for another piece. 'Little over-zealous for a non-resident patriot,
isn't it?'
"'Don't mind it,' I says to him. ''Twas an accident. They happen,
you know, on the Fourth. After one reading of the Declaration of
Independence in New York I've known the S. R. O. sign to be hung out
at all the hospitals and police stations.'
"But then Jerry gives a howl and jumps up with one hand clapped to
the back of his leg where another bullet has acted over-zealous. And
then comes a quantity of yells, and round a corner and across the
plaza gallops General Mary Esperanza Dingo embracing the neck of his
horse, with his men running behind him, mostly dropping their guns
by way of discharging ballast. And chasing 'em all is a company of
feverish little warriors wearing blue trousers and caps.
"'Assistance, amigos,' the General shouts, trying to stop his horse.
'Assistance, in the name of Liberty!'
"'That's the Compañia Azul, the President's bodyguard,' says Jones.
'What a shame! They've jumped on poor old Mary just because he was
helping us to celebrate. Come on, boys, it's our Fourth; - do we let
that little squad of A.D.T's break it up?'
"'I vote No,' says Martin Dillard, gathering his Winchester. 'It's
the privilege of an American citizen to drink, drill, dress up, and
be dreadful on the Fourth of July, no matter whose country he's in.'
"'Fellow citizens!' says old man Billfinger, 'In the darkest hour
of Freedom's birth, when our brave forefathers promulgated the
principles of undying liberty, they never expected that a bunch of
blue jays like that should be allowed to bust up an anniversary. Let
us preserve and protect the Constitution.'
"We made it unanimous, and then we gathered our guns and assaulted
the blue troops in force. We fired over their heads, and then
charged 'em with a yell, and they broke and ran. We were irritated
at having our barbecue disturbed, and we chased 'em a quarter of a
mile. Some of 'em we caught and kicked hard. The General rallied his
troops and joined in the chase. Finally they scattered in a thick
banana grove, and we couldn't flush a single one. So we sat down and
rested.
"If I were to be put, severe, through the third degree, I wouldn't
be able to tell much about the rest of the day. I mind that we
pervaded the town considerable, calling upon the people to bring out
more armies for us to destroy. I remember seeing a crowd somewhere,
and a tall man that wasn't Billfinger making a Fourth of July speech
from a balcony. And that was about all.
"Somebody must have hauled the old ice factory up to where I was,
and put it around me, for there's where I was when I woke up the
next morning. As soon as I could recollect by name and address I got
up and held an inquest. My last cent was gone. I was all in.
"And then a neat black carriage drives to the door, and out steps
General Dingo and a bay man in a silk hat and tan shoes.
"'Yes,' says I to myself, 'I see it now. You're the Chief de
Policeos and High Lord Chamberlain of the Calaboosum; and you want
Billy Casparis for excess of patriotism and assault with intent. All
right. Might as well be in jail, anyhow.'
"But it seems that General Mary is smiling, and the bay man shakes
my hand, and speaks in the American dialect.
"'General Dingo has informed me, Señor Casparis, of your gallant
service in our cause. I desire to thank you with my person. The
bravery of you and the other señores Americanos turned the struggle
for liberty in our favour. Our party triumphed. The terrible battle
will live forever in history.
"'Battle?' says I; 'what battle?' and I ran my mind back along
history, trying to think.
"'Señor Casparis is modest,' says General Dingo. 'He led his brave
compadres into the thickest of the fearful conflict. Yes. Without
their aid the revolution would have failed.'
"'Why, now,' says I, 'don't tell me there was a revolution
yesterday. That was only a Fourth of - '
"But right there I abbreviated. It seemed to me it might be best.
"'After the terrible struggle,' says the bay man, 'President Bolano
was forced to fly. To-day Caballo is President by proclamation. Ah,
yes. Beneath the new administration I am the head of the Department
of Mercantile Concessions. On my file I find one report, Señor
Casparis, that you have not made ice in accord with your contract.'
And here the bay man smiles at me, 'cute.
"'Oh, well,' says I, 'I guess the report's straight. I know they
caught me. That's all there is to it.'
"'Do not say so,' says the bay man. He pulls off a glove and goes
over and lays his hand on that chunk of glass.
"'Ice,' says he, nodding his head, solemn.
"General Dingo also steps over and feels of it.
"'Ice,' says the General; 'I'll swear to it.'
