Next morning Charley and I called at the Carters’ to give the Don the
invitation to visit Elmington, but found he had gone out for his first
walk since his accident, to test, at Mrs. Carter’s instance, his
strength before going into his own quarters. Charley was compelled,
therefore, to leave the city without seeing him. In the evening I called
at his rooms. Knocking at his sitting-room door, I was invited to enter,
and found him sitting by a table reading a small book, which he closed,
but held in his hand as he rose and came forward to greet me.
“Reading?” began I, bowing and glancing casually towards the little
book, the back of which was turned away from me.
“Yes,” replied he, but without looking at the book; “getting through an
evening alone I find rather dull work after my recent charming
experience. Take a seat. Will you have a pipe, or do you prefer a cigar?
A pipe? You will find the tobacco very good.” And walking to a small set
of shelves near the door, he placed the little book upon it,—a
circumstance too trivial to mention, did it not afford a characteristic
example of the quiet but effectual way the Don had of nipping in the bud
any conversation which was about to take a line he did not wish it to
follow. I suppose we had been chatting for half an hour before I alluded
to my errand.
“Mr. Frobisher wished to see me particularly, you say?”
“Yes; Charley heard you say one day that you were fond of shooting; and
as there is fine sport to be had in Leicester, he thought it might be
agreeable to you to—”
The smile of polite curiosity with which he heard that Charley had had
something to say to him rapidly faded as I spoke, and there came into
his countenance a look of such intense seriousness, nay, even of subdued
and suffering agitation, that, for a moment, I lost my self-possession
in my surprise, but managed to finish my message in a stumbling sort of
way. As for the Don, anticipating, apparently, from my opening words
what that message was to be, he seemed hardly conscious that it was
ended. He sat, for a moment, with his head resting in the palm of his
hand, his piercing eyes fixed upon the floor; but seeming suddenly to
realize that this was a queer way of meeting a courtesy, he quickly
raised his head. “Thanks, thanks,” said he, with a forced smile, but
with apologetic emphasis. “Charley—I beg pardon—Mr. Frobisher is very
kind,—very kind indeed! Yes, I should immensely enjoy having a tilt
once more at the partridges.[1] Very much indeed.”
“Then I may hope that you will accept?”
“Oh, certainly, with very great pleasure. Please present my warmest
acknowledgments to Char—Mr. Frobisher, and say that I shall be at his
command so soon as I shall have recovered my strength somewhat.” He
paused for a moment; then, throwing back his head with a little laugh:
“By the way,” he continued, “I beg you will not misinterpret my singular
way of receiving the invitation. It was such a surprise, and I am still
a little weak, you know.”
“You must allow me to add how much gratified I, too, am at your
decision. You know—or do you not?—that the invitation is to my
grandfather’s place, Elmington.”
“Elmington?”
“Ah, I see—very naturally, you don’t understand that Charley lives with
my grandfather.”
“With your grandfather? Why, how can that be? I thought his place
adjoined your—” And he stopped suddenly. “Please be so good as to
explain,” he added, in a low voice.
“Well, this rather peculiar state of things came about in this way. My
mother died before I was a month old, and my father, my grandfather’s
only son, survived her less than a year; so that I was brought up by the
old gentleman. Now, Charley’s place adjoined Elmington, my
grandfather’s, their respective residences being not over a half-mile
apart; and so Charley got into the habit—however, I must mention that
Charley lost his father years ago, and, about ten years since, his
mother died.”
“His mother? His mother is dead?” asked the Don, in a low tone, and
without raising his eyes from the floor.
“Yes. They say she was a lovely woman.”
“And she is dead, you say—your friend’s mother?” he repeated, in a
mechanical sort of way; and, resting his head upon his hand, he fixed
his eyes upon the window with a look so grim that I paused in my
narrative.
“Yes,” I presently resumed, “she—Charley’s mother; that is—”
“I beg pardon,” said he, abruptly turning to me, and, as the Latin hath
it, serening his face with an effort,—“please go on.”
“Well, Charley was at the University at the time of his mother’s death;
and during the following vacation he seemed to find his own desolate
home—he was singularly devoted to his mother—unendurable; so he would
frequently drop in on my grandfather and myself at tea, walking home,
when bedtime came, across the fields; but my grandfather, remarking the
sad look that always came into his face when he arose to depart, would
frequently insist upon his spending the night with us. The poor fellow
could scarcely ever resist the temptation, to my great delight; for to
me, a boy of thirteen, Charley, who was eighteen, _and a student_, was a
sort of demi-god. I suppose, in fact, that apart from my grandfather’s
personal liking for the young man, and his sympathy with him under the
circumstances, he was very glad to give me the society of some one
younger than himself. And so, to make a long story short, Charley’s
visits becoming more and more frequent and regular, it came at last to
be understood that he was to spend every night with us,—during his
vacation, of course. At last, at the end of three years, Charley left
the University with the degree of Master of Arts in pocket.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. You are surprised, no doubt. He is so unassuming, one would hardly
suppose that he had attained an honor which is reached by hardly more
than one out of every hundred of the students at the University. To
continue. When he returned from college and took charge of his farm, it
soon appeared that the tables were turned. It was Charley’s
companionship now that had grown to be a necessity to the old gentleman.
‘We shall expect you to dinner,’ he would say every morning, as Charley
rode off to look after his farming operations. Charley often protested
against this one-sided hospitality, and, as a compromise, we would dine
with him occasionally; but at last my grandfather proposed a
consolidation of the two households, all of us wondering why the plan
had not been thought of before. That is the way Charley came to live at
Elmington. The two farms are separate, though from time to time worked
in common, as occasion demands,—in harvest-time, for example. Each farm
contributes its quota to the table, though not in any fixed ratio. My
grandfather, for example, is firmly persuaded that the grass on his
farm—notably in one special field—imparts, in some occult way, a
flavor to his mutton that Charley’s does not possess; while, on the
other hand, an old woman on Charley’s place has such a gift at raising
chickens, turkeys, and ducks, that we have gotten in the habit of
looking to her for our fowls.”
The Don smiled.
“It is rather a singular arrangement, isn’t it? but I have gone into
these details that you might see that Elmington is, for all the purposes
of hospitality, as much Charley’s as my grandfather’s. I hope it will
not be long,” I added, rising, “before you will be able to go down and
see how the arrangement works, though I am sorry I shall not be able to
join you till Christmas week, being detained by professional
engagements, or, rather, the hope of such, as I have but recently opened
a law office.”
“You may rest assured that I shall not lose a day, when once my
physician has given me leave to go. Can’t you sit longer? Another visit
yet? Ah, I am sorry.” And he accompanied me to the door of his
sitting-room.
As we stood there for a moment, exchanging the customary civilities of
leave-taking, my eye fell upon the little book the Don had laid upon a
shelf of his book-case.
It was a copy of the New Testament.
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[1] The quail is unknown in Virginia—both bird and word.—_Ed._