However, the dullest might have remarked that it was with no jocular intent he adventured to-night’s visit; his heavy face was troubled and anxious, while ever and anon he kicked at some of the hounds that had followed him.
I observed Miss Sylvia’s demeanor with commendation and approval. She rose as if to greet the visitor, but, vouchsafing only a word, held herself haughtily, and, returning Vawter’s salutations with a proud bearing, showed him a chair by Mr. Gray.
“Nay,” says he, “I’ll not sit, thank you. I am here on an errand to you, Miss Sylvia, and—” He came to a halt, as though hoping she might offer to speak with him in private. Therein disappointment was his meed, for she, at once taking on a patient languor, looked over his head with the air of one kept waiting for a very indifferent pleasure.
At this he showed considerable discomfort, knowing not how to continue. “Well,” he observed, presently, “it is a fine night. I just thought I would come by this way.” There was no reply, and after a silence of some duration he wiped his face several times with his kerchief, and repeated, in a low voice, “I just thought I would come by this way.” Then he kicked a couple of his dogs down the steps, apologizing for their presence, as nothing could withhold them from following him wherever he went. That done, he stood muttering that it was a fine night, until one of the dogs again obtruded himself upon the steps, whereat his master turned and booted him clean over another dog. This seemed of great benefit to Mr. Fentriss.
“Hey!” he shouted, his tongue suddenly loosened. “Am I to stand here like a frozen ninny and have even the manners of my own dogs disgrace me? Will you tell me,” he continued, turning upon Mr. Gray, with an expression amazingly choleric, “what it is you have against my boy?”
“I!” exclaimed Mr. Gray. “What have I done against him?”
“Will’s a good lad,” cried Vawter— “as good and well-behaved as any living — yet here, because of a little gayety, and the granny-patter over it, you forbid him your house. What kind of neighborliness do you say that is?”
“I forbid him the house!” said the other. “I had nothing to do with it. I—”
“Why, it is common talk all over the place that he was forbidden to come here, that you disapproved his courses, that—”
“I tell you, sir,” interrupted Mr. Gray, “I did not forbid him. I had noth—”
But Vawter, in his turn, took the words out of his neighbors mouth. “Well, Heaven pardon you! Lord-a-mercy! isn’t it the common gossip? Will himself could not deny it when I put it to him flat. ’Twas the very day after that supper doings in town. Will was to walk with Miss Sylvia here; she had promised him, but, instead — instead of keeping her word with him, she came riding by with Sudgeberry, just as poor “Will came out of your gate, having found her away. Weren’t there no others that saw it? Don’t tell me! I know whereof I speak, Mr. Gray! She wouldn’t answer my nephew’s bow, and tried to pass him by, making much of Sudgeberry the while; but Will would not have it, and ran in front of her horse. She bade him clear the path, and, upon his begging some explanation, told him, shrewishly, that he had friends in town he’d best return to; that neither she nor you desired more of his company; he was too gay a gentleman, she said; and she gave him the message from you that he was forbid the house — that he was forbid the house!
Wasn’t that your message? Hey, sir, if you call that—”
“Now, now!” Mr. Gray cut in. “’Twas only at Sylvia’s bidding. She had the tale that Will was in disgrace, and she desired my authority. It may be true I sent some such message, since she wished it, but—”
“Well, what d’ye call that?” said Vaw-ter. “If that ain’t forbidding a man your house!”
“’Tis easy to see,” Mr. Gray observed, plaintively, “that you have no daughter.”
“But I have a nephew.”
Mr. Gray lifted his hands in a feeble gesture of protest. “I give it or,” he murmured. “I can’t make head nor tail of it. What with the evenings I’ve had and the troubles I’ve been through this season, what with losing sleep and Sylvia’s crying about the house all week, and neighbors quarrelling with me, account of her affairs, I doubt I last the summer.”
“You may be troubled,” rejoined Vawter, “but so am I. I can’t bear to look at Will as he’s been since Miss Sylvia has thrown him aside — and for Sudgeberry, here — for do it she did; yes, like an old, moth-eaten cap! D’ye think it’s no trouble for me to see the lad sitting the day long in one place with his head in his hands, he that has all his life been the gayest of the gay and made my widower’s house cheery, and—” He coughed several times at this point, then spoke up, sharply: “Look, now! Don’t think I come from him, or that he knows it. He’s proud as you are, ma’am — you might be aware of that — and if you can’t be kind to him again, I don’t know what we are to do, not for the life o’ me! I don’t mean he will be doing what is wicked or desperate — he has his good sense, and much of it — but isn’t there no word I could say to turn you to him? If there is, I could go on my old knees to you to beg the knowledge of it. Surely you don’t need my telling to know that Will’s thought the world and all of you, and dreamed of little else these five years. If it is as I hear, and you’re angry with him for that toast to ‘Cherry,’ why, it may be that could be explained.”
“Explained!”
