Part 11 (1/2)

”Why, no,” said the Altrurian, with absolute simplicity. He must have perceived the despair I fell into at this answer, for he asked: ”Why should I have minded doing for others what I should have been willing to do for myself?”

”There are a great many things we are willing to do for ourselves that we are not willing to do for others. But even on that principle, which I think false and illogical, you could not be justified. A gentleman is not willing to black _his own_ boots. It is offensive to his feelings, to his self-respect; it is something he will not do if he can get anybody else to do it for him.”

”Then in America,” said the Altrurian, ”it is not offensive to the feelings of a gentleman to let another do for him what he would not do for himself?”

”Certainly not.”

”Ah,” he returned, ”then we understand something altogether different by the word gentleman in Altruria. I see, now, how I have committed a mistake. I shall be more careful hereafter.”

I thought I had better leave the subject, and, ”By-the-way,” I said, ”how would you like to take a little tramp with me to-day farther up into the mountains?”

”I should be delighted,” said the Altrurian, so gratefully that I was ashamed to think why I was proposing the pleasure to him.

”Well, then, I shall be ready to start as soon as we have had breakfast. I will join you down-stairs in half an hour.”

He left me at this hint, though really I was half afraid he might stay and offer to lend me a hand at my toilet, in the expression of his national character. I found him with Mrs. Makely, when I went down, and she began, with a parenthetical tribute to the beauty of the mountains in the morning light: ”Don't be surprised to see me up at this unnatural hour. I don't know whether it was the excitement of our talk last night, or what it was, but my sulphonal wouldn't act, though I took fifteen grains, and I was up with the lark, or should have been, if there had been any lark outside of literature to be up with. However, this air is so glorious that I don't mind losing a night's sleep now and then. I believe that with a little practice one could get along without any sleep at all here; at least, _I_ could. I'm sorry to say poor Mr. Makely _can't_, apparently. He's making up for his share of my vigils, and I'm going to breakfast without him. Do you know, I've done a very bold thing: I've got the head-waiter to give you places at our table; I know you'll hate it, Mr. Twelvemough, because you naturally want to keep Mr. h.o.m.os to yourself, and I don't blame you at all; but I'm simply not going to _let_ you, and that's all there is about it.”

The pleasure I felt at this announcement was not unmixed, but I tried to keep Mrs. Makely from thinking so, and I was immensely relieved when she found a chance to say to me, in a low voice: ”I know just how you're feeling, Mr. Twelvemough, and I'm going to help you keep him from doing anything ridiculous, if I can. I _like_ him, and I think it's a perfect shame to have people laughing at him. I know we can manage him between us.”

We so far failed, however, that the Altrurian shook hands with the head-waiter when he pressed open the wire-netting door to let us into the dining-room, and made a bow to our waitress of the sort one makes to a lady. But we thought it best to ignore these little errors of his and reserve our moral strength for anything more spectacular. Fortunately we got through our breakfast with nothing worse than his jumping up and stooping to hand the waitress a spoon she let fall; but this could easily pa.s.s for some attention to Mrs. Makely at a little distance. There were not many people down to breakfast yet; but I could see that there was a good deal of subdued sensation among the waitresses, standing with folded arms behind their tables, and that the head-waiter's handsome face was red with anxiety.

Mrs. Makely asked if we were going to church. She said she was driving that way, and would be glad to drop us. ”I'm not going myself,” she explained, ”because I couldn't make anything of the sermon, with my head in the state it is, and I'm going to compromise on a good action. I want to carry some books and papers over to Mrs. Camp. Don't you think that will be quite as acceptable, Mr. h.o.m.os?”

”I should venture to hope it,” he said, with a tolerant seriousness not altogether out of keeping with her lightness.

”Who is Mrs. Camp?” I asked, not caring to commit myself on the question.

”Lizzie's mother. You know I told you about them last night. I think she must have got through the books I lent her, and I know Lizzie didn't like to ask me for more, because she saw me talking with you, and didn't want to interrupt us. Such a nice girl! I think the Sunday papers must have come, and I'll take them over, too; Mrs. Camp is always so glad to get them, and she is so delightful when she gets going about public events.

But perhaps you don't approve of Sunday papers, Mr. h.o.m.os.”

”I'm sure I don't know, madam. I haven't seen them yet. You know this is the first Sunday I've been in America.”

”Well, I'm sorry to say you won't see the old Puritan Sabbath,” said Mrs.

Makely, with an abrupt deflection from the question of the Sunday papers.

”Though you ought to, up in these hills. The only thing left of it is rye-and-Indian bread, and these baked beans and fish-b.a.l.l.s.”

”But they are very good?”

”Yes, I dare say they are not the worst of it.”

She was a woman who tended to levity, and I was a little afraid she might be going to say something irreverent; but, if she were, she was forestalled by the Altrurian asking: ”Would it be very indiscreet, madam, if I were to ask you some time to introduce me to that family?”

”The Camps?” she returned. ”Not at all. I should be perfectly delighted.”

The thought seemed to strike her, and she asked: ”Why not go with me this morning, unless you are inflexibly bent on going to church, you and Mr.

Twelvemough?”

The Altrurian glanced at me, and I said I should be only too glad, if I could carry some books, so that I could compromise on a good action, too.