University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

“How could you behave so strangely, Cousin Arthur?” said
Julia, on their way home, after they had crossed the ferry.
There had been a long, and rather embarrassing silence, which
neither desired to be accountable for, if it could be helped, though
neither was willing to speak first; and the longer it continued,
the more uncomfortable it grew for both. “What must that
dear, good, motherly Mrs. Archibald think of you?”

“To tell you the truth, Julia, I don't much care what Mrs.
Archibald may think of me; but I owe it to myself, and I owe
it to you, to acknowledge that I am heartily ashamed of my behavior.
These feats of the gymnasium and the riding-school,
these college pranks, I thought I had outgrown, but somehow or
other, when that good Mrs. Archibald burst out so suddenly, in
her passionate admiration of your brother's great bodily strength,
and magnificent bearing, with her eyes fixed upon me all the
time, as if measuring me from head to foot, and comparing me
inch by inch, for your edification, Julia —”

“Preposterous!”

“I grew nervous and fidgety, and so I thought I would astonish
you both, — as I did, I think, did I not?”

“Indeed you did, Arthur; but you will excuse me if I say
that you grieved me still more than you astonished me. It was
so unlike you, Arthur, and so boyish.”

“Boyish, Julia! — it was childish, absolutely childish.”

Another long pause, which Arthur was the first to break.

“That dog of your brother's, I have taken a great liking to,
Julia; I wonder if we couldn't coax him over to the cottage?
He must be sadly in the way where he is, though Mrs. Archibald
thinks him a great protection to the house, and poor Edith,
she says, would never think of parting with him.”

“A gift from brother Charles, I dare say; and of course, however
troublesome he might be, they would not be very likely to
spare him.”

“No such thing, Julia. It was no gift from your brother;
Mrs. Archibald has given me the whole history of that dog, —
what a magnificent creature he is, to be sure! — but he might as
well have been a gift; for the truth of the matter is, that, although
Mrs. Archibald would like to be rid of him on some accounts, if
he could go into our family, yet she would never part with him
to a stranger. You must make her tell you the story as she told
it to me, while you were up stairs with Edith; and Carlo and the
baby and I were having it all our own way on the carpet below.
It seems that Charles got acquainted with him when he was a
puppy — I might say when both were puppies — for he was no
better than other people at the time; the baby — this very baby
— had pitched over a bank into the river, head first, while the
nurse happened to be listening to the nonsense of your brother,
who was frolicking with Effie and Edith. On hearing a scream,
he rushed to the river just in time to see this great, overgrown
puppy swimming ashore with the baby in his mouth, face downward;
in he jumped, without stopping to throw off his coat, and
between the two, after a short struggle, the baby was got ashore
safely, more frightened than hurt. Charles insisted on buying
the dog and training him, for he was only a great, lubberly, good-natured
creature at the time, pawing the dresses of all he took a
fancy to — showering the carpets when he shook himself — and
tumbling the children head over heels into the long grass, and
then washing their faces. He kept the dog, till he came here;
but soon after, he lost him, as you know, and then, after a long
search, gave him up entirely, supposing he had been stolen, or
killed for his beautiful shaggy coat, which is in great demand
for gentlemen's collars, they say; but on the very night, when
Charles appeared to you so suddenly in the midst of that terrible
snow-storm, at the St. Nicholas, — or rather, about three in the
morning, Mrs. Archibald was wakened from what she called a
`drowse,' by a loud scratching and whimpering at the outside
door. While she was wondering what it could mean, and trying
to recollect herself, so that in case of need, she might rouse her