Sylvia’s voice was husky with indignation, and she lifted her head proudly. “He may toast as many ‘Cherrys’ as he pleases, so he does not come near me. What can it be to me whom he toasts? He is proud, is he? Well, sir, you may tell him that I am too proud myself to allow young men to be the associates of Mohawks and Heaven knows whom, in town, and then seek company in me. He will not sit with his head in his hands long; never you fear for that, sir! ‘Twill be a mighty little time till he finds consolation in his “Cherrys’; and they will not be too proud, you will see! — ladies whose names he was free to mention in that society! Proud! ’Tis my one satisfaction, tell him, that he is — or pretends to be — since it keeps him out of my sight.”
Now I ask all the world: What completer proof was ever offered that a woman cared nothing for a particular man than this speech of Sylvia’s, openly and voluntarily setting forth that Will Fentriss was not, and never could be, the weight of her little finger to her?
Also, observe that Mr. Gray spoke of her weeping much of late. Ay, though I had not seen her weep, I knew she had been dismal enough; and so had I myself, at times; I confess it. The end of my holiday was fast approaching, and with it a separation of months was coming upon us. What wonder that I sighed sometimes — what wonder that she wept?
When she had said her say to Vawter, she turned haughtily and swept away to the other end of the veranda, where she remained, lost in her reflections.
It appeared to me befitting and proper that a few words be hereupon addressed to Mr. Fentriss. Advancing, therefore, to where he stood gasping with astonishment on the steps, I extended the first finger of my right hand toward him in dignified reproof, and exclaimed:
“Oh, sir, fie!”
An expression of the most astounding and immoderate rage suddenly overspread his features.
“Well, upon my soul and vitals!” he burst forth. “If it’s come to this, I’ll—”
But I cut him off sharply and allowed him not one syllable more.
“Ay, sir!” I cried, loudly. “I repeat: Fie! Fie! — and be ashamed! Compose yourself to a more respectable frame of mind, and your visage to a seemlier aspect, while I expound your own case for your benefit and good. Is it the part of age to be the messenger of petulant youth, justly rebuked and sulking?”
“I’ll not stand this!” Vawter replied, in tones which alternated between hoarse remonstrance and apoplectic choking. “If I do, may I—”
I immediately asserted my human right to speech, conquering him by the force and, may I say, the majesty of will-power, which —
I possessed to as great a degree in my younger days as now. I poured f
orth upon him not the phials of contempt, but the silver decanters of eloquent instruction. I gave utterance to the wisdom of the ancients upon the proper paths of conduct for aged men to follow, adding thereunto my own deductions, with an indubitable demonstration that the only course now open to him was a silent and contrite withdrawal.
At first he waved his hands violently, and attempted to drown my words by sundry roarings, near profane, but these gave place to a dangerous coughing fit, so that he was forced to pound himself upon the chest, after which an awed silence fell upon him; for it may be here recorded that an inspiration — nothing less — sustained my flow of thought upon this occasion. Never in my life have I been more fluent.
As I went on, he slowly backed himself down the steps, until, as he came into the moonlight, no one could have failed to perceive that consternation alone was writ upon his face. His little red eyes were opened to an extent no man ever saw before or again. I followed him, whereat he faintly motioned at me with the palm of his hand held outward, as if to keep me off, and retreated toward the gate.
At last we had the satisfaction of seeing his discomfiture complete. He went rapidly down the lane in the moonlight, his chin on his chest, a crushed and humbled man, his dogs slinking after him, not bounding and barking as they had arrived, but bearing their tails concavely on the inner curve. As for myself, I sank, somewhat exhausted, but triumphant, upon the steps.
There is but one thing more to tell of Vawter Fentriss. As I have recounted, it was his daily habit to sit somewhere about his grounds and exchange quips with all who passed his house, shouting gibes and jests at every passer-by of his acquaintance until out of hearing, and I had not escaped his feeble wit whenever I went that way. Now let me chronicle the result of this night’s address to him: I write it simply, and without parade or pride; but from that time forth he called not another jest at me to the day of his death; and I never afterwards passed his house that he did not get up from his seat, or quit whatever he was doing, and go into the house as soon as he caught sight of me.
The man had some shame.
CHAPTER V. THE NOTE
ONLY A WEEK now intervened before my departure, and while the thought of this would naturally cast a dark shadow over the spirits of my friends, causing in them a plainly apparent though silent depression, still that was a truly delightful period; for the mar-pleasure, William Fentriss, was absent, nor during several days did one of us catch the slightest glimpse of his outrivalled and disgraced head.
Each evening, at earliest dusk, I repaired to the house of my mistress, cogitating and formulating by the way, so that the time, though pleasant, should be spent in improvement and to the profit of all three of us — for Mr. Gray still made one of our little party. Many and many a time did he, out of delicacy, arise and make as if he were about to withdraw, but, in spite of a thousand earnest excuses and protestations which he offered, Miss Sylvia ever firmly detained him, being a conscientious daughter, who would not alone enjoy a pleasure or a benefit when she could possibly share it with those to whom her duty lay.
On that account I still directed toward the old man a great part of my conversation. To do otherwise, I maintain, would have been a graceless act. He had been my nightly companion and constant listener throughout the whole season. Should I desert him now? Such a treachery it was not in my nature to conceive.
