University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
A RAY OF LIGHT.

IT is a common saying, that a certain bottomless and
disreputable place is paved with good resolutions;
and I think that in those times I might have contracted
for the entire unfathomable job without alarming risk
of failure. Every hour I admitted that I ought to quit Seacliff
immediately, and came to a desperate determination to
do so, but my silly heart dragged on my will like a ball and
chain, rendering motion so painful that I called it impossible.
There was one unhappy Fitz Hugh who was for going, and
another unhappy Fitz Hugh who was for staying, and the
latter was the most obstinate. One morning the two went
up to Seacliff together, the strong-minded one declaring that
he was about to bid Miss Westervelt an everlasting farewell,
while his feebler brother whimpered that, for his part, he
never could bring himself to do it, never!

She was sitting in the veranda, sketching leaves and vinetwists
from that amatory honeysuckle beneath which I had
once come so near confessing to her what I have repeatedly
confessed to my, I hope, discreet reader. Her hand was
rosy against the white glare of the paper; her face was
downcast, marble-still, and wondrously shaded; her whole
expression as beautiful as a perfect soul. All my being was
moved to address her in words of exceeding gentleness,
whether I bade her adieu or not; but in another instant I
observed that she was dressed in that accursed plaid of

dead-leaf colors; and so I answered her kindly “Good morning”
with a grave, silent bow.

At that moment, before I had opened my lips, Genevieve
came into the veranda, nodded as she took a seat, glanced at
her sister, then at me again, and burst out laughing. “I
don't wonder you stare at that dress,” said she. “Mary, you
are found out.”

“Indeed—I—I don't understand,” I stammered, as I
turned some tint or other, perhaps a plaid of dead-leaf
colors.

“But you have seen the dress before, haven't you?” asked
Genevieve.

“Yes,” said I, gathering myself up in grim solemnity;
“I have seen the dress before.”

“I thought so,” she replied, with a stare of surprise for my
dramatic manner. “I knew it. Come, Sis, don't be vexed,”
she added, caressing Mary's cheek, which had flushed a trifle.
“You attack my extravagance, and I take revenge on your
economy. Which of us is the severest?”

“You are, Genevieve,” said Mary. “You needn't have
talked about this to Mr. Fitz Hugh, even if he had noticed
it.”

“For Heaven's sake, do explain!” I exclaimed, for I
began to hope something better than my fears.

Genevieve laughed at my eagerness, and Mary put me out
of my misery. “Why, this is all, Mr. Fitz Hugh. I am
wearing an old silk of mamma's. She gave it to me two or
three weeks ago, and I made it over for myself. It was
the sheer spirit of saving; for I dislike plaids, in general.
There.”

“Oh!!” said I. Not another word did I utter; not
another sound arose from the great whirl of gladness within
me; but I might have talked a year without speaking so
much as I did in that single syllable. I presume that my
eyes flashed and my cheeks flushed, as if with wine, for
everything around me looked dream-like, and in my ears

there was a hum of blood rushing to the brain. I wished
that Genevieve would take herself away. It would have
been agreeable to have the sky shut down and cover noon
with midnight. I wanted to kneel at Mary's feet unseen, and
ask her pardon unheard, by the hour together, for the hateful
suspicions which I had harbored against her. It would not
do to tell her of them; not even to let her doubt of them;
no, that would never do. I was the guilty one now, because
I had heard innocence accused without vindicating it; but I
must never confess my turpitude, or I might receive a punishment
greater than I could bear; I must try to live my
repentance, so that forgiveness should be granted without
ever having been asked in words.

“You don't feel disposed to laugh at my economy, I hope,”
she said.

“Not at all. I admire it,” returned I, with such a fervor
of voice and manner that she glanced at me to see whether
I was in jest or earnest.

“Well, I never!” laughed Genevieve. “No, I never
did! as Mrs. Treat expresses it. What enthusiasm about a
little saving! I must run and put on a pair of old shoes to
please Mr. Fitz Hugh.”