next neighbor, there was a loud bark — and then another — and
Edith started up, and called Carlo! Her mother, who had been
watching by her side, thought she was dreaming, but she was
now fully awake, and persisted in saying, `That's Carlo's voice!
oh, pray go down and let them in!' Her mother went down, and
after calling the dog, and getting the well-known joyful cry of
recognition, she opened the door cautiously, without unfastening
the little chain, and the poor dog thrust in his head as far as it
would go, and set up such a piteous wail, that she was filled with
a superstitious terror; and it was not without a struggle, that she
could bring herself to open the door — after calling Charles!
Charles! two or three times in a low voice; but no answer followed,
nothing but the impatient whimper of the dog, and the
sad, melancholy whistling of the wind. Her heart died away
within her, — and when, at last, she opened the door, and the
dog rushed in — and nobody followed, — and she heard along
the passage-way above, the pattering of naked feet hurrying back
to Edith's chamber, she knew that her poor child meant something
very mournful and serious, when she begged her mother to
run down and let them in; and must be, if possible, more piteously
disappointed than her mother; but she asked no questions,
and contented herself with saying, in a cheerful voice, that Carlo
was below in comfortable quarters, and looking none the worse
for what he might have gone through with. From that hour,
Carlo was never out of the way, — he was not only a playfellow
and pony for the baby — but a companion for Edith and her
mother, as quiet and well-behaved, as one could wish, though unwieldy,
and sometimes unmanageable, in his outbreaking, turbulent
joy. He was, moreover, a capital watch-dog, and allowed
no interlopers, mastiff or hound, `nor curs of low degree.'”

“Thank you, Arthur,” said Julia, when he had finished. “You
have made me love the noble creature a hundred times more
than ever, — and, therefore, I should not have the heart to rob
Edith of him, — by the by, though — what say you of Edith?
How do you like her?”

“Not knowing, can't say. If she isn't underwitted — she is
demented — or I really do not know what to think of her.”

“Nor do I much wonder; but when I say to you, as I do with

all seriousness, that instead of being underwitted, or demented —
she is inspired; — that, instead of being what I first believed her
to be, a spoilt, wayward child, she is a high-principled woman,
well educated, largely gifted, simple and unaffected as truth
itself, and, withal, a religious woman — almost without knowing
it herself — I hope you will be inclined to a favorable opinion of
her, and of my brother's judgment, to say nothing of his taste.
Did you ever see a finer face — or such beautiful eyes; large,
playful, and clear as a kitten's?”

“Never.”

“And then, too, such heaps of golden hair!”

“Golden, Julia — golden is taffy-colored, — but hers only just
such as you find in Titian's Flora, and the Danaë — Titianesque,
as if the sunshine itself were enmeshed, and intertangled with the
shadow.”

“Or `brown in the shadow and gold in the sun,' as Whittier
so beautifully says.”

“Ah! we shall soon be there!” cried Arthur, waking up from
a long reverie, “though not in time, perhaps, unless the dinner
has been postponed.”

“But, Arthur, you have borne what I said so patiently, there
is one thing more I should like to say. Having promised your
mother to be a sister, when I see you running wild, I cannot
bear to give you up, without another word of caution, before we
separate.”

“Whether of caution or reproof, reproach or admonition, sister
Julia, it will be most welcome, I assure you. It will, at least,
prove that you feel some interest in me; and if you choose to
take the position at once, be it so, — henceforth, you are to be
sister Julia, instead of Cousin Julia, — what say you?”

“Well, — I see no objection, I confess — when we are alone
together, I mean. Before third persons, it might be troublesome
or embarrassing.”

“I understand you, sister Julia, — proceed with what you had
on your mind, if you please.”

“I will. Were you serious, Arthur, in what you said to Mrs.
Archibald about the theatre?”

“Not altogether, perhaps, — but there was no time for explanation

or qualification; and, moreover, I was provoked, — and
all the more, when I got below and found a volume of Shakspeare,
with the gilding all worn off, lying open on the work-table,
with a pair of spectacles for a mark, which I take it for granted
belonged to Mrs. Archibald —”

“You are a close observer — and I dare say you are right,
Arthur; and what then?”

“What then! Why, if people read Shakespeare — and quote
Shakespeare in the pulpit — and then refuse to see Shakespeare
played, — I cannot well understand how they are to reconcile
their inconsistency.”

Julia shook her head, and smiled.

“Go on, brother,” said she.

“To talk as they do about plays, and the immorality of the
stage, and then to borrow so much from the wondrous poetry of
the stage —;” and here he stopped short.