Miss Sylvia, as I have indicated, was possessed by a melancholy which grew deeper each day, betrayed by the saddening of her features, those sorrowful images of her emotions; but as for myself, I was conscious of a warmish tingle of excitement; the highest spirits followed my triumph; seldom, indeed, have I been more joyously inclined, and at any time could I have talked till daylight. This pleasurable agitation took the place of rest, and thus, feeling no need of sleep, I was enabled to make my calls at the Grays’ extend far into the night.
In my enthusiasm I selected only the gravest topics, often, I fear, going too deep for Mr. Gray to follow. Let that be as it may, I can truthfully declare that it became an actual pleasure to talk to him. I have not the wish to assume undue credit, yet it was no unworthy performance to arrest his attention and restrain him from brooding upon the business troubles which I have mentioned. To this end I exerted every endeavor; I called into play my utmost powers, as I saw the inroads his anxieties had made upon his hitherto hardy constitution. His hands were nerveless; his flesh had grown flabby; a dull, fishy glaze was come over his eyes, together with a perpetual twitching of the lids which would have softened a heart of adamant.
He was far from being the man he had been at the first of that summer, not only physically, but mentally; for there were times when the glaze would leave his eyes, and I could see them shining in the darkness with a baleful light, like the eyes of a beast at bay. Simultaneously his sunken lips would work and mumble, and he would whisper and hiss to himself, so that I feared for his reason.
When these unhappy spells came over him I would fare on briskly with whatever discussion was in hand, pretending I noticed nothing. So, presently, his head would fall on his chest, and I comprehended — without his saying it — that he was grateful to me for soothing him. It is the unspoken gratitude which is deepest.
William Fentriss took his departure three days before mine, but he did not do so out of any virtuous anxiety to renew his studies you may be sure. The afternoon before he went, I had the pleasure of passing him in the lane with Miss Sylvia upon my arm. I could not tell whether it was from sheer insolence, or if it was to conceal (which it did not) the extreme, painful flushing of his face, but he ventured a very low, formal bow, receiving in return the cut direct for his pains. We swept on with the finest air, and left him standing there with his head bared. I could not repress a pleasant laugh, in which the lady joined me, though I could feel her arm tremble with anger at his impudence.
This indignation of hers was not suffered to diminish, for, on returning from our stroll, a note was brought to her, which she opened and read in my presence, her face growing even redder than Will’s had been. Her hand, as she did so, again shook with rage, a passion, in this instance, appreciably enhancing the youthful charms appertaining to her appearance.
“Read it,” she said, furiously, thrusting the paper upon me. “Read it, sir! Read it, for it is you whom I ask to carry the answer, which is this scrawl, back to him again. Does he think that I shall bear everything?”
The note was short. I read it.
“Adieu madam, I have just now determined to go away upon the morrow. You have put a great deal of shame upon me, and for nothing. Yet, let me tell you, I have only thanks for your former kindness. You and your escort had the enjoyment of laughing at me a little while ago. Believe me, your choice of another to favor causes me the greater mortification — but the lesser alarm.
“You will not speak to me. You will not hear me. You draw your skirts aside lest they touch me as you pass. Yet I shall make you listen, make you speak to me, gladly, ere the year be run. Never fear but I shall win you. Ah, dear Sylvia l”
I did not carry the note to Will myself. I took it home with me, and sent it to him by a bearer, deciding upon that as the course of greater discretion.
But before I sent it, I sat me down and wrote upon the back of it the following words:
“Opened by Miss Gray — and me — by mistake.”
CHAPTER VI. THE FAREWELL
AS I TURNED in at the gate for my last evening, I observed Mr. Gray get up from the porch and go hastily into the house. “Good old man!”
I thought, smiling slightly at this mark of his emotion. “His attachment is indeed sincere!”
Taking possession of the easy-chair he had vacated, I commenced the conversation with Miss Sylvia by addressing her upon the honor due every virtuous and indulgent parent, offering also, in particular, a few hints tributary to Mr, Gray’s susceptibilities as well as his thoughtfulness in continuing to remain in-doors (as he did) upon such an occasion; whereat she seemed somewhat cheered.
Nor did the bell-like cachinnations cease upon my action; louder and loader they rang, as the fit seized upon her; peal after peal startled the stilly night.
Never before, in all my days, had I heard or seen any person laugh as she did then; never, have I since, one who laughed so distractedly, so uncontrollably; never one in throes so long protracted. She laughed until I feared she might swoon from exhaustion.
She rocked herself to and fro, and back and forth, now clasping her sides, then stretching forth her arms as if for breath, and at last, consumed by the very anguish of laughter, utterly lost to her own command, could only faintly beat the air with her hands.
Thus did the unhappy demon of hysteria enter into her, and although the fit was entirely unlooked-for on my part, I remained not an instant in doubt as to its cause, remembering well upon the eve of what day we stood. Hence I spoke soothingly to her, encouraging her to patience, reminding her that my term of absence would last only a few months, also exhorting her to recall the fact that I had every intention of returning for some days at Christmas-time.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 38