and turned to leave theroom.

There was a letter, scaled and addressed, lying uponthe table at which her daughter wrote; while all abouther chair lay fragments of other letters, begun, buttorn in pieces, and thrown upon the floor, though abasket stood near at hand. “This will not do,” thoughther mother. “She must tell me what is in that letterbefore she mails it. We must look into this matter,carefully, before any irrevocable step be taken. ShallI take possession of it now? No, I will speak to herafter breakfast. Poor child! Poor child!” And shestole out on tiptoe.

This was not the first time that Mrs. Rolfe had visitedher daughter that night. At two o’clock in themorning, detecting the sound of footsteps in Mary’sroom, she had gone up-stairs and found her pacing herroom. She had entreated her to go to bed,—beggedher to compose herself,—had pressed her daughter toher heart and wept upon her shoulder and bidden hergood-night. Mary, hearing her mother coming, hadhoped for a word of encouragement. But Mrs. Rolfehad not dared to give it, with the words of the preacherstill resounding in her ears.

“It is all over, then,” she thought, when her motherclosed the door; and seizing her pen, began to write.Wrote letter after letter, each in a different vein; eachto be torn in pieces in turn. At last she wrote onewhich was barely two pages long. As she folded theletter there fell upon it a big tear, which she quicklydried with her handkerchief.

That tear-stain, poor child, had you left it there,—butit was not to be.

Another fell upon the address, blotting it. She gotanother 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 wasstartled. She would talk to her daughter after breakfast.

After breakfast. That was Alice’s plan, too, youremember.

Mr. Rolfe, that man of peace, had slept through allthe turmoil of the night. “Where is Mary?” askedhe, as he seated himself at table, next morning; aquestion which evoked two simultaneous, though divergentreplies: one from Mrs. Rolfe that Mary was ratherindisposed, and would hardly be down to breakfast; theother from the Pilgrim, to the effect that her young mistresshad gone out, betimes, for a walk. “D’yar she isnow,” she added, as Mary’s footsteps were heard in thefront hall.

Mr. Rolfe greeted his daughter with a smile of brightbenignity. He praised the roses in her cheeks. Afterall, there was nothing like fresh air and exercise. Asshe bent over him and kissed him with unusual affection,he patted her cheek; accompanying each tap witha sort of cooing little murmur, which was his way whenshe caressed him. He was delighted. He couldn’t rememberwhen he had seen her so gay. She must walkbefore 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 thebreath of morning, but a burning flush, rather; andwhen she took her daughter’s hand in hers, it was icycold. Her gayety, too, which rejoiced her father’sheart, made her mother’s ache.

Presently, and while our party still lingered aroundthe breakfast-table, Alice came tripping in, fresh andcheery, the very personification of that April whichwas abroad in the land.

Alice was not long in detecting the hysteria whichlurked beneath Mary’s assumed joyousness. Whathad happened? An acute attack of curiosity, complicatedwith anxiety, seized upon her; and in less thana quarter of an hour she and Mary stood in the hallwayacross the street, exchanging a few words withMrs. 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 lightlyup the stairs.

“How jolly you are to-day, Mary,” called out Mrs.Carter.

“Oh,” replied she from the first landing, “as merryas 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 thanher face became serious. “Sit down in that chair,”said she, in her quick, business-like manner. “Andnow,” added she, drawing a seat close beside Mary, andtaking 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-oha-ha-ha-happy!” And throwing herself on Alice’sneck, she sobbed convulsively.

Alice stroked her friend’s hair in silence, waiting tillshe should recover from this paroxysm of bliss. Atlast Mary began to speak.

“It is all over,” she sobbed. “It was more than mystrength could bear. After that sermon—” and sheshivered.

“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 youjust be so kind as to let me have that letter?” addedshe, reaching out her hand.

“It is already mailed.”

“Mailed!” shouted Alice, springing to her feet.

“Yes. I took it to the post-office myself beforebreakfast.”

CHAPTER LXV.

In those days, before the mail-delivery system hadbeen introduced, we had to send to the post-office forour letters.

If we were in love, we went in person, of course.

“Where are you going?” called out Alice across thestreet.

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 doyou expect him to say?”

“Don’t ask me that,” she said, with a shiver.

“I think I can tell you. Your letter, as you quotedit to me, severed all relations between you. But haveyou not a kind of dim, unacknowledged hope that hewill recant his heresies and bridge the chasm betweenyou?”

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,—thoughyou think I have been hasty,—I feel a profoundconviction that it is best as it is.”

“Well, good-by! Be brave.” And more than once,as she hastened homeward, Alice passed her hand acrossher eyes.

Mary stood before the little square window at thepost-office.

“Any letters?”

The clerk knew who she was, and the sight of herpretty, pale face lent a certain alacrity to his calm,official legs. Briskly diving into her father’s box, hehanded her half a dozen letters. As she passed themnervously between thumb and finger, glancing at theaddresses, he held his steady, postmasterish eye uponher. What else had he to do? Could not that otherwoman who stood there, could not she wait? Wasnot her nose red; and her chin, was not her chin (by amysterious dispensation of Providence) bumpy? Lether stand there, then, craning her anatomical neck tocatch his stony gaze. Let her wait till pretty littleMiss Rolfe sorts her letters. Ah, that’s the one shehoped to get,—that with the distinct, yet bold andjagged address, that I have noticed so often. Ah,that’s the one—What name, madam? Adkins? MissElizabeth Ann? One for Miss Elizabeth Adkins. Begyour pardon,—five cents due, Miss Adkins.

My reader, be pretty. Let me entreat you—bepretty, if you can in anywise compass it. If not, begood. Even that is better than nothing. It will be acomfort to you in your declining years.

And your little nephews and nieces will rise up, someday, and call you blessed.

“Will you be so kind as to put these back in thebox?”

The clerk bowed with a gracious smile; and Mary,placing three or four letters in her pocket, left thebuilding, and turned in the direction of the CapitolSquare. She passed in through the first gate, and hurriedalong the gravel path. By the time she hadreached the first seat she had grown so weak that shewas glad to throw herself upon it.

Had Mary had her eyes about her, she would havebeen struck with the unwonted aspect of the Square.Our pretty little park, usually the resort of merrychildren, wore, on this particular day, a rather seriouslook. Men, in earnest conversation, stood about ingroups. Others hurried past, without even giving herpretty face the tribute of a glance. But she saw nothing,heeded nothing; not even the dark, gatheringthrong which crowned the summit of the green slopein front of the Capitol; though it was not a stone’sthrow from where she sat.

She drew her letters from her pocket, placing theone with the jagged address quickly beneath the others.She tore open an envelope and began to read. Theletter was from a former schoolmate,—a bright girl,but its cleverness gave Mary no pleasure now, butseemed frivolity, rather; and as for the cordial invitation(on the eighth page), before she got to that shehad thrust the letter back into its cover. She gave buta glance at the contents of the next. The third madeher forget herself, for an instant. It was a large, business-lookingenvelope, stamped New York; and shegave a quick little start, when, upon opening it, acheque fluttered down before her feet. As she readthe accompanying letter, a sudden flash of joyful surpriseillumined her face when she found that her article(mailed with many misgivings two months ago, andlong since forgotten) had been accepted. A suddenflash of joyous surprise, followed by quick gatheringclouds; for, as she stooped to pick up the cheque, afourth letter slid from her lap and fell upon it. Thecharacteristic hand in which it was addressed she hadoften admired; it was so firm and bold. Was it herimagination that transformed it now? Was it changed?Was it more than firm now, and had its boldness becomeferocity? A sudden revulsion came over Mary;and upon the words of the publishers—words of commendationand encouragement, which, a fortnight since,would have filled her young heart with exultation,—forwould not he be proud?—more than one big tear fell.

But that fourth letter remained unread. She held itin her hand, as one does a telegram, sometimes, dreadingto open it.

Her own to him had been brief and to the point;giving him to understand that their engagement was atan end, without betraying the fact that her heart, too,was broken. She had even dried the tears that fellupon the paper, you remember. She had begged hispardon, of course, but had purposely excluded from herlanguage all traces of feeling. As the thing had to bedone, it should be done effectually.

What would he do? What would he say? A thousandpossibilities had been dancing through Mary’smind.

First and foremost, would he recant?

Inconceivable! Still, this hope refused to vanish.

Would he be violent? Would his reply be a burstof fierce indignation? Very likely. Yes, that wasjust what one might expect from such a man.

Would he be sarcastic? Will he sneer at a religionwhich can make me break my word? That waswhat she dreaded most of all. Not, oh male reader(if I shall have any such), not lest his flings and gibesshould wound her. If you think that, sir, you havenever penetrated into the mysteries of the female heart.It was a dread lest he—lest HE should descend tosuch weapons,—lest this soaring eagle of her imaginationshould stoop to be a mousing owl. A Hero maynot 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 neverwitty, even. He is above it, Mary used to say, withinher heart, with that blessed alchemy whereby womenknow how to convert into virtues the blemishes ofthose whom they love. No, thought she; let him upbraidme; let him tell me that I have been false to myword; let him even say that I have proven myself unworthyto link my destiny with his (and am I worthyof the homage of such a heart? Did not even unsentimentalAlice say that a true woman would follow theman she loved to the ends of the earth?); no; let himcover me with fierce reproaches,—but let him not belittle! It is enough, and more than enough, that Ihave to give him up. Let his image remain untarnishedin my heart!

Or, would his letter be a broken-hearted wail? Shehoped not,—so she said, at least; and let us try to believeher.

Pressing her hand upon her heart for a moment, tocalm its tumultuous throbbing, she broke the seal ofthe letter, took in the first page at one mad, ravenousglance, and the hand that held the sheet fell upon herlap.

No sarcasms, no fierce reproaches, no wail of abroken heart!—no anything that she had thoughtpossible.

Brief, yet not curt, he accepted her decree without amurmur; as though a prisoner bowed in silence underthe sentence of the judge. No commonplace, norhetoric; no trace of feeling; and yet no flippant suggestionof the want of it. In a word, his letter wasan absolutely impenetrable veil. As though he hadnot written. Mary was stunned.

She had seen, as she drew the letter from the envelope,that the top of the second page contained littlemore than the signature. She had not strength, justyet, to read the dozen concluding words. She leanedback upon the bench, resting her poor, dizzy head uponher hand. She heard nothing, saw nothing. Yet therewas something to see and something to hear.

The craunching of many feet upon the gravel walk,—thefeet of strong, earnest men. And every now andthen women passed, with faces pale but resolute. Andhere, close beside her, a mob of boys, with eager eyes,sweep across the greensward, unmindful of the injunctionto keep off the grass. Movement everywhere.The very air of the peaceful little park seemed topalpitate.

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 afterwardsshe leaped from her seat with a piercing shriek;for almost at the very instant that those cruel wordsfroze her heart a terrific sound smote upon her ear.

A few feet from where she sat the fierce throats ofcannon proclaimed to the city and the world that oldVirginia was no longer one of the United States ofAmerica.

CHAPTER LXVI.

Four years have passed since our story opened, andthe autumn of 1864 is upon us. For more than threeyears Virginia has been devastated by war. Most ofLeicester’s pleasant homes have been broken up. Mygrandfather, however, trusting to his gray hairs, hadremained at Elmington. The Poythresses were refugeesin Richmond. Charley, who was now a major,commanding a battalion of artillery in the army defendingRichmond, had, two months before, been taken in anambulance-wagon to Mr. Carter’s. A bullet had passedthrough his body, but he was now convalescent. Anybright morning you might see him sunning himself inthe garden. The house was crowded to overflowing withrefugee relatives and friends from the invaded districts.

And illumined by a baby.

“He was born the very day I was wounded,” saidCharley. “I remember how anxious I was to see himbefore I died.”

“I knew you wouldn’t die,” said Alice; “and youdidn’t!”

“I am here,” said Charley.

So, fair reader, Charley, in the last week of September,1864, was a father two months old. As forthe baby (and I hereby set the fashion of introducingone or more into every romance[1]), his mother hadalready discovered whom he was like. He was aCarter, every inch of him, especially his nose. But hehad his father’s sense of humor,—there was not theslightest doubt of that. For when Charley, who, inspeaking to the infant, always alluded to himself inthose words,—when Charley, chucking him gingerlyunder the chin, would ask him what he thought of hisvenerable p-p-p-p-pop, he could be seen to smile, withthe naked eye. To smile that jerky, sudden-spreading,sudden-shrinking smile of babyhood. You see it,—’tisgone! Ah, can it be that even then we dimly discernhow 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 JubalEarly, in the lower valley,—he a captain in commandof the skirmishers of the Stonewall Division, I a staff-officerof the same rank.

I know nothing which makes one’s morning papermore interesting than the news of a great battle. It’snice to read, between sips of coffee, how the grape andcanister mowed ’em down; and the flashing of sabresis most picturesque, and bayonets glitter delightfully,in the columns of a well-printed journal. Taking ahand in it—that’s different. Then the bodily discomfortand mental inanition of camp-life. Thinking isimpossible. This, perhaps, does not bear hard uponprofessionals, with whom, for the most part, abstentionfrom all forms of thought is normal and persistent; butto 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-presentconsciousness that we were enormously outnumberedmade a difference. One boy, attacked bythree or four, may be plucky. It is rather too muchto expect him to be gay. I was not gay.

