“No,” said he; “you would have her still in love with the gentleman with the ass’s head!” And he burst into a mannerless guffaw.
Here Miss Gray rose in haste, and announced that she must be returning, as the sun would soon be too warm for pleasure on the homeward stroll. I marked with indignation that our unwelcome companion proposed to accompany us, and this purpose he had the effrontery to carry out, I walking in intense and biting silence, he chattering as easily as though he had not thoroughly disgraced his bringing-up in a dozen ways, while he made such speeches to the lady as I thought must have undoubtedly called forth a chilling rebuke; but none came, to my sore regret.
When we reached her gate, Miss Sylvia turned and bade us good-morning, with a little nod to each.
“Such a pleasant stroll you’ve given me!”
“Yes,” I replied, “to the brook.”
“Was it not!” said William. “I was but a little way behind you. The walk from the brook has been too warm for you, Mr. Sudgeberry? We mast go again.”
“We!” exclaimed. “We!”
“Good-morning, gentlemen!” cried Miss Gray, and she ran into the house.
CHAPTER II. THE CONFESSION OF LOVE
THE EVENTS I have described may be accepted as a sample of what took place throughout the summer, Time and again, I would no sooner have Miss Gray’s company to myself and open an instructive conversation, or begin the deduction of some truth for her benefit, than that graceless fellow would pop up and hurl his nonsensicalities upon us. Nor can it be denied that he often succeeded in cutting me off from her attention almost entirely by drawing her away into obscure recesses, when I seldom failed to be thrown into the society of her father, a stout, dull old gentleman, who appeared to have no more profit or capacity for improvement in him than a pulpy oyster.
Nothing could have been clearer than that Mr. Fentriss’s assiduities often annoyed Miss Sylvia, but he never would have believed it, so conceited is impudence, so secure in its own fastness. Even a well-merited rebuke which he had from her failed to shake him. Tossing up her head at some brazen love-making (he made love to her under my very eyes), she turned pointedly to me, one evening, while I was endeavoring to converse with old Mr. Gray, and said:
“Please talk to me in an improving way, Mr. Sudgeberry. No, Mr. Fentriss, I prefer listening to something profound. I’ll hear no more of the speeches you make during the winter and use again upon us poor home ladies in summer. Proceed, Mr. Sudgeberry; I am all ears. Let me have some great lesson, please.”
I at once began a conversation on the decline and fall of the Persian Empire, to which she listened attentively, while I triumphantly watched my rival, yet looked in vain to see him betray signs of defeat and shame. Had I suffered the public rebuke which he had so well merited and received, I should have hung my head and left the place, but he was without the power to perceive his own downfall.
Evening after evening, on repairing to Miss Gray’s, I found him already there — always before me, even when I arrived hours before sunset. This almost led me to suppose that Miss Sylvia might be in the habit of asking him to dine with her and her father, but I dismissed the suspicion as unworthy, with the conclusion that, if he did dine with them, it was because he forced himself upon them. He was capable of it.
Another thing to his discredit: while the mere fact of his preceding me in arrival at the Grays’ should have dictated to him an early departure, he was so insensate that he always managed to remain until after I had left — this, too, in spite of many a strong hint from both the young lady and myself, and also in spite of the circumstance that I stayed there every night till I could fairly hold up my head no longer, and was forced to depart through sheer drowsiness at a time long after decent folk had gone to bed. I say I sometimes hinted at this in his presence; so did Miss Gray; and as for old Mr. Gray, he openly said it, along toward midnight. I have even known the latter to groan without disguise, and most piteously; ‘but what effect did that have on William Fentriss? None in the wide world! Did he budge from his chair? Not he! So impervious was he that he would brazenly reply to the good old man with the mockery of a responsive sigh. No comment on such conduct is necessary.