"'If Señor Casparis,' says the bay man, 'will present himself to the
treasury on the sixth day of this month he will receive back the
thousand dollars he did deposit as a forfeit. Adios, señor.'
"The General and the bay man bowed themselves out, and I bowed as
often as they did.
"And when the carriage rolls away through the sand I bows once more,
deeper than ever, till my hat touches the ground. But this time
'twas not intended for them. For, over their heads, I saw the old
flag fluttering in the breeze above the consul's roof; and 'twas to
it I made my profoundest salute."
XIV
THE EMANCIPATION OF BILLY
In the old, old, square-porticoed mansion, with the wry
window-shutters and the paint peeling off in discoloured flakes,
lived one of the last of the war governors.
The South has forgotten the enmity of the great conflict, but it
refuses to abandon its old traditions and idols. In "Governor"
Pemberton, as he was still fondly called, the inhabitants of
Elmville saw the relic of their state's ancient greatness and glory.
In his day he had been a man large in the eye of his country. His
state had pressed upon him every honour within its gift. And now
when he was old, and enjoying a richly merited repose outside the
swift current of public affairs, his townsmen loved to do him
reverence for the sake of the past.
The Governor's decaying "mansion" stood upon the main street of
Elmville within a few feet of its rickety paling-fence. Every
morning the Governor would descend the steps with extreme care and
deliberation - on account of his rheumatism - and then the click of
his gold-headed cane would be heard as he slowly proceeded up the
rugged brick sidewalk. He was now nearly seventy-eight, but he had
grown old gracefully and beautifully. His rather long, smooth hair
and flowing, parted whiskers were snow-white. His full-skirted
frock-croak was always buttoned snugly about his tall, spare
figure. He wore a high, well-kept silk hat - known as a "plug" in
Elmville - and nearly always gloves. His manners were punctilious,
and somewhat overcharged with courtesy.
The Governor's walks up Lee Avenue, the principal street, developed
in their course into a sort of memorial, triumphant procession.
Everyone he met saluted him with profound respect. Many would remove
their hats. Those who were honoured with his personal friendship
would pause to shake hands, and then you would see exemplified the
genuine _beau ideal_ Southern courtesy.
Upon reaching the corner of the second square from the mansion, the
Governor would pause. Another street crossed the venue there, and
traffic, to the extent of several farmers' wagons and a peddler's
cart or two, would rage about the junction. Then the falcon eye of
General Deffenbaugh would perceive the situation, and the General
would hasten, with ponderous solicitude, from his office in the
First National Bank building to the assistance of his old friend.
When the two exchanged greetings the decay of modern manners would
become accusingly apparent. The General's bulky and commanding
figure would bend lissomely at a point where you would have regarded
its ability to do so with incredulity. The Governor would take the
General's arm and be piloted safely between the hay-wagons and the
sprinkling-cart to the other side of the street. Proceeding to the
post-office in the care of his friend, the esteemed statesmen would
there hold an informal levee among the citizens who were come for
their morning mail. Here, gathering two or three prominent in law,
politics, or family, the pageant would make a stately progress along
the Avenue, stopping at the Palace Hotel, where, perhaps, would be
found upon the register the name of some guest deemed worthy of an
introduction to the state's venerable and illustrious son. If any
such were found, an hour or two would be spent in recalling the
faded glories of the Governor's long-vanished administration.
On the return march the General would invariably suggest that, His
Excellency being no doubt fatigued, it would be wise to recuperate
for a few minutes at the Drug Emporium of Mr. Appleby R. Fentress
(an elegant gentleman, sir - one of the Chatham County Fentresses - so
many of our best-blooded families have had to go into trade, sir,
since the war).
Mr. Appleby R. Fentress was a _connoisseur_ in fatigue. Indeed,
if he had not been, his memory alone should have enabled him to
prescribe, for the majestic invasion of his pharmacy was a casual
happening that had surprised him almost daily for years. Mr.
Fentress knew the formula of, and possessed the skill to compound,
a certain potion antagonistic to fatigue, the salient ingredient of
which he described (no doubt in pharmaceutical terms) as "genuine
old hand-made Clover Leaf '59, Private Stock."
Nor did the ceremony of administering the potion ever vary. Mr.