It was different with our friend, Captain Smith. Hewas one of the half-dozen men I knew in those dayswho 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. Itwas Attila’s gaudium certaminis that inspired him. Hewas 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 tappingit affectionately, they have been hard at it some time.

This little volume was on its last legs. He hadread it to pieces, and could recite page after page of itin the original. How closely, he would say, we skirmishersresemble the forefighters of Homer. He neverspoke of his own men save as Myrmidons.

He had become an ardent student, too, of the art ofwar, and had Dumont and Jomini at his fingers’ ends.Indeed, I am convinced that he would have risen tohigh rank had he not begun, and for two years remained,a private in the ranks. At the time of whichwe speak, his capacity and courage were beginning to attractattention; and more than one general officer lookedupon Captain Smith as a man destined to rise high.

It remains for me to say that he and Mary havenever met since that farewell letter. What his feelingsare towards her I can only conjecture; for, althoughhe frequently speaks of the old times, her name neverpasses his lips. An analytical writer could tell youevery thought that had crossed his mind during allthese years, and, in twenty pages of Insight, work himup, by slow degrees, from a state of tranquil bliss toone of tumultuous jimjams. But, if you wish to knowwhat my characters feel and think, you must listen towhat they say, and see what they do; which I find isthe 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, sorrowinglove, or else by implacable resentment. Choosefor yourself, fair reader. I told you, long ago, that thisbook is but the record of things seen or heard by Charley,or by Alice, supplemented occasionally by facts whichchanced to fall under my own observation. Even whereI seemed to play analytical, through those weary chapterstouching Mary’s religious misgivings, I was notswerving from the line I had laid down. Every wordtherein written down is from the lips of Mary herself,as reported to me by Alice. Now, Charley tells methat never once did Captain Smith mention Mary’sname, even to him. How, then, am I to know whatwere his feelings towards her? I remember, indeed,that once a young lieutenant of his, returning fromfurlough, greeted him with warmth; adding, almostwith his first breath, that he had met a friend of his—alady—in Richmond,—Miss Rolfe—Leigh Street—I spentan 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 toldme, a few moments afterwards, in a burst of confidence),and would willingly have invented a tender phrase forthe consolation of his captain, whom he adored; buttruth forbade.

“She said she was glad to hear you were well.”

“Miss Rolfe is very kind,” replied the captain, againtouching his cap.

The young officer glanced at his chief, and instantlyfell back upon the weather. “I think there is a stormbrewing,” he faltered.

“Very likely,” replied the captain of the Myrmidons.

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 bulletinsshe has found time to send me in the intervalsof nursing you, getting well herself, and worshippingKing Charles II. Have you agreed upon a name yet?Or, rather, has Alice settled upon one? For I am toldwomen claim the right of naming the first.

Old boy, when I heard that a bullet had gone cleanthrough you I thought I had seen the last of you;and here you are on your pins again! A far slighterwound would have sufficed to make “darkness veil theeyes” of the stoutest of Homer’s heroes. What pin-scratchesused 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 companyof artillery with you. Your feelings were wounded atthe time, and I wanted to tell you why I was so obstinate,but could not. To confess the honest truth, I hadnot the pluck to place myself where I might have tosee you die before my eyes. It would have been differentwere we warring around Troy. There, I couldhave helped you, on a pinch, and you me. But thesewinged messengers of death, who can ward them off,even from the dearest friend!

I had a cruel trial in last week’s battle. When itbecame 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 fromhis 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 hisduty,—for I am going to do it.” “Your company ismoving,” I replied, in as stern a voice as I could muster;for I felt a rush of tears coming; and he boundedinto his place. I have seen fair women in my day, andlovely landscapes, and noble chargers; but never havemy eyes beheld anything so surpassingly beautiful asthat ingenuous boy springing forward, under a rainof bullets, with a farewell to his mother on his lips, andthe light of battle on his brow. I held my breath tillhe disappeared within the wood. Why is it that we allshudder at the dangers of those we love, and yet canbe calm when our own lives hang by a thread? Is itnot because, while we know that the loss of a truefriend is one never to be repaired, and which casts ashadow upon our lives that can never be lifted [Charleykeeps this letter, with another little note, which youwill read later on, in a blue satin case, that Alice hasembroidered with forget-me-nots. He showed it to meon the nineteenth of last October. The satin is allfaded (and spotted, here and there) but time has notdulled the colors of the flowers], there is a profound,though veiled conviction, deep down in the heart ofhearts of all of us, that, as for ourselves, it were betterwere we at rest? It seems to me that it is only theinstinctive fear of death, which we share with thelower animals, and that conscience which makes bravemen, not cowards of us all, that nerves such of us ashave 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 aman with a brand-new baby!

I cannot picture to myself Alice as a mother;though, thanks to her graphic pen, I have a very clearconception of you as pater familias. I have laughedtill I cried over her accounts of you sunning theyoungster in the garden while the nurse was at herdinner, and the way you held him, and the extraordinaryobservations you see fit to make to him. Ican’t blame him for smiling. The andante in Mozart’sD minor quartet is very beautiful; but never did I expectto hear of Charles Frobisher extemporizing wordsto it as a lullaby, while he rocked his infant to sleep!

But it is time I gave you some account of our latedisastrous battle at Winchester. In order to understandit, you must have before your mind a picture ofthe region in which it was fought.

The valley of Virginia is a narrow ribbon of land, asit were, stretching diagonally across the State, betweenthe Blue Ridge and Alleghany Mountains. As itsfertility attracted settlers at an early date, its forestshave mostly fallen years ago. This is especially trueof the region around Winchester, which is situated inthe midst of a broad, fertile plain, broken by rollinghills, crowned, here and there, by the fair remains ofsingularly noble forests. One would say, standingupon an eminence, and surveying the smiling landscape,that this lovely plain was fashioned by the handof the Creator as the abode of plenty and eternal peace.Yet a poet, remembering that it is not peace, but warthat man loves, could not, in his dreams, picture to himselfa more beautiful battle-field. And if I have to fall,may it be on one of thy sunny slopes, valiant littleWinchester; and may the last thing my eyes beholdbe the handkerchiefs waving from thy housetops. Suchwomen are worth dying, yes, even worth living for.

Observe, therefore, that the plains of Winchester areadmirably adapted for the rapid and intelligent manœuvringof large masses of troops. Artillery, infantry,cavalry,—every arm of the service may move inany direction with perfect facility. And I need nottell an old soldier that such a field gives overwhelmingadvantage to a greatly superior force. When a general,as his troops advance to the attack, can see justwhere the enemy are, and how far they extend,—cansee their reserves hurrying forward, and knows thatwhen they are all hotly engaged he can push heavymasses of fresh troops around both flanks, and attackin 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 littlearmy of ten thousand troops withstood, in front ofWinchester, in the open field, without breastworks,from dawn till late in the afternoon, the assaults offorty thousand of the enemy. [Note.—This is an erroron the part of the captain, but I retain his statementof the numbers engaged, just as he gives them, simplyto show what was the universal belief of our soldiersat 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 toone. J. B. W.][1] How a solitary man of us escaped Ishall never be able to understand.

Possibly you have not seen in the papers that on theseventeenth Early sent our division down the valley toMartinsburg (twenty-two miles) to make a reconnoissance.We did a little skirmishing there, and on thenext day encamped, on our return, at a place calledBunker’s Hill,—named, I presume, in honor of theBunker’s Hill on which Boston, with a magnanimityunparalleled in history, has erected an imposing monumentto commemorate the gallant storming of Breed’sHill by the British. Here we lay down to rest. Iwill not say to sleep; for never, since the beginning ofthe war, had I felt so profoundly anxious. Picture toyourself our situation.

There we were, twelve miles down the valley, twenty-fivehundred men; while, near Berryville, over againstour main body of about eight thousand men at Winchester,lay an army forty thousand strong. SupposeSheridan should attack in our absence? True, Earlyhad marched over to Berryville, a few days before, andoffered him battle in vain. But suppose he did attack?Could he not in an hour’s time (for forty thousandagainst eight is rather too much) drive Early’s forcepell-mell across the pike, and, with his immense forceof cavalry, capture the last man he had? And then wewould have nothing to do but march up the valley, likea covey of partridges, into a net.

Such were the thoughts which flashed across mymind, with painful intensity, at dawn next morning.Weary with anxious thinking, I had fallen to sleep atlast. The boom of a cannon swept down from Winchester.We are lost, was my first thought. Ourarmy will be annihilated. Sheridan will set out on hismarch to the rear of Richmond to-morrow morning.

I rose without a word, as did others around me, andcompleted my toilet by buckling on my sword andpistols. There, on my blanket, lay Edmund, sleepingthe sweet, deep sleep of boyhood. I could hardlymake 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 isevery inch a soldier.

We hurried up the turnpike without thinking ofbreakfast, the roar of the battle growing louder aswe advanced. Edmund chattered the whole way,asking me, again and again, whether I thought itwould be all over before we got there. He had notyet been in a battle, and was full of eager courage. Itold him I thought he would have a chance at them,though I actually thought that all would be over beforewe reached the ground. And what do you suppose welearned as we neared the field? That Ramseur, withhis twelve hundred men covering our front with hardlymore than a skirmish line, had held in check the heavymasses of the enemy all this time! They had been attackedat dawn; we had marched twelve miles; andthere they were still, Ramseur and his heroic littleband of North Carolinians. And I single out the NorthCarolinians 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 andrecuperate, with a vastly superior army, flushed withvictory, 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, afterwhat I saw of his generalship at the close of the latebattle. Put yourself beside me, and see what I saw onthe afternoon of September 19th.

We are standing on an open hill, just in rear of whereour troops have fought so stubbornly the livelong day.Where is our army? It no longer exists. It has beenhammered to pieces. Here and there you see a manslowly retiring, and loading his rifle as he falls back.Every now and then he turns and fires. One here, andone there,—this is all the army we have.

Now look over there, at that field, to the left of theposition lately held by us. Those are the enemy’sskirmishers, advancing from a wood. Their long linestretches far away, and is lost to view behind that risein the hill. At whom are they firing? Heaven knows,for there is no enemy in their front. And now thedense masses of their infantry appear, in rear of theskirmishers, and glide slowly across the hill, like theshadow 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, andlet me give you a rest on my hip. Yes, the man withthe flag. Ah, you have made a stir among them. Theline moves on, but one man lies stretched upon the field,with two others kneeling beside him. There is themaking of a sharpshooter in the boy!

And what ponderous form is this that comes towardsus, limping and disconsolate? ’Tis our friend Jack.He, I need hardly tell you, ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻But he lost heart when his powerful charger fell beneathhim, disembowelled by a cannon-ball. PoorBucephalus! He had carried him through twentybattles as though he were a feather; and where washe to find another horse that could carry him at all!(Edmund tells a good story of Jack. He says thatwhile he stood lamenting the death of his valiant steed,one of our advancing brigades, first staggering underthe heavy fire, then halting, were beginning to giveway. “Boys,” cried Jack (he will have his joke),“boys, follow me! If they can’t hit me, they can’t hitanybody!” Edmund says that some of the soldierslaughed; and that as they followed the burly captainhe heard one of them say to his neighbor, “Mind now;if they do hit him, I claim his breeches as a winter-quarterstent.”)

Look, now, at those dark masses, halted in full viewon that rising ground to our right. They are as nearWinchester as we are. What are they doing there?Surely they can see that there are no troops betweenthemselves and the town! Why do they not go andtake it? Can it be their advance has been checked bythe stray shots of a score of retreating sharpshooters?

Now turn and look a mile away, to our left. Seethat dense cloud of dust, lit up with the flashing ofcarbine-shots, the gleaming of sabres, and the glare ofbursting shells! There, along the pike, our handfulof cavalry, struggling bravely with overwhelming odds,is falling back upon the town. Come, Edmund, thereis no use staying here any longer. Yes, I think theywill get there before us. Pluck up your spirits, myboy; a true soldier shows best in adversity.

I have not tried, my dear Charley, to give you a militaryaccount of this battle. I have striven, instead, tolay before you a picture of the field as it appeared whenEdmund, Jack, and I sadly turned towards Winchester.It was then the middle of the afternoon. Would youbelieve that we reached the town in safety,—entered ahouse, whose fair inmates gave us bread (it was all—almostmore than all they had),—retired, afterwards,up the pike, along which our soldiers straggled in twosand threes,—went into camp,—arose next morning,—andmade our way to Fisher’s Hill? And here we arestill, resting as quietly as though no enemy were in ourfront!

I have known men to leave the gaming-table, aftera big run of luck, so as to spend their winnings beforethe tide turned. Perhaps our friends the enemy wishto enjoy their glory awhile before risking the loss of itin another battle; but it isn’t war.

Yours, ever,

Dory.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

“Jack,” said Alice, “every time I read this letter ofpoor Dory’s, I find it harder to understand how GeneralSheridan has so high a reputation in the North as asoldier. Can you explain it?”

“I cannot,” I replied, thumping the table fiercelywith my fist; for every Whacker molecule in me stoodon end.

“I can,” put in Charley, in his dry way.

I turned and fixed my eyes on that philosopher. Hiswere fixed upon the ceiling. His head rested upon theback of his chair, his legs (they are stoutish now) werestretched across another.

