17. CHAPTER XVII.
Beshrew me, but I love her heartily,
For she is wise, if I can judge of her;
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;
And true she is, as she hath proved herself;
And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true,
Shall she be placed in my constant soul.
— Merchant of Venice.
A week after he had heard the tidings from the old housekeeper,
Morton saw Dr. Steele coming out of a patient's door
and getting into his chaise.
“Good morning, Dr. Steele.”
“Sir, your servant,” said the old-fashioned doctor.
“I'm sorry to hear that Mrs. Leslie is so ill.”
“It's very sad,” said the doctor. “Now, what the deuse
is this young fellow stopping me for?” — this was his internal
comment.
“I hope you don't despair of her.”
“Well, sir, she will hold out to-morrow, and the next
day, too.”
“I beg your pardon. Your check rein is loose. Let me
make it right.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morton,” said the doctor, somewhat mollified.
“Ahem! — Colonel Leslie is well, I hope.”
“Apparently so, sir.”
“And — ahem! — his family, too.”
“I wasn't aware he had a family.”
“I mean — that is to say — his daughter — Miss Leslie.”
The shrewd doctor turned his gray eyes sideways on the
querist.
“Ah, his daughter. What did you wish to know of
her, sir?”
“Merely to inquire —” said Morton, stammering and
blushing visibly. “I mean only to ask if she is well.”
“I know nothing to the contrary. She seemed very well
when I brought her down from Matherton last evening. I
dare say, though, she can tell you herself a great deal better
than I can. Good morning, Mr. Morton.”
And with a slight twinkle in his eye, Dr. Steele drove off.
Morton looked after the chaise, as it lumbered down the
street.
“May I be hanged and quartered if I ever question you
again; you are too sharp, by half.”
The doctor's information was very welcome, however; and,
armed with an anxious inquiry after her mother's health,
Morton proceeded to call upon Miss Leslie. She had come
to the city, as he had already judged, on some mission connected
with the wants of the invalid, and was to go back to
Matherton, with Dr. Steele, in the afternoon.
Thenceforward, for a week or upwards, he saw her no more;
but, during the interval, he contrived, by various expedients,
to keep himself advised of the condition and movements of
the family at Matherton. Among other incidents, he became
aware of two visits made them by Vinal, and was tormented,
in consequence, with an unutterable jealousy. One morning
he met the purblind old housekeeper, mousing along in spectacles
through the crowded street, and, stopping her, to her
great alarm and perplexity, he made his usual inquiry concerning
Mrs. Leslie's health. This investigation led to the
discovery that Miss Edith was coming from Matherton that
very afternoon.
Morton, upon this, grew so restless, that he could not
refrain from going to the railroad station, a little before the
train was to come in. And here his worst fear was realized;
for he beheld, slowly pacing along the platform, the hated
form of Horace Vinal. Morton retreated unseen, went into
a neighboring hotel, and seated himself, a little withdrawn
from a window, where he could see all that passed. The
train arrived; and soon after Vinal appeared, conducting
Miss Leslie to a carriage, with an air, as Morton thought, of
the most anxious devotion. He grasped his walking stick,
and burned with a feverish longing to break it across his
rival's back.
He saw Miss Leslie on the next day, and thus added fuel
to a flame which already burned high enough. In short, he
found himself in that most profoundly serious and profoundly
ridiculous of all conditions, the condition of being over head
and ears in love, — and his zeal for science was merged utterly
in a more engrossing devotion. By one means or another, he
contrived to keep pace with the course of things at Matherton,
and learned from day to day that Mrs. Leslie was worse,
— that she seemed to revive a little, — that she was on the
point of death, — that she was dead. By the time this sad
climax was reached, he had been starving a fortnight from the
sight of his mistress, having the consolation to know that
meantime his rival had made at least four visits to Matherton.
One morning Morton was pacing the street in an abstracted
mood, his looks bent on the bricks, when, chancing to look
up, he saw those very eyes which his fancy had been that
moment picturing, employed in guiding their owner's steps
over a crossing towards him. As Edith Leslie stepped upon
the sidewalk, she saw him for the first time. He bowed,
joined her, spoke a few bungling words of condolence, and
walked on at her side. After the fashion of those who are
peculiarly anxious to appear at their best advantage, he
appeared at his worst. And when his companion bade him
good morning on the steps of her father's house, she left him
in a most unenviable mood, muttering maledictions against
himself and his fate, and brought, indeed, to the borders of
despair. This depression, however, was not long in producing
its reaction, under the influence of which, adopting his
usual panacea against mental ailments, he mounted his horse,
and spurred into the country.
Here, about sunset, he beheld a horseman, slowly pacing
along the road in front. On this, he drew rein, and began to
look about him for the means of escape; for in the person of
the rider he recognized his classmate Wren, to whose society
he was far from partial. Neither lane nor by-road was to
be seen.
“At the worst,” he thought, “it is but a mile or two;”
and, setting forward at a trot again, he was in a moment at
his classmate's side.
“How are you, Wren?”
“Ah, Morton, good evening,” exclaimed Wren, with a
graceful wave of his hand. “I'm delighted to see you. A
charming evening — isn't it?”
“Charming.”
“That's a fine horse you have.”
“Tolerably good.”
“Did you ever observe this fellow that I'm riding? Do
you see how long and straight he is in the back? Well,
that's the Arab blood that's in him. His grandfather was a
superb Arab, that the Pacha of Egypt gave my uncle when
he was travelling there;” and he proceeded to dilate at large
on the merits and pedigree of his horse, the truth being that
he and his ancestry before him had been born and bred in
the State of Vermont. Morton listened with civil incredulity,
and wished his companion at the antipodes.
“Ah, there's my cousin's house,” exclaimed Wren, pointing
to a very pretty cottage and grounds which they were
approaching — “Mary Holyoke, you know — Mary Everard
that was some three months ago. What a delightful retreat
for the honeymoon!”
“Very,” said Morton.
“Stop there with me, will you? I'm going in for a few
minutes, to wish them a pleasant journey. They are going
to Niagara to-morrow.”
“Thank you, I believe I won't stop.”
“As you please, my dear fellow. I think they are quite
right to travel now; it's a better season than the spring; and
a honeymoon journey, after all, isn't all romance, you know.
Besides, they are going to have a charming companion —
Miss Leslie.”
“I thought that she had just lost her mother-in-law.”
“That's the very thing. She's almost ill with watching
night after night; so Mary, — they used to be friends at
school, — has been very anxious that she should make the
journey with them, for a change of scene, you know, — and
Colonel Leslie has persuaded her to go.”
“When will they leave town?”
“To-morrow. They mean to spend a few days at Trenton,
and then go to the Falls. But here we are; won't you
change your mind, and come in?”
“No, thank you. Good night.”
“Good evening, then;” and waving his hand again, Wren
trotted up the avenue.
“Virtue never goes unrewarded,” thought Morton; “if I
hadn't joined the fellow, I might not have known about this
journey.”
On the next day he discovered that they had actually gone,
and that, as Wren had said, Niagara was to be the ultimatum
of their tour. On the following morning, he himself took
the western train, and made all speed for the Falls.