Fentress would first compound two of the celebrated mixtures - one
for the Governor, and the other for the General to "sample." Then
the Governor would make this little speech in his high, piping,
quavering voice:
"No, sir - not one drop until you have prepared one for yourself and
join us, Mr. Fentress. Your father, sir, was one of my most valued
supporters and friends during My Administration, and any mark of
esteem I can confer upon his son is not only a pleasure but a duty,
sir."
Blushing with delight at the royal condescension, the druggist would
obey, and all would drink to the General's toast: "The prosperity of
our grand old state, gentlemen - the memory of her glorious past - the
health of her Favourite Son."
Some one of the Old Guard was always at hand to escort the Governor
home. Sometimes the General's business duties denied him the
privilege, and then Judge Broomfield or Colonel Titus, or one of the
Ashford County Slaughters would be on hand to perform the rite.
Such were the observances attendant upon the Governor's morning
stroll to the post-office. How much more magnificent, impressive,
and spectacular, then, was the scene at public functions when
the General would lead forth the silver-haired relic of former
greatness, like some rare and fragile waxwork figure, and trumpet
his pristine eminence to his fellow citizens!
General Deffenbaugh was the Voice of Elmville. Some said he was
Elmville. At any rate, he had no competitor as the Mouthpiece. He
owned enough stock in the _Daily Banner_ to dictate its utterance,
enough shares in the First National Bank to be the referee of its
loans, and a war record that left him without a rival for first
place at barbecues, school commencements, and Decoration Days.
Besides these acquirements he was possessed with endowments. His
personality was inspiring and triumphant. Undisputed sway had
moulded him to the likeness of a fatted Roman emperor. The tones of
his voice were not otherwise than clarion. To say that the General
was public-spirited would fall short of doing him justice. He
had spirit enough for a dozen publics. And as a sure foundation
for it all, he had a heart that was big and stanch. Yes; General
Deffenbaugh was Elmville.
One little incident that usually occurred during the Governor's
morning walk has had its chronicling delayed by more important
matters. The procession was accustomed to halt before a small brick
office on the Avenue, fronted by a short flight of steep wooden
steps. A modest tin sign over the door bore the words: "Wm. B.
Pemberton: Attorney-at-Law."
Looking inside, the General would roar: "Hello, Billy, my boy." The
less distinguished members of the escort would call: "Morning,
Billy." The Governor would pipe: "Good morning, William."
Then a patient-looking little man with hair turning gray along the
temples would come down the steps and shake hands with each one of
the party. All Elmville shook hands when it met.
The formalities concluded, the little man would go back to his
table, heaped with law books and papers, while the procession would
proceed.
Billy Pemberton was, as his sign declared, a lawyer by profession.
By occupation and common consent he was the Son of his Father.
This was the shadow in which Billy lived, the pit out of which he
had unsuccessfully striven for years to climb and, he had come
to believe, the grave in which his ambitions were destined to be
buried. Filial respect and duty he paid beyond the habit of most
sons, but he aspired to be known and appraised by his own deeds and
worth.
After many years of tireless labour he had become known in certain
quarters far from Elmville as a master of the principles of the law.
Twice he had gone to Washington and argued cases before the highest
tribunal with such acute logic and learning that the silken gowns
on the bench had rustled from the force of it. His income from his
practice had grown until he was able to support his father, in the
old family mansion (which neither of them would have thought of
abandoning, rickety as it was) in the comfort and almost the luxury
of the old extravagant days. Yet, he remained to Elmville as only
"Billy" Pemberton, the son of our distinguished and honoured
fellow-townsman, "ex-Governor Pemberton." Thus was he introduced at
public gatherings where he sometimes spoke, haltingly and prosily,
for his talents were too serious and deep for extempore brilliancy;
thus was he presented to strangers and to the lawyers who made the
circuit of the courts; and so the _Daily Banner_ referred to him
in print. To be "the son of" was his doom. What ever he should
accomplish would have to be sacrificed upon the altar of this
magnificent but fatal parental precedence.
The peculiarity and the saddest thing about Billy's ambition was
that the only world he thirsted to conquer was Elmville. His nature
was diffident and unassuming. National or State honours might
have oppressed him. But, above all things, he hungered for the
appreciation of the friends among whom he had been born and raised.
He would not have plucked one leaf from the garlands that were so
lavishly bestowed upon his father, he merely rebelled against having
his own wreathes woven from those dried and self-same branches. But
Elmville "Billied" and "sonned" him to his concealed but lasting
chagrin, until at length he grew more reserved and formal and
studious than ever.