“The deuse you can!” for my sturdy Saxon atomswere in arms.

Charley removed his solid limbs from the chair infront 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 botharms upon it at full length; then, tilting his short pipeat an angle of forty-five degrees, he surveyed me with asmile 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 thepaper. Clearing his throat:

“HANNIBAL!” began he, in thunder-tones; then,dropping suddenly into his usual soft voice, and lettingfall his right hand containing the paper to the level ofhis knee,—“this,” he added, peering gravely at us overhis spectacles, “is my Essay on Military Glory!”

Alice made herself comfortable, and spread out herfan; for laughing makes her warm nowadays.

Had she any right to look for humor in an essay byher husband? Look at her own chapter on the lovesof Mary and the Don. A more sentimental performanceI never read. Show me a trace therein, if youcan, of witty, sparkling Alice of the merry-glancinghazel eyes! Look, for the matter of that, at this bookof mine. Why, the other day, glancing over the proofs[1]of a certain chapter, and forgetting for the moment, asI read the printed page, that I had written it, wouldyou believe it, my eyes filled with tears? (And a bigone rolled down so softly that I started when it struckthe paper.) Is this, cried I, the jolly book that myfriends expect of me? Alas, fair reader, fellow-pilgrim,through this valley of shadows, I trust full many asun-streak may fall across your path. As for me,—Ican only sing the song that is given me.

CHAPTER LXIX.

Charley shifted his manuscript to his left hand, andsmoothing down the leaves with his right, and glancingat the paper, raised his eyes to mine. The tip of hisforefinger, 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 beganwith Hannibal.”

Charley stood for a moment, smiling, as he toyedwith the leaves of his essay with the forefinger of hisright hand.

“True; I had turned the thing upside down, andwas reading it backwards. A julep,” he began again,with an authoritative air—

“What connection,” interrupted Alice, “can there bebetween juleps and military men?”

“Innocence,” ejacul*ted Charley, raising his eyes toheaven, “thy name is Alice!”

“Go on; I shall not interrupt you again.”

“A julep differs from a thought in this: that whilean average man goes to the bottom of the former, ofthe 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. Iam exhausted by the vastness of the generalization.”And leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes with asigh of profound lassitude. “My dear,” said he, presently,in a feeble whisper,—“my dear, don’t you thinkthis lecture would go off better were it illustrated?”

Alice looked puzzled for a moment, then rose with abright laugh, and, making a pass at Charley (whominds Jack?) which he dodged, tripped briskly out ofthe 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 havewished a more charming waitress?) returned with theillustrations.

Illustrations in the highest form of art; for they appealedto the ear with the soft music of their jingle, thenostrils by their fragrance, the touch by their coldness,to the eye by the fascinating contrast of cracked iceand vivid green; while the imagination, soaring abovethe regions of sense, beheld within those frosted goblets,jocund, blooming summer seated in the lap ofrimy 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 voicesounded soft, mellow, and far away; for his nose wasplunged beneath a mass of crushed ice. “Straws,”added he, growing magnanimous, “they are only fit toshow which way the wind blows.” And with a magnificentsweep of his left hand he indicated his disdainfor all possible atmospheric currents. “Ladies andgentlemen,” added he, as he rose from his seat; andthis time there was an indescribable jumble in the voiceof the orator—(not at all, Mr. Teetotaller! ’twas causedby the cracked ice),—for as Charley rose to continue thereading of his Essay on Military Glory, he had pointedthe stem of his goblet at the ceiling; striving, at thesame time, by a skilful adjustment of his features, toprevent its contents from falling on the floor,—suchgreat store did Alice set by her new carpet. But, ofcourse, when he opened his mouth to say ladies andgentlemen, a baby avalanche fell in upon his organs ofspeech; so that he didn’t manage to say anything ofthe kind. “That,” said he, placing the glass upon thetable, “will do as a vignette; the illustrations we shallcontrive to work in farther on.”

One julep gives Charley the swagger of a four-bottleman.

“Where was I?” asked he, drawing the manuscriptfrom his pocket. “I’ll begin again. HANNIBAL!No, confound it! Ah, here we are: “An average manhas strength to go to the bottom of a julep; only aphilosopher can sound the depth of a thought.”

At these words Alice rose from her seat, and, leaningforward, first fixed a scrutinizing glance upon her husband,then advanced towards him with a twinkle inher merry-glancing hazel eye.

“If half the audience,” said Charley, with an imperiouswave of the hand, “will persist in wanderingover the floor, the reading is suspended.”

Alice took her seat, and did nothing but laugh tillthe end of the chapter. I laughed, too, but withoutexactly knowing why. But laughter (singularly enough,—forit is a blessing) is contagious. And then thejulep had been stiff; so that the very tables and chairsabout the room seemed to beam upon me with a certaintwinkling, kindly Bushwhackerishness.[1]

“Here’s a lot of stuff that I shall skip,” began Charley;and he turned over, with careless finger, leaf afterleaf. As he did so Alice rose slightly from her seatwith a peering look.

“Who is reading this Essay on Military Glory?”asked Charley, with a severe look at his wife over hisglasses (alas, alas, nec pietas moram?).

“Very well; go on,” said Alice, dropping back intoher chair with a fresh burst of laughter. She had hadno julep. What was she laughing at?

“It consists (my opening) of a series of illustrations,showing how much nonsense comes to be believedthrough people’s not going to the bottom of things. Wesuppose ourselves to have an opinion (there is no commonerdelusion), but we fail to subject that opinion toany crucial test; though nothing is easier. The crucialtest, for example, of sulphuretted hydrogen, is a certainodor which we encounter, when, with incautious toe,we explode an egg in some outlying nest which noboy could find during the summer—”

“That will do,” said Alice; though why womenshould turn up their blessed little noses at such allusionsis hard to understand, seeing what keen and triumphantpleasure they all derive from the detection ofunparliamentary odors at unexpected times and places.

“I have here,” continued Charley, carelessly turningthe 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 disdainfullysniffed a suppositious egg of abandoned character.

“I have already passed them over. After all, whatis the use of them? You and Charley can understandwhat I mean without them; and if you can, why notthe reader, too? Are readers idiots? I’ll plunge inmedias res. Let us begin here:” (reading) “It is the samewith military glory. How many battles have beenfought since the world began? Arithmetic stands palein the presence of such a question! In every one ofthese conflicts one or the other commander had theadvantage. How many of them are famous? Countthem. For every celebrated general that you showme, 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 thisvictor famous, that victor not? It is the simplest thingin the world if you will but apply the crucial test.”

Charley paused in his reading and peered gravelyover his glasses. “What is it, goose?” asked his admiringspouse.

“The crucial test is disparity of numbers. Formulæ:equality, victory, obscurity,—disparity, victory, glory.There you have it in a nutshell. Example (from Gibbon’sDecline and Fall of the Roman Empire): imperatorof the West and imperator of the East, battling, withthe world as a stake. Innumerable but equal hosts.Days of hacking and hewing. Victory to him of theEast (or West). His name? Have forgotten it. Equality,victory, obscurity!

“See? By the way, Jack, does not the brevity of mymilitary style rather smack of Cæsar’s Commentaries?

“Again—scene, Syria. Christians of the Byzantineempire, and Mahometans. Final struggle. Vast butequal armies. Three days of carnage. Remnant ofChristians 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 ourhypothesis, the following:

PARADIGM OF GLORY.

“Ah, you have gotten to him at last,” said Alice.

“Yes, my dear,” said Charley, raising his eyes fromthe manuscript; “but the vignettes grow dim. Let’shave an illustration in honor of the victor of Cannæ.Let there be lots of ice as a memorial of the avalancheshe defied, piled mountain-high because of the Alps heovercame. Typify with mint the glorious verdure ofItaly as it first bursts upon his view.”

Alice typified—

“After all,” said Charley, “this is a pretty good oldworld to live in.” And he fillipped, gently, the rim ofhis 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 shuttingone eye, he co*cked the other meditatively towards theceiling. (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 havea sweet little darling of a wife, just like—”

“Mr. Frobisher, you are positively boozy!”

“Well, well, my precious little ducky dumpling, Idon’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!)

“One would say, taking the four lines together, thatDad probably got the better of Jamie in the end. Butwho thinks of ranking him, for that reason, with theworld’s famed conquerors? Preposterous! They wereobviously too evenly matched. See? No one knows,even, who Dad was, or Jamie; or what Bowlin’ Greendrank their gore. (Ching! ching!) D natural. Noreven the name of the poet. Some old, old Aryan myth,I suppose, symbolizing the struggle between Light andDarkness,—‘in the morning Dad’—the sun—‘was seena-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, mistakingher object, defended himself vigorously. Meantime,she had darted with her right hand down into hisbreast-pocket, drawing out the manuscript.

“If you supposed I wished to kiss your juleppymoustache, you are much mistaken. This is what Iwanted.” And she brandished the Essay high in theair 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’sboat, as per valued order.

“‘Very truly yours,

“‘Bumpkins & Windup.’

“And look here—and look here,—nothing but a lotof business letters. He has not written one line! Hisso-called Essay on Military Glory is a myth!”

“We got the juleps, at any rate. Jack-Whack, youwrite it up.”

“If Alice will agree to illustrate again.”

“Not I!”

“Q minor!” sighed Charley, thumping his emptygoblet. “Jack-Whack, my poor boy, we dwell in avale of tears!”

CHAPTER LXX.

It is eight o’clock in the morning, at Harrisonburg,in the leafy month of June. You board the train fromStaunton. As it rushes down the Valley there liesspread out before you, on either side, a scene of rareloveliness. Fertile plains, waving with grain; rolling,grass-clad hills, laughing in the sunshine, dotted hereand there with woods of singular beauty; limpidstreams, brawling over glittering, many-hued pebbles;a pure air filling the lungs with a glad sense of healthand well-being. There are few such lands.

But come, take this seat on the right-hand side ofthe car, and I will tell you of some things which happenedtwenty years ago.

Ah, there it is! Don’t you see that bluish thread,winding along over there, skirting that hill? That isthe Valley Pike. There was no railroad there then.Take a good look at it. Take a good look, for heroeshave trodden it.

Ah, the train has stopped. Do you see that grizzledfarmer, who has ridden over to the station to get hismail? I know him, for I never forget a face. He wasthere at Manassas when Bee said, “Look at Jackson,standing like a stone wall!” Yes, many of the survivorsof the Stonewall Brigade live along this road.

That is the Massanutten Mountain, a spur of theBlue Ridge. How beautiful it is! Straight and smoothand even, with a little notch every now and then;clothed from base to summit with primeval forests, itlooks, 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 inthe Red Sea; and Miriam smote her tambourine intriumph, 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, Massanuttenends.

As though a Titan had cleft it with his sword, soabruptly does it sink into the plain.

You are on your way to Alexandria, and will haveto wait here four hours; so let us look about us. Runyour eye up that sharp acclivity lying over against thetown.

Upon the brink of that steep, twenty years ago,stood Gordon. Accompanied by a few staff-officers, hehad spent the greater part of the day in the toilsomeascent, tearing his way through dense, pathless jungles,struggling among untrodden rocks; and now, on theseventeenth of October, 1864, he stands there sweepingthe plain with his field-glass. What does he see? Whydoes he forget, in an instant, his fatigue? What is itthat 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, therewas not to be found one solitary statesman; nor onethroughout the length and breadth of the North. Notthat capacity was lacking to either side. Great capacityis not required. Chesterfield heard the rumble of thecoming French revolution, to which the ears of Burkewere deaf. After all, statecraft is but the applicationof temporary expedients to temporary emergencies;and you might carve a score of Gladstones and Disraelisout of the brain of Herbert Spencer without inthe least impairing his cerebrum. Pericles shone inAthens for an hour; Aristotle dominated the world fortwenty centuries. Such is the measure of a statesman;such that of a thinker.

Statesmen, therefore (or the making of such), wehad, I must suppose, by the thousand. I have saidthey were not to be found.

For years before we came to blows the animositybetween North and South had been deepening, reachingat last this point, that he who would catch the earof either side could do so only by fierce denunciationof the other; he that would have it thought that heloved us had only to show that he hated you. Men ofmoderation found no hearers. The voices of the calmand clear-headed sank into silence; and Wigfall andToombs, and Sumner and Phillips walked up and downin the land.

Yes, no doubt we had thousands of statesmen whoknew better. But who knew them? And so Sewardkept piping of peace in ninety days, and Yancey—Polyphemusof politicians—was willing to drink allthe blood that would be shed. A Yankee wouldn’tfight, 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 abone. The fishes of the sea fight; the birds of the air;nay, do not even the little midgets, warmed by theslanting rays of the summer’s sun, rend one anotherwith infinitesimal tooth and microscopic nail? Allnature is but one vast battle-field; and if the nationsof men seem at times to be at peace, what is that peacebut taking breath for another grapple? And congressesand kings are but bottle-holders, and time willbe 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 pageof history, not to know that money means men? meanscannon, rifles, sabres? means ships, and commissariat,and clothing? means rallying from reverses, and victoryin the end? The Yankee would not fight, theytold us. His omnipotent ally they forgot to mentionor to meet. Had our Congress consisted of bankers,merchants, railway superintendents, they would haveseen to the gathering of the sinews of war. We hadonly the statesmen of the period,—God save themark!

