Part 54 (2/2)

But what she thought Miss Morton never said, for Mrs. Brotherton, still familiar with the gossip of the schoolhouse, cut in to say: ”And, Martha, what do you think those Copini children say? They say father's got their father's orchestra to practice all the old sentimental music you ever heard of--'Silver Threads Among the Gold,' and 'Do You Love Me, Molly Darling,' and 'Lorena,' and 'Robin Adair,'--and oh,” cried Mrs.

Brotherton, shaking a hopeless head, ”I don't know what other silly things.”

”And yes, girls,” exclaimed the youngest Miss Morton flippantly, ”he's sent around to the Music School for Miss Howe to come and sing 'O Promise Me'!”

”The idea!” cried the new Mrs. Brotherton.

”Why, the very idea!” broke out the handsome Miss Morton, sitting by the dining-room table.

”The idea!” echoed the youngest Miss Morton, putting away her music roll, and adding in gasping excitement: ”And that isn't the worst. He sent word for her to sing it just after the band had finished playing the wedding march!”

Now terror came into the house of Morton, and when the tailor's boy brought home a package, the daughters tore it open ruthlessly, and discovered--as they sat limply with it spread out in its pristine beauty on the sofa before them--a white broadcloth dinner suit--with a watered silk vest. Half an hour later, when a pleated dress s.h.i.+rt with pearl b.u.t.tons came, it found three daughters sitting with tight lips waiting for their father--and six tigers' eyes glaring hungrily at the door through which he was expected. At six o'clock, when they heard his nimble step on the porch, they looked at one another in fear, and as he burst into the room, each looked decisively at the other as indicating a command to begin.

He came in enveloping them in one all-encompa.s.sing hug and cried:

”Well 'y gory, girls, you certainly are the three graces, the three fates, and the world, the flesh and the devil all in one--what say?”

But the Morton daughters were not to be silenced. Ruth took in a deep breath and began:

”Well, now see here, father, do you know what people are saying about--”

”Of course--I was just coming to that, Ruthie,” answered the Captain.

”Amos Adams he says, 'Well, Cap,' say he, 'I was talking to Cleopatra and she says Queen Victoria had a readin' to the effect that there was a boy named Amos Ezra Morton Adams over on one of the stars in the southwest corner of the milky way that would be busting into this part of the universe in about three years, more or less'--what say?”

The old man laughed and Ruth flushed red, and ran away. The Captain saw his suit lying on the sofa.

”Somepin new--” interjected the Captain. ”Thought I'd kind o' bloom out; sort o' to let folks know that the old man had a little kick in him yet--eh? And now, girls--listen; let's all go out to the Country Club for dinner to-night, and I'll put on my new suit and you kind of rig up in your best, and we'll make what George calls a killing--what say?” He put his hands in his pockets and looked critically at his new clothes.

The flight of Ruth had quieted Emma, but Martha came swooping down on him with ”Now, father--look here--about that Country Club party--”

The Captain shot a swift glance at Martha, and saw Emma looking at him from the kitchen door.

”What party?” he exclaimed. ”Can't I ask my girls out for a little innocent dinner without its being called a party--eh? Now, you girls get your things on and come on. As for me, the limousine will be at the door at eight!”

He disappeared up the stairs and in the Morton household, two young women, woeful and heavy hearted, went about their toilets, while in the Brotherton establishment, one large fat man in suspenders felt the rush of sudden tears on his s.h.i.+rt front and marveled at the ways of the s.e.x.

When the Mortons were in the midst of their moist and lugubrious task, the thin, cracked little voice of the Captain called out:

”Girls--before you go, don't forget to put that cold beef on and stew it to-night for hash in the morning--eh?”

It was a beautiful party that Captain Morton gave at the Country Club house that evening. And at the end of a most gorgeously elaborate dinner, wherein were dishes whose very names the Captain did not know, he rose among his guests seated at the U-shaped table in the big dining room with the heavy brown beams in the ceiling, a little old man by his big chair, which stood beside a chair unoccupied.

”Friends,” he said, ”when a man gets on in his seventies, at that uncertain time, when he does not know whether to be ashamed of his years or proud of his age,” he smiled at Daniel Sands, who clicked his false-teeth in appreciation of the phrase, ”it would seem that thoughts of what the poet calls 'the livelier iris' on the 'burnished dove' would not inconvenience him to any great extent--eh? At seventy-five a young fellow's fancy ought to be pretty well done lightly turning to thoughts of love--what say? But by cracky--they don't.”

He paused. The Morton girls in shame looked at their plates. ”So, I just thought I'd have this little party to tell you about it. I wanted to surprise the girls.” There was only a faint clapping of hands; for tears in the eyes of the three Morton daughters discouraged merriment.

”A man, as I was saying, never gets too old--never gets too crabbed, for what my friend Amos's friend Emerson calls 'a ruddy drop of manly blood'--eh? So, when that 'ruddy drop of manly blood' comes a surging up in me, I says I'll just about have a party for that drop of manly blood!

I'm going to tell you all about it. There's a woman in my mind--a very beautiful woman; for years--a feller just as well breakdown and confess--eh?--well for years she's been in my mind pretty much all the time--particularly since Ruthie there was a baby and left alorn and alone--as you may say--eh? And so,” he reached down and grasped a goblet of water firmly, and held it before him, ”and so,” he repeated, and his old eyes glistened and his voice broke, ”as it was just fifty years ago to-night that heaven opened and let her come to me, before I marched off to war--so,” he hurried along, ”I give you this toast--the vacant chair--may it always, always, always be filled in my heart of hearts!”

He could not drink, but sank with his head on his arms, and when they had ceased clapping their hands, the old man looked up, signaled to the orchestra, and cried in a tight, cracked voice, ”Now, dern ye--begin yer fiddlin'!”

Whereupon the three Morton daughters wept and the old ladies gathered about them and wept, and Mrs. Hilda Herd.i.c.ker's ton of jet heaved as in a tidal wave, and the old men dried their eyes, and only Lila Van Dorn and Kenyon Adams, holding hands under the table, really knew what it was all about.

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