Majorie Daw | Page 7

There is in it a
subtile sentiment that cannot exist in the case of mother and daughter,
or that of son and mother. But this is getting into deep water.
I sat with the Daws until half past ten, and saw the moon rise on the sea.
The ocean, that had stretched motionless and black against the horizon,
was changed by magic into a broken field of glittering ice, interspersed
with marvellous silvery fjords. In the far distance the Isle of Shoals
loomed up like a group of huge bergs drifting down on us. The Polar
Regions in a June thaw! It was exceedingly fine. What did we talk

about? We talked about the weather--and you! The weather has been
disagreeable for several days past--and so have you. I glided from one
topic to the other very naturally. I told my friends of your accident;
how it had frustrated all our summer plans, and what our plans were. I
played quite a spirited solo on the fibula. Then I described you; or,
rather, I didn't. I spoke of your amiability, of your patience under this
severe affliction; of your touching gratitude when Dillon brings you
little presents of fruit; of your tenderness to your sister Fanny, whom
you would not allow to stay in town to nurse you, and how you
heroically sent her back to Newport, preferring to remain alone with
Mary, the cook, and your man Watkins, to whom, by the way, you were
devotedly attached. If you had been there, Jack, you wouldn't have
known yourself. I should have excelled as a criminal lawyer, if I had
not turned my attention to a different branch of jurisprudence.
Miss Marjorie asked all manner of leading questions concerning you. It
did not occur to me then, but it struck me forcibly afterwards, that she
evinced a singular interest in the conversation. When I got back to my
room, I recalled how eagerly she leaned forward, with her full, snowy
throat in strong moonlight, listening to what I said. Positively, I think I
made her like you!
Miss Daw is a girl whom you would like immensely, I can tell you that.
A beauty without affectation, a high and tender nature--if one can read
the soul in the face. And the old colonel is a noble character, too.
I am glad that the Daws are such pleasant people. The Pines is an
isolated spot, and my resources are few. I fear I should have found life
here somewhat monotonous before long, with no other society than that
of my excellent sire. It is true, I might have made a target of the
defenceless invalid; but I haven't a taste for artillery, moi.
VI.
JOHN FLEMMING TO EDWARD DELANEY.
August 17, 1872.
For a man who hasn't a taste for artillery, it occurs to me, my friend,
you are keeping up a pretty lively fire on my inner works. But go on.
Cynicism is a small brass field-piece that eventually bursts and kills the
artilleryman.
You may abuse me as much as you like, and I'll not complain; for I
don't know what I should do without your letters. They are curing me. I

haven't hurled anything at Watkins since last Sunday, partly because I
have grown more amiable under your teaching, and partly because
Watkins captured my ammunition one night, and carried it off to the
library. He is rapidly losing the habit he had acquired of dodging
whenever I rub my ear, or make any slight motion with my right arm.
He is still suggestive of the wine-cellar, however. You may break, you
may shatter Watkins, if you will, but the scent of the Roederer will
hang round him still.
Ned, that Miss Daw must be a charming person. I should certainly like
her. I like her already. When you spoke in your first letter of seeing a
young girl swinging in a hammock under your chamber window, I was
somehow strangely drawn to her. I cannot account for it in the least.
What you have subsequently written of Miss Daw has strengthened the
impression. You seem to be describing a woman I have known in some
previous state of existence, or dreamed of in this. Upon my word, if
you were to send me her photograph, I believe I should recognize her at
a glance. Her manner, that listening attitude, her traits of character, as
you indicate them, the light hair and the dark eyes--they are all familiar
things to me. Asked a lot of questions, did she? Curious about me?
That is strange.
You would laugh in your sleeve, you wretched old cynic, if you knew
how I lie awake nights, with my gas turned down to a star, thinking of
The Pines and the house across the road.