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Mastering C++ Programming
Language
Mastering Computer Science
Series Editor: Sufyan bin Uzayr

Mastering C++ Programming Language: A Beginner's Guide

Divya Sachdeva and Natalya Ustukpayeva
Mastering Git: A Beginner's Guide
Sumanna Kaul, Shahryar Raz, and Divya Sachdeva
Mastering Ruby on Rails: A Beginner's Guide
Mathew Rooney and Madina Karybzhanova
Mastering Sketch: A Beginner's Guide
Mathew Rooney and Md Javed Khan
Mastering C#: A Beginner's Guide
Mohamed Musthafa MC, Divya Sachdeva, and Reza Nafim
Mastering GitHub Pages: A Beginner's Guide
Sumanna Kaul and Shahryar Raz
For more information about this series, please visit: https:/​/​
www.routledge.com/​Mastering-Computer-Science/​book-series/​MCS

The “Mastering Computer Science” series of books are authored by the

Zeba Academy team members, led by Sufyan bin Uzayr.
Zeba Academy is an EdTech venture that develops courses and content
for learners primarily in STEM fields, and offers education consulting to
Universities and Institutions worldwide. For more info, please visit https:/​/​
zeba.academy
Mastering C++ Programming
Language
A Beginner's Guide

Edited by Sufyan bin Uzayr

First edition published 2022
by CRC Press
6000 Broken Sound Parkway NW, Suite 300, Boca Raton, FL 33487-2742
and by CRC Press
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN
CRC Press is an imprint of Taylor & Francis Group, LLC
© 2022 Sufyan bin Uzayr
Reasonable efforts have been made to publish reliable data and information, but the author
and publisher cannot assume responsibility for the validity of all materials or the
consequences of their use. The authors and publishers have attempted to trace the copyright
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Trademark Notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks
and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
ISBN: 978-1-032-10321-1 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-032-10320-4 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-1-003-21476-2 (ebk)
DOI: 10.1201/9781003214762

Typeset in Minion
by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.
Contents

About the Editor

CHAPTER 1 ◾ Introduction to C++

WHAT IS C++?
WHICH IS MORE DIFFICULT TO LEARN: C OR
C++?
C++ Compilers Are Accessible Which You Can Use
to Incorporate and Run
USES OF C++ PROGRAMMING
FEATURES OF C++
OBJECT-ORIENTED PROGRAMMING
LANGUAGE
ELEMENTS OF C++
Stage Dependent
Mid-Level Programming Language
Organized Programming Language
Rich Library
Memory Management
Incredible and Fast
 Pointers
Compiler-Based Language
Syntax-Based Language
ALL YOU REQUIRE TO KNOW ABOUT OBJECT-
ORIENTED PROGRAMMING IN C++
What Is Object-Oriented Programming?
Object-Oriented Programming
Objects
Classes
Encapsulation
Abstraction
Polymorphism
Inheritance
C++ INSTALLATION
Create and Execute a C++ Console Application
Project
Prerequisites

CHAPTER 2 ◾ Getting Started With C++

COMPILE AND EXECUTE C++ PROGRAM
SEMICOLONS AND BLOCKS
Identifiers
Keywords
COMMENTS
DATA TYPES
Primitive Built-In Types
VARIABLE TYPES
VARIABLE DECLARATION
Lvalues and Rvalues Are Two Distinct Sorts of
Qualities
Local Variables
Global Level Variables
Initializing Local and Global Variables
CONSTANTS
Boolean Literals
Literals of Characters
Literals in a String
MODIFIER
Qualifiers Types
STORAGE CLASSES
OPERATORS
Arithmetic Operators
Relational Operators
Logical Operators
Bitwise Operators
Assignment Operators
Misc Operators
OPERATORS PRECEDENCE
LOOP IN C++
 Control Statements for Loops
Infinite Loop
DECISION-MAKING STATEMENTS
CONDITIONAL OPERATOR?
FUNCTIONS IN C++
Declarations of Functions
Making a Function Call
Arguments for Functions
Parameters Default Values
NUMBERS IN C++
Numbers Defining
Math Operations
ARRAYS
STRINGS
Character String
String Class
POINTERS
DATE AND TIME
BASIC INPUT/OUTPUT
DATA STRUCTURES
Data Structures of Various Types
Data Structures Operations
OBJECT ORIENTED
 Classes and Objects in C++
Class Definitions in C++
C++ Objects
Members Having Access to Data
Detail on Classes and Objects
Inheritance
Base and Derived Classes
Inheritance and Access Control
Types
Multiple Inheritance
OVERLOADING
Overloading Function
Overloading Operators
Polymorphism
Data Abstraction
Data Abstraction's Advantages
Encapsulation
Interfaces
HOW TO WORK WITH FILE TAKING CARE OF IN
C++?
Document Handling in C++
File Handling in C++
THE MOST EFFECTIVE METHOD TO
IMPLEMENT DATA ABSTRACTION IN C++
Abstraction in C++
Kinds of Abstraction
Benefits of Abstraction
HOW TO IMPLEMENT COPY CONSTRUCTOR
IN C++?
DATA HIDING
Encapsulation
Abstraction
Data Hiding
IN C++, HOW DO YOU IMPLEMENT
CONSTRUCTORS AND DESTRUCTORS?
Constructors and Destructors in C++
Constructor
Default Constructor
Parameterized Constructor
Copy Constructor
Destructor
Virtual Destructor
BASIC INPUT/OUTPUT IN C++
Header Files for the I/O Library
(cout) The Standard Output Stream
(cin) The Standard Input Stream
 (cerr) The Standard Error Stream
(clog) The Standard Log Stream
C++ DATA STRUCTURES
Structure Defining
Using the Member to Access Structure Members
Structures as Function Arguments

CHAPTER 3 ◾ Working With Numbers and Spaces

CHANGING NUMERIC TYPES TO STRING
TYPES
Changing a String to a Number
Changing a Number to a String
The First Method Is to Use String Streams
The Second Method Is Used to String Function ()
The Third Method Is Used to Boost Lexical Cast
Variable Types and Limitations Are Standard
C++ NUMERIC DATA TYPES
Types of Primitive Data
Derived Data Types
User-Defined Data Types
C++ Provides the Following Primitive Data Types
User-Defined Literals' Objectives
Integers
Decimal
 Floating Points
LITERALS SPECIFIED BY THE USER
COOKED
Literals Specified by the User
Cooked Literals
LITERALS OF RAW
STANDARD USER-DEFINED LITERALS
STRING HELPER
TEXT HELPER
Loading This Helper
Available Functions
TYPOGRAPHY ASSIST
Available Functions
URL HELPER
Loading This Helper
Available Functions
XML HELPER
Loading This Assistant
STD::STRING
String Operations Include
Functions for Input
Functions of Capacity
Iterator Methods
 Functions Manipulation
LIBRARY FORMATTING
STRING SYNTAX FOR DESIGN FORMAT
Some of the Benefits Include
EXTENSIBILITY
SAFETY
LOCALE SUPPORT
POSITIONAL ARGUMENTS
PERFORMANCE
BINARY FOOTPRINT
NULL-TERMINATED STRING VIEW
FORMAT STRING SYNTAX
FORMAT SPECIFICATION MINI-LANGUAGE
FORMATTING FUNCTIONS
FORMATTING ARGUMENT
FORMATTING ARGUMENT VISITATION
CLASS TEMPLATE ARG_STORE
CLASS TEMPLATE BASIC_ARGS
FUNCTION TEMPLATE MAKE_ARGS
FORMATTING CONTEXT
FORMATTING BUFFER
FORMAT STRING
USER-DEFINED TYPES
 ERROR REPORTING