She danced away giggling, and did me the favor not to
return. In a spirit of becoming meekness, diffidence, and
worship, I approached Miss Westervelt, and, standing partly
behind her, looked at her unobserved, under pretence of
watching the progress of the drawing. I was afraid, or
rather I hoped, that I disturbed her, for the little fingers did
not sketch quite as deftly as usual, and I could see, in spite
of the drooped head and the overhanging masses of golden
rippled hair, that the blood was burning bright in the blonde
cheek. I should like to know who wrote that delicious little
poem in an old number of “Putnam,” beginning with this
verse:—

That long, fine hair, of tenderest brown, but so inwardly
golden, I have seen it, I know it, it was hers, but I could not
have described it so.

One false stroke followed another on the paper, until she
suddenly stopped sketching with a little gesture of despair.
“Oh, these warm mornings!” she said. “They make me
nervous. I can't draw.”

“One can hardly draw his breath,” I replied; but my
heart was not in the quibble.

Then there was a silence which I was only half conscious
of, but which may have been embarrassing to her, inasmuch
as she broke it by an abrupt change in the conversation.
“I understand that you will leave Seacliff in a day or two,
Mr. Fitz Hugh.”

“Indeed!” said I. “Oh! yes. No, not at all. Who
told you?”

“Robert.”

“Ah, Robert did, did he? Yes, I believe I did say something
of the sort of Robert. But I've changed my mind;—
I mean I was joking;—Robert takes everything so in earnest!
I certainly never intended to go,—except in case of
— of unforeseen circumstances. I don't think I could
pass the summer anywhere else more agreeably; that is, not
half so agreeably.”

There are moments when a man feels like taking himself
by the hair of his head, and hustling himself out of the room,
with every expression of contempt and contumely that can be
applied, properly or not properly, to a blockhead. I think
that I never had a more animated sense of the gulfs of stupidity
which at times open themselves within me, than I had
while I was maundering these contradictions and imbecilities.
I tired to awaken my wits, but before they could dictate a

word to me, Miss Westervelt spoke again. Her eyes were
fixed on her sketch, and her voice was very low and slightly
tremulous, as she said, “Mr. Fitz Hugh, what ought a lady
to do with anonymous letters?”

“Burn them,” I answered, after a long look of wonder at
the question. “Burn them, and think no more of them.
I never knew any truth or good to come by an anonymous
letter.”

“I have been troubled lately with anonymous correspondents,”
she continued, gravely. “I have shown the letters to
no one yet, but I have a great mind to let you see them.
Perhaps I ought to do it, for they concern you. Here they
are,—two. Read them, and give them back to me.”

The first that I opened was on white English paper, in a
man's handwriting, upright like print and evidently disguised.
It read:—

“Miss Westervelt,” said I, “I hope that you have not
believed one word of this. You cannot have been so hard.
I do assure you that it is an utter falsehood. I have not
spoken a word against you, and I could not. Don't you
believe me?”

She looked me steadily in the eyes, not with suspicion, but
with frank earnest kindness, as she replied, “Yes, I do believe
you.”

“Thank you!” I answered. “And thank you too for not
showing it to others. They might have been more uncharitable.
Even your father might have felt himself compelled
to dismiss me until I could clear myself.”

He would have been delighted to do it, I am afraid, was
the thought which I did not utter.

“Give me the other letter now,” she said. “I do not believe
that, either; and there is no use in annoying you with
it.”

I replied, as I suppose most persons would have done, by
begging leave to read it. It was written on pink paper, in a
delicate feminine hand, without comma, period, or other punctuation,
except italics, after the favorite manner of many
young ladies in composing. “Dear Mary,” it commenced.
“I hope you received dear papa's note of warning I made
him write it although he hated to He despises anonymous
letters although I don't see why for almost all Valentines
are anonymous But I obliged him to do it as I told you
Indeed it was high time. Those dreadful stories of Mr Fitz
Hugh shame on him had begun to circulate Papa and I
have contradicted them everywhere Don't be uneasy we
will see that they are put an end to I hope that you have
packed the creature off before this I should like to get hold
of him and pull him about the room by his hair a little You
must never know my name Adieu dearest darling.”

