This document was sent to his daughter, who since her mother’s death,
three years ago, had managed the household. When a child of five
she overheard a friend address him frequently as Jim, whereupon she
adjusted a final syllable to render it less formal, and ever after
continued to use it.
It was an afternoon in March that this note arrived, nearly four months
after the ball at the Van Koovers’, and when, an hour or two later,
her father presented his old friend, Mr. Samuel Fettiplace, she was
struck by his enormous frame and by the extraordinary color of his
face. This color, a blazing, resplendent red, not only occupied his
nose and cheeks, but extended, in quieter tones, over his forehead and
neck, even to the bald spot upon the top of his head. It had every
appearance of being that expensive decoration that can only be procured
by a prolonged and conscientious indulgence in the choicest Burgundies.
His large, round, light-blue eyes were all the bluer from their
crimson setting. A more honest pair she had never seen. These, with
his silver hair and benevolent forehead, gave the impression of a
pleasantly intemperate bishop. Molly Cabot well knew that her father,
and especially her mother, could never have achieved a warm and lasting
friendship for one whose habits were honestly represented by such
compromising colors.
With old-fashioned courtesy he gave her his arm into the dining-room,
and as they seated themselves at table he said: “You look like your
mother, Miss Molly, and I am glad of it; the same forehead and eyes,
and the same kind expression. I was afraid when I saw you last you were
going to look like your father. He isn’t so bad looking, considering
the life he has led, but it would be a calamitous thing for a
well-meaning girl to resemble any lawyer.”
She laughed: “But papa is not as bad as he looks, you know.”
“Yes, he is; I have known him longer than you have. But there seem to
be honors in dishonor. During these years that I have been trotting
about the globe he has been climbing higher and higher, until now his
legs are dangling from the topmost round. Why, I understand that none
but the solidest billionaires and the fattest monopolies presume to
retain him.”
“I am afraid someone took you for a hay-seed, Sam, and has been
stuffing you.”
“No, they have not!” exclaimed the daughter. “Everybody says he is the
best lawyer in New York. He has refused to be a judge several times!”
“Oh, come, Molly! Don’t make a fool of your old father!”
“Go ahead, Miss Molly,” cried Mr. Fettiplace. “Don’t mind him! I know
you are right. But I suppose he pays the customary penalty for his
greatness; slaves day and night, both summer and winter, eh?”
“Yes, he does, and if you have any influence with him, Mr. Fettiplace,
I wish you would bring it to bear.”
“I will. He shall do just as you decide.”
“Now, Molly,” said Mr. Cabot, “be just. Have I not promised to take a
three months’ vacation this summer?”
“Where do you spend the summer?” asked Mr. Fettiplace.
“I don’t know yet. We gave up our place at the shore two years ago. The
salt air does not agree with me any too well; and neither Molly nor I
care for it particularly.”
There was a pause, and the guest felt that the wife’s death might have
saddened the pleasant memories in the house by the sea. As if struck
with an idea, he laid down his fork and exclaimed:
“Why not come to Daleford? There is a house all furnished and ready for
you! My daughter and her husband are going abroad, and you could have
it until November if you wished.”
“Where is that, Sam?”
“Well,” said Mr. Fettiplace, closing his eyes in a profound
calculation, “I am weak at figures, but on the map it is north of
Hartford and about a quarter of an inch below the Massachusetts border.”
Mr. Cabot laughed. “I remember you were always weak at figures. What
is it, a fashionable resort?”
“Not at all. If that is what you are after, don’t think of it.”
“But it is not what we are after,” said Molly. “We want a quiet place
to rest and read in.”
“With just enough walking and driving,” put in the father, “to induce
us to eat and sleep a little more than is necessary.”
“Then Daleford is your place,” and the huge guest, with his head to one
side, rolled his light-blue eyes toward Molly.
“Do tell us about it,” she demanded.
