University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
THE CONVERSE OF TWO YOUNG LADIES; OR, A WISE AND FOOLISH VIRGIN.

After a long grace, uttered in a standing posture, the Judge fell to his
carving.

He stood up to this duty also, for in a sitting position he would have been
no match for the broiled chicken, and even with the aid of avoirdupois his
trembling hands did their work slowly. Now and then an involuntary grimace
indicated his physical weakness, or perhaps betrayed some dolor of old age.
Over one tough joint he paused for some time, meanwhile talking composedly,

knife and fork in hand. His subject was the missionary work in general, and
that of Doctor Bernard in particular.

“The goings and comings of the truth on this dark earth are wonderful,”
he observed. “The revolutions of the light of the soul are like the revolutions
of day and night. When our savage ancestors were still worshipping Thor
and Odin, the Nestorians had long since been keepers of the faith. And now
we, having received it into our Anglo-Saxon minds from the East, are permitted
and commissioned to carry it back to the East. But what can you tell
me of the Kurds? Are they the descendants of the ancient Carduchians?”

“My father thinks so, and I believe every one in the mission does,” replied
Nestoria, as composed as the sublime old gentleman himself, and not once
glancing at her empty plate, although very hungry.

“So,” continued the Judge, “the same ferocious people who annoyed the
retreat of the Ten Thousand have in these days impeded the labors of our
saints and massacred their disciples. I am not a man of war, but of peace,”
he continued, with something like smothered indignation; “yet am I tempted
to wish that the Nestorians had had somewhat of the Greek discipline, and a
Christian Xenophon to direct it. However, the Creator knows what is best
for his Church. It becomes us to wait his labor in reverent silence.”

Having reposed himself during this dialogue, Mr. Wetherel resumed his
attack upon the broiled chicken, treating it with some such severe vigor as if it
represented a Kurd, and by dint of much “bearing on” eventually getting the
better of it. Other ecentricities, even more notable than his manner of carving,
were forthcoming. Like many elderly persons, he had dropped some of
the prandial courtesies of his prime and returned to the simpler manners of
his childhood. He preferred to help his guests directly, rather than tarry for
the slow plate-bearing of the waiter girl, who, by the way, was the chambermaid.
Once he accomplished the difficult feat attributed to him by Alice,
namely “skipping” a bit of chicken across the table from his carving-fork and
lodging it dexterously on Mrs. Dinneford's plate. Another performance consisted
in taking a slice of bread in his fingers and tossing it over his shoulder
into the grate. This seemed to be so entirely irrational, unless indeed it were
some kind of ceremonial akin to the pouring out of libations, that Nestoria was
lost in astonishment.

“Cousin Wetherel!” laughed Mrs. Dinneford. “You forget that there is
no fire.”

“Mrs. Dinneford, I stand corrected,” replied the Judge with monumental
composure. “Ellen, carry that piece of bread into the kitchen and toast it.”

“Take a fresh slice,” suggested Mrs. Dinneford. “That isn't fit.”

“It is good enough for an aged sinner who can't remember whether it is
summer or winter,” affirmed the Judge.

“Cousin Wetherel prefers to toast his own bread,” explained Mrs. Dinneford
to Nestoria. “He wants to make sure that it shall be burnt to a coal.”

“At my age a man must how to his stomach,” added the old gentleman.
“He must say humbly to that organ, What will your highness please to digest?
It is a hard and low master. I serve it while I despise it.”

“You ought to read Tupper on `Hidden Uses,' ” remarked Mrs. Dinneford.
“He has some noble thoughts on the value of things which seem to be of no
worth.”

“When I have exhausted Solomon I will turn my attention to Tupper,”
answered the Judge with sedate scorn.

“Well, do give Nestoria another bit of chicken,” put in Alice. “She has
nothing to eat.”

“Miss Bernard, you must pardon my spectacled purblindness,” apologized
the descendant of many Wetherels. “I may say that I see you through a glass
darkly.”

Not only the Judge's ideas and manners, but also his turns of speech, were
original. But his obvious sincerity of character, his venerable age, and even
his physical feebleness lent a dignity to all his peculiarities, and made him a
patriarchal figure. Nestoria was not in the least disposed to laugh at him;
she regarded him with a respect which did her honor; for in truth he was
worthy of respect. It must be observed in passing that he bore a graver
aspect at table than was usual with him. “A meal,” he was accustomed to
say, “should be looked upon as a species of solemn ceremonial, inasmuch as
it is a celebration of a fresh grant of undeserved mercies.” Thus when he
rose from breakfast it was with a more lightsome face than he had worn
hitherto.

“Now, Miss Bernard, a duty is over,” he said cheerfully. “How shall we
spend the day?”

“I should like to do something for you, sir,” replied Nestoria.

“I am sincerely obliged to you for the desire,” bowed the Judge, with the
solemn courtesy of a gentleman of the old school. “But my needs in the way
of amusement are few. Let me urge you to think of yourself. You can drive.
I have but one horse, and Jehu would not have given a shekel of brass for
him, but he answers our purpose. He is usually gracious enough to take out
Alice in the morning, and myself with Mrs. Dinneford in the afternoon. Some
day, when it is agreeable to you, you can go with me. I should take it as a
pleasure.”

