|A beautiful fire was blazing in the grate. The transition from the
cold and uproar of the street, to the snug quiet and warmth of this cosy
book-lined room, was an agreeable one, I can tell you. I was pretty
well rested by this time; and, except for the tingling of my nose, ears,
toes, and fingers, felt very little the worse for my encounter with the
elements.
“Now,” said I to my guest, “the tables are turned. But a moment since, I
was your prisoner; now you are mine. Draw up to the fire. Throw off your
over jacket and your rubber-boots. I hope you are not wet through; for,
we are built respectively upon such different patterns, it would be
ironical for me to offer you dry garments from my wardrobe.”
“You need give yourself no uneasiness upon that score, sir. Im as dry as
a Greek lexicon.”
“In that case, let me at once offer you a drop of something wet,” I
said, producing a decanter and a couple of glasses.
“Yes,” he assented, “a toothful of this will do neither of us harm.”
We clinked our glasses, and drank.
“Ah,” he cried, smacking his lips, “sweet ardent spirit of the rye, may
the shade of Christopher Columbus be fed upon you thrice every day, to
reward him for the discovery of this continent. I've tasted Irish and
I've tasted Scotch, Dutch barley-brandy and Slavonic vodka; but of all
distillations to make glad the inmost heart of man, give me Kentucky
rye! Another glass? Thank you, kind sir, not e'en another drop. 'Twere
desecration worthy only of a widower to take a second after so rare a
first. And now, by-the-bye, since I find myself the beneficiary of
your hospitality, it behoves me to introduce myself. My name is Henry
Fairchild, and by trade I am a sculptor.”
“My name is Leonard Benary, physician and surgeon. And I trust, Mr.
Fairchild, that you have no urgent affairs to call you from my house,
for I should never feel easy in my mind if I permitted you to leave it
before this storm has abated; and that doesn't look like an imminent
event. My affairs are not urgent. In fact, as I believe I have already
remarked, when we ran across each other I was abroad for my diversion,
pure and simple. But that is no reason why I should abuse your kindness.
If I may thaw here before your fire for a half-hour, I shall be in
perfect condition to make my way home.”
“That would depend upon the distance of your home from mine.”
“My home is in my studio. And my studio is in St. Matthew's Park.”
“So far! Very well, then. I shall certainly not hear of your leaving
me so long as the storm continues. It would be as much as your life is
worth to attempt such a journey in such circumstances. It's a matter of
three, four, well-nigh five miles. And since all public conveyances are
at a standstill, you'd have to trust yourself for the whole distance
to Shanks's mare. I shall count upon your spending the night here, at
least. There's no prospect of the weather moderating before to-morrow.
And now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you here for a few moments,
while I go to change my clothes.”
“That's the wisest thing you could possibly do,” he returned. “I shall
amuse myself excellently looking out of the window; but as for your kind
invitation to remain over night----”
“As for that, since you acknowledge that you have no pressing business
to call you elsewhere, I will listen to no refusal.”
I went upstairs, my first care being to make known my return to
Josephine and Miriam, who, of course, were thereby greatly surprised
and relieved. They professed they had suffered the acutest anxiety ever
since I had left the house; and as they listened to the account I gave
them of my misadventures, they paled and shuddered for very terror.
“Mr. Fairchild, the young man who came to my rescue, is even now below
stairs in the library,” I concluded.
“Oh, is he? Then,” cried Miriam, addressing Josephine, “let us go to him
at once, and tell him how we thank him. To think that, except for him,
my uncle might----” She completed her sentence by putting her arms
around my neck, and giving me three of the sweetest kisses that were
ever given in this world: one on either cheek and one full on the lips.
“Now, sir,” she went on, shaking the prettiest of fingers at me, “I hope
that you have learned a lesson, and will never do anything again that we
two wise women warn you not to.”
“I promise to be a good, obedient, little old man in the future,” I
replied; and was rewarded for my docility with a fourth kiss--this time
imprinted among the wrinkles on my forehead.
The two wise women went off downstairs.