CHAPTER 4 ◾ Exploring C++ Functions

WHAT IS THE DEFINITION OF A DEFAULTED
FUNCTION?
WHAT ARE THE LIMITATIONS OF MAKING
FUNCTIONS DEFAULT?
DELETED FUNCTION
WHAT ARE THE BENEFITS OF REMOVING
FUNCTIONS EXPLICITLY?
WHAT IS LAMBDAS?
Expressions Using a Lambda
Functor or Function Object
Lambdas vs. Functors
THE FUNCTION OF A CALLBACK
PASSING LAMBDAS AS ARGUMENTS
The STL Method, Using a Template
Use the std::function
STANDARD TEMPLATE LIBRARY ALGORITHM
ALGORITHMS FOR MANIPULATION
VARIADIC FUNCTION
EXPRESSIONS
Expressions of Many Kinds
The Following Are the Different Types of C++ Expressions
 Primary Expressions
The Following Are Some Examples of Primary Expressions
Variadic Templates and Ellipsis
Postfix Expressions
Arguments Both Formal and Informal
Unary Operators in Expressions
Binary Operators in Expressions
Expressions That Never Change
FOLD EXPRESSIONS
There Are Two Options
Unary Folds
Binary Folds
Folding Over a Comma
FRIEND KEYWORD
Function
Method
Friend Class
OVERLOADING A FUNCTION
OVERLOADING OF FUNCTION TEMPLATES
What Is Legitimate Overloading of a Function
Template?
FUTURES AND PROMISES
Classes for Asynchronous Operations
 C++ HIGHER ORDER FUNCTIONS
Higher-Order Functions Provide the Following
Advantages
The Function Initialization Is the First Line
IMPLEMENTATION MAP
CHAPTER 5 ◾ Memory Management in C++
MEMORY MANAGEMENT
What Is the Purpose of Memory Management?
Operators for Memory Management
THE NEW OPERATOR'S BENEFITS
NEW OPERATOR IN C++
DELETE OPERATOR
IS IT PERMISSIBLE FOR A MEMBER
FUNCTION TO TELL YOU TO REMOVE
SOMETHING?
Allocating Memory in a Dynamic Way
Arrays' New and Delete Operators
Objects' New and Delete Operators
IN C++, MALLOC() VS NEW
So, What's New?
What Exactly Is Malloc()?
Differences Between Malloc() and New()?
PROCESS MEMORY
 Operating System Memory Management
What Is Main Memory?
What Is Memory Management?
Why Is Memory Management Necessary?
Space for Logical and Physical Addresses
Loading Methods: Static and Dynamic
Linking, Both Static and Dynamic
SWAPPING
CONTIGUOUS MEMORY ALLOCATION
Memory Allocation
Multiple Partition Allocation
Fixed Partition Allocation
First Fit
Best Fit
Worst Fit
FRAGMENTATION
Internal Fragmentation
External Fragmentation
PAGING
WHAT ARE OBJECTS IN MEMORY?
OBJECT IN C++
CUSTOM MEMORY MANAGEMENT
CUSTOM MEMORY ALLOCATION
 SMART POINTERS AND MEMORY
MANAGEMENT

CHAPTER 6 ◾ Preprocessing and Compilation

THREE STEPS PROCESS
COMPILATION OF A BASIC C++ PROGRAM
PREPROCESSOR DIRECTIVES IN C++
Preprocessor Directives
WHAT IS ENABLE_IF?
When Should We Utilize It?
enable_if_all/enable_if_any
is_detected
WITH A VAST VARIETY OF CHOICES FOR
OVERLOAD RESOLUTION
enable_if Class
TO BUILD A MEMBER FUNCTION
CONDITIONALLY, USE STD::ENABLE_IF
USING ENABLE_IF TO COMPILE CLASSES
AND FUNCTIONS ON A CONDITIONAL BASIS
Making Preparations
How Does It Work?
How Does It Work?
ATTRIBUTES IN C++
The Purpose of Attributes in C++
 SINCE C++11, THE FOLLOWING HAS
CHANGED
DIFFERENCES BETWEEN C++ AND C#
CHARACTERISTICS
ATTRIBUTES IN METADATA
PROVIDING METADATA TO THE COMPILER
WITH ATTRIBUTES
How To Do It
How Does It Work?

CHAPTER 7 ◾ Coroutines and Lazy Generators

WHAT ARE C++ COROUTINES?
co_await
Restrictions
Execution
HEAP ALLOCATION
Promise
How May a Coroutine Acquire Its Promise Object Within
Counter?
co_await
co_wait expr
The Coroutine Return Object Is As Follows
co_yield
co_return Operator
WHAT ARE GENERATORS?
Generic Generators
Greedy Generator
Lazy Generator
std::generator: Ranges Synchronous Coroutine
Generator
Motivation
Design
Header
Value Type Can Be Specified Separately
Recursive Generator
elements_of
SYMMETRIC TRANSFER
What Is the Best Way to Store the Delivered Value in
a Promise Type?
Support for Allocators
Is It Possible to Postpone Adding Allocator Support for Later?
EXPERIENCE AND IMPLEMENTATION
PERFORMANCE AND BENCHMARKS
COMPILING CODE WITH COROUTINES
HANDLES FOR COROUTINES
COROUTINES AND C++ FOR EFFECTIVE
ASYNC
 MEETING THE NEEDS OF ASYNC
COMPLETION
HOW TO MAKE THEM ASYNC OBJECTS

APPRAISAL

INDEX
About the Editor

Sufyan bin Uzayr is a writer, coder, and entrepreneur with more than a
decade of experience in the industry. He has authored several books in the
past, pertaining to a diverse range of topics, ranging from History to
Computers/IT.
Sufyan is the Director of Parakozm, a multinational IT company
specializing in EdTech solutions. He also runs Zeba Academy, an online
learning and teaching vertical with a focus on STEM fields.
Sufyan specializes in a wide variety of technologies, such as JavaScript,
Dart, WordPress, Drupal, Linux, and Python. He holds multiple degrees,
including ones in Management, IT, Literature, and Political Science.
Sufyan is a digital nomad, dividing his time between four countries. He
has lived and taught in universities and educational institutions around the
globe. Sufyan takes a keen interest in technology, politics, literature,
history, and sports, and in his spare time, he enjoys teaching coding and
English to young students.
Learn more at sufyanism.com.
 CHAPTER 1
Introduction to C++

DOI: 10.1201/9781003214762-1

IN THIS CHAPTER
➢ Getting to know the history of C++
➢ Learning about uses and features
➢ Installation of C++

C++ is a programming language that gives programs a reasonable

construction and works with code reuse, reducing improvement costs. C++
is a convenient programming language that might be utilized to make
applications that sudden spike in demand for various frameworks. C++ is
fun and primary language to learn. C++ was made by Danish PC researcher
Bjarne at Bell Labs in 1979 as an augmentation of the C language; he
looked for a quick and adaptable language tantamount to C that additionally
included significant level abilities for a program the executives. It was first
normalized in 1998. In C++, information types are divided into three
classifications: types of primitive data: These are underlying or preset
information types that might be utilized to pronounce factors straight by the
client. For example, int, scorch, coast, bool, etc. The whole number is a
crude information type open in C++.

WHAT IS C++?
C++ is a high-level programming language developed by Bjarne Stroustrup,
and C++ operates on various platforms, including Windows, Mac OS, and
several UNIX variants. This C++ tutorial employs a straightforward and
practical approach to conveying C++ concepts to novice to advanced
computer programmers.
C++ is a MUST for understudies and working experts to become
extraordinary Software Engineers. I'll go through a few of the most
important advantages of learning C++:

C++ is extremely near the equipment, so you get an opportunity to

work at a low level which gives you a ton of control as far as memory
the board, better execution, lastly, a vigorous programming
advancement.

C++ programming gives you an unmistakable comprehension of

object-oriented programming (OOP). You will comprehend the low-
level execution of polymorphism when you carry out virtual tables and
virtual table pointers or dynamic sort distinguishing proof.

C++ is one of the green programming dialects and is adored by a large

number of programming designers. Assuming you are an incredible
C++ software engineer, you won't ever sit without work, and all the
more significantly, you will get generously compensated for your
work.

C++ is the most broadly utilized programming language in application

and framework programming. So you can pick your space of interest in
programming advancement.