“Go on! go on!”

“If there had been time, while she was talking about her
bigoted husband, I should have called her attention to the religious
character of some people, who have written plays for the
stage, — that of Dr. Johnson, — or Dr. Young, with his three
tragedies, — or Addison, — or Hannah More.”

“And what then?”

“To be sure, Julia, the question is not so much as to the
morality of the plays themselves, perhaps,” — faltering and
growing a little nervous, with a twitching about the mouth, as
he encountered Julia's calm steady eyes, fixed upon him with a
sorrowful expression, — “as to the morality of the stage, or
theatre.”

Julia smiled.

“But what business have we with the characters or doings of
actors or actresses, off the stage?”

“Go on, brother.”

“Sometimes, to be sure,” — hesitating, and growing a little
uneasy, — “it may rather deaden the effect of a virtuous character,
or speech, to hear it from the mouth of a profligate man,
or a worthless woman, — as if Portia were something notorious
off the stage, — but why bother ourselves about their doings elsewhere?

We go to the theatre to be amused, or bettered, — and
what business can it be of ours, how the people we see there
behave at home? We buy our marketing, and you your silks
and laces, where you are best pleased, without inquiring into the
household character of the parties. If your beef is good, or the
gloves Alexandre's — you see I haven't wholly forgotten our
first interview with Miss Wentworth — you do not inquire if
the husband is on good terms with his wife, nor how he treats his
children.”

Julia never took off her eyes from the glowing countenance
before her; but she answered nothing.

“Perhaps you will say that, if we knew a market-man to be
a bad husband, or a bad father, or if we had good reason to believe
that a woman who sold laces, and gloves, and fashionable
dresses, was no better than she should be, it would be our duty
to go elsewhere?”

Still not a word from Julia.

“Why don't you answer me, sister?”

“I see no occasion for answering you; you have answered
yourself, as I knew you would, if you were left, uncontradicted,
to worm your way out of the labyrinth. You have said all that
can be said, I believe, — all that need be said, I am sure.”

This was really too provoking; and Arthur began to fidget in
his seat more nervously than ever; and then, all at once, he
broke out with —

“You are the strangest woman I ever met with, Julia Parry!”

“Thank you, Arthur Maynard!”

“But don't be too sure that I have answered myself, or that I
have said all I can say, on the other side of the question.”

“Not for the world, Arthur. I know you too well for that.”

“Zounds! if I ever knew how to take you! But one word
more I will say. When we leave a bad husband, who supplies
our table with the best of beef, or a bad father, or worse
mother, who furnishes the best of laces and gloves, at less than
cost, perhaps, — we may be able to go elsewhere. But there
is no such elsewhere in theatres. They are all so much alike,
that if we give up one, for the reason assigned, we must give up
all.”

Here Julia could bear it no longer. She laughed outright, —
and for the first time in six months perhaps, heartily, and with
the joyous ringing laugh of other days.

Arthur felt the answering vibration, — but was piqued, and
nettled, and would not acknowledge it.

“You misunderstand me, Julia,” said he. “The cases are not
strictly parallel, and you did not allow me to finish. Suppose
you could not go elsewhere, when you were in want of a silk
dress, or gloves, or a dinner, — in other words, that all the dealers
were alike, as much as all theatres are alike, — what would
you do then? Would you go without altogether? or would you
go further, and fare worse?”

“No, Arthur; but supposing such a case, — which is too extravagant
for supposition, I think, and not worth considering,
therefore, — I should try to make the best of it; in other words,
I should get what I must have, and could not possibly do without,
just where I happened to find it most convenient, and the
characters of the shopmen, or shopwomen, were least objectionable;
and if, therefore, — I see you are a little angry with me,
or with yourself; which is it?”

“With both, Julia.”

“And if, therefore, theatrical representations upon the stage
are something you must have, like provisions, or something you
cannot possibly do without, like laces, and gloves, and `women's
wear,' — why then, I suppose you are at liberty to make the best
of it, or even go further, and fare worse.”