I joined them as soon as I had got into dry clothing; and we sat down to
luncheon--the young sculptor enlivening and entertaining us with a
flow of droll, high-spirited talk. He and Miriam got on famously
together--chatting, laughing, exchanging bits of repartee, with the
vivacity that was becoming to their age. Josephine and I hearkened and
enjoyed. At least, I enjoyed; and I had no reason to suppose that my
sister did not. Luncheon concluded, we adjourned to the drawing-room.
There, observing the piano, Fairchild demanded of Miriam whether she
played. She answered, “Yes.” (We had procured for her the best musical
instruction to be had in Adironda; and she had mastered the instrument
with a facility which proved that Louise Massarte must have been a
talented pianist.) Miriam answered, “Yes,” and then Fairchild said--
“Will you not be persuaded to play for us now?”
She played one of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, and then something of
Chopin's, and then something of Schumann's; after which, leaving the
piano, she said to Fairchild--
“Now you must sing for us.”
“Why, how do you know I can sing?” cried he.
“It is evident from the _timbre_ of your voice,” she answered.
“You must not be too sure of that,” he protested. “The speaking voice
and the singing voice are two very different things.”
“Nevertheless, please sing for us,” she repeated.
“Very good,” said he, taking possession of the key-board, “I will sing
for you; but at your peril. The beauty of the song, however, may perhaps
be allowed to atone for the deficiencies of my execution. It is by the
English composer, Marzials, a man of the rarest genius, too little known
out of his own country. He wrote both words and music, and the song is
entitled 'Never Laugh at Love.'”
Therewith, to his own accompaniment, he sang in his sweet baritone
one of the pleasantest and wittiest songs of its kind that I have ever
heard.
Oh, never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free,
Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee!
Should he but aim in play his tiny dart--
Ping! 't will break your heart!
I knew a queen with golden hair,
Few so proud, and none so fair;
Her maids and she, one twilight gray,
Went wand'ring down the garden way.
A pretty page was standing there;
Their eyes just met. Oh, long despair!
For both have died of love, they say.
So never laugh at Love, Miss, fancy free,
Lest the wanton boy should laugh at thee!
I cannot forbear quoting that one verse, to give a notion of the quaint
mediæval charm of the words. * I wish I could transcribe the melody as
well, which was delicious with the same quaint flavour.
* The Editor of this work must disclaim all responsibility
Dr. Benary's opinions upon matters literary and aesthetic.
Fairchild having finished his song, he and Miriam plunged into an
animated conversation about music in the abstract, which I, for
one--being, though an ardent lover of music, no musician--found of
dubious interest.
“Wherefore, I think,” I interrupted them to say, “if you will forgive
the breach of ceremony, Mr. Fairchild, I shall retire to my bedroom for
a bit, and take a nap. I feel somewhat fatigued after the exertions of
the forenoon; and, anyhow, I am accustomed to my forty winks at this
hour of the day. I am sure I leave you in good hands when I leave you to
my sister and my niece.”
“Indeed, Dr. Benary, the kindest thing you can do for me--you and your
good ladies--will be to let me feel that in no wise do I interfere with
your convenience or your pleasure. Otherwise, I shall be compelled to
take my departure _instanter_; and I confess that by this time I am so
deeply penetrated by the comfort of your interior that I should hate
mortally to renew close quarters with the storm.”
So I withdrew to my bed-chamber, and was sound asleep in no time. Nor
did I wake till the mellow booming of the Japanese gong, which serves as
dinner-bell in our establishment, broke in upon my slumbers.
As I rose to my feet, something dropped from the counterpane to the
floor.
Stooping to pick it up, I discovered that it was a sheet of paper,
folded in the form of a cocked hat, and bearing my name written across
it in Josephine's hand.
“What earthly occasion can Josephine have for writing me a note?” I
wondered.
Donning my spectacles, I read as follows:
“What ever shall we do? I cannot come and say this to you in person, for
I dare not leave them alone together. But he has recognised Miriam!--J.”
It took fully a minute for the significance of that sentence: “He has
recognised Miriam,” to percolate my understanding, still thick with the
dregs of sleep. Then I started as if I had been stung; and rushing into
the passage, I called “Josephine! Josephine!” at the top of my lungs.