C++ indeed shows you the distinction between compiler, linker, and
loader, various information types, stockpiling classes, variable sorts,
 their extensions, and so on.

C++'s advantages include:

C++ is a highly portable language that is frequently used to create

multi-device, multi-platform apps.

Classes, inheritance, polymorphism, data abstraction, and

encapsulation are all features of C++, an OOP language.

The C++ function library is extensive.

Exception handling and function overloading are both feasible in

C++ but not in C.

C++ is a compelling, efficient, and quick programming language. It

has many applications, ranging from graphical user interfaces to
gaming 3D visuals to real-time mathematical calculations.

WHICH IS MORE DIFFICULT TO LEARN: C OR

C++?
Despite their similarities, C and C++ are two distinct programming
languages that should be treated as such. There are still unique use cases for
both C and C++ today, some 50 years after their birth.
To decide whether you should study C or C++, think about the sort of
program you intend to use your acquired skills in.

C++ Compilers Are Accessible Which You Can Use to Incorporate

and Run

IBM C++

Intel C++

Microsoft Visual C++

 Prophet C++

HP C++

USES OF C++ PROGRAMMING

As referenced previously, C++ is perhaps the most generally utilized
programming dialect. It has its essence in pretty much every space of
programming advancement. I will list a couple of them here:

Application Software Development: C++ programming has been

utilized in growing practically every one of the major Operating
Systems like Windows, Mac OSX, and Linux. Aside from the working
frameworks, the centerpiece of numerous programs like Mozilla
Firefox and Chrome has been composed utilizing C++. C++ likewise
has been used in fostering the most famous data set framework called
MySQL.

Programming Languages Development: C++ has been utilized broadly

in growing new programming dialects like C#, Java, JavaScript, Perl,
UNIX's C Shell, PHP and Python, and Verilog, and so forth.

Calculation Programming: C++ is the closest companion of

researchers due to its quick speed and computational efficiencies.

Games Development: C++ is speedy, permitting software engineers to

do procedural programming for CPU-concentrated capacities and gives
more extraordinary power over equipment. It has been generally
utilized in the improvement of gaming motors.

Inserted System: C++ is vigorously utilized in creating Medical and

Engineering Applications like programming for MRI machines,
excellent quality CAD/CAM frameworks, etc.

This rundown goes on; there are different regions where programming
designers cheerfully utilize C++ to give extraordinary programming. I
firmly prescribe you learn C++ and contribute unique virtual products to the
local area.

FEATURES OF C++
There are different provisions of C++. For example:

Object-oriented

Simple

Platform dependent

Mid-level programming language

Structured programming language

Rich library

Memory management

Powerful and fast

Pointers

Compiler based

Syntax-based language

OBJECT-ORIENTED PROGRAMMING LANGUAGE

The fundamental up-degree from C to C++ is object-arranged
programming. It follows ideas of oh no like polymorphism, legacy, epitome,
reflection. This improves and supports simpler.
We should momentarily comprehend the ideas of item arranged
programming.
 Class: A class is a client characterized plan or model from which items
are made. It addresses the arrangement of properties or techniques that
are normal to all objects of one sort.

Object: It is a fundamental unit of OOP and addresses genuine

substances. A C++ program makes many items which associate with
summoning techniques.

Polymorphism: Polymorphism alludes to the capacity of OOPs

programming dialects to separate between substances with a similar
name proficiently.

Inheritance: Inheritance is the component wherein one class is

permitted to acquire the provisions for another type.

Encapsulation: Encapsulation is characterized as the wrapping up of

information under a solitary unit. It is the component that ties together
code and the information it controls.

Abstraction: Abstraction refers to displaying only the most essential

information while concealing the details. Data abstraction exposes just
the crucial aspects of the data to the outside world while covering the
implementation specifics.

ELEMENTS OF C++
C++ gives an organized methodology wherein you can break the issue into
parts and plan the arrangement separately. It gives you a rich collection of
library works that you can utilize while executing the agreement.
If you have worked with C language, moving to C++ would be an
incredibly smooth progressing. The language structure is practically
comparable with minute changes.

Stage Dependent
Stage subordinate language implies can execute the language wherein
projects distinctly on that working framework are created and ordered. It
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 CHAPTER XLII.

At last, the ladies rose to leave the table.