“Enough! I am satisfied.”

“There's my hand, Arthur; are we friends?”

“Friends, Julia! can we ever be otherwise?”

“I can't say, Arthur. Sometimes I think it may be otherwise,
and then I tremble for you.”

“For me, Julia?”

“And for myself. But here we are; and now, one word
more. Be on your guard, I pray you, if that Mr. Fay is here.
Let us watch him narrowly; and after he is gone, we will compare
notes with Uncle George and your mother.”

As the carriage drew up, they saw several faces at the window,
and a pocket handkerchief waving at the end of the piazza;

and as they alighted, they were welcomed by the Major, who told
them that Mr. Fay had not disappointed them; that no unreasonable
delay had occurred; that their order to the market-man,
flung out of the carriage window as they rode by, with only a
word of warning from Arthur not to be slow, had been duly
honored; and that, in a word, they were just in time, and would
now have an opportunity of seeing their friend, Mr. Fay, and of
studying him at their leisure.

Arthur and Julia interchanged a look of surprise, at the
strange coincidence of language and purpose, without intercommunication,
between the Major and themselves. One would
have thought he had overheard the last remark of Julia, about
watching and studying their guest, and then comparing notes.

The dinner, a well contrived, unostentatious affair, went off
charmingly. Mr. Fay, though serious, and far from being facetious
or communicative, as they had been led to hope, from what
they had been told of him, was evidently in good-humor, and
willing to be pleased. It seemed to be the great object of the
Major to bring him out, and show him off; and Julia caught her
Aunt Elizabeth and her Uncle George telegraphing each other,
at times, the whole length of the table, as if they had a common
purpose in view, and were playing into each other's hands.

Up to the removal of the cloth, when the hock, and champagne,
and sparkling catawba, and golden sherry, and old port, and
East Indian madeira, — all warranted pure, though manufactured
to order, and not to cut in the eye, whatever the teetotalers
might believe or say, — had begun to be felt like inward sunshine,
setting every pulse a-throbbing, and every tongue a-going,
— though Mrs. Maynard only lifted the glass to her lips, and
Julia confined herself to the catawba, as least likely to be adulterated,
and having most of the `bottled velvet' Leigh Hunt used
to think so much of, — the conversation, though changeable and
free, was anything but sprightly.

According to established usage, over sea — as if wine and
women could not coexist together — Mrs. Maynard, followed
by Julia, rose to withdraw, as the waiter appeared with a supply
of clean glasses and two or three new brands. But Mr. Fay,
and Uncle George, and Arthur, started up from their seats with

such vehement protestations, that the ladies were obliged to give
way; and, as two of the three gentlemen were fond of tea, and had
just sipped their demi-tasse of strong coffee with the air of people
who knew what they were about, and the third, Mr. Fay, was
only so far gone, as to try a cigar in the presence of well-bred
women, without blowing the smoke into their faces, they were
not unwilling to be persuaded.

The conversation was very general, at first, and rather sleepy,
though the changes were swift, and oftentimes amusing. From
the distress of the poor, the panic, and the fearful looking for of
— nobody knew what — although men lowered their voices to a
whisper when they spoke of the future, — they wandered away
to the opera, and then to the theatre, and then to the prayer-meetings,
and to the new religious movement all over the country;
and while Mrs. Maynard listened with such attention as the
duties of the table would allow, without intermeddling, it was
evident enough that Julia was watching and weighing every
word that fell from the lips of Mr. Fay, and that Arthur was
watching her, and that his mother had her eye on both.

Once, when Mr. Fay was complaining of the superabundance
of music everywhere; of the unreasonable amount furnished at
the Academy, and the tiresome length of the operas and concerts,
Julia pricked up her ears, and began to show signs of impatience,
greatly to the satisfaction of Arthur, who ventured to ask
Mr. Fay if he was very fond of music.

“No, Sir,” was the answer.

Arthur bowed and smiled, as much as to say, “I thought so!”
and then tried to catch Julia's eye, but she avoided the look, and
appeared unconscious, though her lip trembled, and her eyes
lighted up, in a hurry.

