“That’s well!” said Barbox Brothers.
“Again I must not forget (having got so far)
to ask a favour. Will you shut your eyes?”
Laughing playfully at the strange nature of the request,
she did so.
“Keep them shut,” said Barbox Brothers,
going softly to the door, and coming back. “You
are on your honour, mind, not to open you eyes until
I tell you that you may?”
“Yes! On my honour.”
“Good. May I take your lace-pillow from
you for a minute?”
Still laughing and wondering, she removed her hands
from it, and he put it aside.
“Tell me. Did you see the puffs of smoke
and steam made by the morning fast-train yesterday
on road number seven from here?”
“Behind the elm-trees and the spire?”
“That’s the road,” said Barbox Brothers,
directing his eyes towards it.
“Yes. I watched them melt away.”
“Anything unusual in what they expressed?”
“No!” she answered merrily.
“Not complimentary to me, for I was in that
train. I went—don’t open your
eyes—to fetch you this, from the great ingenious
town. It is not half so large as your lace-pillow,
and lies easily and lightly in its place. These
little keys are like the keys of a miniature piano,
and you supply the air required with your left hand.
May you pick out delightful music from it, my dear!
For the present—you can open your eyes
now—good-bye!”
In his embarrassed way, he closed the door upon himself,
and only saw, in doing so, that she ecstatically took
the present to her bosom and caressed it. The
glimpse gladdened his heart, and yet saddened it; for
so might she, if her youth had flourished in its natural
course, having taken to her breast that day the slumbering
music of her own child’s voice.
With good-will and earnest purpose, the gentleman
for Nowhere began, on the very next day, his researches
at the heads of the seven roads. The results
of his researches, as he and Phoebe afterwards set
them down in fair writing, hold their due places in
this veracious chronicle. But they occupied
a much longer time in the getting together than they
ever will in the perusal. And this is probably
the case with most reading matter, except when it
is of that highly beneficial kind (for Posterity)
which is “thrown off in a few moments of leisure”
by the superior poetic geniuses who scorn to take
prose pains.
It must be admitted, however, that Barbox by no means
hurried himself. His heart being in his work
of good-nature, he revelled in it. There was
the joy, too (it was a true joy to him), of sometimes
sitting by, listening to Phoebe as she picked out
more and more discourse from her musical instrument,
and as her natural taste and ear refined daily upon
her first discoveries. Besides being a pleasure,
this was an occupation, and in the course of weeks
it consumed hours. It resulted that his dreaded
birthday was close upon him before he had troubled
himself any more about it.