There came a morning when Billy found among his mail a letter from
a very high source, tendering him the appointment to an important
judicial position in the new island possessions of our country. The
honour was a distinguished one, for the entire nation had discussed
the probable recipients of these positions, and had agreed that the
situation demanded only men of the highest character, ripe learning,
and evenly balanced mind.
Billy could not subdue a certain exultation at this token of the
success of his long and arduous labours, but, at the same time, a
whimsical smile lingered around his mouth, for he foresaw in which
column Elmville would place the credit. "We congratulate Governor
Pemberton upon the mark of appreciation conferred upon his
son" - "Elmville rejoices with our honoured citizen, Governor
Pemberton, at his son's success" - "Put her there, Billy!" - "Judge
Billy Pemberton, sir; son of our State's war hero and the people's
pride!" - these were the phrases, printed and oral, conjured up by
Billy's prophetic fancy. Grandson of his State, and stepchild to
Elmville - thus had fate fixed his kinship to the body politic.
Billy lived with his father in the old mansion. The two and an
elderly lady - a distant relative - comprised the family. Perhaps,
though, old Jeff, the Governor's ancient coloured body-servant,
should be included. Without doubt, he could have claimed the honour.
There were other servants, but Thomas Jefferson Pemberton, sah, was
a member of "de fambly."
Jeff was the one Elmvillian who gave to Billy the gold of approval
unmixed with the alloy of paternalism. To him "Mars William" was
the greatest man in Talbot County. Beaten upon though he was by the
shining light that emanates from an ex-war governor, and loyal as he
remained to the old _régime_, his faith and admiration were Billy's.
As valet to a hero, and a member of the family, he may have had
superior opportunities for judging.
Jeff was the first one to whom Bill revealed the news. When he
reached home for supper Jeff took his "plug" hat and smoothed it
before hanging it upon the hall-rack.
"Dar now!" said the old man: "I knowed it was er comin'. I knowed it
was gwine ter happen. Er Judge, you says, Mars William? Dem Yankees
done made you er judge? It's high time, sah, dey was doin' somep'n
to make up for dey rascality endurin' de war. I boun' dey holds a
confab and says: 'Le's make Mars William Pemberton er judge, and
dat'll settle it.' Does you have to go way down to dem Fillypines,
Mars William, or kin you judge 'em from here?"
"I'd have to live there most of the time, of course," said Billy.
"I wonder what de Gubnor gwine say 'bout dat," speculated Jeff.
Billy wondered too.
After supper, when the two sat in the library, according to their
habit, the Governor smoking his clay pipe and Billy his cigar, the
son dutifully confessed to having been tendered the appointment.
For a long time the Governor sat, smoking, without making any
comment. Billy reclined in his favourite rocker, waiting, perhaps
still flushed with satisfaction over the tender that had come to
him, unsolicited, in his dingy little office, above the heads of the
intriguing, time-serving, clamorous multitude.
At last the Governor spoke; and, though his words were seemingly
irrelevant, they were to the point. His voice had a note of
martyrdom running through its senile quaver.
"My rheumatism has been growing steadily worse these past months,
William."
"I am sorry, father," said Billy, gently.
"And I am nearly seventy-eight. I am getting to be an old man. I can
recall the names of but two or three who were in public life during
My Administration. What did you say is the nature of this position
that is offered you, William?"
"A Federal Judgeship, father. I believe it is considered to be a
somewhat flattering tender. It is outside of politics and
wire-pulling, you know."
"No doubt, no doubt. Few of the Pembertons have engaged in
professional life for nearly a century. None of them have ever held
Federal positions. They have been land-holders, slave-owners, and
planters on a large scale. One of two of the Derwents - your mother's
family - were in the law. Have you decided to accept this
appointment, William?"
"I am thinking it over," said Billy, slowly, regarding the ash of
his cigar.
"You have been a good son to me," continued the Governor, stirring
his pipe with the handle of a penholder.
"I've been your son all my life," said Billy, darkly.
"I am often gratified," piped the Governor, betraying a touch of
complacency, "by being congratulated upon having a son with such
sound and sterling qualities. Especially in this, our native town,
is your name linked with mine in the talk of our citizens."
"I never knew anyone to forget the vindculum," murmured Billy,
unintelligibly.