“Have you any friends who write like this?” I questioned.

“Plenty who write in that style, but none in that handwriting.
It is uncommonly legible. It makes one think of a
schoolmistress.”

“Do you know the handwriting of the other letter?”

“How should I? It is disguised, of course.”

“And you don't suspect the author of either?”

“No—I do not. I have run over all my acquaintance,
and I can't fix upon one who seems likely to send me such
things.”

“Well, I am innocent. I do assure you that I am. Both
these letters are false, altogether.”

“I know it. I pledge you my word that I do not suspect
you, and have not.”

I held out my hand, and she gave me hers, which I pressed
so earnestly that it was almost unconsciously. She did not
return the pressure, but a soft carnation like the inner tint
of a conch-shell mounted to her forehead, and her eyes
drooped with a frightened sparkle.

“Now you shall see what I will do with them,” she said.
“Have you a match?”

I handed her one of those little tin cylinders which a
smoker is very apt to carry about him. She unfolded the
letters, laid them on the lower stone of the granite steps, applied
an allumette, and the scurrilous little sheets were soon
cinders, blowing about the garden walks. In the midst of
the miniature holocaust, I heard a step behind me, and, turning,
saw Somerville at the corner of the house. He nodded
amicably to me, surveyed Miss Westervelt's proceedings with
the composure and incuriosity becoming a man of the world,
and strolled slowly away through the grounds, smoking with
the tasteful, innocent placidity of “a scholar, a gentleman, and
a Christian.”

“And so you have been suspecting me as a slanderous tattler
for a fortnight now,” I said as Miss Westervelt resumed
her seat.

“Not suspecting you. But it is a fortnight since one of
the letters reached me; the other came a few days afterwards.
They were both postmarked in New York, as you saw. So
your enemies live there.”

“Not necessarily; and not necessarily enemies; it is more
probably one person.”

“I thought of that. It is much the most likely. But those
reports,—who could have put them in circulation? Perhaps
there are none; perhaps it is all a fabrication.”

“I do not doubt it. I think that I would not even inquire
if there have been reports. The mere question would make
silly people suppose that slanders had got out; and then, be
sure, slanders would soon be out. No, there is not a shadow
of truth in those letters; and the author,—well, I should look
for him here rather than in New York.”

“You think so!” she exclaimed. “Whom do you mean?”

“Did you ever suspect Mrs. Van Leer?” I asked.

“It is not possible,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“Jule is lively and almost wild,—no no, I don't mean to
say that—but she would not do anything like this,—she is
far too good for this. Besides, she is a great friend of yours.”

The look which accompanied this last remark would, I
now think, have expressed something like grave inquiry if
not reproach, had it not been quelled the moment it had
wandered to my face; but I did not then color under it nor
even notice it distinctly, for my coquetries with Mrs. Van
Leer had quite slipped my mind, so earnestly was I occupied
with the discoveries of the last half hour.

“Neither do I suspect her,” I replied. “She has not a
bad heart, and she has no object in injuring either of us.
Robert, too, is incapable of such meanness.”

“Oh, quite so!” she asseverated, with a warmth which almost
provoked me.

“Mr. Hunter is feather-brained enough, but not wicked
enough,” I went on. “There is no one else but Somerville;
—no one but Somerville.”

“Do you think it possible?” she asked gravely, doubtingly,
yet with no surprise nor reproof in her eyes.

“I do—I do! I don't wish to be uncharitable, but I suspect
that man,—I dread him,—I detest him. I should like
never to see his face again.”

She remained silent a moment, while I watched her face
anxiously.