“But allow me to add,” continued Mr. Fay, “that I am not
very fond of anything.”

Arthur tried again to catch Julia's eye, but she was on her
guard. She knew — she felt — that she was under inspection,
and that every change of countenance would be remembered, and
that she would have to answer for it, after Mr. Fay was gone.

“For I have always had a notion,” said he, — “you'll excuse
me, Mr. Maynard, that to be very `fond' of anything is to be
very foolish.”

“Capital!” thought Arthur; “if my gentleman has not sprung
the trap now, after baiting it with his own fingers, then I do not
understand Julia's looks, that's all! Very clever, I dare say;
but he has overshot the mark this time.”

“And such indeed,” continued Mr. Fay, “is the true meaning
of the word, which is constantly misapplied; to be fond, is to be
foolish.”

Mrs. Maynard smiled, Uncle George laughed outright, and
Arthur jumped for the dictionary, nearly oversetting the table
in his hurry.

“Hadn't we better wait until dinner is through?” suggested
his mother; “we shall have more time after tea.”

“But I may forget, mother.”

“I shall not,” whispered Julia.

“And,” continued the imperturbable Mr. Fay, “if you will
remember to watch the faces of the people who most frequently
crowd the concert-room and the opera, I think you will be ready
to acknowledge that with most, the fondness for music, which
they pretend to, is all fudge; that most of them would never go,
if it were not so fashionable; that few enjoy the wonders of the
art; and that they who most love music, are soonest tired of it.”

“Are you serious, Mr. Fay?” asked Julia, with a look of unqualified
surprise.

“Perfectly serious; and I never hear the cry of `bis! bis!'
or `bravo!' or `encore!' without feeling certain that the sincere
lovers of music would no more call for a repetition of what
pleased them, than they would call for a second supper, as soon
as they had got through with the first. No, no, Miss Julia, the
higher the flavor, the keener the relish, the sooner we tire, and
the more unwilling we are to rub all out, and begin anew.”

“I wish you would answer him, Arthur,” whispered Julia, “I
cannot, I am too much afraid of myself.”

“Or of him? — which is it?”

Julia blushed and smiled; but observing her aunt's eye fixed
upon her, she mustered courage enough to say, “One might well
desire another peach, or another bunch of grapes, or another
nosegay, though he might have no inclination for another supper,
I suppose?”

Mr. Fay looked up, as if somewhat astonished, and Arthur
was all agog.

“You are right, Miss Parry; and I am greatly obliged to you
for the hint; I shall have to mind my ps and qs I see, if I
meddle with music here,” — bowing, — “and all I now have
to say is, that if people who love music desire to sit hour after
hour, listening to variations and repetitions, they are no more to
be blamed perhaps, though we may pity them,” — bowing again,
— “than if they should rise from a feast of grapes, or peaches,
to begin anew, or leave a supper they professed to be delighted
with, only to order another just like it, by way of complimenting
the lady of the house.”

Here was something after Arthur's own heart; and so instead
of sympathizing with Julia, who looked up as if she wanted to
say, “How preposterous!” he began to grow good-natured, in
spite of himself, but still refused to interfere.

After a little outside skirmishing, the Major and Mr. Fay, who
differed widely upon almost every subject started, and especially
upon the cause of the panic which had overswept the whole
commercial world, got into a dead lock; Mr. Fay attributing
it to the changes in our legislation, which the wisest could
neither foresee nor provide for, as in all that concerned the
tariff; while the Major insisted that of itself, and with reference
to the laws that regulate commercial intercourse between
communities and nations, it was absolutely causeless, and no
more to be accounted for, than the cholera, or the potato rot, or
the sudden outbreak of religious interest over land and sea,
such as never had been heard of before; just as if God himself
had taken the business into his own hands, to show his people
their weakness, overthrowing the bulwarks of nations, opening
China and the East Indies, and saying to the churches themselves,
“Stand still! and see the salvation of the Lord!”