“Well, in the first place Daleford itself is a forgotten little
village, where nothing was ever known to happen. Of course births,
marriages, and deaths have occurred there, but even those things have
always been more uneventful than anywhere else. Nothing can take place
without the whole village knowing it, and knowing it at once: yet the
inhabitants are always asleep. No one is ever in sight. If you should
lock yourself in your own room, pull down the curtains and sneeze, say
your prayers or change a garment at an unaccustomed hour, all Daleford
would be commenting on it before you could unlock the door and get
downstairs again.”
“That sounds inviting,” said Mr. Cabot. “There is nothing like privacy.”
“I only tell you this so there shall be no deception. But all that
does not really concern you, as our house is a mile from the village.”
Then he went on to describe its real advantages: the pure air, the
hills, the beautiful scenery, the restful country life, and when he
had finished his hearers were much interested and thought seriously of
going to see it.
“I notice, Sam, that you make no mention of the malaria, rheumatism, or
organized bands of mosquitoes, drunk with your own blood, who haul you
from your bed at dead of night. Or do you take it for granted we should
be disappointed without those things?”
“No, sir. I take it for granted that every New Yorker brings those
things with him,” and again a large china-blue eye was obscured by a
laborious wink as its mate beamed triumphantly upon the daughter.
There were further questions regarding the house, the means of getting
there, and finally Molly asked if there were any neighbors.
“Only one. The others are half a mile away.”
“And who is that one?” she asked.
“That one is Judd, and he is an ideal neighbor.”
“Is he a farmer?”
“Yes, in a way. He raises horses and pups and costly cattle.” Then,
turning to Mr. Cabot. “It is the young man I brought into your office
this morning, Jim.”
“Well, he is too beautiful for the country! If I could spend a summer
near a face like that I shouldn’t care what the scenery was.”
“Is his name Amos Judd?” asked Molly.
“Why, yes. Do you know him?”
“I think I met him early this winter. His reputation is not the best in
the world, is it?”
Mr. Fettiplace seemed embarrassed. He took a sip of wine before
answering.
“Perhaps not. There have been stories about him, but,” and he continued
with more than his habitual earnestness, “I have a higher opinion of
him and would trust him farther than any young man I know!”
She felt, nevertheless, that Mr. Judd’s reputation might not be a
proper subject for a young lady to discuss, and she remained silent.
But her father was not a young lady, and he had heard nothing of the
improprieties of the young man’s career. “What is his particular line
of sin?” he inquired.
“He has none. At present he is all right; but at college, and that was
five years ago, I am afraid he took a livelier interest in petticoats
than in the advertised course of study.”
“Of course he did,” said Mr. Cabot. “That beauty was given him for the
delectation of other mortals. To conceal it behind a book would be
opposing the will of his Creator.”
“Poor Amos,” said Mr. Fettiplace with a smile, as he slowly shook his
head. “His beauty is his curse. He regards it as a blight, is ashamed
of it, and would give a good deal to look like other people. Everybody
wonders who he is and where he came from. As for the women, they simply
cannot keep their eyes away from him.”
“If I were a woman,” said Mr. Cabot, in a slow, judicial manner, “I
should throw my arms about his neck and insist upon remaining there.”
Mr. Fettiplace chuckled, not only at the solemnity of his friend’s
face during the delivery of the speech, but at the contemptuous silence
with which this and similar utterances were received by the daughter.
There had always been a gentler and more lovable side to James Cabot,
and he was glad to see that success and honors had not destroyed the
mental friskiness and love of nonsense that had been an irresistible
charm in former years. He was also glad to witness the affection and
perfect understanding between father and daughter. It was evident that
from long experience she was always able to sift the wheat from the
chaff, and was never deceived or unnecessarily shocked by anything he
might choose to say.
“Well, he will be here soon,” said Mr. Fettiplace, “but as you are only
a man, you may have to content yourself with sitting in his lap.”
“Is Mr. Judd coming here this evening?” inquired Molly, in a tone that
betrayed an absence of pleasure at the news.
Her father looked over in mild surprise. “Yes, did I forget to tell
you? I asked him to dine, but he had another engagement. He is to drop
in later. And, by the way, Sam, where did the young man get that face?
No line of Connecticut farmers bequeathed such an inheritance.”
