Beshrew me, but I love her heartily,
For she is wise, if I can judge of her;
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;
And true she is, as she hath proved herself;
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,
Shall she be placed in my constant soul.--_Merchant of Venice_.
A week after he had heard the tidings from the old housekeeper, Morton
saw Dr. Steele coming out of a patient's door and getting into his
chaise.
"Good morning, Dr. Steele."
"Sir, your servant," said the old-fashioned doctor.
"I'm sorry to hear that Mrs. Leslie is so ill."
"It's very sad," said the doctor. "Now, what the deuse is this young
fellow stopping me for?"--this was his internal comment.
"I hope you don't despair of her."
"Well, sir, she will hold out to-morrow, and the next day, too."
"I beg your pardon. Your check rein is loose. Let me make it right."
"Thank you, Mr. Morton," said the doctor, somewhat mollified.
"Ahem!--Colonel Leslie is well, I hope."
"Apparently so, sir."
"And--ahem!--his family, too."
"I wasn't aware he had a family."
"I mean--that is to say--his daughter--Miss Leslie."
The shrewd doctor turned his gray eyes sideways on the querist.
"Ah, his daughter. What did you wish to know of her, sir?"
"Merely to inquire----" said Morton, stammering and blushing visibly.
"I mean only to ask if she is well."
"I know nothing to the contrary. She seemed very well when I brought
her down from Matherton last evening. I dare say, though, she can tell
you herself a great deal better than I can. Good morning, Mr. Morton."
And with a slight twinkle in his eye, Dr. Steele drove off.
Morton looked after the chaise, as it lumbered down the street.
"May I be hanged and quartered if I ever question you again; you are
too sharp, by half."
The doctor's information was very welcome, however; and, armed with an
anxious inquiry after her mother's health, Morton proceeded to call
upon Miss Leslie. She had come to the city, as he had already judged,
on some mission connected with the wants of the invalid, and was to go
back to Matherton, with Dr. Steele, in the afternoon.
Thenceforward, for a week or upwards, he saw her no more; but, during
the interval, he contrived, by various expedients, to keep himself
advised of the condition and movements of the family at Matherton.
Among other incidents, he became aware of two visits made them by
Vinal, and was tormented, in consequence, with an unutterable
jealousy. One morning he met the purblind old housekeeper, mousing
along in spectacles through the crowded street, and, stopping her, to
her great alarm and perplexity, he made his usual inquiry concerning
Mrs. Leslie's health. This investigation led to the discovery that
Miss Edith was coming from Matherton that very afternoon.
Morton, upon this, grew so restless, that he could not refrain from
going to the railroad station, a little before the train was to come
in. And here his worst fear was realized; for he beheld, slowly pacing
along the platform, the hated form of Horace Vinal. Morton retreated
unseen, went into a neighboring hotel, and seated himself, a little
withdrawn from a window, where he could see all that passed. The train
arrived; and soon after Vinal appeared, conducting Miss Leslie to a
carriage, with an air, as Morton thought, of the most anxious
devotion. He grasped his walking stick, and burned with a feverish
longing to break it across his rival's back.
He saw Miss Leslie on the next day, and thus added fuel to a flame
which already burned high enough. In short, he found himself in that
most profoundly serious and profoundly ridiculous of all conditions,
the condition of being over head and ears in love,--and his zeal for
science was merged utterly in a more engrossing devotion. By one means
or another, he contrived to keep pace with the course of things at
Matherton, and learned from day to day that Mrs. Leslie was
worse,--that she seemed to revive a little,--that she was on the point
of death,--that she was dead. By the time this sad climax was reached,
he had been starving a fortnight from the sight of his mistress,
having the consolation to know that meantime his rival had made at
least four visits to Matherton.
One morning Morton was pacing the street in an abstracted mood, his
looks bent on the bricks, when, chancing to look up, he saw those very
eyes which his fancy had been that moment picturing, employed in
guiding their owner's steps over a crossing towards him. As Edith
Leslie stepped upon the sidewalk, she saw him for the first time. He
bowed, joined her, spoke a few bungling words of condolence, and
walked on at her side. After the fashion of those who are peculiarly
anxious to appear at their best advantage, he appeared at his worst.
And when his companion bade him good morning on the steps of her
father's house, she left him in a most unenviable mood, muttering
maledictions against himself and his fate, and brought, indeed, to the
borders of despair. This depression, however, was not long in
producing its reaction, under the influence of which, adopting his
usual panacea against mental ailments, he mounted his horse, and
spurred into the country.
Here, about sunset, he beheld a horseman, slowly pacing along the road
in front. On this, he drew rein, and began to look about him for the
means of escape; for in the person of the rider he recognized his
classmate Wren, to whose society he was far from partial. Neither lane
nor by-road was to be seen.
"At the worst," he thought, "it is but a mile or two;" and, setting
forward at a trot again, he was in a moment at his classmate's side.
"How are you, Wren?"
"Ah, Morton, good evening," exclaimed Wren, with a graceful wave of
his hand. "I'm delighted to see you. A charming evening--isn't it?"
"Charming."
"That's a fine horse you have."
"Tolerably good."
"Did you ever observe this fellow that I'm riding? Do you see how long
and straight he is in the back? Well, that's the Arab blood that's in
him. His grandfather was a superb Arab, that the Pacha of Egypt gave
my uncle when he was travelling there;" and he proceeded to dilate at
large on the merits and pedigree of his horse, the truth being that he
and his ancestry before him had been born and bred in the State of
Vermont. Morton listened with civil incredulity, and wished his
companion at the antipodes.
"Ah, there's my cousin's house," exclaimed Wren, pointing to a very
pretty cottage and grounds which they were approaching--"Mary Holyoke,
you know--Mary Everard that was some three months ago. What a
delightful retreat for the honeymoon!"
"Very," said Morton.
"Stop there with me, will you? I'm going in for a few minutes, to wish
them a pleasant journey. They are going to Niagara to-morrow."
"Thank you, I believe I won't stop."
"As you please, my dear fellow. I think they are quite right to travel
now; it's a better season than the spring; and a honeymoon journey,
after all, isn't _all_ romance, you know. Besides, they are going to
have a charming companion--Miss Leslie."
"I thought that she had just lost her mother-in-law."
"That's the very thing. She's almost ill with watching night after
night; so Mary,--they used to be friends at school,--has been very
anxious that she should make the journey with them, for a change of
scene, you know,--and Colonel Leslie has persuaded her to go."
"When will they leave town?"
"To-morrow. They mean to spend a few days at Trenton, and then go to
the Falls. But here we are; won't you change your mind, and come in?"
"No, thank you. Good night."
"Good evening, then;" and waving his hand again, Wren trotted up the
avenue.
"Virtue never goes unrewarded," thought Morton; "if I hadn't joined
the fellow, I might not have known about this journey."
On the next day he discovered that they had actually gone, and that,
as Wren had said, Niagara was to be the ultimatum of their tour. On
the following morning, he himself took the western train, and made all
speed for the Falls.