“As soon, Mrs. Carter, as the gentlemen have had a cigar or so,” said
Mr. Whacker, “we shall have the honor of joining the ladies in the
parlor and of escorting you to the Hall, where we shall have some
music.”
“But when he hears her play!” thought Mary, as she left the room,
arm in arm with her dreaded rival.
“I drink your health,” cried the Herr, dropping down into his chair as
soon as the ladies had left the room. “I drink your very good health,”
said he, filling the Don’s glass. Of course he pronounced the words
after his own fashion.
One would err who supposed that Herr Waldteufel felt any unusual
anxiety as to the physical condition of his neighbor. A decanter of
sherry invariably wrought in his responsive mind a general but quite
impartial interest in the well-being of all his friends. But on this
occasion Mr. Whacker was particularly anxious that some limit should
be put to the expression of that solicitude; and he checked with a
glance the zealous hospitality of Uncle Dick, who was about to
replenish the nearly exhausted decanters.
For this was to be a field day over at the Hall. There was to be a
quintet,—think of that,—and a pint or so more sherry might disable
the ’cello.
My grandfather had been looking forward to this glorious occasion
with nervous joy. It had been several years since he had taken part
in so august a performance; and before the first cigars were half
burned out he had begun to fidget and look at his watch. Charley,
therefore, was not long in proposing a move.
“Now, ladies,” said my grandfather, on reaching the parlor, “I, for
one, cannot understand how it is that there are some people who
don’t love music; but there are such people, and very good people
they are, too. Now, this is Liberty Hall, and every one must do as he
pleases. We are going to make some music; but no one need go
with us who prefers remaining here. If there are any couples, for
instance,”—and Mr. Whacker raised his eyes to the ceiling—“who
have softer things to say than any our instruments can produce”
(Jones and his girl looked unconscious), “let them remain and say
them. Here is the parlor, there is the dining room; arrange
yourselves as you would. And now, Mrs. Poythress, will you take my
arm and lead the way?”
Jones and Jones’s girl were the first to move, and we were soon on
our way across the lawn; while dark cohorts brought up the rear and
covered the flanks of the merry column.
“To me!” said Mary, when the Don had offered her his arm. “I feel
much honored.” And with a formal bow she rested the tips of her
fingers upon his sleeve.
The irony of her tones grated upon his ear, and he turned quickly
and bent upon her a puzzled though steady gaze.
“Honored?”
That look of honest surprise reassured her woman’s heart, but made
her feel that she had forgotten herself in meeting a courtesy with an
incivility.
They always know just what to do.
Passing her arm farther within his, and leaning upon him with a
coquettish pressure, she looked up with a gracious smile.
“Certainly. Have I not the arm of the primo violino,—the lion of the
evening?”
And the primo violino wondered how on earth he had ever imagined
that she was vexed.
Very naturally, I cannot remember, after the lapse of years, what
quintet they played that evening. All that I distinctly recall is that it
was a composition in which the piano was very prominent. My
grandfather was (as I have, perhaps, said before) as proud of Lucy’s
playing as though she had been his own daughter; and I suspect
that he and the Herr made the selection with a view to showing her
off.
Mary thought she had never seen Lucy look so graceful as when,
sounding “A,” she turned upon the piano-stool, and, with her arm
extended backwards and her fingers resting upon the keys, she gave
the note to each of the players in turn; her usually serene face lit
with the enthusiasm of expectancy. It was a truly lovely face,—lovely
at all times, but peculiarly so when suffused with a certain soul-lit St.
Cecilia look it wore at times like this. Alice sparkled, and Mary shone;
but Lucy glowed,—glowed with the half-hidden fire of fervid
affections and high and holy thoughts. Alice was a bounding,
bubbling fountain, Mary a swift-flowing river, Lucy a still lake
glassing the blue heavens in its unknown depths. Wit—imagination—
soul.
It chanced that the piano had to open the piece alone, the other
instruments coming in one after another. Nervously smoothing down
her music with both hands, rather pale and tremulous, Lucy began.
“Why,” thought Mary, gazing with still intensity from out the isolated
corner in which she had seated herself,—“why does he look so
anxious?”
For, coming to a rapid run, Lucy had stumbled badly, and the Don
was pulling nervously at his tawny beard. But soon recovering her
self-possession, she executed a difficult passage with ease and
brilliancy. “Brava! brava!” cried he, encouragingly, while the Herr
nodded and smiled. As for my grandfather, a momentary side-flash
of delight was all he could spare the lovely young pianist; for with
eyes intently fixed upon his score, and head bobbing up and down,
he was in mortal dread of coming in at the wrong time. With him the
merest nod of approval, by getting entangled with the nod rhythmic,
might well have introduced a fatal error into his counting, while even
an encouraging smile was not without its dangers.
Mrs. Poythress gave the Don a grateful smile.
“He seems to be taking Lucy under his protection,” thought Mary.
One after another the players came in; first the Don and Herr
Waldteufel, then the second and the viola; and away they went,
each after his own fashion; Charley pulling away with close,
business-like attention to his notes; the Herr calm but smiling good-
humoredly, when, from time to time, he stumbled through rapid
passages where his reading was better than his execution; Mr.
Whacker struggling manfully, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes,
and beating time with his feet with rather unprofessional vigor. As
for Lucy, relieved of her embarrassment, when fire had opened all
along the line, she made the Herr proud of his pupil; while the Don,
master of his score and his instrument, kept nodding and smiling as
he played; watching her nimble fingers, during the pauses of his
part, with undisguised satisfaction.
Mary, sitting apart, saw all this. Nor Mary alone.
“He is a goner!” whispered Billy to his girl, in objectionable phrase.
“Oh, yes; hopelessly!” looked she.
“Mr. Frobisher, too,—he’s another goner.”
The beloved of William glanced at Charley and bit her lip. Somehow
it seemed comic to every one that Charley should be in love.
Then Billy, folding his arms across his deep chest, and summoning
his mind to a vast generalization: “The fact is, everybody is a goner,”
said he; “as for me—”
His girl placed her finger upon her rosy lip, and reproved his
chattering with a frown that was very, very fierce; but from beneath
her darkling brows there stole, as she raised her eyes to his manly
face, a glance soft as the breath of violets from under a hedge of
thorns.
The allegro moderato came to an end with the usual twang twing
twang.
“Unt we came out all togedder!” exclaimed the Herr. “Dot is
someding already. Shentlemen und ladies, I tell you a little story, vot
you call. Berlioz was once leading an orchestra, part professionals,
part amateurs. Ven dey vas near de ent of de stucke vot you call
morceau, ‘Halt, shentlemens!’ cry Berlioz, rapping on the bulbit-desk,
vot you call. ‘Now, shentlemens amateurs,’ says he, ‘you just stop on
dis bar unt let de oders blay, so dat we all come out togedder.’”
The excellent Herr, after laughing himself to the verge of
asphyxiation, explained that “Berlioz, you unterstant, vas a great vit,
vat you call, unt make many funny words.” It was a peculiarity of our
friend Waldteufel that his pronunciation of English varied with the
amount of water that he had neglected to drink; and as this was an
uncertain quantity, you could never be quite sure whether he would
say vas or was, words or vords. At certain critical moments, too,
when his soul stood vascillating between contentment and thirst, the
two systems were apt to become mixed as above. I will add that I
make no attempt at accuracy in reproducing his dialect, preferring to
leave that, in part at least, as I have done in a parallel case, to the
resources of the reader.
The remaining movements of the quintet were played in somewhat
smoother style; but the only one requiring special mention, for our
purposes, was the larghetto, or slow movement. In this number, the
technical difficulties of which were inconsiderable, Lucy’s tender
religious spirit revealed itself most touchingly. It so happened that
the composer had placed this part mainly in the hands of the piano
and the first violin, the other instruments merely giving an
unobtrusive accompaniment. First the violin gave out the theme, and
then the piano made reply.
“It is the communing of two spirits,” felt Mary, in her imaginative
way.
Now the piano gave forth its tender plaint, and the violin seemed to
Mary to listen; at one time silent, at another interrupting,—assenting
rather,—breaking into low-muttered interjections of harmonious
sympathy. And then the violin would utter its lament, finding its echo
in the broken ejaculations that rose from beneath Lucy’s responsive
fingers; so, at least, it seemed to Mary.
The quintet and the congratulations to the performers over, Mr.
Whacker took pity on the thirsty Herr and ordered refreshments.
Jones, finding among the rest a glass of double size, filled it and
handed it to the ’cellist.
“Goot!” cried he, with a luminous wink; “I play de big fiddle already.”
Mary smiled, wondering what “already” could mean; but she had
other things to occupy her thoughts. When the Don rose from his
seat and laid his violin upon the piano, she had been struck with the
serenity of his countenance, whence the music seemed to have
chased every cloud. He was looking for some one. Yes, it was for
her. Catching her eye, he filled a glass, or two, rather, and coming to
her side and taking a seat, he expressed the hope that she had
enjoyed the music.
“More than I can express. You have convinced me that I have never
heard any real music before. Do you know, your quintet was as
pleasing to the eye as to the ear? You would have afforded a fine
subject for a painter. Three young men, a lovely girl, and a
grandfather, all bound together as one by the golden chains of
harmony! You can’t imagine what a lovely picture you made.”
“Thanks!”
“Oh,” said she, smiling, “there were five of you, so I have paid you,
at best, but one-fifth of a compliment.”
“A vulgar fraction, as it were.”
“Yes,” said she, laughing; then with eyes cast down, and in a
hesitating voice, she added, “I am going to make a confession to
you; will you promise not to think me very foolish?”
“Such an idea, I am sure—”
“But, you know my friends all say I am so very sentimental,—that is
to say, silly. You shake your head, but that is what they call me, and
that is what it means.”
“You do your friends injustice; but give me a specimen, that I may
judge for myself.”
“Do you promise not to agree with my friends?”
“Most solemnly.”
“Well, you must know there is something very pathetic to me about
old age. The sight of an old man sympathizing with the young,
hearing up bravely under the ills of life and his load of years, always
touches me to the heart. Now, you and Mr. Frobisher and Mr.
Waldteufel—well, I need not comment on your appearance. Lucy—
well, Lucy was just too lovely. She had what I call her inspired look,
and was simply beautiful.” And lifting her eyes for a second,—no, a
second had been an age, compared with the duration of that glance
so momentary and yet so intensely questioning,—she flashed him
through and through. Through and through, yet saw nothing. The
Don, felt he or not the shock of that electric glance, sat impassive,
spoke no answer, looked no reply. She raised her eyes again to his.
No, his look was not impassive; he was simply awaiting with interest
the rest of her story. That, at least, was all she could see.
“Where was I?” she began again, driving from her mind, with an
effort, a tumultuous throng of hopes and fears. “Oh I well, you
gentlemen handled your bows gracefully, of course, and all that, and
Lucy was irresistible” (another flash), “of—course; but the central
figure of the picture was Mr. Whacker. Dear Uncle Tom! Isn’t he a
grand old man? I don’t know why it was, but when I saw in the
midst of you his snowy head contrasting so strongly, so strangely,
with Lucy’s youthful bloom, with the manly vigor of the rest, my eyes
filled with tears. Was it so very foolish?” And her eyes, as she lifted
them to his, half inquiring, half deprecatory, were suffused afresh
with the divine dew of sympathy.
“Foolish!” exclaimed the Don, with a vehemence so sudden that it
made her start, his nostrils dilating and a dark flush mounting even
to his forehead,—“foolish!” And bending over her he poured down
into her swimming eyes a look so intense and searching that she felt
that he was reading her very heart.
“Thanks!” said he, with abrupt decision. “Thanks!”
Mary breathed quicker, she knew not why. The tension was painful.
“Yes,” said she, rather aimlessly, “and then you all looked so earnest,
so serenely happy, so forgetful of this poor sordid world.”
“Yes,” said he, musingly, “that seems to me the office of music,—to
give rest to the weary, to smooth out the wrinkles from the brain
and brow, to give respite; to enable us, for a time, at least, to
forget.”
He seemed to muse for a moment, then turning suddenly to her with
a changed expression: “It was always so,” said he; then looking up
quickly, “Do you like Homer?”
“Homer!” exclaimed she, startled by the abrupt transition. “I cannot
say that he is one of my favorite authors.”
“Do you know, I cannot understand that?”
“He is so very, very old,” pleaded she, in extenuation.
“So is the human heart, of which he was master; so is the ocean, to
which he has been compared,—eternal movement and eternal
repose. But what you said just now, as to the Lethean effect of
music, reminded me of that grand scene in the Iliad, where Ulysses
and Phœnix and Ajax go, as ambassadors of Agamemnon, to
Achilles, with offerings and apologies for the wrong that has been
done him. This man, whose heart was full of indignant shame
because of the insults which had been heaped upon him,—who,
though the bravest of the Greeks, had gone apart by the sea-shore
to weep bitter tears,—him they found solacing his sorrows with
music. But a little while ago and he had been ready to strike
Agamemnon dead in the midst of his troops. What a surprise when
the poet draws the curtain, and there flashes upon our astonished
eyes the inexorable, flinty-hearted captain of the Myrmidons seated
with his friend Patroklus, peacefully singing to his lyre the illustrious
deeds of heroes! What a master-stroke!” cried he, with flashing
eyes. “It is like the sudden bursting upon the view of a green valley
in the midst of barren rocks. And you don’t like Homer?”
“Oh, that is beautiful, really beautiful!” she hastened to say, abashed
at the sentiment she had just uttered. “One often fails to see
beauties till they are pointed out. Won’t you talk to me some day
about Homer?”
“Gladly,” said he; and he smiled, then almost laughed aloud.
“Ah, it is really unkind to laugh at me!”
“Not at all. I was laughing to think how little you dream what you
are drawing down upon your head when you ask me to talk to you
about Homer. You see I, too, have a little confession to make.”
“What is it?” she asked, eagerly.
“Perhaps I should have said confidence rather than confession; but,
upon second thought—”
“Oh, do tell me!”
He hesitated.
“I shall positively die with curiosity!”
“If there be any danger of that,” said he,—and he put his forefinger
and thumb in his vest-pocket and looked at her and smiled.
“Well?”
“Will you promise not to think me so very, very foolish?” said he,
mimicking her tones of a little while before. And he drew an object
from his pocket and held it up.
“What is it,—a book?”
“Yes, a book;” removing from a much-worn morocco case a small
volume.
“Oh, yes, your Testament!”
Mary had not forgotten what I had told of a certain incident that had
occurred in the Don’s rooms in Richmond, and had heedlessly
alluded to it.
“My Testament!” said he, with a quick, suspicious look.
She felt that she had blundered; but Mary Rolfe, like the majority of
her sex, was a woman. “Why, isn’t it a Testament?” asked she,
carelessly; “it has just the look of some of those little English
editions.” And she held out her hand.
“Oh!” said the Don, looking relieved. “No, it is not a Testament.”
“What is it, then?” said she, her hand still extended.
“It is a copy of the Iliad; and my little confession is, that I have
carried it in this pocket ever so many years.”
“Indeed!” cried Mary, much interested.
“So, you see, when you ask me to talk to you about Homer, you are
getting yourself into trouble, most probably.”
“Let me have it.”
The Don smiled and shook his head.
“What!” cried she, with amazement, “I may not touch it?”
“Well, as a special favor, you may; but it must not go out of my
possession. Here, you hold that lid and I this. No, this way,” added
the Don, rising. He had been seated on her right; but now placing
his chair to her left, he held out the little volume to her, holding the
left lid, together with a few pages, between finger and thumb. What
could be his object in changing his position? Was there something
written on the flyleaf? She gave a quick glance at his face, but
instantly checked herself and broke out into a merry laugh.
“How perfectly absurd!” said she. “We look, for all the world, like two
Sunday-school children reading the same hymn-book! What!”
exclaimed she, with quick interest, and looking up into his face: “The
original Greek?”
“Yes,” replied he, quietly; “no real master-piece can ever be
translated.”
Just then some chords were sounded on the piano, and the Don
turned and looked in that direction. Mary raised her eyes and
scanned his face narrowly. She was reading him afresh by the light
he had just cast upon himself.
For her, being such as she was, this man of surprises had acquired a
new interest.
 CHAPTER XLIII.

