But he was enough. At the period at which we are now arrived, his
conduct became more perplexing than ever. The neighborhood was divided
into two camps, one maintaining that Mary found favor in his eyes, the
other that Lucy and music had carried the day. Most of the gentlemen
were of the latter party. They pointed out his frequent visits across
the River, the hours he spent playing for or with her, his obvious
efforts to win the good-will of her mother. Some few of the girls were
on our side; and I remember that they, at times, commented with some
asperity on the alleged court that the Don paid Mrs. Poythress,—rather
plainly signifying that in _their_ case a swain would find it to his
interest to make love to them rather than to their mothers. But a
majority of the girls, headed by Alice, scouted the idea of the Don’s
being enamoured of the gentle Lucy; the difference between their party
and that of the men being that they could give no reason for the faith
that was in them. They thought so—they knew it—well, we should
see—persisted they, in their irritating feminine way.
As a natural result of this state of things, there arose among us a sort
of anti-Don party. His popularity began to wane. What did he mean by
playing fast and loose with two girls? Why did he not declare himself
for one or the other? Who _was_ he, in fact?
But against this rising tide of disapprobation Charley was an unfailing
bulwark. It was obvious to all that a close intimacy had sprung up
between Frobisher and the Don. They were continually taking long walks
together. Secluded nooks of porches became their favorite
resting-places. The murmur of their voices was often to be heard long
after the rest of the family had retired for the night. Charley,
therefore, gave this suspicious character the stamp of his approval, and
that approval sustained him in our little circle. I say _our_ little
circle, though I, of course, had long since returned to Richmond, and my
supposed practice at the bar. Fortunately for the reader, Alice remained
on the scene; else where had been those delicious love-passages that are
in store for us?
Of all this circle, Alice was most eager to ascertain the actual state
of the Don’s sentiments. Nor was hers an idle curiosity. Her penetrating
eyes had not failed to pierce the veil of bravado by which Mary had
sought to hide her heart from her friend. But did _he_ love _her_? She
believed so,—believed half in dread, half in hope, Now was the time to
learn something definite.
For the Poythresses had given a dinner, and she and Charley were
promenading up and down the Oakhurst piazza. Presently, there sounded
from the parlor the “A” on the piano, followed by those peculiar tones
of a violin being tuned,—tones so charmingly suggestive, to lovers of
music, so exasperating to others.
“Ah, they are going to play!” said my grandfather, quickly; and he
turned to go into the parlor, followed by all of the promenaders save
Charley and Alice, who still strode to and fro, arm in arm.
“They are going to play,” repeated he, as he got to the door, turning
and nodding to Charley, and then passed briskly within.
At this some of the girls smiled, and Charley reddened, poor fellow, and
bit his lip; while Alice gazed, unconscious, at two specks of boats in
the distance.
Suddenly Mr. Whacker reappeared, thrusting his ruddy countenance and
snowy hair between the fair heads of two girls who were just entering
the door,—a pleasing picture.
“The Kreutzer Sonata!” he ejaculated at Charley, and disappeared.
At this the two girls fairly giggled aloud, and, darting Parthian
glances at Alice, tumbled through the hall into the parlor.
“What merry, thoughtless creatures we girls are!” said Alice, removing
her gaze from the specks of sails.
“Yes, and no fellow can find out, half the time, what you are laughing
about,—or thinking about, for the matter of that.”
“What! do _you_ deem us such riddles,—you who, they say, can read one’s
thoughts as though we were made of glass?”
“I? And who says that of me, pray?”
“Everybody says it. _I_ say it,” she added, with a smile of saucy
defiance.
“I read people’s thoughts!”
“Do you disclaim the gift?”
“Even to disclaim it would be preposterously vain.”
Charley would have avoided that word “preposterous” had he bethought
him, in time, how many p’s it contained. His face was red when he had
stumbled and floundered through it, and his eyes a trifle stern. He had
been a stammerer from boyhood, but of late his infirmity had begun to
annoy him strangely.
“Then, modest young man, I suppose you have yet to learn the alphabet of
mind-reading?”
“Yes,—that is, women’s minds.”
“Women’s minds? Do you think that we are harder to read than men? Do you
think, for example, that people find it harder to see through such an
unsophisticated girl as myself than such a deep philosopher as you?”
