“No,” said he, without any abatement of his gravity, and looking steadfastly at his wife, “I did not mount the hill.”—“Why not?”—“Catharine, have you not moved from that spot since I left the room?”—She was affected with the solemnity of his manner, and laying down her work, answered in a tone of surprise, “No; Why do you ask that question?”—His eyes were again fixed upon the floor, and he did not immediately answer. At length, he said, looking round upon us, “Is it true that Catharine did not follow me to the hill? That she did not just now enter the room?”—We assured him, with one voice, that she had not been absent for a moment, and inquired into the motive of his questions.
“Your assurances,” said he, “are solemn and unanimous; and yet I must deny credit to your assertions, or disbelieve the testimony of my senses, which informed me, when I was halfway up the hill, that Catharine was at the bottom.”
We were confounded at this declaration. Pleyel rallied him with great levity on his behaviour. He listened to his friend with calmness, but without any relaxation of features.
“One thing,” said he with emphasis, “is true; either I heard my wife’s voice at the bottom of the hill, or I do not hear your voice at present.”
“Truly,” returned Pleyel, “it is a sad dilemma to which you have reduced yourself. Certain it is, if our eyes can give us certainty that your wife has been sitting in that spot during every moment of your absence. You have heard her voice, you say, upon the hill. In general, her voice, like her temper, is all softness. To be heard across the room, she is obliged to exert herself. While you were gone, if I mistake not, she did not utter a word. Clara and I had all the talk to ourselves. Still it may be that she held a whispering conference with you on the hill; but tell us the particulars.”