"Whatever prestige," pursued the parent, "I may be possessed of,
by virtue of my name and services to the state, has been yours to
draw upon freely. I have not hesitated to exert it in your behalf
whenever opportunity offered. And you have deserved it, William.
You've been the best of sons. And now this appointment comes to take
you away from me. I have but a few years left to live. I am almost
dependent upon others now, even in walking and dressing. What would
I do without you, my son?"
The Governor's pipe dropped to the floor. A tear trickled from his
eye. His voice had risen, and crumbled to a weakling falsetto, and
ceased. He was an old, old man about to be bereft of a son that
cherished him.
Billy rose, and laid his hand upon the Governor's shoulder.
"Don't worry, father," he said, cheerfully. "I'm not going to
accept. Elmville is good enough for me. I'll write to-night and
decline it."
At the next interchange of devoirs between the Governor and General
Deffenbaugh on Lee Avenue, His Excellency, with a comfortable air of
self-satisfaction, spoke of the appointment that had been tendered
to Billy.
The General whistled.
"That's a plum for Billy," he shouted. "Who'd have thought that
Billy - but, confound it, it's been in him all the time. It's a boost
for Elmville. It'll send real estate up. It's an honour to our
state. It's a compliment to the South. We've all been blind about
Billy. When does he leave? We must have a reception. Great Gatlings!
that job's eight thousand a year! There's been a car-load of
lead-pencils worn to stubs figuring on those appointments. Think of
it! Our little, wood-sawing, mealy-mouthed Billy! Angel unawares
doesn't begin to express it. Elmville is disgraced forever until she
lines up in a hurry for ratification and apology."
The venerable Moloch smiled fatuously. He carried the fire with
which to consume all these tributes to Billy, the smoke of which
would ascend as an incense to himself.
"William," said the Governor, with modest pride, "has declined the
appointment. He refuses to leave me in my old age. He is a good
son."
The General swung round, and laid a large forefinger upon the bosom
of his friend. Much of the General's success had been due to his
dexterity in establishing swift lines of communication between cause
and effect.
"Governor," he said, with a keen look in his big, ox-like eyes,
"you've been complaining to Billy about your rheumatism."
"My dear General," replied the Governor, stiffly, "my son is
forty-two. He is quite capable of deciding such questions for
himself. And I, as his parent, feel it my duty to state that your
remark about - er - rheumatism is a mighty poor shot from a very small
bore, sir, aimed at a purely personal and private affliction."
"If you will allow me," retorted the General, "you've afflicted the
public with it for some time; and 'twas no small bore, at that."
This first tiff between the two old comrades might have grown into
something more serious, but for the fortunate interruption caused by
the ostentatious approach of Colonel Titus and another one of the
court retinue from the right county, to whom the General confided
the coddled statesman and went his way.
After Billy had so effectually entombed his ambitions, and taken the
veil, so to speak, in a sonnery, he was surprised to discover how
much lighter of heart and happier he felt. He realized what a long,
restless struggle he had maintained, and how much he had lost by
failing to cull the simple but wholesome pleasures by the way. His
heart warmed now to Elmville and the friends who had refused to
set him upon a pedestal. It was better, he began to think, to be
"Billy" and his father's son, and to be hailed familiarly by cheery
neighbours and grown-up playmates, than to be "Your Honour," and sit
among strangers, hearing, maybe, through the arguments of learned
counsel, that old man's feeble voice crying: "What would I do
without you, my son?"
Billy began to surprise his acquaintances by whistling as he walked
up the street; others he astounded by slapping them disrespectfully
upon their backs and raking up old anecdotes he had not had the time
to recollect for years. Though he hammered away at his law cases
as thoroughly as ever, he found more time for relaxation and the
company of his friends. Some of the younger set were actually after
him to join the golf club. A striking proof of his abandonment to
obscurity was his adoption of a most undignified, rakish, little
soft hat, reserving the "plug" for Sundays and state occasions.
Billy was beginning to enjoy Elmville, though that irreverent burgh
had neglected to crown him with bay and myrtle.
All the while uneventful peace pervaded Elmville. The Governor
continued to make his triumphal parades to the post-office with the
General as chief marshal, for the slight squall that had rippled
their friendship had, to all indications, been forgotten by both.
But one day Elmville woke to sudden excitement. The news had come
that a touring presidential party would honour Elmville by a
twenty-minute stop. The Executive had promised a five-minute address
from the balcony of the Palace Hotel.