It was in finance that we blundered fatally. ’Twasnot the eagle of the orator that overcame us, but theeffigy thereof, in silver and in gold.

When we fired on Fort Sumter there was a burst ofpatriotism throughout the North, and her young menflocked to her standards. They fought, and foughtwell. The difference between them and us was, thatwhen they got tired of poor fare and hard knocks theycould find others to take their places. Being sensible,practical men, they used their opportunities. When aman was drafted (as the war went on) he or his friendsfound the means of hiring a substitute (persons whohave visited the North since the war tell me that yourarely find a man of means who served in the army);and at last cities and counties and States began tomeet each successive call for fresh troops by votes ofmoney; their magnificent bounty system grew up, andfrom that time the composition of the Northern armiesrapidly changed. Trained soldiers from every part ofthe world flocked to the El Dorado of the West; andas the war went on each successive battle brought lessand 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 fromSpain.

From the Danube and the Loire; from the marshyborders of the Elbe and the sunny slopes of theGuadalquivir.

From the Alps and the Balkan. From the home ofthe reindeer and the land of the olive. From Majorcaand Minorca, and from the Isles of Greece.

From Berlin and Vienna; from Dublin and fromParis; from the vine-clad hills of the Adriatic andthe frozen shores of the Baltic Sea.

From Skager Rack and Skater Gat, and from Comoand Killarney.

From sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain,from the banks and braes o’ bonny Doon, and fromBingen-on-the-Rhine.

Catholic and Calvinist; Teuton, Slav, and Celt,—whowas not there to swell that host, and the babelof tongues around their camp-fires? For to every hutin Europe, where the pinch of want was known, hadgone the rumor of fabulous bounty and high pay now,generous pension hereafter.

At Bull Run the North met the South; at AppomattoxLee laid down his sword in the presence of theworld in arms.

CHAPTER LXXI.

And Gordon? What did he see, standing on Massanutten’screst?

They lay there, beyond Cedar Creek, the EighthCorps, the Nineteenth Corps and the Sixth; and, furtheraway, the heavy masses of their cavalry; spread outbefore him, forty or fifty thousand strong.

Like a map. “I can distinguish the very chevronsof 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 tocorps. And yet he is going to hurl this little handfulagainst that mighty host.

A mere handful; but hearts of English oak! Theancestors of these men fought and won at Crecy andAgincourt; and they are going to fight and lose atCedar Creek. The result was different,—but the oddsand the spirit were the same.

Have I forgotten the brigade of Louisiana creoles?No; but when I would speak of them, a certain indignantsorrow chokes my utterance. They came to usmany and they went away few; and the Valley hasbeen made historic by their blood, mingled with ours.

And now is heard the voice of one, speaking as withauthority,—the voice of a Louisianian, proclaiming tothe world that these Louisianians died in an unjustcause. Unjust! It is a word not to be used lightly.Your share of the obloquy, living comrades, you canbear; but theirs? For they are not here to speak forthemselves.

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 mendied waged to free him. He was freed to wage thewar, rather, as everybody knew when the proclamationof emancipation was promulgated. In point of fact,the struggle was between conflicting interpretations ofthe Constitution; and the Northern people, by a greatand successful war, established their view of its obligations;the freedom of the slave being a corollary ofvictory.

Unjust! had it not been as well to leave that wordto others? ’Tis an ill bird that fouls its own nest.

The war wrought wide ruin; but it has been a boonto the South in this, at least: that it has jostled ourminds out of their accustomed grooves. Bold thinkinghas come to be the fashion. And so we should notfind fault with the author of Doctor Sevier, if, dazzledby the voluptuous beauty of quadroon and octoroon,he should find a solution of our race troubles in intermarriage.Let him think his little thought. Lethim say his little say. It will do no harm. On onequestion he will find, I think, a “solid” North anda “solid” South. Both are content to choose theirwives from among the daughters of that great Aryanrace which boasts so many illustrious women; andwhich boasts still more the millions of gentle mothersand brave wives, whose names the trump of fame hasnever sounded. And with such, I think, both the blueand the gray are likely to rest content. Content, too,that their children, like themselves, should be of thatpure Indo-Germanic stock whence has sprung a Socratesand a Homer; a Cæsar and a Galileo; a Descartesand a Pascal; a Goethe and a Beethoven; a Newtonand a Shakespeare. The countrymen of Cervantes andof Cortez, failing to keep their blood pure, have peopleda continent with Greasers and with Gauchos. Andshall the children of Washington become a nation ofPullman car porters—and octoroon heroines—be theireyes never so lustrous?

But such matters are legitimate subjects of discussion.So let him have his say. But there are thingswhich it is more seemly to leave unsaid.

When a step-mother is installed in the house, youmay think her vastly superior, if you will, with hervelvets and her laces and her diamonds, to her that boreyou; and you may, perhaps, win fame as an originalthinker by saying so to the world; but there is a certaininstinct of manhood that would seal the lips ofmost men. And I, for my part, know many, verymany Northern men; and not one of them seems towish to have me grovel in the dust and cry peccavi.Would it not have been a disgrace to them to havespent, with all their resources and odds, four years insubduing a race of snivellers? No; let us say to theend: you were right in fighting for your country, weequally right in battling for ours. The North will, theNorth does respect us all the more for it.

As I read these words, Charley rose, and, opening abook-case, took out a volume. Finding, apparently, thepassage he sought, he closed the book upon his forefinger.

“When a man takes upon himself,” he began, “torise up before Israel to confess and make atonementfor the sins of the people, be should be quite sure thathe 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 onewields the pen of a ready writer. One must be anHebrew of the Hebrews. Else the confession goesfor naught.

“What Jack has just read,” added he, “brought tomy mind a passage which I have not thought of forages. You must know, Alice, that after the death ofCyrus at the battle of Cunaxa, the Ten Thousand madea truce with Tissaphernes, lieutenant of Artaxerxes,who agreed to conduct them back to Greece. Afterjourneying together for some time, he invited the Greekgenerals to a conference at his headquarters. Clearchusand 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 anarmy was. Without leaders, confronted by a countlesshost, they had either to surrender or cut their waythrough a thousand miles of hostile territory.

“Xenophon, though not an officer, called an assembly,and soon aroused a stern enthusiasm. Speech afterspeech was made, and no one uttered other than bravewords, except a certain Apollonides; and he cried outthat the others spoke nonsense,—that the safe and profitablething 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 admitthis man into any fellowship with us, but that we shouldcashier him of his captaincy and put baggage upon hisback, and use him as a beast of burden. For he is adisgrace to his native land and to all Greece, since,being a Greek, he is such as he is.’

“‘And thereupon, Agasias, the Stymphalian, takingup the discourse, said, ‘But this man is not a Greek;for I see that, like a Lydian, he has both his earsbored.’

“And such was the fact. Him, therefore, they castout.”

CHAPTER LXXII.

It is not my purpose to describe the battle of CedarCreek. 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 myobject is not so much to instruct military men as to entertainmy fair reader.

Three simultaneous attacks were to be made. Rosser,advancing along the “Back-road,” far away to ourleft, was to swoop down, with his cavalry, upon thatof the enemy. Kershaw and Wharton were to attackhis centre; Gordon, with Ramseur and Pegram, to turnand assault his left.

At eight o’clock, therefore, in the evening of October18, 1864, our men, rising from around their camp-firesand buckling on their accoutrements, took up theirline of march. The enemy was miles away, yet theyspoke in undertones; for their instinct told them thatthey were to surprise him. Their very tread as theymoved along was in a muffled rhythm, as it seemed tome, and their canteens gave forth a dim jingle, as ofsheep-bells, by night, from a nodding flock on a distanthill.

Leaving the pike and turning to the right, we (Gordon’scommand) at one time marched down a countryroad, at another straggled, single-file, along bridle-paths,at times fought our way through briers andamid jagged rocks as we toiled along under the shadowof Massanutten.

At last, when the night was wellnigh spent, westacked arms in a field. The shining Shenandoah murmuredjust in front of us. We talked almost in whispers.

Suddenly the notes of a bugle, faint, far away, brokethe stillness of the night. The enemy’s cavalry atFront Royal were sounding the reveille. We held ourbreath,—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 carbineswas heard, low and soft, as though one dreamt of battle!’Twas Rosser. Unfortunately, he had found a portionof the enemy in the saddle and ready to march, thoughnot expecting an attack.

Just then the clanking of sabres and the tramplingof hoofs was heard close beside us; and turning, wesaw a squadron of our cavalry moving upon the ford.A thick mist had begun to rise, and as they rode throughit they seemed colossal phantoms rather than earthlyhorsem*n. A few moments, and the crack of carbine-shotswas heard. The enemy’s videttes retired, andour horsem*n dashed across the stream. We followed,and formed in a field beyond the river.

The mist thickened with the approach of day. Youcould scarcely see a man thirty feet away. CaptainSmith had deployed his skirmishers. As he stood nearme, waiting for the word forward, a terrific rattle ofmusketry burst upon our ears, coming from our left.It was Kershaw, we knew. And then the cannon beganto roar. Kershaw had left, his artillery behindhim. Had they been ready to receive him, and werethe cannon and rifles of an entire corps mowing downhis gallant little division? It was an appallingmoment!

The word was given, and Captain Smith and hisskirmishers dashed into the wood at a double-quick.We followed, and soon the air was filled with the roarof wide-spread battle. The cannon that we had heard,as we soon learned, were captured guns that Kershawhad turned upon the enemy. His division had rushedup 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 onit is needless, now, to inquire. Desultory firing continuedtill about four o’clock in the afternoon, whenSheridan, who was at Winchester when the battle began,having galloped up, rallied thousands of the fugitives,and adding them to the Sixth Corps and hisheavy force of cavalry, attacked and routed us inturn.

There were those who said that Early, if he did notchoose to continue the attack (the most brilliant movementof the war, I think), should have withdrawn histroops, and not held them there, in an open plain, withgreatly superior forces in his immediate front. Hehimself, smarting under defeat, attributed the disasterto the fact that his men, scattering through the capturedcamps, were engaged in plundering instead ofbeing at their posts; and his words have been quotedby our friends the enemy. But I think that a moment’sreflection will dispel this idea. Our hungry men, pursuingthe enemy, and coming upon their sutlers’ wagons,did undoubtedly snatch up such edibles as came in theirway; but this occurred at day-break, and we were notattacked till four o’clock in the afternoon. I rememberthat I myself, espying a fat leg of mutton (of whichsome farmer had been robbed), laid hands on it with aview 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 ofit I cannot recall. I know I did not eat it; but I know,too, that my seizing it had no influence on the fortunesof the day.

The truth is, our defeat requires no explanation orapology from our brave old general. When Sheridanattacked us, he brought against our thin, single line ofjaded men, overwhelming masses of fresh troops, assaultingour front, and, at the same time, turning bothour flanks. I remember that Gordon’s men, who heldthe left of our line, did not give way till bodies of theenemy had marched entirely around our flank, and beganto pour deadly and unanswered volleys into ourbacks.

One more word and I am done with the battle as such.

Captain Smith, in his letter to Major Frobisher, foundit impossible to understand why our army was notentirely destroyed at Winchester. I, on the contrary,can explain how it was that we were not annihilated atCedar Creek.

When the enemy, in their pursuit, reached Strasburg,and saw, below them, slowly retreating along theroad to Fisher’s Hill, a dark mass of troops, they calleda halt. That halt saved our army. I can hardly repressa smile now, when I remember that that serriedphalanx which looked so formidable, and gave theenemy pause, consisted of fifteen hundred Federalprisoners, guarded by a few hundred of our men. Butthe eccentric strategy of that halt, instead of beingcomic, was, in truth, fearfully tragic; for it protractedthe defence of Richmond, and delayed the close of thewar till the following spring, and cost the lives of thousandsof brave men on both sides.

So much for the battle of Cedar Creek. Such slightsketch of it as I have given has cost me more pain thanit can give the reader pleasure. Not willingly did Iintroduce it into my story.

That story grows sombre. It opened bright and joyousas the sunny nook of Earth in which my earlierscenes were laid. But between my hero and the landhe helped to defend there is a parallelism of fortunes.The shadow of the same fate hangs over both.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

During the night of this 18th of October, while wewere making our toilsome advance upon the enemy, aVirginia 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 Creekwas chiefly fought. Upon some bedding, spread uponthe floor, lay a young woman, his cousin; who, havingheard that he had been hard hit, had made her way tothe enemy’s pickets, and, after some parleying, gainedpermission to pass within their lines and nurse herwounded relative. This young woman had, since thebeginning of the war, passed her life, as one might say,in our hospitals. But her present position, within theenemy’s lines, was a trying one. It so happened thatbetween the Federal officer who occupied a room in thesame house and herself a strong antipathy soon grewup. The little nurse was too busy attending to thewants 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. Thesemeetings he contrived to make very disagreeable, bycontinually attempting to force political discussionsupon her. But she, on her side, managed to renderthem far more exasperating to him.

He that would get the better of a woman had bestfinish her with a club at once and be done with it; heis sure to get the worst of it in a tongue-battle. Itmay be a washerwoman opening on you with Gatling-guninvective, and sweeping you from the face of theearth; or a dainty society belle, with a dropping sharp-shooterfire of soft-voiced sarcasm,—in either case youshall wish that you had held your peace.

