first.”
“This young man seems to meet the hereditary requirement, certainly.”
“Yes, yes, he was a fool, without any doubt. Examine the face, the shape
of the head, the expression. It’s all fool, fool, fool, straight
through.”
“Thanks,–” said Tracy, involuntarily.
“Thanks? ”
“I mean for explaining it to me. Go on, please.”
“As I was saying, fool is printed all over the face.
“A body can even read the details.”
“What do they say?”
“Well, added up, he is a wobbler.”
“A which?”
“Wobbler. A person that’s always taking a firm stand about something or
other–kind of a Gibraltar stand, he thinks, for unshakable fidelity and
everlastingness–and then, inside of a little while, he begins to wobble;
no more Gibraltar there; no, sir, a mighty ordinary commonplace weakling
wobbling–around on stilts. That’s Lord Berkeley to a dot, you can see
it look at that sheep! But,–why are you blushing like sunset! Dear
sir, have I unwittingly offended in some way?”
“Oh, no indeed, no indeed. Far from it. But it always makes me blush to
hear a man revile his own blood.” He said to himself, “How strangely his
vagrant and unguided fancies have hit upon the truth. By accident, he
has described me. I am that contemptible thing. When I left England I
thought I knew myself; I thought I was a very Frederick the Great for
resolution and staying capacity; whereas in truth I am just a Wobbler,
simply a Wobbler. Well–after all, it is at least creditable to have
high ideals and give birth to lofty resolutions; I will allow myself that
comfort.” Then he said, aloud, “Could this sheep, as you call him, breed
a great and self-sacrificing idea in his head, do you think? Could he
meditate such a thing, for instance, as the renunciation of the earldom
and its wealth and its glories, and voluntary retirement to the ranks of
the commonalty, there to rise by his own merit or remain forever poor and
obscure?”
“Could he? Why, look at him–look at this simpering self-righteous mug!
There is your answer. It’s the very thing he would think of. And he
would start in to do it, too.”
“And then?”
“He’d wobble.”
“And back down?”
“Every time.”
“Is that to happen with all my–I mean would that happen to all his high
resolutions?”
“Oh certainly–certainly. It’s the Rossmore of it.”
“Then this creature was fortunate to die! Suppose, for argument’s sake,
that I was a Rossmore, and–”
“It can’t be done.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not a supposable case. To be a Rossmore at your age, you’d
have to be a fool, and you’re not a fool. And you’d have to be a
Wobbler, whereas anybody that is an expert in reading character can see
at a glance that when you set your foot down once, it’s there to stay;
and earthquake can’t wobble it.” He added to himself, “That’s enough to
say to him, but it isn’t half strong enough for the facts. The more
I observe him, now, the more remarkable I find him. It is the strongest
face I have ever examined. There is almost superhuman firmness here,
immovable purpose, iron steadfastness of will. A most extraordinary
young man.”
He presently said, aloud:
“Some time I want to ask your advice about a little matter, Mr. Tracy.
You see, I’ve got that young lord’s remaims–my goodness, how you jump!”
“Oh, it’s nothing, pray go on. You’ve got his remains?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure they are his, and not somebody else’s?”
“Oh, perfectly sure. Samples, I mean. Not all of him.”
“Samples?”
“Yes-in baskets. Some time you will be going home; and if you wouldn’t
mind taking them along–”
“Who? I?”
“Yes–certainly. I don’t mean now; but after a while; after–but look
here, would you like to see them?”
“No! Most certainly not. I don’t want to see them.”
“O, very well. I only thought–hey, where are you going, dear?”
“Out to dinner, papa.”
Tracy was aghast. The colonel said, in a disappointed voice:
“Well, I’m sorry. Sho, I didn’t know she was going out, Mr. Tracy.”
Gwendolen’s face began to take on a sort of apprehensive ‘What-have-I-
done expression.’
“Three old people to one young one–well, it isn’t a good team, that’s a