Mr. Fay was evidently very much struck with the Major's
earnestness and enthusiasm; and after sipping his wine, with a
bow to Julia, he partly led, and partly suffered, the conversation
to flow into other channels.

“Now for it!” whispered Arthur to Julia, as they got upon
the most dangerous of all subjects for the dinner-table, the comparative

strength of parties. “You'll soon see the feathers fly;
for Uncle George having made up his mind that we are all
going to the — bugs, will never yield a hair's breadth.”

Mrs. Maynard began to look troubled; Julia to finger the
grapes, with her eyes fixed upon Mr. Fay, who was evidently
doing his best, while Arthur waited the coming onset, with the
most comfortable anticipations.

But suddenly the wind changed. Mr. Fay caught her eye,
and after two or three rapid outline sketches of Webster, and
Clay, and Taylor, and others whom he had been intimate with,
he wandered off into the subject of women's rights, and assured
the Major that in the Harrison campaign, though he had seen
thousands of women collected in the open air, and sitting side
by side with rough looking men, to hear the leading orators of
the day, nothing had ever happened to make him wish them elsewhere
— not a word, nor a look, so far as he knew — but their
presence had always been salutary and humanizing. “And as
women are the first teachers of our children, and what our children
are now, that will our country be hereafter,” said he, “I
must acknowledge that, so far, I am always glad to uphold the
rights of woman, and to put her in the way of qualifying herself
as a teacher of youth, — our future President makers.”

Here the gentleman, stretching forth his hand, startled Julia
by crushing a large English walnut without the help of a nutcracker.
Whereupon Arthur fired up, and seeing in Julia's
countenance a slight expression of wonder, he grappled with
two of the largest, and they instantly crumbled at his touch like
the daintiest of meringues, or egg-shells; and then, seeing a smile
flit over Julia's face, he colored to the ears, and turned away in
a pet.

Other changes followed — and still others — and Mr. Fay
appeared to be at home upon every subject that was mentioned,
whether serious or sprightly. Painting, sculpture, literature, languages,
were all passed in review, and a score of notabilities were
sketched with a few masterly, but characteristic touches, and
then dismissed. But for these changes, there was nothing to
be hoped for — as everybody foresaw, though nobody would
acknowledge it — but a long, tiresome, after-dinner gossip, with

tedious intervals of silence, and a still more wearisome evening.
The wind was rising, and there were signs of a southeasterly
storm brewing, so that Mr. Fay consented to put up with them for
the night — if they would put up with him — and the Major,
profiting by the occasion, threw himself headlong into the
weather, and talked earnestly upon its influence on our judgments
and hopes, and even upon our belief.

Mr. Fay concurred in all this, and finished by recommending
that people should diet for unbelief, inasmuch as our worst hallucinations,
and worst heresies, often proceed from indigestion,
being of the stomach, instead of the brain.

Mrs. Maynard looked up with surprise; Julia started, and
Arthur began rubbing his hands to himself under the table.

“Our opinions, my dear Sir,” continued the imperturbable
Mr. Fay, without changing or faltering, though he saw the need
of great circumspection, “do very much depend upon the atmosphere.
Once I believed no such nonsense. All weather was
alike to me; but within the last five years, I find myself not
much better than a live weathercock; and that too upon very
serious questions.” His voice deepened here, and there was a
slight trembling at last, as if he was afraid to say more.

“Just so has it been with me for the last six months!” exclaimed
the Major. “I find now, for the first time in my life,
that gloomy skies overshadow my very heart. I grow dismal,
peevish, even suspicious, and almost hopeless; and my joints
tremble; and I make everybody about me unhappy; God forgive
me! — though, as you say, it may be all owing to the
weather.”

“Or the stomach!” said Mr. Fay.

“Very true. But allow me to add, for the encouragement of
these dear children, and of my poor sister, who begins to look
troubled, as you see, that I believe I am outgrowing the deplorable
weakness, the unmanly self-distrust, the pitiable hallucination,
that possessed me two or three months ago; and that as I
grow stronger, I grow happier, and much more reasonable, and
am, in truth, not half so much to be pitied, as when you first
saw me.”