And so this big Federal colonel never had an encounterwith the little rebel nurse but he gnashed histeeth and raged for hours afterwards. She alwayscontrived, in the subtlest way, and without saying so,to make him feel that she did not look upon him as agentleman. One day, for example, he had been carefullyexplaining to her in how many ways the Northernpeople 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 gentlemanin the whole North. This arrogance on your partis really one main cause of the war.”

“I can readily believe you,—for I understand thefeeling. But really you do us an injustice. I know,personally, a number of Northern gentlemen. In NewYork, for instance” (the colonel was from that city),“I am acquainted with the ——— family and the ———sand the ———s, do you know them?”

The colonel hesitated.

“No?” said she, in soft surprise. “Ah, you shouldlose no time in making their acquaintance on yourreturn to the city. They are very nice. But I hearmy patient calling. Good-day!”

The colonel knew, and he saw plainly that she knew,that he could no more enter one of those houses thanhe could fly. He could not answer her. All that wasleft him was to hate her, and this he did with his wholeheart; and all aristocrats, living and dead.

When the crash of battle burst forth, on the morningof the nineteenth, the colonel hurried forth to form hisregiment. He met his men rushing pell-mell to therear, and he ran back to his headquarters to gather afew things that lay scattered about his room. Althoughthe bullets were flying thick, frequently striking thehouse itself, he found the little nurse standing on theporch, exultation in every feature. The whizzing ofthe rifle-balls seemed sweet to her ears. Confederatebullets would not hurt her.

“Get out of my way,” said he, in a gruff voice. “Thisis 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, followinghim into the hall. “What! through the back door?The Confederates are there!” And she stabbed the airin the direction of the coming bullets with a gesturethat would have made the fortune of a tragedy queen.

“Take that, d——n you!” And he brought his openhand down upon her cheek with such force that, reelingthrough the open door of her room, she fell headlongupon the floor.

“Coward!” roared a voice from the threshold of thehall.

Rising to her knees and turning, she saw the colonelspring forward with a fierce glare in his eyes and aco*cked pistol in his extended hand. She shut her eyesand stopped her ears.

Had he killed the Confederate? No, for she heardno fall; but the clear ring, instead, of a sabre drawnquickly from its scabbard. The colonel stepped acrossthe threshold of the room in which she was, co*ckinghis pistol for another shot. He raised the weapon,—butshe heard a spring in the hall, and saw a flash of steel;and the colonel fell at full length upon the floor, with asword-blade buried up to the hilt in his breast. With suchterrific force had the thrust been delivered that he wasknocked entirely off his feet, and the whole house shook.

“Δούπησεν δὲ πεσών, ἀράβησε δὲ τεύχε᾽ ἐπ᾽αὐτῷ,”[1] mutteredthe victor, as the young woman, springing to herfeet, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“My brave defender!” cried she, in a fervor ofpatriotic exaltation, lifting her eyes to his; and thenshe sprang back with a shiver, and stood breathlessbefore him, her head bowed upon her breast, her faceashy pale.

A scene within a scene.

Without, the roar of cannon, the incessant rattle ofmusketry, the bursting of shells, the panic-strickenrush of riderless horses, the tramp of hurrying men,the Rebel Yell sweeping by like a tornado, shouts ofvictory, moans of the dying.

Within, four people for a moment oblivious of all thismad hurly-burly that billowed around them.

The convalescent soldier, rising upon his elbow,looked with silent amazement upon the crouchingfigure of his fair cousin; while the dying Union soldierforgot, for a moment, his gaping wound as hegazed 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, fromwhich the prostrate officer saw his own life-blood trickling,drop by drop, upon the floor. In his left he heldhis cap uplifted.

Attila and Monsieur Deux-pas in one!

With cap uplifted; but head thrown back and eyesaverted. His right shoulder and breast were soakedwith blood, which was streaming down his brownbeard upon his coat, from a bullet-hole in his bronzedcheek. But it was his eyes which riveted the attentionof his fallen enemy. He had been appalled by theirfierce glare, when, angered by the pistol-shot, he hadsprung upon him in the hall. But that look had beensoft compared with the cold, steady, pitiless gleamthey poured forth now. That man, thought he, wouldnot give a cup of water to a dying enemy.

Captain Smith made two steps towards the door, andturning, bowed.

Feeling that he was going (for she had not dared toraise her eyes), Mary Rolfe quivered for a momentfrom head to foot; then springing forward, with passionateentreaty in every gesture and a cry of anguishupon her lips:

“And you will leave me without a word? Listen!How frightfully the battle is raging! And you are socruel, cruel, as to go forth, and die, perhaps, withoutever— I know you will be killed, I know it, I know it!And you won’t say you forgive me! Won’t you sayjust that one little word? You loved me once,—anddearly, for you pressed me against your heart and toldme so; and can that heart, once so tender, be so hardnow? Oh, say you forgive me; for the sake of thatdear, dead love, say you forgive your little Mary!”

And round about them the battle roared and surgedand thundered.

Her cousin has told me that such was the pathos andpassion of her tones, her looks, her gestures, as sheuttered these words (which hardly seemed unconventionalin their fearful setting), that the eyes of thedying soldier grew moist. But Captain Smith, standinglike a granite cliff:

“There is nothing to forgive. You did your dutyas you saw it. So did I when I ran that officer through.—Ah,pardon me: I had forgotten you. Can I do anythingfor you?” added he in a tender voice, as hekneeled beside him.

“Unbutton my coat, please; I am choking.”

The captain shuddered as he saw the broad gash inthe breast of his enemy. “I am sorry I hit you sohard.”

“It is all right,” replied he, wearily. “I tried tokill you, and you killed me, that’s all. But thank youfor your kind words.”

The captain’s eyes filled with tears. “I hope it isnot as bad as you think. I’ll send you a surgeon immediately.Meanwhile, keep up your spirits.” Andtaking the wounded man’s hand in his, he pressed itsoftly. Then, rising, “Good-by,” said he, with a cheeringsmile, and moved towards the door.

It was then that Mary, catching, for the first time, aview of the right side of his face, saw the blood tricklingdown his cheek.

“You are wounded already,” she cried in terror.

“Yes; wounded beyond healing,” said the captainof the Myrmidons; and with a cold bow, he passed outof the door and into the tempest of the battle.

“Oh—oh—oh!” gasped Mary, wringing her interlockedhands high above her head; and she sank slowlydown upon the floor.

The measures fashioned by the hands of men canhold but so much; but anguish without limit may bepent up within a human heart that is bursting, yetwill not burst.

The officer turned his eyes, and, even in his own greatextremity, pitied her.

And, after all, which of the two was most to be pitied?

He was about to speak a few kind words, when hesaw upon her pallid cheek the dark bruises made by hisown heavy hand; and he held his peace. His lips wereparched, his throat tortured with that cruel thirst thatloss 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 thanask a favor of the woman he had so insulted. Threetimes he tried to rise, and as often fell heavily back.She raised her head and saw the longing, wistful lookin his eyes, fixed upon a bucket which stood in a cornerof 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, sheplaced her arm beneath his neck and raised him. Ashe drank, the tears poured down his cheeks. Gentlywithdrawing her arm, she tripped softly across theroom and brought her own pillow and placed it beneathhis 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 andagain essayed to speak; but his quivering lips refusedto obey.

“I know what you would say; so never mind. Don’tworry now. You may beg my pardon when you getwell.”

He shook his head sadly. “I am dying now,—I feelit.”

His voice sank into a whisper. She bent over himto catch his words.

“Promise me to write to my mother and tell her howI died, and that you sat beside me. Leave out onething. It would break her heart to hear that of me.You will? God bless you. Her address is in mypocket. Write to her. You promise? Oh, how goodof 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 forgivenme! Tell her, that as I lay—dying—far awayfrom home—an angel—of light—”

CHAPTER LXXIV.

If only night would come!

They were pouring down upon us and around us inoverwhelming masses. They had turned our left, andwere raking Gordon’s flank and rear. It was a questionof a few minutes only.

In our front was a narrow field. Beyond that, a wood.Through this the enemy were driving our skirmishersback upon the main line. One by one these brave menemerged from the wood and trotted briskly across thefield, targets, every one of them, for a dozen rifles.

There come two more! They are the last. But theydo not trot, as the rest did and as skirmishers should.

Upon those two, convergent rifles from all along theline of the wood poured a rain of lead. Still they refusedto hurry. And one was tall and bearded, andthe 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 aboutthem, mowed down by the bullets; spurts of dustleaped from under their very feet.

The few men left in our line stood, under cover of athin curtain of trees, fascinated by the sight of thesetwo, leisurely stalking along, under that murderousfire.[1]

“Run, run!” we shouted.

“Run!” cried Captain Smith, giving the shoulder ofhis 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 bullethome; then turned, and, co*cking his rifle, scanned theopposite wood narrowly. Presently he raised his rifle;but before he could fire we heard that terrible soundwhich old soldiers know so well.

“Oh!” cried the boy, falling upon his face.

“My God! my God!” ejacul*ted the captain of theMyrmidons, with a woman’s tenderness in his voiceand the despair of Laocoön in his corrugated brow.

Hearing that cry, the boy turned quickly and smiledin his captain’s face. “It is only a flesh-wound, throughthe thigh,” said he; “I can walk, I think.”

He was attempting to rise, when his captain, placinghis strong arms beneath him, lifted him high in the air.He ran, then; and his face was full of terror, as thethick-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 theyboth fell heavily at my very feet.

A bullet, coming from our flank and rear, had struckCaptain Smith in the right breast.

It was a wound in front, at any rate.

There was but one ambulance-wagon in sight, andthat was retreating. A skirmisher ran to overtake it.Others placed the captain and Edmund on stretchersand hurried after it.

“Jack, old boy; good-by. I am done for; but Iparticularly desire to get within our lines; so holdthem in check as long as you can. Say farewell toCharley.”

A few of his own men held their ground till theysaw their captain and Edmund disappear, in the wagon,over the hill, when they fell back, loading and firing asthey went. When the wagon reached the bridge beyondStrasburg, it was found broken down; but themen with the stretchers managed to get our twowounded friends across the stream, and to find anotherwagon; 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, watchedby one of his brave skirmishers. He gave messagesto my grandfather, to Charley and Alice, to the Poythresses.“And now, good-night,” said he. “You needrest. Throw yourself down by that fire and go tosleep. Don’t bother about me. I shall set out forHarrisonburg at daybreak.”

“The ride will kill you.”

He smiled faintly. “I must get well within ourlines. Remember—Harrisonburg—good-night!” Andhe 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 helpme. God alone can do that, and he will release mefrom my sufferings before many days. Shelton, giveme your hand. Tell your little boy, when he grows up,that I said you were as brave as a lion in battle; andtell your wife that you could be as gentle as a womanto a suffering comrade. And now lie down and rest.Good-night!”

“Presently, captain.”

“What are you crying about, man? Such thingswill happen. Good-night!”

CHAPTER LXXV.

Let us return to that little parlor on Leigh Street,from the windows of which, four years ago, we caughtour first glimpse of the man who has played so large apart in our story. It is full of people, now,—half adozen elderly men, all the rest women. Of the men,one is a minister, with a face so singularly gentle thathis smile is a sort of subdued sunbeam.

The countenances of the women all wear looks ofhappy expectancy. Mr. and Mrs. Poythress are there,and Lucy. Mr. and Mrs. Rolfe, but not Mary. Andothers whom the reader, to her cost, does not know.Our plump friend, Mrs. Carter, is bustling about, whobut she, her jolly face wreathed in smiles.

At every sound in the hall, every female neck iscraned towards the door. Somebody or something isexpected.

“Mrs. Carter,” said Mrs. Poythress, “what namehas Alice selected for the little man?”

“Oh, yes! what is to be his name?” echoed everylady in the room.

Thereupon, Mrs. Carter, being constitutionally incapableof laughing, began to shake.

At this eccentric behavior on the part of the younggrandmother, curiosity rose to fever heat; but themore they plied her with questions, the more she couldnot answer. Seeing her incapable of speech, her graveand silent husband came to the rescue, and explainedthat what amused Mrs. Carter was that she did notknow what their grandchild was to be called. It appearedthat Alice, as a reward for his getting well of hiswound, had allowed Charley the privilege of namingtheir son. He had accepted the responsibility,—but nomortal, not even his wife, had been able to make himsay what the name was to be.

This statement sent the curiosity of the audience upto the boiling point. Did you ever!

Mrs. Rolfe interrogated Mr. Rolfe with her impressiveeyes.

“Such a fancy would never have occurred to me, I’msure,” said that man of peace.

“Al-i-ce!” called Mrs. Carter, from the foot of thestairs.

“We are coming, mother,” answered a cheery voicefrom the ball above; and Alice, giving two or threefinal little jerks at the ends of certain ribbons and bitsof lace that adorned her boy (he was asleep on hisnurse’s shoulder), stood aside to let that dignitary passdown-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 ashamedof,” replied Charley.

Alice drew back in surprise. Up to this point shehad 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 suppressedexcitement. She imagined, even, that he was a triflepale; and her heart began to flutter a little, she knewnot why.

The column halted when it reached the closed parlordoor. Here Charley took the sleeping boy in hisarms.