“You? Why, you are an unfathomable m-m-m-mystery?” (“Confound it!”)
“The idea! I a mystery? And this from you, unreadable sphinx!”
“Yes, and unfathomable! Why, I have no idea what you think upon
the—upon—well, all sorts of subjects.”
Charley caressed with a shy glance the toes of his boots, and felt red.
“Indeed? How strange!” And she gazed upon the dots of boats and felt
pale.
“Yes; for example, I have often wondered what in fact, for example, you
thought, for instance, of—of—of—me, for instance. Oh, no, no, of
course not, I beg your pardon; of course I never imagined for a moment,
of course not, that you ever thought of me at all, in fact. What I mean
is, that whenever you did think of me,—though I presume you never did
for an instant, of course,—I mean that if by chance, when you had
nothing else to think about, and I happened to pass by—Oh, Lord!” cried
Charley, clasping in his hand his burning brow.
What is the matter with my people? Chatterbox reduced to monosyllables,
and the Silent Man pouring forth words thick as those that once burst
from the deep chest of Ulysses of many wiles; and _they_, as we all
know, thronged thick as flakes of wintry snow.
“Don’t you think I am an idiot? Have you the _least_ doubt of it?”
exclaimed the poor fellow, with fierce humility.
Alice gave a little start and looked up.
“A confounded stammering idiot?”
“Mr. Frobisher!”
He didn’t mean it. Charley could never have done such a thing on
purpose; but his left arm suddenly threw off all allegiance to his will,
and actually pressed a certain modest little dimpled hand against his
heart so hard that it blushed to the finger-tips. Alice looked down with
quickened breath, slackened pace; but Charley swept her forward with
loftier stride, drawing in mighty draughts of air, and glaring defiance
at the universe. He did not, however, stride over the railing at the end
of the piazza. Taking advantage of the halt—
“Strange!” said Alice, in a low voice; “do you know that I, too, have
often wondered what you thought of me? Seeing you sitting, silent and
thoughtful, while I was rattling on in my heedless way, I often wondered
whether you did not think me a chatterer destitute as well of brains as
of heart. No? Really and truly? You are very kind to say so!”
“Kind!” exclaimed Charley. “Kind! ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻.”
“✻ ✻ ✻ ✻” said Alice, looking down—“✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻.”
“✻ ✻ ✻” continued Charley, “✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ yes, ✻ ✻ first and
only ✻ ✻ Richmond ✻ ✻ very first moment ✻ ✻ never again ✻ ✻ dreaming and
waking ✻ ✻ despair ✻ ✻ torments of the ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ abyss!”
“✻ ✻ ✻ mere passing fancy? ✻ as ever were caught out of it. ✻ ✻ Richmond
✻ week ✻ ✻ ✻ out of sight, out of ✻ ✻.”
“✻ ✻ ✻ ey, fiercely, ✻ ✻ ✻ while life ✻ yonder river flows down to the
sea ✻ ✻ ✻ by all that’s ✻ ✻ never ✻ ✻ ✻ so long as the stars ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻
no, never!”
“✻ ✻ ✻ naturally enough ✻ ✻ country-house ✻ ✻ ✻ passing whim ✻ absence ✻
✻ ✻ another dear charmer ✻ ✻ effaced.”
“No ✻ ✻ graven ✻ ✻ indelible ✻ ✻ revolve upon its axis ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ sheds her
light ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ shall beat ✻ ✻ ✻ obliterated!”
“✻ ✻ ✻ others ✻ ✻ vows ✻ before ✻ and yet ✻ ✻ ✻ woman’s confiding nature
✻ ✻ forgotten.”
“✻ ✻ ✻ then if ✻ ✻ bid me ✻ not ✻ altogether ✻ ✻ permit me ✻ ✻ ✻
absolute aversion ✻ ✻ ✻ grow into ✻ ✻ time ✻ ✻ ✻ fidelity ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ ray of
hope?”
“✻ ✻ ✻ so totally unexpected,” [Oh!!! _J. B. W._] “✻ ✻ ✻ breath away
with surprise ✻ ✻ ✻ my own mind ✻ ✻ test ✻ ✻ ✻ ✻ both of us ✻ ✻ for the
present ✻ ✻ as though not said.”