“No, they did not. Judd’s little mystery has never been cleared up.
I can only repeat the common knowledge of Daleford, that the boy was
brought to this country when he was about six years old, and that a
few handfuls of diamonds and rubies came with him. The value of this
treasure has been exaggerated, probably, but with all allowances made
it must have amounted to more than a million dollars.”
“Why!” exclaimed Molly. “It’s quite like a fairy tale!”
“Yes, and the mystery is still agoing. Josiah Judd, in whose hands he
was placed, happened to be the only person who knew the boy’s history,
and he died without telling it. Who the child was or why he was sent
here no one knows and no one seems likely to discover. Josiah died
about twelve years ago, and ever since that time stray clusters of
emeralds, pearls, and diamonds have been turning up in unexpected
places about the house. Some are hidden away in secretary drawers,
others folded in bits of paper behind books. They have tumbled from
the pockets of Josiah’s old clothes, and a few years ago his widow
discovered in one of his ancient slippers an envelope containing
something that felt like seeds. On the outside was written ‘Amos’s
things.’ She tore it open and found a dozen or more magnificent rubies,
rubies such as one never sees in this country. They were sold for over
two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Gracious!” exclaimed Molly, “what possessed him to leave them in such
places? Was he crazy?”
“On the contrary, he was too wise. Not wishing to dispose of them in
a lump, he did it gradually, and concealed them for greater safety in
different places, so that no one thief could steal them all. Whenever
he sold them he invested the proceeds in solid securities. No one knows
to what extent the old farmhouse is still a jewel casket. It is more
than likely that cracks and corners to-day are hiding their precious
stones.”
“How mysterious and exciting!” exclaimed Molly. “It seems too romantic
for practical New England.”
“That is just the trouble with it,” said her father. He leaned back in
his chair and continued, with a smile, “I suspect our guest has been
reading his ‘Monte Cristo’ lately, which may account for a pardonable
exaggeration in a historian who means to be honest. Who told you all
this, Sam? The Judds’ family cat?”
Mr. Fettiplace drew his hand slowly across his forehead and closed
his blue eyes, as if hesitating for a reply. “There is so much that
is hard to believe connected with Amos that one ought to prepare his
audience before talking about him. I will tell you one little thing
that happened to myself, an occurrence not dependent upon other
people’s credulity. One day last autumn, late in the afternoon, I was
walking along an untravelled road through the woods, when I met two
little children who were playing horse. The front one, the horse, wore
a garment that looked like a white silk overcoat without sleeves.
Otherwise the children were roughly clad, with battered straw hats and
bare feet. The overcoat had a curious, Oriental cut, and there was
a good deal of style to it; so much, in fact, and of such a foreign
flavor, that I stopped to get a better look at it. The wearer, a boy
of eight or ten, I recognized as the son of an unprosperous farmer who
lived in a dilapidated old house not far away. When I asked him where
he got his jacket he said he wore it at the children’s tableaux: that
he was the prince who awoke the sleeping beauty in the town hall last
night. Then I remembered there had been a performance to raise money
for the library.
“While talking with him I noticed there were four rows of little
pearl-shaped buttons around the neck and down the front. They formed
part of an elaborate design, beautifully embroidered in gold and silver
thread, old and somewhat tarnished, but in excellent preservation. I
asked him what those ornaments were, and he answered they were beads.
‘But who owns the jacket?’ I asked: ‘Does it belong to you?’ No, it
belonged to Mrs. Judd, who had lent it for the performance. ‘Then why
don’t you return it to Mrs. Judd?’ Oh, they were going to return it
to-morrow morning. I offered to take it, as I was going that way, and
the jacket was handed over.
“The more I examined the article, the more interested I became, and
finally I sat down on a rock and made a study of it. I found the
garment was of white silk and completely covered with a most elaborate
stitching of gold and silver thread. I am no expert in precious stones,
but I knew those beads were either pearls or tremendously clever
imitations, and when I remembered there was a good old-fashioned
mystery connected with Amos’s arrival in these parts, I began to feel
that the beads stood a fair chance of being more than they pretended. I
counted a hundred and twenty of them.