Elmville arose as one man - that man being, of course, General
Deffenbaugh - to receive becomingly the chieftain of all the clans.
The train with the tiny Stars and Stripes fluttering from the
engine pilot arrived. Elmville had done her best. There were bands,
flowers, carriages, uniforms, banners, and committees without end.
High-school girls in white frocks impeded the steps of the party
with roses strewn nervously in bunches. The chieftain had seen it
all before - scores of times. He could have pictured it exactly in
advance, from the Blue-and-Gray speech down to the smallest rosebud.
Yet his kindly smile of interest greeted Elmville's display as if it
had been the only and original.
In the upper rotunda of the Palace Hotel the town's most
illustrious were assembled for the honour of being presented to the
distinguished guests previous to the expected address. Outside,
Elmville's inglorious but patriotic masses filled the streets.
Here, in the hotel General Deffenbaugh was holding in reserve
Elmville's trump card. Elmville knew; for the trump was a fixed one,
and its lead consecrated by archaic custom.
At the proper moment Governor Pemberton, beautifully venerable,
magnificently antique, tall, paramount, stepped forward upon the arm
of the General.
Elmville watched and harked with bated breath. Never until now - when
a Northern President of the United States should clasp hands with
ex-war-Governor Pemberton would the breach be entirely closed - would
the country be made one and indivisible - no North, not much South,
very little East, and no West to speak of. So Elmville excitedly
scraped kalsomine from the walls of the Palace Hotel with its Sunday
best, and waited for the Voice to speak.
And Billy! We had nearly forgotten Billy. He was cast for Son, and
he waited patiently for his cue. He carried his "plug" in his hand,
and felt serene. He admired his father's striking air and pose.
After all, it was a great deal to be a son of a man who could so
gallantly hold the position of a cynosure for three generations.
General Deffenbaugh cleared his throat. Elmville opened its mouth,
and squirmed. The chieftain with the kindly, fateful face was
holding out his hand, smiling. Ex-war-Governor Pemberton extended
his own across the chasm. But what was this the General was saying?
"Mr. President, allow me to present to you one who has the honour to
be the father of our foremost, distinguished citizen, learned and
honoured jurist, beloved townsman, and model Southern gentleman - the
Honourable William B. Pemberton."
XV
THE ENCHANTED KISS
But a clerk in the Cut-rate Drug Store was Samuel Tansey, yet
his slender frame was a pad that enfolded the passion of Romeo,
the gloom of Laura, the romance of D'Artagnan, and the desperate
inspiration of Melnotte. Pity, then, that he had been denied
expression, that he was doomed to the burden of utter timidity and
diffidence, that Fate had set him tongue-tied and scarlet before
the muslin-clad angels whom he adored and vainly longed to rescue,
clasp, comfort, and subdue.
The clock's hands were pointing close upon the hour of ten while
Tansey was playing billiards with a number of his friends. On
alternate evenings he was released from duty at the store after
seven o'clock. Even among his fellow-men Tansey was timorous and
constrained. In his imagination he had done valiant deeds and
performed acts of distinguished gallantry; but in fact he was a
sallow youth of twenty-three, with an over-modest demeanour and
scant vocabulary.
When the clock struck ten, Tansey hastily laid down his cue and
struck sharply upon the show-case with a coin for the attendant to
come and receive the pay for his score.
"What's your hurry, Tansey?" called one. "Got another engagement?"
"Tansey got an engagement!" echoed another. "Not on your life.
Tansey's got to get home at Motten by her Peek's orders."
"It's no such thing," chimed in a pale youth, taking a large cigar
from his mouth; "Tansey's afraid to be late because Miss Katie might
come down stairs to unlock the door, and kiss him in the hall."
This delicate piece of raillery sent a fiery tingle into Tansey's
blood, for the indictment was true - barring the kiss. That was a
thing to dream of; to wildly hope for; but too remote and sacred a
thing to think of lightly.
Casting a cold and contemptuous look at the speaker - a punishment
commensurate with his own diffident spirit - Tansey left the room,
descending the stairs into the street.
For two years he had silently adored Miss Peek, worshipping her from
a spiritual distance through which her attractions took on stellar
brightness and mystery. Mrs. Peek kept a few choice boarders, among
whom was Tansey. The other young men romped with Katie, chased her
with crickets in their fingers, and "jollied" her with an irreverent
freedom that turned Tansey's heart into cold lead in his bosom.