“Ladies unt shentlemens, I have de pleasure to announce dot Miss

Lucy will now favor de company mit a song.” The Herr was seated at
the piano, while Lucy stood by his side.
“What! does she sing, too?” inquired the Don, with interest.
“Oh, yes; Lucy has a very sweet voice.”
The Don sat and listened, with a pleased smile, nodding approvingly
from time to time. “Not very strong,” remarked he, when the song
was ended, “but, as you say, sweet and sympathetic—very.”
A second ballad was called for, which Lucy gave, and then her
mother suggested Schubert’s “Serenade.” She had hardly sung half a
dozen notes, when Mary noticed a peculiar expression on the Don’s
face. It was a face which, when in repose, was always grave, to say
the least; and there were times when it seemed to many stern, even
grim. But now as he gazed, wide-eyed and dreamy, upon the bank
of coals before him, the firm lines of his features melted into an
inexpressible softness.
“Oh, that I were a musician, to bring that beautiful look into his
face! Lucy’s fingers have stolen half his heart, her voice the rest.”
Thus sighed Mary in the depths of her troubled spirit.
The Don rose softly from his seat. “Excuse me,” said he; and moving
silently and on tiptoe across the room, took up his violin, placed it
under his chin, and poising the bow over the strings, stood there
waiting for a pause in Lucy’s song. By Lucy alone, of all the
company, had these movements of the Don been unobserved; and
when there leaped forth, just behind her and close to her ear, the
vibrating tones of the Guarnerius, echoing her own, she gave a quick
start and a pretty little “oh!” but turning and seeing the Don behind
her, she beamed upon him with a radiant smile.
“Aha, an obligato! so!” cried the Herr. “Very goot, very goot.” And he
bent him over the piano with renewed zeal.
If I knew what an “obligato” was, I would tell you most cheerfully;
but even Charley could never get it into my head. It was not an
accompaniment, that I know; for the Herr was playing the
accompaniment himself.
“I tell you venn to come in,” said the Herr to Lucy, who was naturally
a little confused at first. “Now—ah—so, very goot.”
This time the Don broke in here and there upon Lucy’s song in a
fragmentary kind of way, as it seemed to me, and just as fancy
dictated, producing a very weird and startling effect; and when the
pause came in her score, he continued the strain in an improvisation
full of power and wild passion. “Wunderschön! Ben trovato!” cried
the Herr, lapsing into and out of his mother-tongue in his
enthusiasm.
I gave the reader to understand, when I brought him acquainted
with Waldteufel, that he was a musician of far greater ability than
one would have expected to find teaching in a country
neighborhood; regretfully giving the reason for this anomaly.
Aroused now by the Don, he showed the stuff that was in him;
dashing off an improvisation full of feeling on the theme of the
“Serenade.” “Now,” said he, striking the last notes, “coom again,
coom. Vot you got to say now?” he added, in challenge.
The Don gave a slight bow to Lucy.
“Ah, das is so,—I forgot.”
Lucy began anew, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with
excitement, nodding approval, first to one, then to the other of the
rival artists, as each in turn gave proof of his virtuosity. Schubert’s
“Serenade” is of a divine beauty, and improving upon it is like adding
polish to Gray’s “Elegy.” But such considerations did not disturb our
little audience. Our local pride was up. The stranger had been
carrying everything before him, and when our honest Herr came
back at him with a Roland for his Oliver, as described above, there
had been a lively clapping of hands. And now, first one or two, then
the entire company had risen in a body and clustered around the
performers, applauding and cheering each in turn, but the Herr, as I
remember, most warmly; for few of us had ever heard him improvise
before, and, besides, he seemed to deserve special encouragement
for his pluck in contending with this Orpheus, newly dropped among
us from the skies, as it were.
Mary had not at first risen with the rest. An unconquerable reserve
was her most marked trait. But at last even she rose (not being able,
perhaps, to see the Don from where she sat), but did not join the
cluster that surrounded the piano. She stood apart, resting her
elbow upon the mantel-piece, her cheek upon her hand, listening to
the music,—the music half drowned by the fevered tattoo her own
heart was beating. For now Lucy was singing the last stanza of the
song, and the Herr had dropped into something like an
accompaniment, while the Don, seeing that his antagonist had called
a truce, had reined his own muse down into a “second.” Sustained
by this and rising with her enthusiasm, Lucy’s voice came forth with
a power and a pathos it had not shown before; and the mellow
Guarnerius, kindling and enkindled in turn, rose to a passion almost
human in its intensity. And before Mary’s eyes there seemed to float,
as voice and violin rose and fell, and fell and rose, a vision (and it
was her nature to dream dreams); there floated a vision as of two
souls locked in eternal embrace and borne aloft on the wings of
divinest music.
She did not close her eyes that night; for, to add to the perturbation
of her spirit, Mrs. Poythress, seeing Charley making ready to cross
the River and spend the night under her roof, as he did every Friday,
had so cordially invited the Don to accompany him that he, when the
invitation was warmly seconded by Mr. Poythress and Lucy, had,
after some hesitation, consented to do so.
He had entered the very grotto of Circe.
 CHAPTER XLIV.