Hour after hour would we sit, watching for each other to go, he ensconced nearer Miss Sylvia — his art in accomplishing this feat was little short of magic — and I would have to converse with old Mr. Gray. I often raised my voice in order that the lady might have the benefit of my remarks, but at such times Fentriss would break into peals of laughter over some private witticism of his own (I made sure) and my effect would be lost.
Often I thought I should die of the effort of talking to that dull old man. When I would come to a climax in my discourse, and, striking the main question of a theme, thus, perhaps, putting it— “And what, then, was this all-pervading error of the ancients?” — I would give, of course, the proper rhetorical pause, intending to proceed at once; but invariably old Mr. Gray would appear to think I had finished the subject, and immediately interject some such remark as, “The north field is looking very well for oats.”
Can any intelligent mind require me to enlarge upon the mere statement that the introduction of such observations into the heart of a discussion leaves its logical continuance wellnigh impossible, and must ever be the occasion of acute distress to any earnest expounder?
Mr. Fentriss continued to take up so much of Miss Sylvia’s time that perhaps I might have been brought at last to suspect it was by her connivance, except for some expressions of hers which fell to my knowledge by a happy chance.
The evening before the occurrence I mention, I had made (to Mr. Gray) a long and able defence of infant damnation, tracing the doctrine and quoting many commentators with laborious exactitude. Now, I would not have it thought that my efforts went always in vain, or were expended entirely without result upon my constant listener. Nay, the influence I came gradually to exert over him is another proof to me that determined perseverance cannot go unrewarded. May I confess it was not without a degree of pleasure that, as time went on, I perceived my conversation producing, little by little, a stronger and stronger effect upon Miss Sylvia’s father?
I have known him to be so moved by my modest flights that, at the end, he would reply thickly, even (I may say) with a broken utterance. What suitor, let me ask, is not glad of a power obtained over the near relatives of the admired one? And was not my pride pardonable for this achievement, which, as the sequel shows, I had performed entirely by means of my own unaided conversation? Therefore, I shall make no apology for recording my triumphs in that direction.
This evening Mr. Gray appeared somewhat restless during my argument, but the peroration fixed him in his chair as immovable as if I had pinned him to it with a knife. I made sure that I had thoroughly convinced him, and was confirmed in this impression when he rose and explained, with a curious incoherency in his voice, that he must consult some of the authorities in his library; but he did not return, though I waited a considerable time.
The following afternoon I was riding along a quiet lane, with the reins on old Jeremiah’s neck, and perusing a work of merit, when, glancing up, I chanced upon the pleasant discovery of two mounted figures some distance ahead of me, which I recognized as those of Miss Gray and her father. I clapped my book in my pocket and quickened my nag’s gait to overtake them, but as I drew near I perceived they had not noticed my approach, the dust being thick and muffling the hoof-beats, so I pulled in, meaning to come upon them unexpectedly and give them a pleasant surprise. Thus, by chance, I happened to overhear part of their conversation.
Mr. Gray appeared to be laboring under no little excitement, flinging his arms about in the most vigorous gestures. It was a warm afternoon, and that part of the back of his neck unprotected by his queue was quite purple.
“Saints and martyrs!” cries the profane old man with singular vehemence. “I’ll bear it no longer! I will not! Do you want to see your old father in a mad-house? For — the sa
ke of my white hairs tell that fool to go away and stay there!”
At this my heart beat high with happiness. “Aha!” thinks I, “I was right: my work has not gone in vain; Mr. Gray is on my side. Now, Master Will, I wish you had been here to hear her father’s opinion of you.”
It was not difficult to see that Miss Sylvia was amused. “Stop your laughing!” the old gentleman bawled, violently. “It’s no laughing matter. I’ve fallen off three stone this summer, and I’d rather take the plague than go through it again. You’ve got to let me talk to Fentriss.”
“So!” thought I, my respect for Mr. Gray vastly increased, “Master Will is not to bother me much longer. This good old man will send him about his business a-humming.”
“Why do you let him come?” the old gentleman asked, angrily.
“To amuse you, father dear,” responded the daughter, roguishly.