“Yes, and let me tell you that you have not a thousandth part

as much reason, whatever may be your health, for now,” — lowering
his voice, and leaning over the table toward the Major, —
“now you are safe.”

“You think so!” said the Major, drawing a long breath.

“Most assuredly!”

Here Mrs. Maynard, who had been listening to their conversation,
through all the multiplied changes, while apparently occupied
with Julia and Arthur, put her hand upon Julia's with an
expression of devout thankfulness, and her lip quivered, and her
eyes filled. To be safe in the judgment of such a man, was to
have the load lifted anew, just when it had begun to settle down
upon them, with an ever-growing weight of darkness and horror,
all the more to be dreaded for not being acknowledged.

Mr. Fay began to feel that he was understood. His fine countenance
lighted up, and his eloquent mouth was all alive with a
sort of inward joy. “Shall I hand you an orange, Miss Julia?”
said he, “or a bunch of grapes? I did not ask you to `wine' with
me, as I saw that you only touched the glass to your lips; and
while I go for `temperance in all things,' I am not afraid nor
ashamed to take a glass of such wine as we have here,” — bowing
very low, — “and am quite as much opposed to the fashion,
as to the fanaticism of the day.”

Here the Major, who saw the direction of his eye, as he
bowed, thought proper to justify himself. “These wines, Mr.
Fay,” said he, “are the gift of a dear friend — one of the best
judges I ever knew — or they would not be found on our table
under present circumstances, I assure you.”

Mr. Fay breathed more freely. It was clear to Arthur, if not
to Julia, that their guest had a purpose to accomplish, and that
whatever it was, he had gained his point; for his countenance
brightened up, and he spoke more cheerfully.

“Did you ever see a man, my dear Sir, willing to confess that
he was no judge of wine? or that he did not love music?”

The Major smiled; Julia looked pleased, and Arthur somewhat
puzzled, while Mr. Fay, pursuing his advantage, left the
table, and coming round to Julia, and drawing his chair very
close to her — closer than Arthur seemed to relish — leaned
forward with one elbow on the table, and entered into a low,

earnest, whispering conversation with her. Arthur could not
bring himself to listen, and yet, unless he moved away, at the
risk of being thought rude, he could not help hearing enough
to show the general drift of their conference. After a while
Mr. Fay spoke in a somewhat louder tone. “Cheerfulness I
look upon as a duty,” said he; “as one aspect of true religion.
Bright faces are a sort of household sunshine; and in my judgment,”
— glancing at the Major, and speaking just loud enough
to be heard by Mrs. Maynard, — “no man living has a right to
be unhappy at home; any more than he has a right to be wrong
anywhere, at home or abroad.”

“We are bound to seem happy, therefore, whether we are so
or not, Mr. Fay?” said Arthur.

“And have no right to make others unhappy — if it can be
helped,” murmured Julia, just loud enough to reach her cousin,
who sat bolt upright in his chair, leaning as far away from the
whisperers as he could, without appearing to be out of temper,
or like one refusing to be comforted.

“And it always can be helped, my dear,” said Aunt Elizabeth,
smiling affectionately upon her brother, who nodded a reply, and
then drew his chair up to her side, so that the dinner-table was
forgotten, and, without intending it, all were engaged in the same
subjects, — and all so pleasantly, that nobody knew how the continual
changes were brought about.

Arthur was unhappy, and felt ashamed of himself, without
knowing why. More and more troubled with the growing intimacy
and nearness, like that of household relationship, which
seemed to be growing up, as they sat together, he began to wish
himself out of the way; and at last, withdrew from the side of
Julia, under pretence of looking out of the window and watching
the changes of the sky. The wind was up, the clouds were
drifting hither and thither in huge ragged masses, the windows
rattled, there was evidently a storm brewing; it grew darker
and darker, and just when he was on the point of calling attention
to the strange appearance of the sky, the lightning blazed,
and a tremendous crash of thunder followed.