“Well, I doubt him also,” she said at last. “In truth I
feel a dislike to him that I could hardly justify. I wish that
he was away; and he would be —”

She stopped, for Mrs. Van Leer's voice and footstep were
heard in the entry. An instant more, and the gay, frivolous,
soda-water creature came polking into the veranda, and approached
us through a whirl of mock courtesies.

“Don't stop,” said she. “Affairs of state, I sup—pose.
Don't be silent on my account. I shouldn't understand them
the least in the world. Just go right on at your ease, and
settle the concerns of the u—niverse. I would hate to have
the earth stand still because I was in the way. Oh well, if
you won't talk, I will. I'm al—ways glad of a chance to
throw a few words away;—I have so many of them.”

She sat down in one of the iron chairs, braced her feet
against the edge of our settee, and fell to fanning herself.
“Mr. Fitz Hugh,” she continued, “how can a person be comfortable
these warm mornings. What con—solation is there
for humanity when the thermometer is up to nine—ty?”

“Think of the eternal fitness of things and the great laws
of nature,” said I. “When I had the gout in a former state
of existence, I used to calm myself by meditating on the stupendous
truths of astronomy. I found it a most delightful
and consolatory thing to consider that the sun is eight hundred
and eighty thousand miles in diameter. By the side of
this gigantic fact how small one's great toe appears?”

“Oh, ne—cessarily. However, I don't seem to get much
comfort from the idea that my great toe is a little toe.”

“A lady sometimes draws comfort from the idea that her
foot is a little foot,” I remarked.

She thrust out her foot immediately; it was both small and
handsome, and I had often admired it; but now I would not
look at it. Accordingly after a moment, it was withdrawn
from sight under its rustling covertures, while a faint shadow
of annoyance appeared on the face of its lively owner.

“Miss Westervelt, won't you go to sketching again?” said
I. “I like to watch the work.”

She did as I requested, and I overlooked her, both of us
silent. I did not lift my eyes to Mrs. Van Leer, and yet I
could see, or rather feel, that she was not at all pleased with
this method of managing the interview. Now her feet
pushed against the settee; now they dropped upon the floor
and kicked among the embroideries; now they climbed back
to the settee and shook it with their wriggling. She fanned
herself violently, she arranged the skirts of her morning-dress,
she unfastened and refastened her breastpin, she jerked
and twirled her ringlets until they seemed as full of life as
the hairs of Medusa. Miss Westervelt stopped sketching
once or twice, and at last remonstrated.

“Julia, is that you jogging the settee so? You make my
leaves look more like geological bird-tracks than anything
else.”

“I'm glad of it,” responds Julia. “What do you leave
me alone in this way for? Mr. Fitz Hugh, at least, might
have the politeness to say something amu—sing.”

“I have the politeness,” said I, “but not the ability.”

“Oh, say a few such things as you said to me when we
walked to the Cedars,” she laughed, mischievously. “I
thought them intense—ly diverting.”

I made no answer, and allowed myself to look just as surly
as I felt. Puzzled and perhaps bothered by my unexpected
severity of countenance, she remained quiet a few moments,
and then spoke with all the sweetness of butter and honey.
“Mr. Fitz Hugh, I have heard one thing of you that I hope
is not true. Robert told me last evening that you talked of
going away. I felt quite sure that he must be mista—ken,—

wasn't he? You certainly would think twice, and a great
many times more, I hope, before you would leave us to this
dole—ful solitude.”

“I was just saying to Miss Westervelt that I had no intention
of quitting Pa and Ma Treat.”

“Oh, don't talk of it!” said she. “How they would miss
you! And Johnny, too! you couldn't of course think of
parting with that dear, apple-headed urchin. You ought at
least to stay with him till it is perfectly certain that he will
have a nose to his face. But, seriously, we ought to leave
Seacliff. A lady must go to Saratoga or somewhere once a
year; or she gets forgot—ten, and people consider her passée.
I would rejoice to start to-morrow.”

“Why don't you?” returned I, with the hardest heart in
the world.

