Part 23 (1/2)

Captain Pharo leaned forward and sniffed; so did Uncle Coffin.

”Water! Coffin, by clam!” said Captain Pharo, rising. ”Plackards said 'twas goin' to be a re'listic play--and here, by clam! I've rode twelve miles over a hubbly road an' waited 'round here all day, jest t'

hear a spear o' female gra.s.s screech, an' see a pint bottle o' water busted! Come along! I'm goin' home.”

How futile indeed are the poor effects of the stage compared with the ever new and varied drama of life itself!

As Miss Pray and I came in sight of her cottage, at this now uncanny hour of the night, we saw that the house was all alight, and Belle O'Neill stood in the doorway, loudly and gleefully ringing the dinner-bell.

”O Miss Pray, there was a dead pig washed ash.o.r.e to-day, right down on your clam-bottoms--such a beautiful one!--jest as fat!--and me and Wesley brought it up and roasted it, and we've been expectin' you, an'

expectin' you, an' tryin' to keep it hot----”

”A dead pig!” hissed Miss Pray. ”Do you want to murder us? Do you want to drown me in the morning and p'ison me at night, Belle O'Neill?

For heaven's sake, have you et any of it?”

The appearance of the dish testified only too plainly that she and Wesley had dined.

”You're p'isoned!” shrieked Miss Pray: ”be you prepared, Belle O'Neill?

Fat pig! He was prob'bly bloated with p'ison! Oh, dear! oh, mercy!

you're prob'bly dyin' this very minit.”

Belle O'Neill began to howl, Wesley to weep dismally with low moans, his fists in his eyes.

I had a medicine which I administered to the two, in case the exigency were as fearful as Miss Pray predicted, which I strongly doubted. From this, as Belle O'Neill recovered, she turned to Miss Pray with the confessional fearlessness of one who has been at the grave's brink.

”And, oh, Miss Pray! the brindle cow 's calved and hid it in the woods!”

”So you've been down by the sea-wall, hunting up things to p'ison the only friend you ever had on earth with, and left the brindle cow and her calf to die in the woods?”

But Belle O'Neill had reached that plane of despondency where the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune could no longer sting her.

”I meant it for the best, Miss Pray,” she said, as we all started, with the lantern, for the woods.

Never had I engaged in a scene of such eerie fascinations; especially as, when we discovered the cow with her calf, and endeavored to set the latter on its feet and lead it, the cow shook her horns at us with such an aggressive lunge, I fled without apology behind a tree, where Miss Pray and Wesley, dropping the lantern, pursued me with entreaties for protection!

But Belle O'Neill, seemingly conscious that she had to redeem herself by some heroic act or die, picked up the lantern and continued leading the calf, at which the cow singled her out with respect and obediently followed her: so that we who had witnessed her disgrace now followed meekly, afar off, her triumphal procession homeward.

”That girl has done n.o.bly,” I said.

”Belle O'Neill,” said Miss Pray, before we finally sought that repose which is the guerdon of all n.o.bly sustained adventure, ”the drownin'

and the p'isonin' is both forgot, and next time the jew'lry pedler comes along you shall have a breas'pin--that is, if you're livin', Belle O'Neill.”

”Oh, Belle will live,” I cried; ”the danger is over.”

”Whether I lives or whether I dies,” said Belle O'Neill, calm now on heights above us all, ”I meant that roast pig for the best, Miss Pray.”

But before I could get to sleep that night I gave myself up to folly; I rolled in inextinguishable fits of laughter. My gray heraldry, my ancient coat of arms, innocently maligned as they had been, stared down reproachfully at me through the night. I feebly wiped my weeping eyes and rolled and laughed the more, and slept at last such a sleep as only the foolish and blessed of mortality know.