"Let me pass, sir, please. I've no time to stop."
"What, not to talk to me, Pyrrha--Betsy, I mean?"
"Mother don't like me talking to gentlemen."
"You've been crying," said I.
"No, I haven't," said Pyrrha, quite violently.
"Mother been scolding you?"
"I wish you'd let me by, sir."
"What for?"
"It's all your fault," burst out Pyrrha. "I didn't want you; no, nor
him, either. What do you come and get me into trouble for?"
"I haven't done anything, Betsy. Come now!"
"You aint as bad as some," she conceded, a dim smile breaking through
the clouds.
"You mean Smugg," I observed.
"Who told you?" she cried.
"Joe," said I.
"Seems he's got a lot to say to everybody," she commented resentfully.
"Ah! he told your mother, did he? Well, you know you shouldn't, Betsy."
"I won't never speak to him again--I meant I won't ever [the grammarian
is abroad], Mr. Robertson."
"What! Not to Joe?"
"Joe! No; that Smugg."
"But Joe told of you."
"Well, and it was his right."
If she thought so, I had no more to say. Notions differ among
different sets. But I pressed the point a little.
"Joe got you your scolding."
Now, I can't say whether I did or did not emphasize the last word
unduly, but Pyrrha blushed again, and remarked:
"You want to know too much, sir, by a deal."
So I left that aspect to the subject, and continued:
"I suppose it was for letting Mr. Smugg kiss you?"
"I couldn't help it."
I had great doubts of that--she could have tackled Smugg with one hand;
but I said pleasantly:
"No more could he, I'm sure."
Pyrrha cast an alarmed glance at the house.
"Oh, I'll be careful," I laughed. "Yes, and I'll let you go. But just
tell me, Betsy, what do you think of Mr. Smugg?"
"I don't think that of him!" said she, snapping her pretty red fingers.
"Joe 'ud make ten of him. I wish Joe'd talk to him a bit."
The end came soon after this, and, in spite of our attitude (I speak of
us four, not of Smugg) of whole-heartedness, I think it was rather a
shock to us all, when Joe announced one morning, on his arrival with
the chops, that he was to be made a happy man at the church next day.
Smugg was not in the room, and the rest of us congratulated Joe, and
made up a purse for him to give Pyrrha, with our best respects, and he
bowed himself out, mightily pleased, and asseverating that we were real
gentlemen. Then we sat and looked at the table.
"It robs us of a resource," pronounced Gayford, once again making
himself the mouthpiece of the party. We all nodded, and filled fresh
pipes.
Presently Smugg sidled in. We had seen little of him the last week;
save when he was construing he had taken refuge in his own room. When
he came in now, Gayford wagged his head significantly at me;
apparently, it was my task to bell the cat. I rose, and went to the
mantelpiece. Smugg had sat down at the table, and my back was to him.
I took a match from the box, struck it, and applied it to my pipe, and,
punctuating my words with interspersed puffings, I said carelessly:
"By the way, Smugg, Pyrrha's going to be married to Joe Shanks
to-morrow."
I don't know how he looked. I kept my face from him, but, after a long
minute's pause, he answered:
"Thank you, Robertson. It's Aeschylus this morning, isn't it?"
We had a noisy evening that night. I suppose we felt below par, and
wanted cheering up. Anyhow, we made an expedition to the grocer's, and
amazed him with a demand for his best champagne and his choicest
sherry. We carried the goods home in a bag, and sat down to a revel.
Smugg had some bread and cheese in his own room; he said that he had
letters to write. We dined largely, and drank still more largely; then
we sang, and at last--it was near on twelve, a terrible hour for that
neighborhood--we made our way, amid much boisterousness and horseplay,
to bed; where I, at least, was asleep in five minutes.
As the church clock struck two, I awoke. I heard a sound of movement
in Smugg's room next door. I lay and listened. Presently his door
opened, and he creaked gently downstairs. I sprang out of bed and
looked out of the window. Smugg, fully dressed, was gliding along the
path toward Dill's farm. Some impulse--curiosity only, very
likely--made me jump into my trousers, seize a flannel jacket, draw on
a pair of boots, and hastily follow him. When I got outside he was
visible in the moonlight, mounting the path ahead of me. He held on
his way toward the farm, I following. When he reached the yard he
stopped for a moment, and seemed to peer up at the windows, which were
all dark and unresponsive. I stood as quiet as I could, twenty yards
from him, and moved cautiously on again when he turned to the right and
passed through the gate into the meadows.
I saw no signs of Pyrrha. Smugg held on his way across the meadows,
down toward the stream; and suddenly the thought leaped to my brain
that the poor fool meant to drown himself. But I could hardly believe
it. Surely he must merely be taking a desperate lover's ramble, a last
sad visit to the scenes of his silly, irrational infatuation. If I
went up to him, I should look a fool, too; so I hung behind, ready to
turn upon him if need appeared.
He walked down to the very edge of the stream; it ran deep and fast
just here, under a high bank and a row of old willows. Smugg sat down
on the bank, wet though the grass was, and clasped his hands over his
knees. I crouched down a little way behind him, ready and alert. I am
a good swimmer, and I did not doubt my power to pull him out, even if I
were not in time to prevent him jumping in. I saw him rise, look over
the brink, and sit down again. I almost thought I saw him shiver. And
presently, through the stillness of the summer night, came the
strangest, saddest sound; catching my ear as it drifted across the
meadow. Smugg was sobbing, and his sobs--never loud--rose and fell with
the subdued stress of intolerable pain.
Suddenly he leaped up, cried aloud, and flung his hands above his head.
I thought he was gone this time; but he stopped, poised, as it seemed,
over the water, and I heard him cry, "I can't, I can't!" and he sank
down all in a heap on the bank, and fell again to sobbing. I hope
never to see a man--if you can call Smugg a man--like that again.
He sat where he was, and I where I was, till the moon paled and a
distant hint of day discovered us. Then he rose, brushed himself with
his hands, and slunk quickly from the bank. Had he looked anywhere but
on the ground, he must have seen me; as it was, I only narrowly avoided
him, and fell again into my place behind him. All the way back to our
garden I followed him. As he passed through the gate, I quickened my
pace, overtook him, and laid my hand on his arm. The man's face gave
me what I remember my old nurse used to call "quite a turn."
"You're an average idiot, aren't you?" said I. "Oh, yes; I've been
squatting in the wet by that infernal river, too. You ought to get
three months, by rights."
He looked at me in a dazed sort of way.
"I daren't," he said. "I wanted to, but I daren't."
There is really nothing more. We went to the wedding, leaving Smugg in
bed; and in the evening we, leaving Smugg still in bed (I told Mary to
keep an eye on him), and carrying a dozen of the grocer's best port,
went up to dance at Dill's farm. Joe was polished till I could almost
see myself in his cheek, and Pyrrha looked more charming than ever.
She and Joe were to leave us early, to go to Joe's own house in the
village, but I managed to get one dance with her. Indeed, I believe
she wanted a word with me.
"Well, all's well that ends well, isn't it?" I began. "No more
scoldings! Not from Mrs. Dill, anyhow."
"You can't let that alone, sir," said Pyrrha.