“When I took the garment to Mrs. Judd and told her what I thought, she
didn’t seem at all surprised; simply told me it had been lying in a
bureau-drawer ever since Amos came, about twenty years ago. She is
over eighty and her memory has gone rapidly the last few years, but she
closed her eyes, stroked her hair, and said she remembered now that
her husband had told her this jacket was worth a good many dollars.
And so they always kept it locked away in an upstairs drawer, but she
had forgotten all about that when she offered it to the Faxons for
their performance. Down the front of the jacket were large splashes of
a dark reddish-brown color which she said had always been there, and
she remembered thinking, as she first laid the coat away, that Amos
had been in some mischief with currant jelly. Amos was away just then,
but when he returned we took all the beads off, and a few days later I
showed a dozen of them to a New York jeweller who said they were not
only real pearls, but for size and quality he had seldom seen their
equal.”
“They must have been tremendously valuable,” said Molly.
“They averaged twelve hundred dollars apiece.”
“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “And there were a hundred and twenty of
them?”
“Yes; they brought a little more than a hundred and forty thousand
dollars.”
“It all harmonizes with Judd’s appearance,” said Mr. Cabot; “I should
not expect him to subsist on every-day American dividends. But it’s a
good jacket, even for fairy land.”
“Yes, it certainly is, and yet there was the usual touch of economy
in it,” Mr. Fettiplace continued. “When we came to remove the pearls,
we found a little gold loop or ring in the setting behind each one of
them. Those loops passed through a sort of circular button-hole in
the garment, and a gold wire, running along beneath the silk, held
the jewels in place, so that by drawing out the wire they were all
detached.”
“Well, where was the economy in that?”
“By being adjusted and removed so easily they probably served, when
occasion required, as necklace, belt, bracelets, earrings, diadems, or
the Lord knows what.”
“Of course,” assented Mr. Cabot. “A frugal device that might be of
service to other farmers. And you began, Sam, by describing Daleford as
an uneventful place. It seems to me that Bagdad is nothing to it.”
Mr. Fettiplace sipped his coffee without replying. After a short
silence, however, with his eyes upon the coffee which he stirred in an
absent-minded way, he continued:
“There are one or two other things connected with Judd which are much
more difficult to explain. Daleford is full of mysterious tales of
supernatural happenings in which he is the hero of prophecies and
extraordinary fulfilments; always incredible, but told in honest faith
by practical, hard-headed people. Any native will give them to you
by the yard, but the hero, under no conditions, ever alludes to them
himself.”
“Which probably proves,” said Mr. Cabot, “that the hero is the only one
to be relied on. It is such fun to believe in the incredible! That is
the charm of miracles, that they are impossible.”
The rosy guest turned to the daughter with a smile, saying: “And there
is nothing like a hard-headed old lawyer to drag you back to earth.”
“What were these tales, Mr. Fettiplace? What did they refer to?” she
asked.
But Mr. Fettiplace evidently felt that he had said enough, possibly
because a portion of his audience was not of encouraging material,
for he only answered in a general way that the stories related to
impossible experiences, and were probably only village gossip.
After dinner they sat around the fire in the next room, the two men
with their cigars and Molly at work over a bit of tapestry representing
the Maid of Orleans on a fat, white horse. This horse, according to
her father, must have belonged to a Liverpool circus, and was loaned
to Joanna for tapestry only. When Mr. Judd appeared Molly felt an
augmented interest in this hero of the white jacket, but it was against
both conscience and judgment and in spite of a pious resolve to
consider him simply as a libertine with a murderous temper. That her
father and Mr. Fettiplace had no such abhorrence was evident from their
cordial greeting.