For a moment he was blinded and stunned; he heard a cry,
and thought the house had been struck; but when he had recovered

himself, and was turning to the help of his mother, who sat
with her hands uplifted and clasped, while her brother stood over
her, he saw Julia disengaging herself hurriedly, and with a look
of amazement and consternation, from the encircling arm of Mr.
Fay.

What was he to believe? what was he to think? There was
no time for explanation, or inquiry; and so he flung out of the
room, stole away to his chamber, and kneeling — yes, kneeling!
— by the old arm-chair of his mother, which had been his chief
comforter and earliest companion over sea, whenever he was in
trouble — covered his face with his hands, poor fellow! and but
for shame, would have wept aloud. One great and exceedingly
bitter cry had escaped him, but for the sound of an approaching
footstep. It was that of his mother. She had seen everything,
and much that had escaped the notice of her son. That she
was not a little astonished, and perhaps grieved, or at any rate
disappointed, was clear; but she was not troubled, and though
taken by surprise, felt inclined to make large allowances for
Julia.

Entering the room softly, she took the head of her kneeling
boy into her lap, and pressing her lips to his forehead, now damp
with a cold perspiration, she waited in silence for him to speak
first. But he was in no humor to speak first, or even to speak
at all, — the lightning that had blazed through the room below,
had illuminated the innermost chamber of his heart and overthrown
its idol — an idol, though unacknowledged — an idol he
had ignorantly worshipped, until it lay shattered and broken at
his feet.

Unwilling to acknowledge the truth — even to himself — and
ashamed to tell his mother of the self-deception he had been
practising so long, or to let her see how terribly he suffered, he
continued kneeling at her side, in a silence like that of the death-chamber;
but the heaving of his shoulders and chest, and his
labored breathing, told the story, the piteous, mournful story, in a
language not to be misunderstood by a mother.

At last he rose up, and taking her hands into his, with a sickly,
impatient smile he said to her, — “Mother, dear mother! not a
word of all this to Uncle George — not a word to Julia — not a

word to me from this time forward, I beseech you, dear mother,
upon this painful subject, whatever you may think, or hope, or
fear.”

“But, my dear boy!”

“Not a word, mother; I cannot bear it; it would kill me! I
am too much of a girl, mother; I am too sensitive. I was never
intended for a man. God forgive me!”

“What ails you, Arthur? What is the matter with you?
Why do you cling to me so? Your eyes trouble me!”

“Oh, mother, mother, pray for me! Do not leave me to myself,
or I shall go mad! You, and that old arm-chair, mother,
are now the only friends I have left. When you are out of the
way, I go to that for consolation; and when I kneel down there,
and bury my face in my hands, I almost persuade myself that I
am a little child again, — that my dead father is alive, with his
hand upon my head, — that I am saying my prayers to you, and
that I can hear you whispering the consolation I so much need.
Promise me, dear mother! promise me faithfully, never to mention
what you have seen, or thought, or hoped, either to Julia, or
to me, while you breathe; for I tell you plainly, it will either
drive me mad, or break my heart. Oh, fool, fool that I was, not
to see whither all these things tended! Not for the world,
mother — not for the whole world, would I have her know what
I have suffered, — let me perish! — I can bear that, — I can
bear anything, if I be not mocked, nor triumphed over, nor wilfully
thwarted.”

“I do not understand you, Arthur; — who is there to mock
you? who is there to triumph over you?”

“Forbear, I beseech you! I have already gone too far.
Good-night, mother!”

“Good-night, my son! — why, it is early in the evening, and
you will be expected below!”

“Ah, indeed! Well then, all I have to say, dear mother, is,
let them expect me, and perhaps I may appear to them with
the next crash of thunder — as they did to me in the last.
Good-night, mother!”

Well, my son, if you are not to be persuaded — good-night!
Only don't go to bed, I pray you; the storm is still raging, and

you cannot sleep; and then, too, you may be wanted; and who
knows but upon further consideration, you may think it best to
drop in upon us, for a few minutes, before we retire.”

“Perhaps I may. Good-night!”

“Good-night.”