The signs of his adoration were few - a tremulous "Good morning,"
stealthy glances at her during meals, and occasionally (Oh,
rapture!) a blushing, delirious game of cribbage with her in the
parlour on some rare evening when a miraculous lack of engagement
kept her at home. Kiss him in the hall! Aye, he feared it, but it
was an ecstatic fear such as Elijah must have felt when the chariot
lifted him into the unknown.
But to-night the gibes of his associates had stung him to a feeling
of forward, lawless mutiny; a defiant, challenging, atavistic
recklessness. Spirit of corsair, adventurer, lover, poet,
bohemian, possessed him. The stars he saw above him seemed no more
unattainable, no less high, than the favour of Miss Peek or the
fearsome sweetness of her delectable lips. His fate seemed to him
strangely dramatic and pathetic, and to call for a solace consonant
with its extremity. A saloon was near by, and to this he flitted,
calling for absinthe - beyond doubt the drink most adequate to his
mood - the tipple of the roué, the abandoned, the vainly sighing
lover.
Once he drank of it, and again, and then again until he felt a
strange, exalted sense of non-participation in worldly affairs
pervade him. Tansey was no drinker; his consumption of three
absinthe anisettes within almost as few minutes proclaimed his
unproficiency in the art; Tansey was merely flooding with unproven
liquor his sorrows; which record and tradition alleged to be
drownable.
Coming out upon the sidewalk, he snapped his fingers defiantly in
the direction of the Peek homestead, turned the other way, and
voyaged, Columbus-like into the wilds of an enchanted street. Nor is
the figure exorbitant, for, beyond his store the foot of Tansey had
scarcely been set for years - store and boarding-house; between these
ports he was chartered to run, and contrary currents had rarely
deflected his prow.
Tansey aimlessly protracted his walk, and, whether it was his
unfamiliarity with the district, his recent accession of audacious
errantry, or the sophistical whisper of a certain green-eyed
fairy, he came at last to tread a shuttered, blank, and echoing
thoroughfare, dark and unpeopled. And, suddenly, this way came to an
end (as many streets do in the Spanish-built, archaic town of San
Antone), butting its head against an imminent, high, brick wall.
No - the street still lived! To the right and to the left it breathed
through slender tubes of exit - narrow, somnolent ravines, cobble
paved and unlighted. Accommodating a rise in the street to the right
was reared a phantom flight of five luminous steps of limestone,
flanked by a wall of the same height and of the same material.
Upon one of these steps Tansey seated himself and bethought him of
his love, and how she might never know she was his love. And of
Mother Peek, fat, vigilant and kind; not unpleased, Tansey thought,
that he and Katie should play cribbage in the parlour together.
For the Cut-rate had not cut his salary, which, sordidly speaking,
ranked him star boarder at the Peek's. And he thought of Captain
Peek, Katie's father, a man he dreaded and abhorred; a genteel
loafer and spendthrift, battening upon the labour of his women-folk;
a very queer fish, and, according to repute, not of the freshest.
The night had turned chill and foggy. The heart of the town, with
its noises, was left behind. Reflected from the high vapours, its
distant lights were manifest in quivering, cone-shaped streamers, in
questionable blushes of unnamed colours, in unstable, ghostly waves
of far, electric flashes. Now that the darkness was become more
friendly, the wall against which the street splintered developed a
stone coping topped with an armature of spikes. Beyond it loomed
what appeared to be the acute angles of mountain peaks, pierced here
and there by little lambent parallelograms. Considering this vista,
Tansey at length persuaded himself that the seeming mountains were,
in fact, the convent of Santa Mercedes, with which ancient and
bulky pile he was better familiar from different coigns of view. A
pleasant note of singing in his ears reinforced his opinion. High,
sweet, holy carolling, far and harmonious and uprising, as of
sanctified nuns at their responses. At what hour did the Sisters
sing? He tried to think - was it six, eight, twelve? Tansey leaned
his back against the limestone wall and wondered. Strange things
followed. The air was full of white, fluttering pigeons that circled
about, and settled upon the convent wall. The wall blossomed with a
quantity of shining green eyes that blinked and peered at him from
the solid masonry. A pink, classic nymph came from an excavation in
the cavernous road and danced, barefoot and airy, upon the ragged
flints. The sky was traversed by a company of beribboned cats,
marching in stupendous, aërial procession. The noise of singing grew
louder; an illumination of unseasonable fireflies danced past, and
strange whispers came out of the dark without meaning or excuse.