When the audience within heard the knob rattle, theexcitement 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 canlook upon a bearded man, with his first infant in hisarms, without smiling.

The admiring ohs and ahs made the young mother’sheart beat high with joy. And who shall call herweak, because she forgot that they are to be heard atevery christening? In the name of pity, let us sipwhatever illusive nectar chance flowers along our stonypath may afford!

Every one noticed how awkward Charley was inhanding the baby to the minister; while the good man,on the contrary, received an ovation of approvingsmiles for his skill in holding him.

The little fellow, himself, appeared to feel the difference.He nestled, at any rate, against the comfortableshoulder, and threw his head back; and his little twinklingnose, pointing heavenward, seemed to say that heknew what it all meant.

“Name this child!”

“Ah-ah-ah-ah!”

Every neck was craned, every ear eager to catch thefirst mysterious syllable!

Alice glanced anxiously at her husband.

Why that determined look? What was he going todo?

A lightning-flash darted through her brain! Charley’smother’s father was named Peter! He had beena man of mark in his day; and, besides, Charley worshippedhis mother’s memory. Peter! Horrors! Andthen he stammers so over his P’s! That half-defiantlook, too!

Charley leaned forward.

She could not hear what he said; but she saw, fromthe obstinate recusancy of his lips, that there was a Pin the name. She felt a choking in her throat.

’Twas her first,—and Peter! And he knew howpainfully absurd she thought the name! Poor littleinnocent 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 elsedid. Bringing his left arm around in front of hisbreast, he dipped his right hand into the water, andraised 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 turnedtowards the Poythress group.

Mrs. Poythress lay with her head upon her husband’sbreast, 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 effortto appear calm. Her mother pressed Lucy gently backinto her chair, and the minister went on.

Hurried leave-takings followed the ceremony. Thebaby 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 towardshim, with outstretched arms. He ran to meether; and she folded him to her breast with a long, convulsiveembrace; then dropped into a chair, without aword, and covered her face with one hand, while sheheld one of his with the other.

First, Lucy thanked Charley, and then Mr. Poythress,coming up, and taking Charley’s hand in both his: “Myboy, you are as true as steel,—I thank you.” And hestrode stiffly out into the hall.

And instantly, as Alice’s quick eye noticed, the cloudwhich had lingered on her husband’s brow vanished.He drew a long, deep breath, and turning with a brightsmile, chucked young Theodoric under the chin. “Howdo you like your name, young fellow?”

The corners of the young fellow’s mouth made forhis 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 hispocket, “those drops of water, at the corners of hiseyes, look too much like—”

“Hush!” cried Alice, quickly; and she laid her handon her husband’s mouth.

“Absit omen!” said he.

CHAPTER LXXVI.

On the morning following this christening, the paperscontained a telegraphic account of our defeat at CedarCreek. 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 thethigh. 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’sletter to mother.”

Alice read it aloud. He gave an account of the battle,making light of his own wound (“The rascalspopped me in the second joint”), but represented hiscaptain’s as very serious. The captain had advised himto remain in Harrisonburg, but had himself gone toTaylor’s Springs, four miles distant. As for himself,he was in luck.

“Who do you think is my nurse? Why, Miss MaryRolfe! The battle caught her in Middletown, nursinga Confederate soldier; and when, in the afternoon, theenemy showed signs of an intention to attack, the captainsent me, with an ambulance-wagon, to Miss Mary.I was to tell her that in my opinion (that is what hetold me to say) it would be safest for her to move herpatient to the rear. And here she is now; and a gentlernurse no one ever had. He never mentioned hername to me; but she tells me that she knew himslightly, 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 behavedany better than hundreds of others that I sawaround me. I could not help crying when they tookhim from his cot by my side; for from the way hetold me good-by, I saw that he did not expect ever tosee me again. No brother was ever kinder than hehas been to me. The last thing he said to me was togive 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, shewill remember.”

In conclusion, Edmund besought his mother to comeon 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?” askedAlice.

“That is just what I asked mother,” said Lucy. “Doyou believe in presentiments, Alice? I do; and whenmother told me what her promise to the Don was”(here Charley, who had not spoken a word, rose andleft the room), “I was filled with dreadful forebodings.You know that during the latter part of his stay downin the country, before joining the army, the Don spenta great deal of his time with us. One afternoon wewere taking a little stroll, before tea, Mr. Frobisherwalking with me, and, some distance behind us, the Don,with mother. She stopped at our family cemetery toset out some plants; and she tells me that it was onthis occasion that she made him the promise in question.

“She says that when she pointed out to him thespot that she had selected for her own resting-place, helooked down for some time, and then said that he hada 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 spotyou have chosen for yourself. If I fall—would yougive me two yards of earth just here, at your feet? Iwould not be in the way there, would I?’ Mothermakes a longer story of it, and an affecting one. Whenshe gave him her word (mother took the greatest fancyto the Don from the first day she saw him) she sayshe was more deeply moved than she should havethought it possible for a big, strong man to be bysuch a thing. This is the promise he alludes to; andI have a painful presentiment that—”

“Mr. Frobisher recovered from an equally severewound.”

“Yes, I know; but—”

“Miss Alice,” said a servant, entering the parlor,“there is a soldier at the door, who wants to speak toMarse Charley.”

Alice, going into the hall, found a man standingthere. He was in his shirt-sleeves as to his rightarm, 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 giveit to him, and nobody else.”

“Very well. Won’t you come in and have somethingto eat?”

“Thank you, ma’am; I shouldn’t mind a bite, if itwasn’t too much trouble.”

“Walk in and sit down while the servant is gettingsomething for you. You look tired. I hope your armis 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 andchildren; so tain’t worth mentionin’.”

“Cedar Creek! Do you know Captain Smith? Howis he?”

“He is my captain, ma’am, and he was the one whatwrit the letter. He is pretty bad, I am afeard.”

“This is Major Frobisher,” said Alice, as Charley enteredthe room. Charley read the note and put it hurriedlyinto his pocket. After asking the man a fewquestions, 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 shewent up-stairs, later, to beg him to come down to tea,she did not find him in the room. An hour afterwardshe came in, saying that he had been to see Mrs. Poythress,that she was to set out for Harrisonburg inthe 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 soAlice set about packing his valise. Just as she hadfinished this little task the baby stirred; Alice went upto his crib and patted him till he thought better of itand nestled down into his pillow again.

“Theodoric! I think it such a pretty name! Theidea of my thinking you were going to call him Peter!Won’t you tell me something of his namesake, Lucy’sbrother? Mother tells me that she vaguely remembersthat there was some dreadful mystery about his loss,which occurred when I was about four years old; butshe did not know the Poythresses at that time, anddoes not remember any of the details, if she ever knewthem, in fact. Lucy, in explaining the scene at thechristening yesterday, told me it was a long story,and a sad one, so I did not press her. But won’tyou tell me? You never tell me anything. Now begood, for once!”

Alice was bringing to bear upon her obdurate husbandthe battery of all her cajoleries, when, to hersurprise, he surrendered at once.

“Yes,” said he, “since our child is named in hishonor, I will tell you the story of Theodoric Poythress.”

In the next chapter that story will be found; thoughnot in as colloquial a form as that in which Charleyactually told it, and with most of Alice’s interruptionsomitted.

CHAPTER LXXVII.

“Theodoric was the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Poythress.He was born on the 15th day of April, 1832, Ion the 2d of the preceding March; so that I was hissenior by six weeks. Our intimacy began when wewere not more than six years old. Mr. Poythress hada tutor for Theodoric at that period, by whom half adozen of the neighbors’ sons were taught, myselfamong the number. I was put across the River everymorning; but there was an understanding between mymother and Mrs. Poythress that whenever the weathergrew threatening, I was to be allowed to spend thenight with Theodoric. During the winter and earlyspring there was hardly a week that I did not pass atleast one night with him; he, in turn, spending Fridaynight and Saturday with me. Ah, how happy wewere! When two congenial boys are thrown togetherin that way, they get about as much out of life as is tobe gotten at any other age. I can recall but onequarrel that we ever had; and that was when I said,one day, that my mother was, beyond doubt, the bestwoman in the world. We compromised the matter, inthe end, by reciprocal admissions that the mother ofeach was best to him.

“I think few boys were ever better friends than we;and for the reason, no doubt, that we differed so. Evenas a boy I had an indolent, easy-going way of takingthings as they came. My anger, too, was hard toarouse, and as easy to appease; while his was suddenand fierce, and, I am sorry to add, implacable. Andthis is true generally, notwithstanding the proverb. Itmay be that people who give way to little gusts oftemper soon forget their wrath; but my observationhas taught me that unappeasable, undying resentmentis always found associated with readiness to takeoffence. This, at any rate, was Theodoric’s disposition.”

“I trust,” said Alice, “that our boy will not resemblehim in that respect.”

“I hope not. But that was the only serious defectin his character; in my partial eyes, at least. He wasgenerous, chivalrous, truth itself, absolutely unselfish,and, withal, paradoxical as it may appear, as tender-heartedas a girl. I remember a little incident whichshows this. One day, as we school-boys were racingabout the lawn during recess, a wretched-looking manwalked up to us and asked for food. He was the firstbeggar we had ever seen, and two or three of us raninto the kitchen and returned with enough for fivemen. While he ate, the drunken old humbug,—forsuch he proved to be,—taking advantage of our simplicity,wrought powerfully on our sympathies byrecounting the tale of his woes. He had not tastedfood for two days.

“‘Why did you not buy something to eat?’ askedTheodoric, 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 wasjust beginning to despise him, a little, as a cry-baby,when his mother, who stood near, threw her armsaround him, and said, with brimming eyes and chokingvoice, ‘God will remember these tears one day, myprecious boy!’”

Alice rose, and, stealing softly to her baby, bentover and kissed him.

“You said, just now, that you hoped our boy wouldnot resemble his namesake.”

“I take that back.”

“You will say so all the more when I have shownyou what kind of a son he was to that mother.

“I believe that the English race surpasses all others inrespect for woman; and I think that, of the Englishrace, the Americans are superior to their brethrenacross the water in this regard. And I believe, too, thatit will hardly be denied that, among Americans, Southernersare conspicuous for this virtue. And it seemsto me that of respect for woman, the love for one’smother is the very crown, and blossom, and glory. Itmeans manliness, it means soul, it means a gratefulheart. It is unwritten poetry; and if that be so, thenthe life of the boy after whom we have named our boywas one beautiful lyric.

“His mother had a great fund of fairy-tales and otherstories, which she used to tell us after supper. I cansee him now, sitting on a low stool at her feet,—hewould never sit anywhere else,—with hands claspedover her knees, drinking in the story, while his eyesclung to the gentle face of the story-teller with a kindof rapt adoration. And such eyes! now flashing withfierce indignation at one turn of the story, now meltingwith tenderness at another!

“And she could never pass him without his throwinghis arms around her and tip-toeing for a kiss. ‘Another!another! another!’ he kept pleading. ‘Go away, yousilly boy!’ she would say; but more than once Icaught her, behind the door, after one of these littlescenes, wiping her eyes with her apron. And once, whenTheodoric 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 roomthree 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 thisbrings me to the sad part of my story.

“We Virginians are in the habit of denouncing NewEngland puritanism; unaware, seemingly, that Virginianumbers among her people thousands of puritans.”

Alice looked up, but said nothing.

“And how could it have been otherwise? Are notwe, equally with the New Englanders, English? But,as the people who came over in the ‘Mayflower’belonged to a different class of English society fromthose who sailed with Captain John Smith” (Charleystopped speaking for a moment, then went on), “ourpuritanism has assumed a shape so different from thatof Massachusetts, that we have failed to recognize it.The aristocratic element of our colonists was so strongand numerous, that it gave a tone to our society whichit has never lost. And it is because the maxim thatan Englishman’s house is his castle has, among peopleof a certain social standing, a meaning far wider thanits merely legal one, that puritanism never becameblatant with us. Hence, though it exists among us,—oftenin the most intense form,—we have ignored it.”

Alice shook her head, slowly: “I can’t make outwhat you mean.”

“Well, then, to come to concrete examples,—Mr.Poythress.”

“Mr. Poythress!”

“There lives not a more intense puritan. You havefailed to remark it, because he is a gentleman. Thatforbids his ramming his personal convictions down otherpeople’s throats. He is a puritan for himself and hisfamily only. Nothing could induce him to harbor abottle of wine under his roof; but believing that everyVirginian’s house is his castle, he is equally incapableof resenting its presence on the Elmington table. Ihave 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 liberallysupplied as ever. But at last he gave a dinner atwhich only his rarest and most costly wines werebrought on the table; so that some of the gentlemeneven remonstrated at his pouring out, like water,Madeira that his father had imported. What was thegastronomic horror of these gentlemen to learn, a fewdays afterwards, that he had caused every barrel in hiscellar to be rolled out on his lawn, where, with an axein his own hands, he staved in the head of every one.From that day to this there has not been a gill of wineor brandy in his house. Yet, to mention the ‘Maineliquor law’ to him is to shake a red flag in the face ofa bull. His aversion to drinking is great; but his loveof personal liberty is greater.

“Again, would it surprise you to learn that, not sovery many years ago, Mr. Poythress favored freeingour slaves?”

