Three o’clock was, in those days, the dinner-hour of the Virginia
gentry; but my grandfather and Charley, being but two in family, and not
caring to be bothered with three meals a day, had gotten into the habit
of dining at five; and so, shortly before that hour, on this Christmas
day, all the company, having made their toilets, had assembled in the
drawing-room. But, as far back as I can remember, I don’t think that
Aunt Polly had ever let us have our Christmas dinner before six. Aunt
Polly could never explain this fact to our satisfaction. “Ready,” she
once made reply to my boyish impatience, “no, dat tain’t, How you gwine
’spect de fire to cook all dese things quick like a few things? Jess
look at dat pot! I set it d’yar to bile and d’yar it sets a-simperin’
and a-simperin’ like people never did want to eat nothin’.”
“In course,” broke in old Dick, with stately profundity, “a rolling
stone never gathers no moss.”
“Git out o’ my way, Dick, and lemme lift de led off dat d’yar skillet.
Moss! Moss! Who talkin’ ’bout moss, I’d like to know? And all de white
folks a-waitin’ for dinner!” And she mopped her face with her sleeve.
“I meant to rubserve,” rejoined Dick, with offended dignity, “dat a
watched pot never biles.”
On the present occasion Mrs. Carter gave the company an intimation that
they had an hour on their hands.
“Why not adjourn to the hall,” suggested Mr. Whacker, “and while away
the time with some music?”
The company rose with enthusiasm. “Oh, how nice!” And all the girls
clapped their hands.
“Mr. Frobisher,” said Jones, dryly, “if your finger be sufficiently
healed, suppose you lead off. As for me—I—have a sore throat.”
“Ah, that poor finger!” cried Alice, “how remiss in us girls not to have
inquired after its health! How is the dear little thing?”
“I beg your pardon?” inquired Charley, with an innocent look; but his
hands had somehow found their way behind his back.
“How is your cut finger?”
“My cut finger?”
“Yes, y-o-u-r c-u-t f-i-n-g-e-r!”
“M-y c-u-t f-i-n-g-e-r?” And he mimicked her imperious little gestures;
at the same time looking from face to face with a sort of dazed air.
“Isn’t this a sort of conundrum?”
“No; show me your hand.”
“There,” said he, holding out his right hand,—“there is my hand,—you
may h-h-h-h-ave it if you want it.” And immediately, as though he had
said more than he had intended, blushed to the roots of his hair.
“Nonsense!” said she, coloring slightly. “Why do you tantalize people
so? The other!”
“The other? There they are, both of them.”
“But which is the finger that you cut?”
“Who said I c-c-c-ut my finger?”
“Do you mean to say—” began Jones; but shouts of laughter interrupted
his question, and, turning to a group of students, he pursed up his
mouth and emitted a long but inaudible whistle. Charley, meanwhile, was
assailed with questions by the girls as to what made him suspect that
the Don was a musician; but he passed, smiling and silent, towards the
western door, and he stood there bowing the ladies out on their way to
the Hall.
“Fiend in human shape!” breathed Alice, as she passed out, threatening
him with upraised forefinger.
“Do you really think so?” asked he, in a hurried, half-choking
whisper,—the idiot!
The enchantress stopped, and slowly turning her head, as she stood with
one foot upon the pavement and the other on the step above, turning her
head, all gilded and glorious with the mellow rays of the setting sun,
gave him one Parthian glance, half saucy, half serious, and bounded
forward to overtake her companions. Charley, with his eyes riveted upon
her retiring figure, stood motionless till she had disappeared within
the Hall. Did he hope—the simpleton—for another look?
The Don and I were lingering on the Hall steps when Charley came up.
“By the way, how on earth did you divine that I played on the violin?
You have no objection to telling me?”
“None in the world. There was no divination about the matter. When you
were knocked senseless by the runaway horses, I helped to undress you.
On removing your coat a paper fell out of the breast-pocket, and I
remarked, on picking it up, that it was a sheet of manuscript music.”
“Oh yes, I remember,—a little waltz that I had composed that day.”
“I didn’t know who had compo-po-po-sed it,” replied Charley, dryly, “but
I have m-m-m-ade it a rule all m-m-my life never to play before people
who went about the country, getting run over, with m-m-m-anu-script
m-m-m-u-sic in their pockets.”
“And you would seem,” added the Don, smiling, “never to have mentioned
your suspicions?”
“Not to me, certainly,” said I.
“Not to you, nor to Uncle Tom; not even to Jones.”
“Not even to Jones!” repeated the Don, laughing heartily. “Thanks,”
added he, suddenly seizing Charley’s hand,—“thanks.” And he sprang
lightly into the room.
“Charley, you are a rare one. The idea of your not letting the old man
or myself into the secret.”
“W-e-l-l, y-e-s,” said he, abstractedly. He seemed in no hurry to enter
the room, holding me back by a firm though unconscious grasp upon my
arm. “I say, Jack,” said he, in a confidential tone. And he stopped.
“Well?”
“Isn’t she a stunner?” And he nodded towards a group of girls who stood
about the piano.
“Which one?”
He dug me in the ribs and passed into the Hall.