The Poythresses were cordiality itself. No sooner had the Don’s foot
crossed their threshold, than Mr. Poythress, taking him by the hand,
gave him a warm welcome to Oakhurst. “Yes, you are truly
welcome,” said Mrs. Poythress, taking the other hand; while Lucy,
too, smiled in hospitable assent.
The latter has told me since that she was struck, at the time, with a
certain something very singular in his manner of meeting these
courtesies. As the boat had neared the shore, she had observed that
the Don grew more and more silent; and now, in response to
greetings of such marked cordiality, he had merely bowed,—bowed
low, but without a word. “Are you cold?” asked Mrs. Poythress,
looking up into his face, as they entered the sitting-room. “Why, you
are positively shivering! Mr. Poythress, do stir the fire. Are you
subject to chills? No?”
“The wind was very keen on the River,” said the Don. He spoke with
difficulty, and as he leaned over the fire, warming his hands, his
teeth chattered.
Charley whispered to Mrs. Poythress.
“Not a drop,” replied she; “you know Mr. Poythress will not allow a
gill of anything of the kind to be kept in the house. I am so sorry.”
“Well, it does not matter. Do you know it is past one o’clock?
Suppose all of you go to bed and leave him to me.”
“Now,” said Charley, when he and the Don were left alone, “let’s
adjourn to the dining-room and have a quiet pipe, after the labors of
the evening. I don’t know why it is,” continued Charley, as they
entered the room, “but fiddling—” Here Charley quickly drew back,
as a horse when sharply reined up, with a look that seemed to show
that his eyes had fallen upon some unwelcome object. The
suppression of all appearance of emotion was, as we know, a foible
of his. There was one thing, however, which he could not suppress;
and it was this which often betrayed him to his friends; to wit, his
infirmity of stammering; of which, as I do not care either to deface
my pages or to make sport of my friend, I shall give but sparing
typographical indication, leaving the rest to the reader’s imagination.
“F-f-f-f-iddling,” continued he, “always gives me a consuming thirst
for a smo-mo-mo-moke. By the way, thirst for a smoke strikes me as
a mixed metaphor, but ‘hunger’ would scarcely improve matters. I
presume that if our Aryan ancestors had known the divine weed, we
should have had a better word wherewithal to express our longing
for it.”
Whenever Charley began to stammer and philosophize, he always
suggested to my mind a partridge tumbling and fluttering away
through the grass; there was always a nest somewhere near.
“As it is,” continued he, “we must be content to borrow from the
grovelling vocabulary of the eater and the drinker, leaving to
civilization—there, toast your toes on that fender—to evolve a more
fitting term.”
The Don, who had been looking serious enough before, could not
suppress a smile at this quaint sally of our friend,—a smile that
broadened into a laugh when Charley, having succeeded, after a
protracted struggle, in shooting a word from his mouth as though
from a pop-gun, parenthetically consigned all p’s and m’s to
perdition; that being the class of letters which chiefly marred his
utterance.
There is, about the damning of a mere labial, a grotesque impotency
that goes far towards rescuing the oath from profanity; and we may
hope that Uncle Toby’s accusing angel neglected to hand this one in
for record.
“This is very snug,” said Charley, drawing together the ends of logs
which had burned in two.
Charley had neglected to light the lamp, but the logs soon began to
shed a ruddy glow about the room, in the obscure light of which the
stranger began to look about him, as was natural. Charley could
always see more with his eyes shut than I could with mine wide
open; but I cannot very well understand how, in that dimly-lighted
room, he contrived to observe all that he pretends to have seen on
this occasion; especially as he acknowledges that he was steadily
engaged at his old trick of blowing smoke-rings, sighting at them
with one eye, and spearing them with the forefinger of his right
hand.
The stranger did not stroll about the room with his hands behind his
back, examining the objects on the sideboard, and yawning in the
faces of the ancestral portraits, as he might have been pardoned for
doing at that hour, and in the absence of the family. “Yes, this is very
snug,” echoed he, in a rather hollow voice, while he glanced from
object to object in the room with an eager interest that contrasted
strangely with the immobility of his person; his almost motionless
head giving a rather wild look to his rapidly-roving eyes. Presently,
seeming to forget Charley’s presence, he gave vent to a sigh so deep
that it was almost a groan. Charley removed his pipe from his
mouth, and with the stem thereof slowly and carefully traced a very
exact circle just within the interior edge of one of his whirling
smoke-wreaths, in the spinning of which he was so consummate an
artist.
The stranger, coming to himself with a little start, gave a quick
glance at the sphinx beside him, who, with head resting on the back
of his chair and eyes half closed, was lazily admiring another blue
circle, that rose silently whirling in the still air. Had he heard the
moan? And in his embarrassment the stranger seized the tongs and,
with a nervous pull, tilted over one of the logs which Charley had
drawn together on the hearth.
They flashed into a blaze.
“Why, hello!” exclaimed the stranger, chancing to cast his eye into
the corner formed by the projecting chimney-piece and the wall.
“There’s a dog. He seems comfortable,” he added, glad, seemingly,
to have hit upon so substantial a subject of conversation. “That rug
seems to have been made for him. Does he sleep there every
night?”
“That’s his corner, whenever he wants it,” said Charley, rather dryly,
and without looking towards the dog. “Let me fill your pipe for you.”
Charley, somehow, did not seem anxious to talk about the dog, but
his companion, not observing this, very likely, would not let the
subject drop. Rising a little in his chair and peering into the
somewhat obscure corner: “He seems to be a—a—”
“Pointer,” said Charley. “He is very old,” added he, by way of a
finisher.
“Oh, I understand,—an old hunting-dog of Mr. Poythress’s that he
cherishes now for the good he has done in his day.”
This was not exactly a question, but it seemed to require some sort
of a reply.
“Well, yes, so one would naturally think; but Mr. Poythress was never
much of a Nimrod. It is Mrs. Poythress who claims the old fellow as
her property, I believe.”
Charley pulled out his watch in rather a nervous way, looked at the
time, and, thrusting it back into his pocket, gave a yawn.
“What rolls of fat he has along his back!” said the stranger, rising,
and taking a step or two in the direction of the sleeper.
“Yes,” said Charley, rising, and knocking the ashes from his pipe with
a few rapid taps, “it is the way with all old dogs.”
“Ah, I am afraid I have disturbed the slumbers of the old fellow,”
said the Don, softly retracing his steps.
“He is as deaf as a post,” said Charley.
The old pointer had raised his head, and was rocking it from side to
side with a kind of low whimpering.
“Speaking of slumbers,” said Charley, looking at his watch again, and
closing it with a snap, “suppose—”
“What can be the matter with the old boy?”
The dog was acting singularly. He had risen to his feet, and, with
staggering, uncertain steps, was moving first in this direction then in
that, sniffing the air with a whine that grew more and more intense
and anxious.
“He will soon get quiet, if we leave him.” And Charley made two or
three rapid strides towards the door, then stopped as suddenly,
stopped and stood biting his nails with unconscious vigor, then
slowly turned, and, walking up to the mantel-piece, rested his elbow
upon it and his cheek upon his hand. The attitude was one of
repose; but his quick breathing, his quivering lips, his restless eyes
that flashed searchingly, again and again, upon the face of his
companion,—these told a different story.
“He is trying to find you,” said the Don, with a sympathetic smile.
“Poor old fellow, he seems blind as well as deaf. Hello! he is making
for me. What! is he in his dotage? Whom does he take me for?” he
added, as the old dog, coming up to him and sniffing at his feet and
legs with an ever-increasing eagerness, kept wriggling and squirming
and wagging his tail with a vigor that was remarkable, considering
his apoplectic figure and extreme age. Growing more and more
excited, the old creature tried again and again to rear and place his
paws upon the breast of the Don; but his weak limbs, unable to
sustain his unwieldy bulk, as often gave way; and at last, with a
despair that was almost human, he laid his head between the knees
of the young man; and rolling his bleared, opaque eyes, as if
searching for his face, he whimpered as though for help. The Don
looked bewildered, and glancing at Charley, saw him standing,
motionless, leaning upon the mantel-piece, his eyes fixed upon the
fire. The Don started, then bent a sudden, eager glance upon the
dog. The latter again strove to rear up, but falling back upon his
haunches, lifted up his aged head, and rolling his sightless eyes,
gave forth a low howl so piteous as must have moved the hardest
heart.
It was then that the stranger, that man of surprises, as he had done
once or twice before in the course of this story, revealed by a
sudden burst of uncontrollable impetuosity the fervid temperament
that ordinarily lay concealed beneath his studied reserve. Stooping
forward like a flash, he lifted the dog and placed his paws upon his
breast, sustaining him with his arms.
It was touching to witness the gratitude of the old pointer, his
whining and his whimpering and his eagerness to lick the face that
he might not behold. He was happy, let us hope, if but for a
moment. Suddenly he fell,—fell as though stricken with heart-
disease, all in a heap; then tumbling over and measuring his length
along the carpet, his head came down upon the floor with a thump.
There he lay motionless,—motionless, save that every now and then
his tail beat the floor softly, softly, and in a sort of drowsy rhythm, as
though he but dreamt that he wagged it,—gently tapped the floor
and ceased; once more, and stopped again, and yet again; and he
was still. The stranger knelt over the outstretched form of the dying
pointer.
“Ponto! Ponto, old boy! Can you hear me? Yes? Then good-by, dear
old fellow, good-by!”
Deaf as he was, and breathing his last, that name and that voice
seemed to penetrate the fast-closing channels of sense; and with
two or three last fluttering taps—he had no other way—he seemed
to say farewell, and forever.
The young man rose, and, staggering across the room, threw his
arm over his face and leaned against the wall. Charley made two or
three hasty, forward strides, then halted with a hesitating look, then
springing forward, placed a hand on either shoulder of the figure
before him, and leaned upon his neck.
“Dory!” whispered he, in a voice that trembled.
A shiver, as from an electric shock, ran through the stalwart frame of
the stranger. For a moment he seemed to hesitate; the next he had
wheeled about, and, clasping his companion in his mighty arms,
hugged him to his breast.
“Charley!” cried he, in a broken voice; and his head rested upon the
shoulder of his friend.
 CHAPTER XLV.