“Mr. Poythress an abolitionist!” cried Alice, inhorrified amazement.

“No,” replied Charley, smiling, “he was nothing ofthe 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 considerableand 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 hislawn. Had he been an abolitionist, he would haveheaded 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 themost ardent advocate of slavery that I know. Hepositively pities all those benighted countries where itdoes not exist. The abolitionists have converted anenthusiastic apostle of emancipation into an ardentpro-slavery champion; so infuriated is he that theNorthern people are unwilling for us to get rid ofslavery as they did, and as the nations of Europe havedone,—gradually, and without foreign interference;and a man who once looked upon the institution as ablot upon our civilization, now regards it as its crownof glory.

“I have given you these details that you maythoroughly understand what kind of a man Theodoric’sfather was. He was, in fact, a puritan in every fibreof 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 ofus poor wayfarers smacked of frivolity, to use themildest term. Dancing he never allowed under hisroof, and secular music he rated as a snare for the feetof the unwary. Therefore he shook his head with unaffecteduneasiness when he discovered in Theodoric,at a very early age, a passionate love for this half-wickedform 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 thirteenthbirthday, a compromise was effected. Theodoric gota flute; an instrument which Mr. Poythress allowed tobe as nearly harmless as any could be; at least to theperformer. I had been piping away on one for a year,but he soon surpassed me. His progress pleased hismother, from whom, in fact, he had inherited his lovefor music; but his father looked upon the time spentpractising as wasted. Conscious, therefore, that hisflute annoyed his father, he hit upon a plan to give himas little of it as possible.

“In a little clump of trees, about a quarter of a milefrom the house, be constructed a music-desk againstan old tree; and thither he repaired, on all fair afternoons,and played to his heart’s content, surrounded byan admiring audience of a dozen or so dusky adherents.

“It was this harmless flute that brought on the catastrophethat I shall presently relate.

“Mr. Poythress’s religion, I need hardly tell you,was of the most sombre character. (I say was; for heis much changed since those days.) It is singular howextremes meet in everything. Puritanism among theProtestants, and asceticism in the Catholic Church,each seek, by making a hell of this world, to winheaven in the next. I have said that Theodoric frequentlyspent Saturday with me. He was never allowedto be absent from home on Sunday; and month bymonth, and year by year, as he grew older, those Sundaysgrew more and more intolerable to him. It wasa firm hand that crammed religion down his throat,and, as a child, he was, if wretched, unresisting. ButTheodoric was his father’s own son. He too lovedpersonal liberty. To be brief, the time came when hehated the very name of religion; and, when we wereabout thirteen years old, he often shocked me by hisfierce irreverence. And, unfortunately, his parents hadno suspicion of what was going on in his mind. Hislove for his mother, equally with his awe of his father,sealed his lips.

“There are those whose discontent is like damp powderburning. It sputters, flashes, smokes, but does notexplode. 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 propellinga steamer, an instant later has shattered it.There was an element of the irrevocable and the irreparablein all that he did.

“It was, as I have said, the hard, relentless sabbatarianismof Mr. Poythress that bore hardest upon hisson. And, when you think of it, what a curse sabbatarianismhas been to the world! How the Protestantsof England and America ever managed to ingraft itupon Christianity I could never understand; for notonly is it without trace of authority in the New Testament,but the very founder of our religion never lostan opportunity of striking it a blow. And I can’t helpthinking, sometimes, that when he said, Suffer littlechildren to come unto me, he said it in pity of theirtortures 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 fourteenthbirthday—he complained of headache. He didnot ask to be excused from going to church; but theday was warm, and the road long and dusty, and hismother begged him off; and the family coach went offwithout him. The party had gone but a few miles,when they learned that owing to the illness of the pastorthere would be no service that day. So they turnedabout.

“At last, hoofs and wheels ploughing noiselesslythrough the heavy sand, they approached the littleclump of trees which we have mentioned. Suddenlyan anxious, pained look came into Mrs. Poythress’sface. 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’sflute, and—shades of John Knox!—playing a jig.

“Mr. Poythress opened the door with a quick push andstepped out. ‘Go on to the house,’ said he to the driver.

“A moment later, the carriage turned a corner of thelittle wood, and Mrs. Poythress saw her boy, seatedupon a log, playing away, while in front of him anegro lad, of about his age, was dancing for dear life.A gang of happy urchins stood around them with openmouths. Mr. Poythress was striding down upon theparty 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 ofpartridges.

“The musician and the dancer had not heard thehorse, and followed, for an instant, with puzzled looks,the backs of the fugitive sinners.

“When Theodoric saw his father bearing rapidlydown 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, shakingfrom head to foot.

“‘Give me that flute, sir!’ And seizing it, he broke itinto a dozen pieces against the log.

“The boy stood perfectly still, with his arms hangingby his side and his head bowed.

“‘You are silent! I am glad that you have somesense of shame, at any rate! To think that a son ofmine should do such a thing! When I am done withyou, you will know better for the future, I promiseyou.’ And cutting a branch from a neighboring tree,he began to trim it. ‘And not content with desecratingthe day yourself, you must needs teach my servantsto do so. How often have I not told you that wewere responsible for their souls?’

“‘Lor’, mahrster,’ chattered the terrified dancer,‘Marse The., he didn’t ax me to dance, ’fo’ Gaud hedidn’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 debbilhe would’t lemme hold my foot on de groun’, and so Ijess sort o’ give one or two backsteps, an’ cut two orthree little pigeon-wings, jess as I was a-passin’ bylike.’

“‘Very well, I shan’t pass you by.’

“‘Yes, mahrster, but I didn’t fling down de stepskeen, like ’twas Sad’day night, ’deed I didn’t, mahrster;and I was jess a-sayin’ as how Marse The. didn’t axme; de ole debbil, he—’

“‘Shut up, sir!’

“‘Yes, mahrster!’

“Theodoric gave a quick, grateful glance at hisbrother sinner.

“Although he was without coat or vest,—for the daywas warm,—he did not wince when the blows fellheavy and fast upon his shoulders. At last his fatherdesisted, and turned to the negro lad.

“Mr. Poythress had never, in the memory of thisboy, punished one of his servants; but seeing that thisprecedent was in a fair way of being reversed in hiscase, he began to plead for mercy with all the volubilityof untutored eloquence. Meantime, he found extremedifficulty in removing his coat; for his heart was notin the work; and before he got off the second sleevehe had pledged himself nebber to do so no mo’ in adozen keys.

“Theodoric stepped between his father and the culprit.

“‘I take all the blame on myself. If there is to beany more flogging, give it to me.’

“His father pushed him violently aside, and aimed astroke at the young negro; but Theodoric sprang infront of him and received the descending rod upon hisshoulders.

“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 thelook a boy’s look; but his father, blinded by the odiumtheologicum, could not see that a man’s spirit shone inthose dark, kindling eyes.

“‘How dare you!’ said the father, seizing him bythe arm.

“The boy held his ground.

“This resistance maddened Mr. Poythress, and therod came down with a sounding whack. It was oneblow too many!

“Instantly the boy tossed back his head, and foldinghis arms, met his father’s angry look with one of calmferocity.

“The look of an Indian at the stake, defying hisenemies!

“The blows came thick and heavy. Not a musclemoved; while the lad who stood behind him writhedwith an agony that was half fear, half sympathy. Atlast 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 henuvver! For de love o’ Gaud let Marse The. ’lone,an’ gimme my shear! My back tougher’n his’n, heaptougher!’

“His master pushed him aside, but the lad came forwardagain, this time grasping the terrible right arm.

“‘Have mussy, mahrster, have mussy! Stop jess oneminute 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 upand down the front porch.

“‘He will not play any more jigs on Sunday, that Ipromise you. Go to your room, sir, and do not leaveit again to-day.’

“The mother, divining what had happened, saidnothing; but her eyes filled with tears. The boyturned his face aside, and his lips twitched as he passedher, on his way into the house. Just as he entered thedoor, she gave a cry of horror and sprang forward;and though the boy struggled hard to free himself, shedragged 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. Poythresswas the head of his. Few women could havestood up long against his firm will and his clear-cut,vigorous convictions. At any rate, acquiescence inwhatever he thought and did had become a secondnature with his gentle wife; who had come to lookupon him as a model of wisdom, virtue, and piety.She had even reached the point, by degrees, of heartilyaccepting his various isms; and though she sometimeswinced under the austere puritanism that marked therestrictions he imposed upon their boy, she neverdoubted that it was all for the best. Very well, shewould end by saying, I suppose you are right. Therewere no disputes,—hardly any discussions under theOakhurst roof.

“Imagine, therefore, the scene, when this soft-eyedwoman, dragging her son up to his father, pointed tohis bloody back with quivering finger and a face onfire with eloquent indignation!

“‘Were you mad? What fiend possessed you? Andsuch a son! Merciful Father,’ she cried, with claspedhands, ‘what have I done, that I should see such asight as this! Come,’ said she; and taking her son’sarm, she hurried him to his room, leaving Mr. Poythressspeechless and stunned; as well by shame as bythe suddenness of her passionate invective.

“There she cut the shirt from his back, and afterwashing away the blood, helped him to dress. ‘Nowlie 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 ofhim, just as when she left the room. She said, afterwards,that there was no anger in his look, but deaddespair only. When she asked if he would come downto dinner, there was a change. He gave her onesearching glance of amazement, then fixed his eyes onthe 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 cabinof the negro lad, and called him out. ‘You stood byme to-day,’ said he. ‘I have come to thank you. Ishan’t forget it, that’s all.’ And he wrung his hand andreturned to the house.

“At eleven his mother found him lying on his bed,dressed. ‘Get up, my darling, and undress yourselfand 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 holdingher at arm’s length, gave her one long look of unapproachabletenderness; then suddenly clasping herin his arms, and covering her face with devouringkisses, he released her.

“‘Good-night, my precious boy!’

“He made no reply; and she had hardly begun todescend the stairs before she heard the key turn in thelock.

“The poor mother could not sleep. At three o’clockshe had not closed her eyes. She rose and stole up-stairs.His door stood open. She ran, breathless, intothe room.

“A flood of moonlight lay upon his bed. The bedwas empty. Her boy was gone!

“To this day she has never been able to learn hisfate.”

“How terrible!”

“And now you see why I was so agitated at thechristening of our boy, and why I looked so grim, asyou said. I was determined, at all hazards, to namehim Theodoric. But I did not know how Mr. Poythresswould take it. I was delighted when I saw thathis 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’sletter?”

Charley bent his head in thought for a while. “Yes,”said he, drawing the letter from his pocket, “you mayread it.” And handing it to her, he left the room.

With trembling fingers she opened it, and read asfollows:

“Taylor’s Springs, Tuesday.

“My beloved Charley:

“It wrings my heart to have to tell you, but I fearit is all over with me. For several days I have beengrowing consciously weaker, and just now I overheardthe surgeon say to my nurse that I could not live aweek. Come to me, if you can with prudence. Itwould not be so lonely, dying, with my hand claspedin yours. And oh! if she could come too; but withoutknowing to whom; I insist on that. Tell her (Ileave the time to you)—tell her, that when she followsafter, 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 inhand with her—perhaps—for I have loved much.

“Come to me, friend of friends—if you can—but ifnot—farewell, farewell—and may God bless you andyour Alice!

“Dory.”

When Charley returned, his wife sprang to meethim.

“And ‘Dory’ means—?”

“Yes,” said Charley.

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

They talked far into the night. What he told herof scenes already described in this book it is needlessto repeat. But he gave her some other details whichmay interest the reader.

“I felt strongly drawn toward him while I nursedhim in this very house, four years ago. There wasnothing supernatural about that. I suppose I liked himbecause I liked him, just as I had done as a boy. No,I had not the least suspicion who he was at first; andwhen, finally, I had read his secret, I had no intentionof letting him know that he was discovered; but I wasbetrayed into doing so on the occasion of the death ofold Ponto. We talked all that night, and he gave mea sketch of his history.”

That sketch, supplemented by additional details thathe had afterwards, from time to time, given Charley,would fill a volume. For our purposes, it is onlynecessary to say that his life, for some time after heleft 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 pickingup precarious pennies by playing the flute in beer-saloons,when he had the good fortune to touch theheart of an old man by the pathos of his “Home,Sweet Home.” This old man was, as it turned out, ofhumble birth, and had amassed and retired on a snuglittle fortune. He was a Bostonian, yet deficient inculture, as was clear; for, though abundantly able topay for champagne, he was drinking beer. He had lostan only son years before, who, had he lived, wouldhave been of about Theodoric’s age; and when he sawa tear glisten in the boy’s eye as he played (it was hisown kind, sympathetic look that had evoked it,—besides,the boy had not tasted food that day), he stealthilyslipped two half-dollars into his hand. The boy lookedat the money, looked at the man; then plunged throughthe door of the saloon into the street. The look wasthe only thanks the old man got, but he felt that thatwas enough. He followed him and found him standingin the shadow of a booth; and when he laid his handupon his shoulder, the boy began to sob.

Hunger is king. The pampered pug sniffs, withoutemotion, boned turkey on a silver dish; a gaunt street-curwhines over a proffered crust.