She looked at me with a semi-defiant expression, which
seemed to say, I can be as indifferent as you. “I don't go,”
she drawled, “sim—ply be—cause Henry wont take me.
He would rather catch one shark than attend all the balls of
the season.”

“You might go to Newport; there he could have his
sharks, and you could have your balls.”

“I wont go to Newport,” she declared. “I hate Newport.
There are too many Bostonians there; and they are certainly
the most prig—gish, pedan—tic, stuck-up people that I
ever saw. They absolutely pretend to look down on New
Yorkers. A Bostonian holds his head higher above his
shoulders than any other creature on earth, not excepting a
cam—el—leopard.”

“That's because he wears stand-up collars,” said I. “It
is surely better than to carry his head under his arms like
the Africans of Herodotus, or resting on his collar-bones like
the generality of Young America. For my part, I like the
Tremont type. It is on the whole the best moral and intellectual
man this side of the Atlantic. Let me tell you an
anecdote. A friend of mine, a doctor, was walking the pavement

of his city close behind a stranger who seemed to have
just arrived. The stranger coughed and cleared his throat.
Every time that he did so, he stepped to the edge of the sidewalk
and spit in the gutter. Most Americans would have
expectorated over the pavement, trusting to the next lady's
dress to sweep it up. `That man is a Bostonian,' said my
friend to himself. He followed the stranger to his hotel, saw
him write his name, stepped up to the book and at the end
of the line found the word Boston. Then look at the very
collegians,—a class in the imitative age. They take the
tone of the city. Harvard dresses better, has better manners,
rows a shell-boat faster, and turns out more famous men (as
I have heard Boston people say) than any other university
in the country.”

“Who ever thinks of bringing stu—dents into an argument!”
droned Mrs. Van Leer. “It's of no use talking, Mr.
Fitz Hugh. If there is anything in the world that I hate
thoroughly, it is a Bosto—nian, and espe—cially a Boston
la—dy.”

“That is beautiful, Miss Westervelt,” said I, turning to
the sketch, or rather to the sketcher. “I know very little
about drawing, but it seems to me that this is fit to engrave
from. I envy you this talent, and the use you might make
of it. A good sketcher can give so much innocent and enduring
pleasure to friends. He or she can strike off a trifle
in a few minutes,—a house, a face, a caricature, perhaps,—
which will be a lasting memento of some pleasant interview,
and will always be treasured by whoever receives it.”

“Can't you understand, Mary?” asked Mrs. Van Leer,
maliciously. “I never heard such barefaced beggary.”

“No, no; he did not mean that,” smiled Miss Westervelt.
“Besides, he must not ask for it. I have promised it to
some one for a special purpose.”

She had promised it to some one! Did you hear that,
reader? and what did you think of it? I wanted to ask
who that some one was, but I dared not, for fear that she

would tell me, and then I might blush or grow pale, and then
Mrs. Van Leer would laugh at me. I looked cautiously
around, to see if Bob was anywhere near with heaven in
his most earthly visage; but he was not visible, and so
I stared abstractedly at the sky, as if I cared nothing for
things sublunary, or as if the diameter of the sun were my
perfect consolation in earthly trials. Before I could think
of another remark to make, Mr. Westervelt's feminine accents
sounded from within, calling “Mary.”

So Mrs. Van Leer and I were left together, she with her
feet against my settee, and I wish my eyes in the air. It
was not my intention to speak again until Miss Westervelt
returned; but my companion had something on her mind, or
at least on her tongue. She waited about ten seconds for
me, and then, finding that I was either stupidly or maliciously
wasting time, she shut up her fan and opened her
mouth, saying, “You don't seem to feel so—ciable this
morning, Mr. Fitz Hugh. I hope you are not melancholy.”

“Quite the contrary; never was happier in my life, that
I can recollect.”

A little pause, and then she asked, pleadingly, “Are you
vexed?”

“No, I am not vexed,” said I, in a most unamiable tone.
“What should I be vexed at?”