I greatly fear that when I stated, somewhere in the course of the

foregoing narrative, that I had firmly resolved to exclude love-
making from its pages,—I greatly fear that none of my readers gave
me credit for sincerity. Yet it was not a stroke of Bushwhackerish
humor; I was in sober earnest, and was never more convinced than
at this moment of the folly of breaking my original resolution. Here I
am with three pairs of lovers on my hands,—all sighing like very
furnaces—I, who am quite incapable of managing one couple. I
suppose I have only myself to blame. I assembled a number of
young Virginians in a country house. I should have known better.
Yet, when I brought them together, it was an understood thing (on
my part, at least) that there was to be no nonsense.
The truth is, I think I have a just right to complain of my characters.
I had a little story to tell,—the simplest in the world—the merest
monograph,—and I introduced the main body of my personages as a
setting, merely; just as a jeweller surrounds a choice stone with
small pearls to bring its color into fuller relief.
And here they are, upsetting everything.
Look at Billy, for instance. I could not have gotten on at all without
him. In the first place, no Christmas party at Elmington could have
been complete without him and his jovial laugh. It would have been
against all nature not to have invited him, and equally against Billy’s
nature to have stayed away. But as ill luck would have it, his girl,
though of a different county, must needs be of the party; but I,
knowing nothing of this, caused him to gallop up to the Hall, that
cold Christmas Eve, simply that he might enliven the company with
his “Arkansas Traveller” and the rest of his not very classic
repertoire, and still more by his memorable dive under the table.
Now I like my Billy; but his loves are not to our purpose. And so—for
I cannot have the course of my story marred any longer by his antics
—I have shipped him off to the University. Imagine him bursting into
No. 28, East Lawn, and shaking his room-mate’s hand to the verge
of dislocation. Five or six cronies have crowded in to welcome the
truant back (writhing, each in turn, under the grasp of his
obtrusively honest hand).
“No, Tom, you need not take that old gourd out of the box. My
fiddling days are over.”
“What!” exclaimed an indignant chorus.
“Come back solemn?” asked Tom. “Bad luck?”
Billy colored a little. “Solemn? Not I. But oh, boys, I have such a
story to tell you! You like to hear me scrape,—wh-e-e-w!”
“What is it?”
Jones threw back his head and gave a roar as though Niagara
laughed. While he is telling the story of his discomfiture we will take
our leave of him; for as soon as the chorus have departed, he will
begin to tell his friend Tom about his girl, and we have no time to
listen to any more of that. But he is such a good fellow that I think
we may forgive him the delay his loves have cost us.
It is somewhat harder to pardon Charley’s falling in love so
inopportunely; but even as to him my heart relents when I
remember that it was his first offence, and how penitent, how
sheepish, even, were his looks, whenever I alluded to his fall. Let
him go on casting out of the corners of his eyes timid, admiring
glances at the inimitable Alice; drinking in deep, intoxicating
draughts of her merry, laughter-spangled talk; happy in her
presence; in her absence fiercely wondering why, in this otherwise
wisely-ordered world (as we Virginians have been taught to believe
it), he alone was a stammering idiot. Let all this go on, and more;
but as with Jones, so with Charley, their loves must equally be
brushed from the path of this story.
The case of lover No. 3 presents greater difficulties. When I recall
certain passages of the preceding narrative, I am forced to
acknowledge that, in the case of the Don, I have unwittingly entered
into an implied obligation to my readers. Unwittingly, for I solemnly
assure them that when (for instance) I described the gallant rescue
of Alice and Lucy by the stalwart stranger, it did not so much as
cross my mind what tacit promise I thereby held out. Had I been a
novel-writer or even a novel-reader, instead of the philosopher and
bushwhacker that I am, it could not have escaped me that by
suffering two of my heroines to be valiantly rescued from deadly
peril by a handsome, nay, a mysterious and hence painfully
interesting young man, I had, in effect, signed a bond to bring about
a marriage between the rescuer and one of the rescued, or both;
the more charming of the two being reserved for the end of the
book, the less to be thrown in earlier as a sort of matrimonial sop to
Cerberus,—an hymeneal luncheon, as it were. Yes, I allowed one of
my heroes to rescue two of my heroines, while a third gazed
trembling upon the scene from her latticed window. Nay, worse; for
whether drawn on insensibly by the current of events, or hurried
thereto by the entreaties of my friend and collaborator, Alice, who,
woman-like, declared that she would have nothing to do with my
book unless I put some love in it,—whether inveigled, therefore, or
cajoled, it is a fact that I have made allusion here and there, in the
course of these pages, to such sighings and oglings and bosom-
heavings and heart-flutterings, accompanied by such meaning starts
and deep ineffable glances, that I am willing to admit what Alice
claims: that it would be almost an actual breach of faith not to tell
people what it all meant.
“If you are going to write a novel, Jack” (I have been plain Jack
since she married Charley), “why don’t you write one and be done
with it?”
“How many times must I tell you that I am not writing a novel, but a
philosophico-bushwhackerian monograph on the theme—”
“Bushwhackerian fiddlestick!” cried Alice, impatiently, but unable to
suppress a smile at the rolling thunder of my title. “You may write
your monograph, as you call it, but who would read it?”
It was during this discussion that Alice agreed to edit the love-
passages that illumine these pages. But what love-passages? After
much debate we effected a compromise. If she would engage to
spare the reader all save a mere allusion to the heart-pangs of the
jovial Jones, she should have full liberty to revel through whole
chapters in the loves of the Don. “As for your little affair with
Charley,” I added, “I agree to dress that up myself.”
“Indeed, indeed, Jack, if you were to put Mr. Frobisher and myself in
your book—and—and—make him—”
“Make him—” (Here I smiled.)
“You know, you villain!”
“Stammer forth praises of your loveliness?”
“You dare!”
And so we are reduced to a single pair of lovers: the Don and—
 CHAPTER XLVI.