“✻ ✻” said he, “✻ ✻ ✻ absolute dislike?”
“✻ ✻ ✻” dropping her eyes, “✻ ✻ ✻ cannot altogether deny ✻ ✻ at times ✻
acknowledge ✻ ✻ ✻ perhaps ✻ ✻.”
Here the cooing of these turtle-doves was interrupted.
“The adagio is about to begin!” [Does the learned counsel allude, when
he speaks of the “adagio,” to the _andante con variazioni_ of
Beethoven’s so-called Kreutzer Sonata,—A major, Opus 47? But did a
lawyer ever count for anything outside of his briefs? _Ch.
Frobisher._[1]]
“The adagio be—” thought Charley, with a flash of heat; but reined
himself back on that modest little verb; so that no man will ever know
what he intended to think. [A thousand pities, too, for as his mind,
though originally sound, never had the advantage of legal training, ’tis
a recreation that he treats it to but seldom. _J. B. W._]
My grandfather has passed out of the parlor on tiptoe, to make this
announcement; though why on tiptoe (there being an intermission in the
music) I leave to psychologists to determine.
The two giggling girls had popped into seats near the door; and when
they saw him moving past them, bent on his errand of mercy (Charley was
not to miss the adagio), they fell upon each other’s necks and wept
sunny tears.
“Poor Mr. Frobisher!” gasped one.
“Isn’t it too cruel!” gurgled the other.
Presently Mr. Whacker returned, looking rather disconcerted. Charley had
said, “In a moment, Uncle Tom;” but his flushed face, and his voice,
pitched in a strange key, as it were, rather upset his old friend; and
he had retreated rather precipitately, a little troubled in mind (he
knew not why), but none the wiser for what he had seen.
“Won’t they come in to hear the adagio?” asked one of the gigglers. The
little hypocrite had brought her features under control with an effort,
and had even managed to throw into her voice an accent of sympathetic
solicitude.
“Not even to hear the _adagio_!” echoed her pal, with reproachful
emphasis.
“They seem to be engaged,” said Uncle Tom, simply.
At this the gigglers giggled uproariously.
“The simpletons!” sighed my grandfather, bending upon them a look
wherein the glory of his dark eyes was veiled with a gentle pathos that
ever dimmed them when he looked upon happiness and youth. “Laugh while
you may! You will have plenty of time for tears in the journey of life,
poor things. In this poor world, my daughters, the height of foolishness
is often the summit of wisdom. Laugh on.” And he placed his hands upon
their sunny heads, as though to bless them and to avert the omen. And
they, with one accord, arose, and, throwing around his neck a tangle of
shining arms, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. And he went his way, none
the wiser,—went his way in that simplicity of age which is more
touching than that of childhood; since it has known once—and forgotten.
And between his departing form and their eyes, that laughed no longer,
there arose a mist that seemed to lend a tender halo to his gray
hairs—and they blessed him in turn.
“Mr. Frobisher,” said Alice, halting in front of the door, “I think we
should go in.”
“Go in?” repeated Charley, with a rather dazed look.
Things were _so_ interesting on the piazza!
“Yes, we _must_!”
Could he be mistaken? No, there was an unmistakable something in that
pull upon his arm that said, _Come with me._
“Not now; just one brief moment!”
“Yes, _now_. We might hurt Uncle Tom’s feelings.”
“_We!_” Did she mean it? Charley gave a quick, inquiring glance. She
raised her eyes and met his with a kind of shrinking frankness.
“You say,” said Charley, “that we must go in to hear the adagio;
but—tell me—just one little word: while they are playing that, may my
heart beat in the frolic rhythm of the scherzo?”
She made no reply, nor raised her head; but the same gentle pull upon
his arm seemed to say,—and plainer than before,—_Come with me._
“Tell me, dearest?”
“Oh, don’t bother people so!”
Then, for the first time, her face, pallid before, was suffused with a
sudden glory of roses.
-----
[1] Reading the final proofs of this book, I find, bracketed into the
text, sundry satirical observations at my expense; signed, some by
Charley, others by Alice, who had undertaken to relieve me of the
drudgery of the first proofs. Rather than bother the printer, I have
suffered many of them to remain—for what they are worth!—_J. B. W._
[And I suffer this astounding note to remain for what _it_ is
worth.—Ed.]