“I am afraid that I annoyed you by speaking of our walk
to the Cedars,” she replied, humbly. Then she added,
gayly, “Come, you were ve—ry saucy; you must acknowledge
that, now. But I forgave you for it there and then; and I
have said nothing about it to any one; and I never shall say
anything; so don't let it annoy you.”

“Oh, Mrs. Van Leer!” I groaned. “Well—you are
right. I was impertinent and absurd. But I have done
with all that. I ask your pardon, sincerely; and I give you
my word that you shall never be troubled by any such nonsense
from me again.”

Had I gained a single step in her good will by this acknowledgment,

and this promise? I did not expect to, and I
certainly had not, as I could see in the quick flame that
heated her cheek, and the sulky look of discontent and mortification
that followed it. What coquette, married or unmarried,
was ever pleased to hear a man repent that he
had flirted with her, and declare that he would sin thus no
more?

“You are vexed,” she said, petulantly. “You are angry
with me, and I don't see why, for I have done nothing that
you could fairly take offence at.”

“No, you have done nothing,” I admitted, perfectly willing,
however, to quarrel. “And I am not angry with you,
nor with any one but myself. I have apologized to you, and
I will do it again if you demand it.”

“I don't want to hear your apologies,” she replied, reddening
violently. “What do you make them for? They are
the greatest insult of all,—so cold-blooded and deliberate,
and malicious!”

How strange it was! At the Cedars she was not offended
with me, although I showed the manners of a Tom Jones;
but now that I begged her pardon for my impertinence, she
was so provoked that the tears sparkled among her eyelashes.
I began to pity her, as well as to reflect that a false
truce might be less perilous than open warfare. “Oh, Mrs.
Van Leer!” I exclaimed; “what can I say to regain your
good opinion? You are patient toward the blunders and
faults of everybody else; why can't you be forbearing toward
mine? Come, it is you who are angry, and not I.
Why won't you give me a kind word now?”

“Oh! you are re—ally sorry, then?” she replied, her
eyes lighting up and a pleased smile stealing over her lips.
“Well, I was not vexed; of course I was not. You are
forgiv—en. There!”

She offered me her hand, and I could not avoid taking it
in mine; but I did not press it as I had pressed another and
prettier hand that morning; and I noticed that she threw

herself back in her seat with a little pout of disappointment.
I could hardly help laughing aloud as I thought of the whole
scene and its conclusion; it had been a perfect lover's quarrel
in appearance, and yet neither of us was one particle in
love with the other. At that moment I heard male lungs
hooting, “Fitz Hugh! Fitz Hugh!” and looking round, I
saw Bob in the garden, gesturing to me with some such
frantic emphasis as if he had the St. Vitus' dance.

“Don't mind him,” insinuated Mrs. Van Leer. “Some
absurdity, not worth going down stairs to listen to. What
is it, Robert?”

But Bob, without stirring from his position under the
grape-vines, put his hands, funnel-like, to his mouth and
bawled again, “Fitz Hugh! Here! Got something private
for you.”

Glad to get away from my hail-fellow in petticoats, and
fearing too that Bob might blow some awful secret abroad
through his improvised speaking-trumpet, I ran down the
steps and let him take my arm. As soon as he had got a
firm grip, he dragged me away to the edge of the bluff,
wearing meanwhile a look of such tragic significance, that I
began to question whether he did not mean to make a lover's
leap of it, and dignify his male grossness with the poetic end
of Sappho. It was to be hoped, at least, that he had not
discovered in me a perfidious rival, and that he would not
insist upon my gravity to secure for himself additional
momentum.

“I say, Fitz Hugh, I've overheard 'em,” he broke out,
halting at the railing. “I've got to the bottom of the secret.
Blast his confounded soul! I wish I dared shoot him.”

“Dared shoot whom?”

“Somerville—that rascally, cursed, cheating blackguard
of a Somerville!”

“Good!” said I. “I wish you dared. But what has he
done?”