The conversation became general, although the burden of it was borne
by Mr. Fettiplace, who seemed to possess upon every subject either
some interesting facts or a novel theory. Once, when he was telling
them something so amusing that it seemed safe to count upon a
strict attention from all his hearers, she looked over at Mr. Judd
and found his eyes fixed earnestly upon her face. It was a look so
serious, of such infinite melancholy that, in surprise, her own glance
involuntarily lingered for a second. He at once turned his eyes in
another direction, and she felt angry with herself for having given
him even so slight a testimonial of her interest. Although a trivial
episode, it served to increase the existing hostility and to strengthen
an heroic resolve. This resolve was to impress upon him, kindly but
clearly, the impossibility of a serious respect on her part for a
person of such unenviable repute. Later, when the two older men went up
into the library to settle some dispute concerning a date, he came over
and seated himself in a chair nearer her own, but also facing the fire.
“Your ears must have tingled this evening, Mr. Judd.”
“Ah, has Mr. Fettiplace been giving me away?”
“On the contrary; he is a stanch friend of yours.”
“Indeed he is, but it might require an exceedingly skilful friend to
throw a favorable light on such a subject.”
“How delightfully modest! I assure you he gave you an excellent
character.”
“Did you think it a wilful deception, or that he was simply mistaken?”
She turned and saw upon his face an amused smile, half triumphant yet
good-humored. She lowered her eyes to the bronze ornament on the table
that was slowly revolving between her fingers. “Am I so incapable of
believing good of others?”
“Certainly not! But when I saw you last I suffered from an unpleasant
belief that neither the Devil nor myself were objects of your
adoration. So I took the liberty of putting one or two things
together, and decided that the faithful Bennett might have honored me
by a mention.”
“Why suspect Mr. Bennett of such a thing?”
“Well, partly because he is a vindictive and unscrupulous liar, and
partly because he is the only enemy I saw there.”
This was said gently, in his usual low voice, with perfect calmness,
and it was said amiably, as if sympathizing with an unfortunate friend.
“You seem able to meet him on his own ground.”
“Oh, no! There is all the difference in the world.”
She looked toward him interrogatively, but with an expression that
plainly indicated a difference of opinion. He continued in the same
tone, with no sign of animosity: “The difference is this, that he tells
others what he never tells me. I tell others his mind is filthy and
his spirit is mean; that he is without honor and that he is a liar,
but I also tell _him_.”
“You have told him that?”
“Often: sometimes to himself alone, sometimes in the presence of
others.”
She could not restrain a smile. “It must be a pleasant thing to tell a
man!”
“A man? Oh, that would be a different matter!”
There was a barbaric simplicity in all this that she could not help
respecting, particularly as she felt he was telling the truth: and she
sympathized with him heartily in this opinion of Horace Bennett. While
openly unforgiving and vindictive, he appeared to regard his enemy with
the half-serious contempt of a gentle but experienced philosopher. But
she remembered her resolution.
“Mr. Fettiplace has been telling us about that white jacket. What an
interesting story!”
“Yes, everything he tells is interesting. He has a rare faculty in that
direction.”
“But in this case he had an unusual subject. It is like a fairy story.
I suppose you wore it some time or other?”
“I suppose so.”
“But you must remember.”
“Vaguely. I was only seven years old when I came to this country and I
never wore it here.”
“Have you even forgotten how you spilled the currant jelly down the
front?”
“Currant jelly?” he repeated, and looked inquiringly toward her. “I
have not heard that theory.”
“You were the culprit and ought to know. But strawberry is just as bad,
I suppose.”
After a slight hesitation he answered, “Those are blood-stains.”
Turning toward him for further information, she could not help thinking
how much more he was in harmony with a tale of pearls and mystery and
human blood than with jam or currant jelly. As he made no answer but
sat gazing absently at the fire, she expressed a hope that his youthful
nose had not collided with the stairs or with the fist of some larger
boy.
“No, not that exactly,” he replied, with his eyes still upon the fire.
“It is a long story and would not interest you.” Then looking up, he
continued, with more animation, “I am glad there is a possibility of
your coming to Daleford. It is an ideal place to be quiet in.”
“So Mr. Fettiplace tells us, but you are mistaken about the history of
the jacket. It _would_ interest me, and I should like extremely to hear
it; unless of course you prefer not to tell it.”
“If you wish to hear it that is reason enough for the telling,
but--isn’t it rather cruel to force a man to talk only about himself?”