But he was enough. At the period at which we are now arrived, his
conduct became more perplexing than ever. The neighborhood was
divided into two camps, one maintaining that Mary found favor in his
eyes, the other that Lucy and music had carried the day. Most of the
gentlemen were of the latter party. They pointed out his frequent
visits across the River, the hours he spent playing for or with her, his
obvious efforts to win the good-will of her mother. Some few of the
girls were on our side; and I remember that they, at times,
commented with some asperity on the alleged court that the Don
paid Mrs. Poythress,—rather plainly signifying that in their case a
swain would find it to his interest to make love to them rather than
to their mothers. But a majority of the girls, headed by Alice,
scouted the idea of the Don’s being enamoured of the gentle Lucy;
the difference between their party and that of the men being that
they could give no reason for the faith that was in them. They
thought so—they knew it—well, we should see—persisted they, in
their irritating feminine way.
As a natural result of this state of things, there arose among us a
sort of anti-Don party. His popularity began to wane. What did he
mean by playing fast and loose with two girls? Why did he not
declare himself for one or the other? Who was he, in fact?
But against this rising tide of disapprobation Charley was an
unfailing bulwark. It was obvious to all that a close intimacy had
sprung up between Frobisher and the Don. They were continually
taking long walks together. Secluded nooks of porches became their
favorite resting-places. The murmur of their voices was often to be
heard long after the rest of the family had retired for the night.
Charley, therefore, gave this suspicious character the stamp of his
approval, and that approval sustained him in our little circle. I say
our little circle, though I, of course, had long since returned to
Richmond, and my supposed practice at the bar. Fortunately for the
reader, Alice remained on the scene; else where had been those
delicious love-passages that are in store for us?
Of all this circle, Alice was most eager to ascertain the actual state of
the Don’s sentiments. Nor was hers an idle curiosity. Her penetrating
eyes had not failed to pierce the veil of bravado by which Mary had
sought to hide her heart from her friend. But did he love her? She
believed so,—believed half in dread, half in hope, Now was the time
to learn something definite.
For the Poythresses had given a dinner, and she and Charley were
promenading up and down the Oakhurst piazza. Presently, there
sounded from the parlor the “A” on the piano, followed by those
peculiar tones of a violin being tuned,—tones so charmingly
suggestive, to lovers of music, so exasperating to others.
“Ah, they are going to play!” said my grandfather, quickly; and he
turned to go into the parlor, followed by all of the promenaders save
Charley and Alice, who still strode to and fro, arm in arm.
“They are going to play,” repeated he, as he got to the door, turning
and nodding to Charley, and then passed briskly within.
At this some of the girls smiled, and Charley reddened, poor fellow,
and bit his lip; while Alice gazed, unconscious, at two specks of
boats in the distance.
Suddenly Mr. Whacker reappeared, thrusting his ruddy countenance
and snowy hair between the fair heads of two girls who were just
entering the door,—a pleasing picture.
“The Kreutzer Sonata!” he ejaculated at Charley, and disappeared.
At this the two girls fairly giggled aloud, and, darting Parthian
glances at Alice, tumbled through the hall into the parlor.
“What merry, thoughtless creatures we girls are!” said Alice,
removing her gaze from the specks of sails.
“Yes, and no fellow can find out, half the time, what you are
laughing about,—or thinking about, for the matter of that.”
“What! do you deem us such riddles,—you who, they say, can read
one’s thoughts as though we were made of glass?”
“I? And who says that of me, pray?”
“Everybody says it. I say it,” she added, with a smile of saucy
defiance.
“I read people’s thoughts!”
“Do you disclaim the gift?”
“Even to disclaim it would be preposterously vain.”
Charley would have avoided that word “preposterous” had he
bethought him, in time, how many p’s it contained. His face was red
when he had stumbled and floundered through it, and his eyes a
trifle stern. He had been a stammerer from boyhood, but of late his
infirmity had begun to annoy him strangely.
“Then, modest young man, I suppose you have yet to learn the
alphabet of mind-reading?”
“Yes,—that is, women’s minds.”
“Women’s minds? Do you think that we are harder to read than
men? Do you think, for example, that people find it harder to see
through such an unsophisticated girl as myself than such a deep
philosopher as you?”
“You? Why, you are an unfathomable m-m-m-mystery?” (“Confound
it!”)
“The idea! I a mystery? And this from you, unreadable sphinx!”
“Yes, and unfathomable! Why, I have no idea what you think upon
the—upon—well, all sorts of subjects.”
Charley caressed with a shy glance the toes of his boots, and felt
red.
“Indeed? How strange!” And she gazed upon the dots of boats and
felt pale.
“Yes; for example, I have often wondered what in fact, for example,
you thought, for instance, of—of—of—me, for instance. Oh, no, no,
of course not, I beg your pardon; of course I never imagined for a
moment, of course not, that you ever thought of me at all, in fact.
What I mean is, that whenever you did think of me,—though I
presume you never did for an instant, of course,—I mean that if by
chance, when you had nothing else to think about, and I happened
to pass by—Oh, Lord!” cried Charley, clasping in his hand his burning
brow.
What is the matter with my people? Chatterbox reduced to
monosyllables, and the Silent Man pouring forth words thick as those
that once burst from the deep chest of Ulysses of many wiles; and
they, as we all know, thronged thick as flakes of wintry snow.
“Don’t you think I am an idiot? Have you the least doubt of it?”
exclaimed the poor fellow, with fierce humility.
Alice gave a little start and looked up.
“A confounded stammering idiot?”
“Mr. Frobisher!”
He didn’t mean it. Charley could never have done such a thing on
purpose; but his left arm suddenly threw off all allegiance to his will,
and actually pressed a certain modest little dimpled hand against his
heart so hard that it blushed to the finger-tips. Alice looked down
with quickened breath, slackened pace; but Charley swept her
forward with loftier stride, drawing in mighty draughts of air, and
glaring defiance at the universe. He did not, however, stride over the
railing at the end of the piazza. Taking advantage of the halt—
“Strange!” said Alice, in a low voice; “do you know that I, too, have
often wondered what you thought of me? Seeing you sitting, silent