“Amuse me!” I feared Mr. Gray would burst his coat seams. “If you are going to have the other, why—”
Here, with joy, I saw the fair one bend her head in maiden modesty, while her voice fell so low I scarce could hear the words she said. Her posture, graceful and coy, bespoke a sudden shyness, as tender as it was, in her, unexpected — an attitude of revelation which, I confess, caused a thrill, a warmth of satisfaction to pass through my veins. I admit, additionally, that for some inexplicable reason both the thrill and the satisfaction were irrationally increased by the manner in which, as she began to blush exceedingly, the wave of her hair, falling from her brow, shone against the gentle crimson of that brow and of her cheek.
She turned her downcast eyes away from her father, so that her profile was toward me; then she lifted her face and her glance, and spoke — to the air, it seemed.
“You know — ah, do I need to say it? — there is only one in the whole world that I—” She paused.
I would listen no more to a confession so much to my advantage, and therefore, coughing loudly, I gave my nag a flick and rode up beside them.
Judge the pleasure of my feelings when I saw that my arrival threw the object of my affections into the most delightful, the most overwhelming confusion. At the same time, good Mr. Gray, in his surprise, welcomed me with broken monosyllables and cries of pleased amazement.
It must be plain to all that it now remained for me to choose when I should put the question. Secure in her father’s approval, aware of my place in her own good graces, and knowing their joint condemnation of my rival, I was privileged to laugh in my sleeve, after this, when the unconscious Fentriss would talk all evening to Miss Gray, leaving me to address myself diligently to her good father.
At this period I had fears that all was not well with Mr. Gray’s constitution, and I believe that he was having business troubles, for he sometimes suffered spells of terrible depression; also, his complexion took on a sickly, pallid hue, unusual and sinister in a full-blooded person.
CHAPTER III. THE TOAST
ONLY one thing could have added to my triumph and the pleasure of it; and that very thing was the actual accomplishment of the next week, whereby William Fentriss was exhibited in his true character, left outside the pale of reputable company, and, moreover, through an incident as happy for us as unfortuitous for him, utterly banished from Mr. Gray’s and his daughter’s society.
In the city, a few miles distant, there lived — if gyrating to the fiddles all night and snoring abed all day be living — a number of romping, Mohawkish youths who were friends of William Fentriss. One Saturday night — well I recall it, for was it not the first evening of the summer he did not obtrude himself upon Miss Sylvia and me? — Will repaired to town for a banquet given by these roisterers. Now, emerging from their feast, befuddled and enervated by the noxious fumes of their potations, the party rioted confusedly over the place till the watch was summoned; the young men were surrounded, and, in the state of enfeeblement which had befallen them, easily captured and conveyed to the lock-up.
Such exploits, vicious as they should always be considered, were too commonly overlooked in those days; but our community was, for the greater part, a proper, serious, disciplinarian one; so that by noon the next day Will Fentriss was being held up as a warning example to every apple-thieving or anywise-depraved child of the whole countryside, for the story was immediately brought out to us and widely spread; and, though there were found those impertinent enough to offer excuse for the young man, alleging in defence his early departure from the banquet, before the acts of maraudery were committed, yet none could deny he had been of the party, or that the dissolute young men were his friends; therefore sentiment was justly strong against him.
There was one curious detail connected with his actions which I shall not overlook, but which has received more weight in the minds of many than its due; indeed, there have been people dull enough to use it as the basis of a completely laughable theory concerning Miss Gray’s course in regard to William — a theory so far from being borne out by the facts that I need not more definitely mention it. The origin of this nonsense was the report that at the banquet, when the toasts to the ladies were called, and William’s turn came, he rose, and instead of crying “I give you Sylvia!” as all expected, pronounced the name “Cherry!”