“No; not in this case. It gives an opportunity to prove, by the
perfection of your boyhood, that you are less vile than you believe
Horace Bennett to have painted you.”
“That would be impossible. No human record could wipe out an effect
once laid in by such a hand. Besides, there is nothing in the jacket to
repair a damaged reputation.”
“The fact of telling the story will count in your favor.”
“In that case I will make an effort.” He rested an elbow on the arm of
his chair, slowly stroking the back of his head as if uncertain where
to begin. “It is really a foolish thing to do,” he said at last, “but
if you are relentless I suppose there is no escape. In the first place,
to begin at the very beginning, there was a little court with arches
all around it, with grass in the centre and a fountain at each corner.
On the marble steps, at one end, we were all sitting, a dozen or more
children, watching a man with a bear and two monkeys. These monkeys
had sham fights. One was dressed like an English soldier with a red
jacket, and he always got the worst of it. It was great fun and we all
laughed.”
“Where was this?”
“In India. At the very beginning of the show, when the English monkey
for a moment was on top, a servant rushed into the court and dragged me
away. It was a barbarous deed, and I was ugly; as disagreeable probably
as Horace Bennett could have wished. So I only lose ground, you see, by
telling this story.”
“Never mind. Unless you tell it I shall believe the worst.”
“Well, looking back as I was dragged along, the last thing I saw was
the red monkey being chased and beaten by the white one, and they
scrambled right up the bear’s back. In the chamber where we went that
white jacket was brought out and I made another row, for I knew it
meant a long and tiresome performance in which I had to keep still and
behave myself.”
“A performance on a stage?”
“No; in a large room, with lots of people standing about. As our
procession started for the big hall, which was several rooms away on
another side of the house, I noticed that my uncle and one or two
others kept closer to me than usual. There was a tremendous haste and
confusion, and everybody seemed excited.”
In telling his story Mr. Judd spoke in a low voice, pronouncing his
words clearly and with a certain precision. His only gesture consisted
in occasionally drawing a hand slowly up the back of his head, as if
finding solace in rubbing the short thick hair in the wrong direction.
Although his voice and manner suggested an indolent repose, she noticed
that the brown hands, with their long fingers, were hard and muscular,
and were the hands of a nervous temperament.
“When we entered the large hall there were lots of people, mostly
soldiers, and in uniforms I had not seen before. The principal person
seemed to be a short, thick-set man with a round face and big eyes,
who stood in the centre of the room, and his wide sash and odd-looking
turban with gold scales interested me tremendously. We all stood there
a few minutes and there was a good deal of talk about something, when
all of a sudden this man with the handsome turban seized me under the
arms with both hands, lifted me up, and handed me to a big chap behind
him.
“Then came a free fight, a general commotion, with shouting and rushing
about, and sword-blades in the air. A friend tried to pull me away, but
the big man who held me laid his head open with a blow. A second later
the big man himself received a cut from my uncle at the base of his
neck, where it joins the shoulder, that made him stagger and turn half
about: then he tumbled to the floor and held me all the tighter as he
fell. As we landed I came on top, but he rolled over and lay across me
with his head on my stomach. He was so heavy that he held me down and
the blood poured from his neck over my white clothes.”
Molly had stopped working. With her hands in her lap and her eyes fixed
eagerly on his face, she uttered an exclamation of horror. He said,
with a smile:
“Not a cheerful story, is it?”
“It is awful! But what happened then?”
“Well, as I struggled to get from under I saw my uncle turn upon the
first man, the leader, but he was too late. Someone gave him a thrust,
and he staggered and came down beside us. I remember he lay so near
that I reached out and touched his cheek with my finger. I spoke to
him, but he never answered.”
There was a silence, she watching him, waiting for the rest of the
story, while he gazed silently into the fire.
“And what happened next?”
“Oh, excuse me! That is about all. During the hubbub and slaughter my
people hauled me from beneath the big chap and I was hurried away. I
remember, as we ran through the chambers near the little court, I heard
my friends still laughing at the monkeys.”
