“No, mother; as you say, I must not be harsh. None the less I shall be firm. He must study; he is not to become a preacher by mere wishing.”
Shod hoofs are heard on the graveled driveway; a voice is lifted:
“Walk Warlock up and down until he is cooled out. Then give him a rub, and a mouthful of water.”
Madam Bellamy steps to the window. The master of the voice is swinging from the saddle, while the doctor’s groom takes his horse--sweating from a brisk gallop--by the bridle.
“Here he comes now,” says Madam Bellamy, at the sound of a springy step in the hall.
The youth, who so confidently enters the doctor’s study, is in his nineteenth year. His face is sensitive and fine, and its somewhat overbred look is strengthened and restored by a high hawkish nose. The dark hair is clubbed in an elegant cue. The skin, fair as a girl’s, gives to the black eyes a glitter beyond their due. These eyes are the striking feature; for, while the eyes of a poet, they carry in their inky depths a hard, ophidian sparkle both dangerous and fascinating--the sort of eyes that warn a man and blind a woman.
The youth is but five feet six inches tall, with little hands and feet, and ears ridiculously small. And yet, his light, slim form is so accurately proportioned that, besides grace and a catlike quickness, it hides in its molded muscles the strength of steel. Also, any impression of insignificance is defeated by the wide brow and well-shaped head, which, coupled with a steady self-confidence that envelops him like an atmosphere, give the effect of power.
As he lounges languidly and pantherwise into the study, he bows to Madam Bellamy and the good doctor.
“You had quite a canter, Aaron,” remarks Madam Bellamy.
“I went half way to Litchfield,” returns the youth, smiting his glossy riding boot with the whip he carries. “For a moment I thought of seeing my sister Sally; but it would have been too long a run for so warm a day. As it is, poor Warlock looks as though he’d forded a river.”
The youth throws himself carelessly into the doctor’s easy-chair. That divine clears his throat professionally. Foreseeing earnestness if not severity in the discourse which is to follow, Madam Bellamy picks up her needlework and retires.