“A tale that is told is the best tale of all,”
I said. “Shall we book you for next time?”
“No, no! not next time; positively not.
My story must come of itself, else I cannot tell it
at all.”
“Well, there’s nobody left but you, Mr.
Bloomfield. So you can’t get rid of it.”
“I don’t think I ever wrote what was worth
calling a story; but I don’t mind reading you
something of the sort which I have at home, on one
condition.”
“What is that?”
“That nobody ask any questions about it.”
“Oh! certainly.”
“But my only reason is, that somehow I feel
it would all come to pieces if you did. It is
nothing, as a story; but there are feelings expressed
in it, which were very strong in me when I wrote it,
and which I do not feel willing to talk about, although
I have no objection to having them thought about.”
“Well, that is settled. When shall we meet
again?”
“To-morrow, or the day after,” said the
colonel; “which you please.”
“Oh! the day after, if I may have a word in
it,” said the doctor. “I shall be
very busy to-morrow—and we mustn’t
crowd remedies either, you know.”
The close of the sentence was addressed to me only.
The rest of the company had taken leave, and were
already at the door, when he made the last remark.
He now came up to his patient, felt her pulse, and
put the question,
“How have you slept the last two nights?”
“Better, thank you.”
“And do you feel refreshed when you wake?”
“More so than for some time.”
“I won’t give you anything to-night.—Good
night.”
“Good night. Thank you.”
This was all that passed between them. Jealousy,
with the six eyes of Colonel, Mrs., and Percy Cathcart,
was intent upon the pair during the brief conversation.
And I thought Adela perceived the fact.
The schoolmaster’s story.
I was walking up the street the next day, when, finding
I was passing the Grammar-school, and knowing there
was nothing going on there now, I thought I should
not be intruding if I dropped in upon the schoolmaster
and his wife, and had a little chat with them.
I already counted them friends; for I felt that however
different our training and lives might have been,
we all meant the same thing now, and that is the true
bond of fellowship. I found Mr. Bloomfield reading
to his wife—a novel, too. Evidently
he intended to make the most of this individual holiday,
by making it as unlike a work-day as possible.
“I see you are enjoying yourselves,” I
said. “It’s a shame to break in upon
you.”
“We are delighted to see you. Your interruption
will only postpone a good thing to a better,”
said the kind-hearted schoolmaster, laying down his
book. “Will you take a pipe?”
“With pleasure—but not here, surely?”