Without amazement Tansey took note of these phenomena. He was on
some new plane of understanding, though his mind seemed to him clear
and, indeed, happily tranquil.
A desire for movement and exploration seized him: he rose and turned
into the black gash of street to his right. For a time the high
wall formed one of its boundaries; but further on, two rows of
black-windowed houses closed it in.
Here was the city's quarter once given over to the Spaniard. Here
were still his forbidding abodes of concrete and adobe, standing
cold and indomitable against the century. From the murky fissure,
the eye saw, flung against the sky, the tangled filigree of
his Moorish balconies. Through stone archways breaths of dead,
vault-chilled air coughed upon him; his feet struck jingling
iron rings in staples stone-buried for half a cycle. Along these
paltry avenues had swaggered the arrogant Don, had caracoled and
serenaded and blustered while the tomahawk and the pioneer's rifle
were already uplifted to expel him from a continent. And Tansey,
stumbling through this old-world dust, looked up, dark as it was,
and saw Andalusian beauties glimmering on the balconies. Some of
them were laughing and listening to the goblin music that still
followed; others harked fearfully through the night, trying to catch
the hoof beats of caballeros whose last echoes from those stones had
died away a century ago. Those women were silent, but Tansey heard
the jangle of horseless bridle-bits, the whirr of riderless rowels,
and, now and then, a muttered malediction in a foreign tongue. But
he was not frightened. Shadows, nor shadows of sounds could daunt
him. Afraid? No. Afraid of Mother Peek? Afraid to face the girl
of his heart? Afraid of tipsy Captain Peek? Nay! nor of these
apparitions, nor of that spectral singing that always pursued him.
Singing! He would show them! He lifted up a strong and untuneful
voice:
"When you hear them bells go tingalingling,"
serving notice upon those mysterious agencies that if it should come
to a face-to-face encounter
"There'll be a hot time
In the old town
To-night!"
How long Tansey consumed in treading this haunted byway was not
clear to him, but in time he emerged into a more commodious avenue.
When within a few yards of the corner he perceived, through a
window, that a small confectionary of mean appearance was set in
the angle. His same glance that estimated its meagre equipment, its
cheap soda-water fountain and stock of tobacco and sweets, took
cognizance of Captain Peek within lighting a cigar at a swinging
gaslight.
As Tansey rounded the corner Captain Peek came out, and they met
_vis-a-vis_. An exultant joy filled Tansey when he found himself
sustaining the encounter with implicit courage. Peek, indeed! He
raised his hand, and snapped his fingers loudly.
It was Peek himself who quailed guiltily before the valiant mien of
the drug clerk. Sharp surprise and a palpable fear bourgeoned upon
the Captain's face. And, verily, that face was one to rather call up
such expressions on the faces of others. The face of a libidinous
heathen idol, small eyed, with carven folds in the heavy jowls, and
a consuming, pagan license in its expression. In the gutter just
beyond the store Tansey saw a closed carriage standing with its back
toward him and a motionless driver perched in his place.
"Why, it's Tansey!" exclaimed Captain Peek. "How are you, Tansey?
H-have a cigar, Tansey?"
"Why, it's Peek!" cried Tansey, jubilant at his own temerity.
"What deviltry are you up to now, Peek? Back streets and a closed
carriage! Fie! Peek!"
"There's no one in the carriage," said the Captain, smoothly.
"Everybody out of it is in luck," continued Tansey, aggressively.
"I'd love for you to know, Peek, that I'm not stuck on you. You're a
bottle-nosed scoundrel."
"Why, the little rat's drunk!" cried the Captain, joyfully; "only
drunk, and I thought he was on! Go home, Tansey, and quit bothering
grown persons on the street."
But just then a white-clad figure sprang out of the carriage, and a
shrill voice - Katie's voice - sliced the air: "Sam! Sam! - help me,
Sam!"
Tansey sprung toward her, but Captain Peek interposed his bulky
form. Wonder of wonders! the whilom spiritless youth struck out
with his right, and the hulking Captain went over in a swearing
heap. Tansey flew to Katie, and took her in his arms like a