“Done! I overheard him talking with Ellen—Mrs. Westervelt.”

“You did! Mrs. Westervelt! Oh, you have got to the
bottom of it, then!” I exclaimed, as it occurred to me,
almost for the first time, that she was the “guilty woman.”
“But, look here, Robert. This must be hushed up. For
Heaven's sake don't say anything; don't spread reports.
Just consider that she is your own cousin.”

“Oh! she's not so much to blame, that I know of,” returned
Bob. “Its Somerville that I am down upon, chiefly.
I'd like to touch off a blast under him, and hoist him as high
as a shot tower.”

“Of course, — of course, — very naturally,” I assented,
“Well?”

“Well, I overheard them talking about her,” continued
Bob.

“About her? About whom?”

“Mary! Mary Westervelt! Miss Mary Westervelt!”
reiterated Bob, enraged at my stupidity. “Of course
her.”

“Oh! That's all, is it? I thought — well, never
mind; go on.”

“That's all, is it? Well, ain't that enough? Guess
you'll think so, when you come to hear what it is,” retorted
Bob, indignantly.

“Very likely. Let us hear what it is. Go on with your
story.”

“I will. I'll bile ahead, if you'll keep off the track. You
see, Fitz Hugh, I ain't so confounded slow always as they
take me to be. I ain't literary nor Frenchified, but I can be
as sly sometimes as old Joey Bagstock.” (Bob really considered
Joey to be a most knowing old gentleman.) “I've
suspected Somerville ever since you told me to be on the
lookout for him. Well, this morning I was in the parlor,
and heard him talking to somebody in Ellen's sitting-room.
Thinks I to myself, perhaps he's got Mary in there and is
trying to court her. So I slipped up to the door and harked
at the keyhole. Sly, wasn't it? Well, it was Cousin Ellen,

that he was palavering to. They were having over something
about papers and letters and money, that I couldn't
make head nor tail of. Finally he says, Well, if that's all
you can do, I must look out for myself, and I shall marry one
of the girls, and I shall take Mary. No, says she, for pity's
sake take Genevieve; I think Genevieve has been interested
in you. The very reason I don't want her, says he. But,
says she, I think Mary cares for some one else. (That's me,
you know.) So much the better, says Somerville; the more
fun in getting her.—Well, that's all I heard, Fitz Hugh.
I was so precious mad that I had to go out doors to swear.
I tell you I feel like a nest of hornets that the boys have
been stoning. I shall let on to Cousin Ellen as soon as I
catch her alone; and if I don't whip Somerville before night,
it will be because he has whipped me.”

I protested against this corporeal plan of operations, on
the ground that it might break up the family, would be certain
to make a vast deal of talk, and would not be at all pleasing,
I felt sure, to Miss Westervelt. He contradicted, exclaimed,
argued, and swore, but finally admitted that I was
right, and promised to keep the peace.

“Well, what shall I do then?” said he. “For pity's sake,
Fitz Hugh, stay here and advise a feller. Don't go away
till Somerville does, I beg of you. Just stick by here, old
feller, won't you now?—on my account!”

On his account! As I promised him that I would remain,
I felt horribly like a hypocrite, notwithstanding my mental
reservation that it was purely and simply on my own account.

The rest of that day was chiefly spent in thinking with
rage and self-contempt of the benediction which I had pronounced,
a fortnight before, on Bob's nuptial intentions. For
and against I repeatedly discussed the old question whether I
was an idiot or not, hoping meekly that it was not so, and
yet obliged to admit that it looked exceedingly probable,
inasmuch as I had suffered myself to be most simply duped

by the flimsiest of appearances. I came to the conclusion
that the Father of Lies is the master of appearances in this
world, while Heaven confines itself to realities. Hence that
great, sorrowful truth, so notorious and so universally conceded,
that appearances are deceitful; and hence also that
other and blessed and sustaining truth, that facts are facts,
always have been and always will be.