Part 32 (1/2)
”When father heard last, he was in Norway, but since then I read an account of a dinner given to the party of which he was a member, by a geographical society in London.”
”You have received no letter?”
”None recently, and I do not expect any.”
”Because you do not deserve any. I am so disappointed in him.”
”In what respect? I imagined that in your eyes, as in father's, he was simply perfect.”
”He is capable of something far better than lounging through life with his hands in his pockets, and loafing around the world. If he could only have the good luck to lose his money, he might accomplish what G.o.d makes such men for.”
”He is not an idle tramp. He is kept busy dancing attendance on his exacting bride.”
”Bride!” exclaimed Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l, with such startling shrillness that Delilah sprang out of her lap and surveyed her with astonishment.
”Not a bride of pink flesh, on whom he can bestow collars of diamonds, but an old dame of h.o.a.ry locks, whose harsh jargon he considers musical, and who, having taken his purse and tied him to her ap.r.o.n strings, drags him from the bowels of the earth to the mountains of the moon, amusing him with photographs of microbes and eclipses, and with prehistoric skeletons that her relentless h.o.r.n.y claws have stolen from their lawful graves. Long ago he was wedded to 'Science,' and of course he keeps his bridal vows.”
”I am sure you do not fully understand him, and I wonder he did not marry Miss Stanley; she is so lovely, and he certainly admired her.”
”She is indeed a luscious beauty, and attracted him, but if he really had any serious intentions, I think she lost him that night when the alarm of fire emptied the theatre. Ours was a proscenium box in the second tier. Eleanor Stanley had dined with Captain Sefton's sister, he was her escort, and I went with Mr. Herriott. Of course you know all about the horrible tragedy, but I never told any one what preceded it.
Toward the end, and while the curtain was down, Captain Sefton so far forgot himself as to repeat an unpardonably _risque_ story of a smart set leader, at which Eleanor laughed heartily. I stared at my bouquet of orchids, and lifted them to s.h.i.+eld my face where I felt the blood.
Without moving an eyelash Mr. Noel sat like a sphinx, looking steadily at Eleanor, then took my opera gla.s.s and watched a party of pretty girls in the dress circle. His face was as absolutely impa.s.sive as one of the masks frescoed on the ceiling. In the middle of the next and closing act, a scream from the rear of the stage startled us, and almost simultaneously two of the ballet girls rushed from behind the wings, with fire blazing in their short, gauzy skirts. One ran to the corner of the stage just under our box, and the actors fled from her. Mr. Herriott put his hand heavily on my shoulder.
”Do not move an inch till I come.”
He s.n.a.t.c.hed his overcoat and my velvet opera cloak, stepped on the railing of the box, measured the distance with his eye and leaped down.
He struck on his feet, and staggered, but the next instant he reached the girl, who ran shrieking up and down, caught her, threw my cloak over her head, pressed her to the floor, covered her with his overcoat, and rolled her over and over as if she were a ball. Of course she was horribly burned, but she lived. The other poor creature kept her hands before her face as a screen from the flames, missed her footing, stumbled over the footlights and fell among the orchestra chairs. The musicians smothered the flames, but she died after two hours of torture.
Mr. Herriott's gloves saved his hands, but one wrist was badly blistered, and his mustache singed. When we were going home I told him how enthusiastically Eleanor admired and praised his bravery, and that she declared she would strive to win his affection were he not so 'goody-goody'; she feared he would expect her to be equally pious. A queer expression I could not understand crossed his face, and when he spoke his voice was stern:
”'I am not pious; more is the pity! At least I am too honest to accept praise I do not deserve. Please be so kind as not to refer again to this evening, several surprising incidents of which I shall be glad to forget.' A few days later he sent to replace my scorched velvet, that gorgeous ivory satin opera cloak brocaded with lilies in silver, which father and you wished me to accept, and I based my refusal on his request, as the mere sight of it would inevitably remind him of a night neither of us wished to recall. Look yonder.”
”Yes; there must be a picket off that white game yard fence, for I am positive I fastened the gate this morning. Run on ahead and open the gate wide, for when they are driven back they never can find the crack where they came out. That white rooster is all ruffled up for a fight with the red one. Scare the hens back and stand on one side.”
When the fugitives had been shut in, the two women stood admiring the flock.
”Dearie, do you know how old these chickens are? Forty years before railroads were built in this state, your grandfather brought them in a champagne basket on the top of a stage-coach from somewhere in Maryland, and the person who gave them to him had imported them from England forty years before. Think of it!”
”I do, with astonishment difficult to express. More than eighty years old, and no sign of decrepitude in crowing, fighting and laying eggs!
Little mother, what are _tarrididdles_?”
Laughing, she put her hands on Eliza's shoulder and shook her gently.
The little woman pinched her ear.
”Don't talk slang to me. You know I did not mean these very identical fowls are those that came in the champagne basket, but the original trio, two hens and a c.o.c.k, were kept in a separate yard, and so the stock has remained pure game for more than forty years. They are such beauties, and to the last day of her life your grandmother was so proud and fond of them. One morning when we were feeding them she told me how General Maurice had laughed over the cunning of one of the negroes whose duty it was to attend to the fowl yards. The general had promised a setting of eggs to a friend in a neighboring county, and ordered the man to bring him one dozen perfectly fresh. The negro protested against a violation of the rule that no one else should own the white games, so that if stolen they could be traced. His master insisted, and when the eggs were handed to him he packed them very carefully in cotton, to prevent jostling, and sent them to his friend. Some time afterward, a letter reached your grandfather, informing him none of the eggs had hatched, and he called the man and read the letter to him.
”'Narry aigg hatched? Well, I made sure they couldn't, for I am 'sponsible for keeping dem chickens safe at home and I 'tends to my bizness. You see, marster, I knowed you was in a mighty tight fix, 'cause natch.e.l.ly you hated to say no when Dr. Glenn axed for 'em, and most natch.e.l.ly you didn't want our yaller-breasted, bra.s.s-winged white games crowing in other folks' yards, and so I just pintedly shuck 'em and shuck 'em like thunder, till they was foamy enough for Celie's omlet skillet.'”