You may imagine in what state of wondering I went out of that place,and how little I could now do away with my curiosity.By the droll looks and head-turnings which followed me from strangers that passed me by in the street,I was made aware that I must be talking aloud to myself,and the words which I had evidently uttered were these:"But who in the world can he have smashed up?"Of course,beneath the public stare and smile I kept the rest of my thoughts to myself;yet they so possessed and took me from my surroundings,that presently,while crossing Royal Street,I was nearly run down by an electric car.Nor did even this serve to disperse my preoccupation;my walk back to Court and Chancel streets is as if it had not been;I can remember nothing about it,and the first account that Itook of external objects was to find myself sitting in my accustomed chair in the Library,with the accustomed row of books about the battle of Cowpens waiting on the table in front of me.How long we had thus been facing each other,the books and I,I've not a notion.And with such mysterious machinery are we human beings filled--machinery that is in motion all the while,whether we are aware of it or not--that now,with some part of my mind,and with my pencil assisting,I composed several stanzas to my kingly ancestor,the goal of my fruitless search;and yet during the whole process of my metrical exercise I was really thinking and wondering about John Mayrant,his battles and his loves.
ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF ROYALTY
I sing to thee,thou Great Unknown,Who canst connect me with a throne Through uncle,cousin,aunt,or sister,But not,I trust,through bar sinister.
Chorus:
Gules!Gules!and a cuckoo peccant!
Such was the frivolous opening of my poem,which,as it progressed,grew even less edifying;I have quoted this fragment merely to show you how little reverence for the Selected Salic Scions was by this time left in my spirit,and not because the verses themselves are in the least meritorious;they should serve as a model for no serious-minded singer,and they afford a striking instance of that volatile mood,not to say that inclination to ribaldry,which will at seasons crop out in me,do what I will.It is my hope that age may help me to subdue this,although I have observed it in some very old men.
I did not send my poem to Aunt Carola,but I wrote her a letter,even there and then,couched in terms which I believe were altogether respectful.I deplored my lack of success in discovering the link that was missing between me and king's blood;I intimated my conviction that further effort on my part would still be met with failure;and Irenounced with fitting expressions of disappointment my candidateship for the Scions thanking Aunt Carola for her generosity,by which I must now no longer profit.I added that I should remain in Kings Port for the present,as I was finding the climate of decided benefit to my health,and the courtesy of the people an education in itself.
Whatever pain at missing the glory of becoming a Scion may have lingered with me after this was much assuaged in a few days by my reading an article in a New York paper,which gave an account of a meeting of my Aunt's Society,held in that city.My attention was attracted to this article by the prominent heading given to it:THEY WORE THEIR CROWNS.
This in very conspicuous Roman capitals,caused me to sit up.There must have been truth in some of it,because the food eaten by the Scions was mentioned as consisting of sandwiches,sherry and croquettes;yet I think that the statement that the members present addressed each other according to the royal families from which they severally traced descent,as,for example,Brother Guelph and Sister Plantagenet,can scarce have beers aught but an exaggeration;nevertheless,the article brought me undeniable consolation for my disappointment.
After finishing my letter to Aunt Carola I should have hastened out to post it and escape from Cowpens,had I not remembered that John Mayrant had more or less promised to meet me here.Now,there was but a slender chance that he boy would speak to me on the subject of his late encounter;this I must learn from other sources;but he might speak to me about something that would open a way for my hostile preparations against Miss Rieppe.So far he had not touched upon his impending marriage in any way,but this reserve concerning a fact generally known among the people whom I was seeing could hardly go on long without becoming ridiculous.If he should shun mention of it to-day,I would take this as a plain sign that he did not look forward to it with the enthusiasm which a lover ought to feel for his approaching bliss;and on such silence from him Iwould begin,if I could,to undermine his intention of keeping an engagement of the heart when the heart no longer entered into it.
While my thoughts continued to be busied over this lover and his concerns,I noticed the works of William Shakespeare close beside me upon a shelf;and although it was with no special purpose in mind that I took out one of the volumes and sat down with it to wait for John Mayrant,in a little while an inspiration came to me from its pages,so that I was more anxious than ever the boy should not fail to meet me here in the Library.
Was it the bruise on his forehead that had perturbed his manner just now when he entered the Exchange?No,this was not likely to be the reason,since he had been full as much embarrassed that first day of my seeing him there,when he had given his order for Lady Baltimore so lamely that the girl behind the counter had come to his aid.And what could it have been that he had begun to tell her to-day as I was leaving the place?Was the ****** of that cake again to be postponed on account of the General's precarious health?And what had been the nature of the insult which young John Mayrant had punished and was now commanded to shake hands over?