Now, as our neighborhood was the abode of no person of this appellation, nor were any of the gossips acquainted with such elsewhere, the very next morning there was a clacking about the matter which bade fair to outdo and smother the righteous indignation over Will’s wildness and perpetrations; there was also a vast curiosity and a hopeful prying concerning the identity of Miss Cherry, with much wondering how Sylvia Gray would take it. This, of course, was the very arrogance of misconception; as well I knew, since the day I rode up behind Mr. Gray and Miss Gray, that William Fentriss might toast a thousand Cherrys if he would, it was less than nothing to Sylvia.
About two of the afternoon, I think it may have been, as I sat engaged with my studies beneath an apple-tree, near our front gate, I heard my name called — some-what tremulously — from the road, and, turning, beheld Miss Gray herself upon her little bay mare.
She impatiently awaited my approach, flicking her skirt with her whip and glancing up and down the road. I could not fail to perceive her very visible agitation, nor did I find the expression of her emotions unbecoming. Her eyes, now veiled as she followed the flickings of her whip-lash, now turning away from me, then toward me, but never directly meeting mine, were of a troubled brightness; her breath came quick; her face was overspread with a high color; her whole attitude betokened excited determination.
“Saddle your horse, Mr. Sudgeberry,” says she. “I wish you to ride with me, if you please.”
Then well I understood that flushing brow, that heaving bosom, that tumultuous yet decided glance. Having cognizance of the condition of her affections, here was no trying riddle to read. I was convinced that she was as lady-like and proper a maiden as breathed, and who could have conceived more readily than I that conflict with pride, ere she allowed herself to come seeking a gentleman’s society, instead of waiting at home for his invitations?
When I stood beside her, she looked over my head for a moment, with a great sweetness, before speaking.
“I was engaged to walk at this hour with Mr. Fentriss. I prefer to ride with you.” She finished, faltering tenderly, “That is, if you — if you wish.”
At this point I came near making a declaration of my purposes regarding her future. However, I had already given the question a searching consideration, deciding not to speak until the Christmas holidays, and my wisdom now held me silent; for a betrothal, at the present time, entailing a reciprocal correspondence when I returned to Nassau Hall, would have interfered with my studies during the following term, which was the crucial one of the whole course. In truth, had I not thus with a stern hand regulated my conduct, I might have lost the Latin prize, the apex and climax of my career as a student.
I replied to Miss Sylvia’s request cautiously, making reference to my scholarly
tasks for the afternoon with a regretful glance at my books, as I judged it expedient in dealing with a woman, plainly to exhibit the sacrifices made for her; yet, practising a subtlety at once innocent and dexterous, I gave her at the same time to understand that I was far from unwilling to fall in with her invitation.
In less than half an hour we were jogging side by side along the road, she leaning toward me from her saddle with the most blushing and flattering attention to my discourse. Never had man a more perfect listener than I that afternoon. Her orbs of vision, exponents of the enrapt mind, were fixed upon the distance; in them dwelt a profound glow which gratified me exceedingly; and the people whom we met turned and stared after us as we went by. This, also, was a source of pleasure.
But nothing touched me to such extreme delight that day as the first sight of Will Fentriss’s face when he saw us riding up the road together.
CHAPTER IV. MAJESTY OF THE HUMAN INTELLECT
ONE FINE EVENING near the close of the following week, Mr. Gray, Miss Sylvia, and I sat upon the veranda in sympathetic converse, when whom should we behold, walking toward us from the gate in the clear moonlight, but old Vawter Fentriss, Will’s uncle and guardian.
Vawter Fentriss was a loose, apple-cheeked old man, full of hoarse jests — a shame to his years. You could not pass his house any day in good weather but to see him, always dressed in a green coat and velvet cap, romping among his dogs, or mayhap seated on the rim of the horse-trough, smoking a long pipe, an admiring semicircle of stable-boys and farm - servants listening to Heaven knows what kind of tales from his undignified lips. He would exchange quips in loud shouts with every passer-by of his acquaintance, never leaving off as long as both remained in hearing; so that the sober-minded were forced to make long, painful detours to avoid his house.
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