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Page 13
He is dressed with faultless nicety and elegance, though in a fashion
now out of date. Perhaps, in graceful recognition of the advance of
age, he has adhered to the style in vogue when age first began to
weigh upon his shoulders. He gazes mildly out from the embrasure of
an upright collar and tall stock; below spreads a wide expanse of
spotless shirt-front. His trousers are always gray, except in the heat
of summer, when they become snowy white. They are uniformly too long;
yet he never dispenses with his straps, nor with the gaiters that
crown his gentlemanly shoes.
Although not a stimulating companion, one loves to be where Amos
MacGentle is; to watch his quiet movements, and listen to his
meditative talk. What he says generally bears the stamp of thought and
intellectual capacity, and at first strikes the listener as rare good
sense; yet, if reconsidered afterwards, or applied to the practical
tests of life, his wisdom is apt to fall mysteriously short. Is Mr.
MacGentle aware of this curious fact? There sometimes is a sadly
humorous curving of the lips and glimmering in the eyes after he has
uttered something especially profound, which almost warrants the
suspicion. The lack of accord between the old gentleman and the world
has become to him, at last, a dreary sort of jest.
But we might go on forever touching the elusive chords of Mr.
MacGentle's being; one cannot help loving him, or, if he be not real
enough to love, bestowing upon him such affection as is inspired by
some gentle symphony. Unfortunately, he figures but little in the
coming pages, and in no active part; such, indeed, were unsuited to
him. But it is pleasant to pass through his retired little office on
our way to scenes less peaceful and subdued; and we would gladly look
forward to seeing him once more, when the heat of the day is over and
the sun has gone down.
V.
A NEW MAN WITH AN OLD FACE.
About an hour before noon on this same twenty-seventh of May, Mr. Dyke
heard a voice in the outer room. He had held his position in the house
as confidential clerk for nearly or quite twenty-five years, was
blessed with a good memory, and was fond of saying that he never
forgot a face or a voice. So, as this voice from the outer room
reached his ears, he turned one eye up towards the door and muttered,
"Heard that before, somewhere!"
The ground-glass panel darkened, and the door was thrown wide open.
Upon the threshold stood a young man about six feet in height, of
figure rather graceful and harmonious than massive. A black velveteen
jacket fitted closely to his shape; he had on a Tyrolese hat; his
boots, of thin, pliant leather, reached above the knee. He carried a
stout cane, with a handle of chamois-horn; to a couple of straps,
crossing each shoulder, were attached a travelling-scrip and a
telescope-case.
But neither his attire nor the unusual size and dark brilliancy of
his eyes was so noticeable as his hair and beard, which outgrew the
bounds of common experience. Beards, to be sure, were far more rare
twenty years ago than they have since become. The hair was yellow,
with the true hyacinthine curl pervading it. Rejoicing in luxuriant
might, it clothed and reclothed the head, and, descending lower,
tumbled itself in bold masses on the young man's shoulders. As for the
beard, it was well in keeping. Of a purer yellow than the hair, it
twisted down in crisp, vigorous waves below the point marked by
mankind's third shirt-stud. It was full half as broad as it was long,
and lay to the right and left from the centre-line of the face. The
owner of this oriflamme looked like a young Scandinavian god.
There seems to be a deeper significance in hair than meets the eye.
Sons of Esau, whose beards grow high up on their cheek-bones, who are
hairy down to their ankles, and to the second joints of their fingers,
are generally men of a kindly and charitable nature, strong in what we
call the human element. One remembers their stout hand-grip; they look
frankly in one's face, and the heart is apt to go out to them more
spontaneously than to the smooth-faced Jacobs. Such a man was Samson,
whose hair was his strength,--the strength of inborn truth and
goodness, whereby he was enabled to smite the lying Philistines. And
although they once, by their sophistries, managed to get the better
of him for a while, they forgot that good inborn is too vigorous a
matter for any mere razor finally to subdue. See, again, what a great
beard Saint Paul had, and what an outspoken, vigorous heart! Was it
from freak that Greeks and Easterns reverenced beards as symbols of
manhood, dignity, and wisdom? or that Christian Fathers thundered
against the barber, as a violator of divine law? No one, surely, could
accuse that handy, oily, easy little personage of evil intent; but he
symbolized the subtile principle which pares away the natural virtue
of man, and substitutes an artificial polish, which is hypocrisy. It
is to be observed, however, that hair can be representative of natural
evil as well as of good. A tangle-headed bush-ranger does not win our
sympathies. A Mussulman keeps his beard religiously clean.
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