Of course Nestoria replied that it would also be a pleasure to her; and
although the answer was a courtesy, it was not the less uttered in sincerity.
Generously sympathetic by nature, and educated in ways of self-abnegation by
parents whose life had been a continuous self-sacrifice, she had grown up with
a disposition to fill the cup of others rather than her own; so that, however
dull a drive with Mr. Wetherel might have seemed to her imagination, she
would have found a sort of dutiful satisfaction in driving with him across the
continent, had he declared for such a recreation. But, more than that, she
really liked the society of elderly persons, for the reason that she was accustomed
to it. Infants had not swarmed into the ark of the Nestorian mission;
and of the few who had been vouchsafed to it some had died promptly, and
others had been sent in good time to America; while with the native youth
of the land she had not been allowed to associate freely, for fear of evil communications.
Thus nearly all the people whom she had known familiarly
during her childhood and girlhood had been many years older than herself,
while the gravity of their pursuits and character made them seem even
older than they were. We need not wonder therefore that she should look
upon the venerable Judge as a suitable comrade, and should be able to say
to him honestly that she should like very much to share his phaetonic adventures.

I must admit here that such an old-minded young lady seems at first sight
to be hardly a taking heroine. The ordinary healthful soul may be pardoned
for suspecting that she must have been a little hypocrite or an unnatural little
prig. But those who knew her ways best and were allowed to see deepest into

her heart did not think her either. There was not a bit of affectation or of any
manner of pretence in her demeanor or in her character. She was as natural
as a bird; and all you could say against her was that she had been brought up
in a cage instead of the wildwood freedom of a nest; and even if you chose to
add that it was a pity, you had to concede that she was not to blame. It
would have been dreadful, to be sure, if her convent-like education had crushed
out of her those instinctive emotions which form one of the chiefest charms and
one of the purest joys of youth; and we must admit that, had that been the
case, the girl would not have been attractive. But the events of this story will
show that Nestoria was not deficient in feelings, and that she could be led by
them to do things which a more worldly-wise young lady might have recoiled
from; experience in perils being oftenest the parent of prudence.

Returning now to the course of our story, we will state the commonplace,
composing fact that Alice and Nestoria drove out together, perambulating
such a wide extent of sandy coast country that Old Sorrel twice came to a halt
in dumb remonstrance.

“Get up!” screamed Alice, twitching at the reins. “I declare I believe
he is going to lie down. Such a horse! Uncle ought to have a spanking span,
and a fine carriage and a regular coachman. And here he keeps this old fatty,
and James hoes potatoes! If I had a million, wouldn't I make it fly! What
a breakfast that was! Did you ever see the like?”

“A great deal worse,” answered Nestoria.

“Oh, yes, on missionary ground. But poor breakfasts are quite appropriate
there, just to teach the heathen not to be greedy. Rich people at home
should spend their money.”

“To teach the missionaries not to be greedy?” asked Nestoria.

Alice laughed. “You are awful clever sometimes,” she confessed. “You
look so demure, and all of a sudden you say something cunning, and it astonishes
people. It strikes one as if a rabbit or a chicken had made a joke. However,
I wasn't complaining of the quality or quantity of the breakfast; there is
enough to eat on uncle's table, and it is generally good enough. I meant the
grimness and the queer behaving. I do so hate grimness and queer behaving.
Did you see that chicken wing fly? It couldn't have done better if it had been
alive and had all its feathers. I expected to hear it cackle cut-out-ca-da-cut.
I hate such fashions.”

“Don't you think your uncle is a very good man?” asked Nestoria, quietly
remonstrating against this light-minded and unfair criticism.

“Good? I guess he is. Too good. Think of his giving away fifty thousand
a year to charities and Bible societies and that sort of thing. It puts me
out of all patience. I would like a five hundred dollar dress, and a five hundred
dollar brooch, and a thousand dollar shawl, and so on. But he gives me
nothing unless it is now and then some solemn book. He says I have enough
money of my own for vanities.”

“And haven't you?” asked the missionary's daughter, glancing at Alice's
coral earrings. The glance, we must explain, was not one of austere reproof,
nor of greed, or envy, or jealousy. The girl frankly admired the earrings,
taking a heartfelt, natural pleasure in their shapely form and rich color, and
simply marvelling that such luxury could feel discontent.

“No,” declared Alice. “What girl ever did have enough? Well, I
mustn't complain; it is rather ungrateful. I suppose uncle means to leave us
a great deal of money.”

“And won't he leave anything to—?” Nestoria began the sentence eagerly,
but she did not finish it.

“To whom?” stared Alice.

“I thought he had a nephew,” said Nestoria, coloring over her speech, but
conscientiously bound to be frank.

The garrulous Alice turned discreet in presence of the family skeleton, and
merely replied, “So he has—I don't know.”

“We are lucky,” she presently added, unable to repress entirely her communicative
nature. “The Judge is not my own uncle; he is only mamma's
first cousin. But he has taken a great fancy to us. It is one of his whimsies.
I am sure I don't know why he should like me, such a piece as I am.”

“Perhaps he trusts you will come to resemble your mother,” suggested
Nestoria.

“Thank you,” laughed Alice. “Mother is nice enough, and I don't object
to being like her, when the time comes.”

But we must not spend too much space upon the talk of these girls; we
must hasten on to the more momentous drive of Nestoria with the Judge. The
old man had proposed the expedition in order that he might be alone with his
youthful guest and catechise her as to the extent of her intimacy with his
nephew, and perhaps say a word in season concerning so perilous an acquaintance.