 | CHAPTER VIII. Dollars and cents |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Cry, holla! to thy tongue, I pr'ythee; it curvets very unseasonably.
As You Like It.
NOW in all this time neither Mrs. Ned nor Mrs. McNamara
had ever been near us,—of course we never saw
each other except as we occasionally met at other people's
houses or at church. My uncle tried to make it out that
the initiative lay with us; but though my stepmother said
little in reply, she rightly felt our claims as strangers, and
would by no means make the first move. Once after a
long drive with my uncle I had sat in his parlour for a few
minutes, but the visit produced nothing except a question
from Mrs. McNamara as to whether our new oven baked
well and who made the bread. So our intercourse was restricted
to messages and inquiries, of which my father and
Mr. Ned were the medium.
Other visiters we had had;—Captain De Camp and his
mother (when the former was at home), the ladies from the
Bird's Nest and now and then an inroad from the Moon or
a deputation of neighbours. The Collingwoods, father and
son, had called once or twice when we were out, and on
the afternoon of our haying expedition Mr. Rodney came
again.
Stephanie, Kate, and I were alone in the study, having
resigned the sitting-room to my father's slumbers and Mrs.
Howard's letter-writing; and as the gentleman saw us in
passing, we admitted him by the private side-door near
which we sat.
Stephanie immediately began with,
“O Mr. Collingwood, I am so glad to see you. I have
been wishing every day that you would come.”
He looked all surprise, that was not attention, but
ventured no reply.
“Do tell us something about those good ladies down
yonder that you seem to know so well. What sort of
people are they?”
Mr. Collingwood hesitated a moment, and then said with
a somewhat singular grave expression,
“May I be excused Miss Holbrook for asking a more
particular description?—it so happens that I know a good
many ladies in the neighbourhood.”
“I don't believe you're in the least doubt as to which I
mean,” said Stephanie,—“those inhabitants of what they
call the Bird's Nest and I call Caffre-land,—who gave us
such remarkably good muffins the other night.”
Again Mr. Collingwood paused, thoughtfully dressing the
leaves of a rose which he held in his hand; and it seemed
to me that some feeling of pain shaded his smile when he
said,
“Miss Holbrook, you ask me a question and then in the
same breath give me good reasons why I should not answer
it.”
“Why what do you mean! I haven't done such a
thing.”
“I beg your pardon,—you first reminded me that I know
these ladies very well, and then that they have tried to
entertain you pleasantly at their own house.”
“Just the reasons why you should answer. If you didn't
know them you couldn't, and if I had never been there I
shouldn't want you to.”
“I knew a lady once,” said Mr. Collingwood, “who
whenever she was questioned too closely about a friend
would reply, `O I cannot tell you—I have eaten of her
salt;' and I must confess that even I have a little of the
Arab about me.”
“It is very strange they should feel it as they do,” said
Kate,—“that so nice a point of honour should be more
universally recognised among those wild tribes than in any
civilized society.”
“That is not the only flower of savage life: very few
people practise hospitality after the manner of our North
American Indians.”
“I hope very few people practise teazing after the pattern
of our neighbours!” said Stephanie. “Don't you think the
world has rather gone back by dint of civilization?”
“Not at all!—but I wish it would go further forward.
And I would not refuse to copy a fine example, even though
it were found only in Arabia.”
“Or Caffre-land”—said Stephanie.
But the person she addressed neither looked up nor
spoke for a minute, and when he did speak it was not to
her.
“Miss Howard, did you ever notice the beautiful arrangement
of the petals of a fine rose?”
“I believe I have noticed that it is beautiful. What
analogy were you thinking of, Mr. Collingwood?”
He looked up then with a smile of pleasure at her quick
tracing of his thought.
“Might not one compare it to the balance of a fine character?
where every quality holds its due proportion and place;
where those which must come into every-day contact with
the world are unfolded like these outer petals, with yet a
leaning towards concealment; and where there is always
a hidden treasure folded away out of sight, which we judge
of by what we can see of the rest, and by the exceeding
sweetness it sends forth.”
“Your picture wants touching up”—said Stephanie.
“Why don't you add that like the rose, a fine character always
blushes at being infolded?”
“That would be too obvious a remark.”
“Obvious! Well, now that you have kindly given the
rest of the company something to think of, will you satisfy
my curiosity?”
“If I can without dissatisfying myself,” he said with a
smile.
“Very well then;—but in the first place I think you are
all crying up the Arabs for nothing. I never heard that
the salt-protection tied anything but their hands. If you
come to robbery and murder, there may be some sense in
it.”
“`Who steals my purse, steals trash'”—answered Mr.
Collingwood playfully.
“But what has that to do with the matter? now don't
sense and all that—at least so says Miss What's-her-name,—I
never shall get along unless I give them some
cognomen that I can remember. Let me see—I will call
one `yes ma'am', and the other”—
There was a flash of indignation in Mr. Collingwood's
face that surprised me; and as his quick glance came from
Stephanie to us I was too happy that we were looking
grave. Stephanie herself stopped short; but determined
not to show her discomfiture she directly added,
“But tell me how you like that name, before I look for
another.”
The flash had passed away, and it was with a very grave,
almost sad politeness that he said,
“I think you can find none better, Miss Holbrook, if
you have neither respect for Miss Caffery's excellence, nor
sympathy for anything in her that you might wish other
wise.”