He seemed to consider the story finished. “May I fool with that fire?”
he asked.
“Certainly, but what was all the fighting about?”
As the fire was encouraged into a fresher life he answered: “I never
knew distinctly. That night a few others and myself went down to the
river, through the gardens, were rowed to a little steamer and taken
aboard. We sailed down a long river, and afterward a big steamer
brought three of us to America. And then to Daleford.”
“Why on earth to Daleford?”
“Because it was desirable to land me in some amusing metropolis, and I
suppose the choice lay between Paris and Daleford. Daleford, of course,
won.”
“I beg your pardon,” she hastened to say. “My curiosity seems to be
running away with me.”
“Oh, please do not apologize. There is no secret about Daleford. I only
answered in that way as I suddenly realized how refreshing it must be
to hear a stranger tell pathetic stories about himself. It is I who
apologize. They brought me to Daleford through Mr. Judd’s brother, who
was a good friend and was with us at that row.”
He stood before the fire with the poker in his hand, and looked
down with a smile as he continued: “I believe you have never been to
Daleford, but if you were a field-mouse that could sleep all winter,
and didn’t care to be disturbed in summer, you would find it an ideal
spot. If you were a field-mouse of average social instincts you would
never pull through.”
“And yet Mr. Fettiplace advises us to go there.”
“Oh, that’s for a summer only, and is quite different.”
From Daleford they went to other subjects, but to her his own career
proved of far greater interest, and the usual topics seemed commonplace
and uneventful by comparison. Delicately and with subtle tact, she made
one or two efforts to get further information regarding his childhood
and the fabulous jewels, but her endeavors were vain. Of himself he
talked no more. In a sense, however, she was rewarded by a somewhat
surprising discovery in relation to his mental furniture. When the
conversation turned incidentally upon literature she found him in the
enjoyment of an ignorance so vast and so comprehensive that it caused
her, at first, to doubt the sincerity of his own self-conviction. Of
her favorite books he had not read one. To him the standard novelists
were but names. Of their works he knew nothing. This ignorance he
confessed cheerfully and without shame.
“But what do you do with yourself?” she demanded. “Do you never read
anything?”
“Oh, yes; I have not forgotten my letters. For modern facts I read the
papers, and for the other side of life I take poetry. But the modern
novel is too severe a punishment. It is neither poetry nor wisdom.”
Until the two other men came down from the library she had no idea of
the lateness of the hour. Mr. Fettiplace laid a hand on the young man’s
shoulder and, with a roseate smile, explained the situation.
“This fellow is from the country, Miss Molly, and you must excuse him
for expecting, when invited out to dinner, that he is to remain to
breakfast.”
A moment or two later, as the three men were standing before the fire,
she was astonished by a bit of unexpected wisdom. He was regarding with
apparent interest a little etching that hung near the mantel, when Mr.
Cabot explained that it was a very old one he had purchased in Germany,
and represented the battle of Hennersdorf. Mr. Judd thought it must be
the battle of Mollwitz, and gave as reasons for his belief the position
of the Prussians in relation to a certain hill and the retreat of the
Austrian cavalry at that stage of the fight. Mr. Cabot, obviously
surprised at these details, replied, jokingly, that he was not in a
position to contradict a soldier who was present at the battle.
This afforded great amusement to the rubicund guest, who exclaimed:
“You might as well back right down, Jim! Amos is simply a walking
cyclopædia of military facts; and not a condensed one either! He can
give you more reliable details of that battle than Frederick himself,
and of every other battle that has ever been fought, from Rameses to
U. S. Grant. He remembers everything; why the victors were victorious
and how the defeated might have won. I believe he sleeps and eats with
the great conquerors. You ought to see his library. It is a gallery
of slaughter, containing nothing but records of carnage--and poetry.
Nothing interests him like blood and verses. Just think,” he continued,
turning to Molly, “just think of wasting your life in the nineteenth
century when you feel that you possess a magnificent genius for
wholesale murder that can never have a show!”
There was more bantering, especially between the older men, a promise
to visit Daleford, and the two guests departed.