That very night his new friend rigged him out in anew suit, and telegraphed his wife that he had founda boy for her. They reached Boston next day. Thatnight a family consultation was held between the oldcouple; and next morning, after breakfast, they announcedto Theodoric that they were to set out, in twodays, for Europe, where they expected to travel forseveral years. They were in comfortable circ*mstances,they told him, but very lonely since the loss of theirson. Would he go with them? If he did not like them,they would send him back to America; if he did, theywould adopt him as their son. Theodoric, though hispride revolted, was so eager to put the ocean betweenhimself and his former home, that he accepted theiroffer.

Gratitude being a strong trait in his character, hesoon grew deeply attached to his benefactors, notwithstandingtheir lack of exterior polish. They idolizedhim. They were both, especially his adopted mother,particularly proud of his strikingly aristocratic air.Accordingly, they lavished money upon him, and constantlyscolded him because he could not be induced tospend it. They were made happy, one day, by his requestingpermission to employ a violin master. It wasthe 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,—aname with which all English-speaking people arefamiliar; christening himself John, to the deep chagrinof Mrs. S., who had set her heart on Reginald deCourcy.

And philosophers, who saw the trio, explained thatit no longer, in these days of steam and telegraphsand wide travel, took three generations to make agentleman.

The tour in Europe resulted in permanent residenceacross the water. At the end of three years, the partyhad returned to Boston, but the old people found thatsuch acquaintances as they had there were no longerto their taste. At any rate, their society was not goodenough, to their thinking, for John, who, they were gladto believe, was sprung from Virginia’s bluest blood. Sothey shook the dust of America from their feet.

In 1858 his kind adopted mother died in Paris,—hisfather a year later, in London; and Theodoric foundhimself residuary legatee in the sum of nearly onehundred and fifty thousand dollars (twenty-seventhousand pounds).

In the midst of all this prosperity, Theodoric hadnot been happy. At times the thought of his own sorrowingmother greatly troubled him. And when hefound himself again alone in the world, this feelingcame over him with redoubled force. Remorse, at last,growing stronger and stronger, gave him no rest;travel brought him no alleviation; and finally, hislonging for home becoming irresistible, he took passagefor America, and found himself, two weeks later, strollingthrough the streets of Richmond, with no verydefinite plans as to how he should make himself knownto his family. It was on the very day of his arrivalthat he encountered little Laura, and discovered thatshe was his sister.

“What prevented him from revealing himself whilehe was in Leicester,” said Charley, “was the approachof the war. He would wait till peace came. Hismother had already lost him once, he said. Once hewas on the very verge of betraying himself. It waswhen you so deeply agitated him by unconsciouslyopening his eyes to the fact that, though he knew thatLucy was his sister, she did not. Don’t you remember?”

“Remember!”

“And so you are going to escort Mrs. Poythress toHarrisonburg 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 goingto tell his mother who he is?”

“No; he has expressly forbidden that. I am tochoose my time, hereafter.”

“I think it would be cruel ever to tell her. To losesuch a son twice! No, let the secret remain with youand me forever.”

“It will be unavoidable.”

Alice looked up.

“You see, he has made a will, of which I havepossession; and as, after certain legacies are deducted,the residue of his estate goes to his father and hismother, in equal shares—”

“His father?”

“Yes. I found no difficulty in convincing him thathis resentment against his father was unjust, seeingthat he had punished him from a sense of duty. Theinfluence that I have over him has always surprisedme.”

“Why could you not make him forgive Mary?”

“I didn’t try. A man has but one father; but as forsweethearts, there are as good fish in the sea as—”

“What!”

“Well, except one.”

“Ah!”

“Besides, Mary opened an old wound. Bigotry, ashe deemed it, had wrecked his life once, already. Isuspect that he is very bitter against her.”

“How sad that he should be so implacable in hiswrath!”

“He is equally as ‘implacable’ in his gratitude.Would you believe it? He directs that the freedomof the lad who ‘stood by him’ be bought, and a hundreddollars counted into his hand besides. By theway, I forgot to mention that this lad is none otherthan my man Sam, who passed into the possession ofour 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 twoyoung surgeons. One of them was on duty there;the other had driven in from Taylor’s Springs to procuresupplies, and his ambulance-wagon stood in frontof the door.

“Well,” said the visitor, rising, “I must hurry back.”

“Any serious cases?”

“Yes; one more than serious. Captain Smith—gallantfellow—pity!”

“Ah, indeed. Poor fellow,—I feared so. He stoppedhere 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 youngsurgeon hurried to the open window. “What can Ido for you, Miss Rolfe?”

“Ask your friend to wait one moment,” said she, asshe hastily tied her bonnet-strings; “I want to go toTaylor’s.” And running to a little closet, she drew fortha shawl.

The doctor had hardly had time to deliver the messagebefore Mary was on the piazza. “Can you giveme a seat in your wagon?”

“Certainly,” said the surgeon, lifting his cap.

He was proud to have so pretty a woman grace hisequipage, and he looked forward to a pleasant chatalong the road; but he soon discovered that, thoughshe made an effort to appear interested, she did nothear what he said. And so he gave over his effort toentertain her, and they drove forward in a silence thatwas hardly broken till the driver turned out of thePort Republic Road.

“Are we almost there?”

“It is less than a mile from here. We shall be therein 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, whowould like to know how he is.”

“Oh, I see. I am surgeon in charge; may I ask thename?”

“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, arethey necessarily fatal?”

“No, not always.”

Then there was silence for a hundred yards. Suddenlyshe asked, in a low voice, “Do you think thereis any hope?”

The surgeon was silent for a little while. “I cannotgive you much encouragement,” he said, at last.

She did not speak again till the wagon stopped infront of the farm-house, which at that time constituted,with the usual out-buildings, Taylor’s Springs. It hassince been added to, and the name changed to Massanetta.Then, as now, the waters of the beautiful, bubblingspring below the house, at the foot of the hill,enjoyed a high repute as a potent specific in cases ofmalarial trouble; and a military sanitarium had beenestablished there, the tents of which dotted the littlevalley.

“The house, as you see,” said the surgeon, as theydescended the slope from the road to the front door,“is too small for a hospital; so the men are undercanvas. Your friend, however,—I mean your friends’friend,—is in the house. It is right to warn you thatyou will find him much changed. Or did I understandyou to say that you had never met him?”

“I knew him once,—years ago.”

“Walk in,” said he, opening the door; but she hadalready dropped into a chair that stood upon theporch. “Ah, you are tired,” said he. “Let me bringyou a glass of water. No? Is there anything that Ican do for you?”

She shook her head, lifting her eyes, for a moment,to his. That moment was enough,—he read them; “Iwill leave you here for a little while,—till you getrested.”

She bowed her head in silent acquiescence.

Three or four convalescent solders who sat on theporch looked at her pale face, and then at each other;and they stole away, one by one, making as little noiseas 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 oftenretired within the house. At last she beckoned himto 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 tothe second door on the right-hand side of the hall, heopened it and beckoned. A soldier came out into thehall.

“Shelton,” said he, “you can stroll around for awhile; when I want you I will call you. This way.”And he bowed Mary into the room and closed the doorsoftly 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 findCaptain Smith in this room,” said she, making for thedoor.

Just then the evening sun, which was slowly sinkingin the west, burst from behind a cloud, and poureda stream of light in the room. She looked again. Aclean-shaven face of chiselled marble, as clear-cut and aspale. 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 inmy cheek.”

“I can hardly believe you are the same person. Butfor your eyes, I— They tell me you are the same. I hadhoped—”

Mary sank into a chair.

“I beg your pardon. In my surprise, I forgot thecourtesy due a lady.”

“I am not come as a lady, but as a woman. Turnaway your eyes if you will; but hear me. Why doyou hate me so? What have I done? You loved meonce. At least you told me so; and as for myself—butI shall not trouble you with that. We plightedour faith. I broke my word, I acknowledge that. Butdo you deny the claims of conscience? Not if you arethe man you have always seemed. Did it cost menothing? It broke my heart, and—you-ou—know-ow-ow—it.You need not sneer! Alice knows it, and mymother, too, if you do not know—or care. Look atme, and remember the fresh-hearted young girl youknew four years ago—and told her—you would—loveher—al-al-al-always!”

Mary covered her face with her hands, and the tearsstreamed down her cheeks, but with a supreme effortshe suppressed her sobs.

The captain of the Myrmidons was silent.

At last, Mary, drying her eyes, arose, tottering, fromher seat.

“And so I have come in vain! Once before I humbledmyself in the dust before you—and you spurnedme—”

The captain shook his head wearily.

“Yes, spurned me, and in the presence of others; sothat even that poor dying man found it in his heart topity me. And you, too, are dying, yet have not themercy of a stranger and an enemy. You bade me readHomer, and taught me to admire Achilles, yet evenhis flinty heart was melted by the tears of Priam.”

The adamantine lips trembled.

“I have read the passage again and again, and wonderedhow you, as brave in battle, could be so muchmore pitiless than he. And Priam was a man, I awoman; 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 herclasped hands and impassioned and despairing eyes toheaven:

“Merciful Father, have I not suffered enough! Mustit be that from this time forth I shall know no peace,—hauntedforever by the cold glitter of those implacableeyes, that were once—”

“Mary!”

She started. Had she heard aright?

“Mary, my beloved!”

She gave two cries; for she had heard—and shesaw—one of exultant joy, the other of frenzied despair.

Found—and lost!

Falling upon her knees by the bedside, she buriedher 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 masteredherself 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 youall these years!”

“Oh, don’t tell me that, don’t tell me that!” And amoan burst forth from her very heart.

“I am too weak to talk. Charley will tell you whyI was so bitter. He knows all. Ask him.”

She drew up a chair, and, sitting beside him, tried tosmile, as she stroked back the chestnut hair from hisforehead.

“Wonderful!” said she.

He looked up.

“I wish Lucy could see you without your beard, youare so much like her. And Edmund, too. Wonderful!”repeated she, drawing back for a better look.“And Mr. Poythress, too! Father and son were nevermore alike. Look!” And she handed him a littlebroken mirror that hung upon the wall.

She looked at him to see what he thought. And athrill of terror shot through her heart. She had nursedmen before who had been shot through the lungs. Shepressed her handkerchief to his lips.

It was soaked with blood.

The door opened softly. “A lady and a gentlemanfrom Richmond,” said the surgeon. “Will you seethem now? Yes?”

Charley entered first. As soon as she saw him Marythrew herself upon his breast, and hung upon his neckwith convulsive, half-suppressed sobs, then greetedMrs. Poythress in the same way. Then she ran backto 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, heldone of his hands, Charley the other. Mary sat strokingback the chestnut hair. The room was dark; for alittle cloud floated across the face of the sun, whoselower edge was just kissing the rim of the hill thatrises between Massanetta and the west.

“How is the baby?” asked he, with a faint smile,and gently pressing Charley’s hand. “What did—Alice—namehim?”

“Alice left that to me. He was christened—Theodoric.”

“True as steel! I die happy! Charley—my Maryhas—forgiven me my selfish anger. If there is anyother person—that I have wronged—tell her—my lastbreath—”

The cloud passed on, and the last soft rays of thatsetting October sun flashed upon his pallid face.

Mrs. Poythress sprang to her feet. Bending overhim with clasped hands, she poured upon him one longlook of passionate interrogation.

He tried to speak. His eyes glanced from face toface, as though beseeching help. Mrs. Poythress turnedto Charley. He stood with his eyes fixed upon thefloor. She sprang in front of him, and placing a handupon either shoulder, and drawing him close to her,with wide-staring, eager eyes, that would wring ananswer from him, looked into his:

“Charley?”

“Yes,” said he.

She turned to the bed.

He had heard; and an ineffable tenderness had comeinto his face, softening, sweeping away, with the rushof unspeakable love, the hard lines that years of sufferinghad wrought. ’Twas a boy’s face once more—’twasEdmund’s—’twas—?

She stood before him with outstretched arms, eagerwith certainty,—held motionless by a slender threadof doubt.

He tried to speak. And again—

At last, with one supreme effort, and borne upon hislast breath, a murmured word broke the stillness of theroom. One little word,—but that the sweetest, tenderest,that tongue of man can utter,—

“Mother!”

“My Dory!” and she fell upon his neck. And thesnowy 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 beaminglook—a serenely exultant smile—

I remember hurrying, once, to the roar of a battlewhich was over before our command reached the field.The combatants were gone. The wounded, even, hadbeen removed. Only the Silent lay there, upon theirgory bed. Wandering a little way from the road,while our troops halted, I saw a fair young boy (he wasnot over sixteen years of age) seated upon the ground,and leaning back against a young white oak, with hisrifle across his lap. Struck with his rare beauty, Idrew 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 hiscoat, just over his heart!

But, even then I could hardly believe. His head,thrown back, rested naturally against the tree. Hisparted lips showed two rows of pearly teeth. His upliftedeyes, which seemed to have drawn their azurefrom 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 blueabyss, he saw beckoning angels there!

Such a smile illumined poor Dory’s face. The heroicspirit had fled. The tumultuous, high-beating heartwas still!

And who among us all—who, at least, from whomthe sweet bloom—the rosy hopes of youth are gone—whoamong us, knowing what life really is, would dareawaken its fierce throbbings again?

And the seraphic smile lingered, lit up by the farewellrays of that October sun.

And the sun went down behind Massanetta’s hill!

THE END.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73601 ***