Part 8 (2/2)
During the next month I got acquainted with ”Scar Face” Hopkins, who was a first-cla.s.s fellow, with a hand-clasp like a polar bear, a heart like a steam pulsometer, and a face that looked as if it might have been used for the b.u.t.ting post at the end of the world.
”Scar Face” Hopkins got all his scars in the battle of life. Men who command locomotives on the firing line often get hurt, but Hopkins had votes of thanks from officials and testimonials from men, and life-saver's medals from two governments to show that his scars were the brands of honorable degrees conferred by the Almighty on the field for brave and heroic deeds well done.
”Scar Face” Hopkins was a fellow you'd like to get up close to of a night and talk with, and smoke with, and think with, until unlawful hours.
One day I went into his office and the clock was there, and his old torch and a nickle-plated oiler, mementoes of the field. I looked at the clock, and ”Her Eyes” smiled at me, or I thought they did, and said, just as plain as words, ”Glad to see you, dear friend; sit down.” But I turned my back to that clock; I can resist temptation when I know where it is coming from.
One day, a few weeks later, I stopped before a store window in a crowd to examine some pictures, satisfied my curiosity, and in stepping back to go away, put the heel of my number ten on a lady's foot with that peculiar ”craunch” that you know hurts. I turned to make an apology, and faced the original of the picture on the clock. A beautiful pair of eyes, the rest of the face was hidden by a peculiar arrangement of veil that crossed the bridge of the nose and went around the ears and neck.
Those eyes, full of pain at first, changed instantly to frank forgiveness, and, bowing low, I repeated my plea for pardon for my clumsy carelessness, but was absolved so absolutely and completely, and dismissed so naturally, that I felt relieved.
I sauntered up to Hopkins' office. ”Hopkins,” said I, ”I just met your wife.”
”You did?”
”Yes, and I stepped on her foot and hurt her badly, I know.” Then I told him about it.
”What did she say?” asked Hopkins, and I noticed a queer look. I thought it might be jealousy.
”Why, well, why I don't know as I remember, but it was very kindly and ladylike.”
There was a queer expression on Hopkins' face.
”Of course--”
”Sure she spoke?” asked Hopkins. ”How did you know it was my wife anyway?”
”Because it was the same face that is pictured on your clock, and some one in the crowd said it was Mrs. Hopkins. You know Hop., I ran by that clock for a few weeks, and I noticed the eyes.”
”Anything queer about 'em?” This was a challenge.
”Yes, I think there is. In the first place, I know you will understand me when I say they are handsome eyes, and I'm free to confess that they had a queer influence on me, I imagined they changed and expressed things and--”
”Talked, eh.”
”Well, yes.” Then I told Hopkins the influence the ”Eyes” had on me.
He listened intently, watching me; when I had finished, he came over, reached out his hand and said:
”Shake, friend, you're a d.a.m.ned good fellow.”
I thought Hopkins had been drinking--or looking at ”Her Eyes.” He pulled up a chair and lit a cigar.
”John,” said he, ”it isn't every man that can understand what my wife says. Only kindred spirits can read the language of the eyes. _She hasn't spoken an audible word in ten years_, but she talks with her eyes, even her picture talks. We, rather she, is a mystery here; people believe all kinds of things about her and us; but we don't care. I want you to come up to the house some evening and know her better. We'll be three chums, I know it, but don't ask questions; you will know things later on.”
Before I ever went to Hopkins' house, he had told her all about me, and when he introduced us, he said:
”Madeline, this is the friend who says your picture talked to him.”
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