The reproof was too just to give offence—even Stephanie
felt that; and now waked out of her thoughtlessness could
see that it had carried her too far. But she did not speak
nor did we. Never had crickets such an audience, as the
scores that were then performing. I sat looking out into
the fading sunlight, and wishing most intently that the silence
might have as speedy an end, when my eye suddenly
perceived a slight motion of the half-open door. Slowly
it moved in, and a little startled I touched Mr. Collingwood
who sat next me. He turned, and at that moment the
door swung clear back, and we saw the fine head and
shoulders of Wolfgang. I am sure we were all obliged to
him, and drew breath more freely.
“O no—don't send him away!” exclaimed Kate and I
together, half answering half anticipating a gesture.
The dog stopped and looked at us.
He was a very large hound of the old Talbot breed, deep
black, except where upon the muzzle and legs that colour
changed to a brownish red; and with large deep set eyes,
finely curved nostrils, and broad and very low hanging
ears. He stood for a moment, and then walking up to his
master he laid his head on his lap, and looked up with all
the love and confidence of a child for its mother; yet with
the expression of his eye very touching. I saw Mr. Collingwood's
own glisten as he passed his hand over Wolfgang's
head.
“I never can meet the eye of a fine dog without being
moved,” he said at length.
“But what makes it look so?” I said,—“what is he thinking
of?”
“Nay there you ask too hard a question,—it would be
as difficult for me to read all his thoughts as for him to
read mine;—and yet in a way we understand each other
perfectly.”
“He has beautiful eyes!” I said. “But what do you see
in them, sir?”
“Miss Grace, when you have been coming home at night
did you never look with particular pleasure at the windows?”
“Very often.”
“And why were they so attractive?”
“Why because of the light within.”
“You have answered your own question as well as
mine.”
“Then you think, Mr. Collingwood,” said Kate, “that
Wolfgang is a sort of animated Baku—with a perpetual
fire in his head.”
“In his head or his heart,” said he smiling,—“I don't
quite know where it should be located. But I am sure it
shines out through his eyes, and gives this half melancholy,
half resigned expression which tells his consciousness of
having less intelligence than I have—poor fellow!”
And Wolfgang shut his eyes, and drew one deep breath
of satisfaction.
“Mr. Collingwood,” said Kate, as Stephanie left the
room to see what a knock at the front door might announce,
“will you let me ask you one question?”
“Will I let you, Miss Howard? Surely that is one you
need not ask.”
“Yes I need, for I want you to explain yourself a little,
—do you think it is wrong ever to criticise people?”
“You are reproving me now,” he said with one of his
pleasant smiles.
“Indeed I am not—I have no right,—I am simply asking
your opinion.”
“I don't know but I deserve a reproof,” he said after a
moment's thought,—“not for a bad intention, but for the
wrong working out of a good one. To your question, Miss
Howard, I believe I must answer yes and no.”
“And you must please to explain,” said Kate.
“I think then,” he replied, “that it all depends upon the
how and the to whom. To say that members of the same
family, or very near friends, ought not to speak to each
other concerning the looks or character or manner of other
persons,—would be to abridge that freedom of speech and
thought of which I am a strong advocate. But one may
talk and even laugh about such things, without a touch of
ridicule or contempt.”
“And you think it is not right to speak of them to
strangers?”
“I think if you mention the faults or infirmities of one
person to another who knew them not before, you do the
first an unkindness which can only be excused by the hope
of doing good to the second—either in the way of warning
or example; unless always the friend to whom you speak
is judicious and trustworthy, and can see things with your
own friendly eyes. So I think,” he added as he rose to go,
—“I wish I were always quite true to my own convictions.”
“But Mr. Collingwood,” said Kate, “I don't quite understand—we
haven't got to the point yet.”
“Because you are afraid to bring me to it,” said he
smiling. “Why did I speak so rudely to Miss Holbrook?
—is that what you want to know?”
“You did not speak rudely at all; but why was it wrong
for Stephanie to speak of these ladies to you who know
them better than she does?”
“It was not in the least wrong for her to speak of them
to me or to any one else, unless in a way that—forgive me
—she ought not even to think of them. Words are not
much—it is the feeling which prompts them.”
“Then you do think one ought not to laugh at people?”
“I think,” said Mr. Collingwood gently, “that it is dangerous
to indulge oneself in ridicule, especially of personal
defects or failings which are now, at least, beyond control.
to Miss Holbrook,—perhaps I felt and spoke too strongly,
for Miss Caffery is one of the few really good friends I
have ever had.”
“We all liked her very much,” said Kate, “she is so
very gentle and pleasant.”
“It is more within than without. Upon a naturally fine
moral temperament, has been built up that superstructure
without which mere natural qualities are so unsatisfying, so
unreliable—a lovely, well-developed christian character!”
How warmly he spoke! how like a chill fell his words
upon both our hearts! We had it not—that beautiful
superstructure. I felt the shade gather upon my own face,
and as I instinctively drew near Kate and looked up to hers,
I saw the shade there—saw my own tears reflected beneath
her drooping eyelashes.
He said no more, but stood looking at us for a moment,
and then with one kind clasp of the hand that emphasized
his words, that seemed to tell of sympathy in his eyes too,
he left us. And we sat down in the gathering twilight
hand in hand, and thought; until I, weary with the unusual
excitement of feeling, laid my head in Kate's lap, and knew
nothing more till I felt her lips upon my cheek, and heard
her voice say that it was bedtime.
“It don't signify—” said Stephanie as she tied on her
nightcap,—“I daresay I oughtn't to have said what I did
about Miss Caffery, and I won't give her any name but her
own in future; but nothing shall prevent my calling t'other
one `the Bain of my life'.—My mind's made up; and I
won't `come about' for any Collingwood that ever set sail.”
| CHAPTER VIII. Dollars and cents | |