A Voyage Of Consolation by Sara Jeannette Duncan (librera reader .txt) 📖

Arthur May One Day Attain

Corpulence; He Is Already Well Rounded.

 

"I Need Hardly Say," He Said Majestically,  "That When I Did Myself The

Honour Of Proposing,  I Was Under The Impression That I Had A Suitable

Larynx To Offer You."

 

"You See I Didn'T Know," I Murmured,  And By Accident I Dropped My

Engagement Ring,  Which Rolled Upon The Carpet At His Feet. He Stooped

And Picked It Up.

 

"Shall I Take This With Me?" He Asked,  And I Said "By All Means."

 

That Was All.

 

I Gave Ten Minutes To Reflection And To The Possibility Of Arthur'S

Coming Back And Pleading,  On His Knees,  To Be Allowed To Restore That

Defective Larynx. Then I Went Straight Upstairs To The Telephone And

Rang Up The Central Office. When They Replied "_Hello_," I Said,  In The

Moderate And Concentrated Tone Which We All Use Through Telephones,  "Can

You Give Me New York?"

 

Poppa Was In New York,  And In an Emergency Poppa And I Always Turn To

One Another. There Was A Delay,  During Which I Listened Attentively,

With One Eye Closed--I Believe It Is The Sign Of An Unbalanced Intellect

To Shut One Eye When You Use The Telephone,  But I Needn'T Go Into

That--And Presently I Got New York. In a Few Minutes More I Was

Accommodated With The Fifth Avenue Hotel.

 

"Mr. T.P. Wick,  Of Chicago," I Demanded.

 

"_Is His Room Number Sixty-Two?_"

 

That Is The Kind Of Mind Which You Usually Find Attached To The New York

End Of A Trans-American Telephone. But One Does Not Bandy Words Across A

Thousand Miles Of Country With A Hotel Clerk,  So I Merely Responded:

 

"Very Probably."

 

There Was A Pause,  And Then The Still Small Voice Came Again.

 

"_Mr. Wick Is In bed At Present. Anything Important?_"

 

I Reflected That While I In chicago Was Speaking To The Hotel Clerk At

Half-Past Nine O'Clock,  The Hotel Clerk In New York Was Speaking To Me

At Eleven. This In Itself Was Enough To Make Our Conversation

Disjointed.

 

"Yes," I Responded,  "It Is Important. Ask Mr. Wick To Get Out Of Bed."

 

Sufficient Time Elapsed To Enable Poppa To Put On His Clothes And Come

Down By The Elevator,  And Then I Heard:

 

"_Mr. Wick Is Now Speaking_."

 

"Yes,  Poppa," I Replied,  "I Guess You Are. Your Old American Accent

Comes Singing Across In a Way That No Member Of Your Family Would Ever

Mistake. But You Needn'T Be Stiff About It. Sorry To Disturb You."

 

Poppa And I Were Often Personal In Our Intercourse. I Had Not The

Slightest Hesitation In Mentioning His American Accent.

 

"_Hello,  Mamie! Don'T Mention It. What'S Up? House On Fire? Water Pipes

Burst? Strike In The Kitchen? Sound The Alarm--Send For The

Plumber--Raise Gladys'S Wages And Sack Marguerite_."

 

"My Engagement To Mr. Page Is Broken. Do You Get Me? What Do You

Suggest?"

 

I Heard A Whistle,  Which I Cannot Express In Italics,  And Then,

Confidentially:

 

"_You Don'T Say So! Bad Break?_"

 

"Very," I Responded Firmly.

 

"_Any Details Of The Disaster Available? What?_"

 

"Not At Present," I Replied,  For It Would Have Been Difficult To Send

Them By Telephone.

 

I Could Hear Poppa Considering The Matter At The Other End. He Coughed

Once Or Twice And Made Some Indistinct Inquiries Of The Hotel Clerk.

Then He Called My Attention Again.

 

"_Hello!_" He Said. "_On To Me? All Right. Go Abroad. Always Done.

Paris,  Venice,  Florence,  Rome,  And The Other Places. I'Ll Stand In.

Germanic Sails Wednesdays. Start By Night Train To-Morrow. Bring Momma.

We Can Get Germanic In Good Shape And Ten Minutes To Spare. Right?_"

 

"Right," I Responded,  And Hung Up The Handle. I Did Not Wish To Keep

Poppa Out Of Bed Any Longer Than Was Necessary,  He Was Already Up So

Much Later Than I Was. I Turned Away From The Instrument To Go Down

Stairs Again,  And There,  Immediately Behind Me,  Stood Momma.

 

"Well,  Really!" I Exclaimed. It Did Not Occur To Me That The Privacy Of

Telephonic Communication Between Chicago And New York Was Not

Inviolable. Besides,  There Are Moments When One Feels A Little Annoyed

With One'S Momma For Having So Lightly Undertaken One'S Existence. This

Was One Of Them. But I Decided Not To Express It.

 

"I Was Only Going To Say," I Remarked,  "That If I Had Shrieked It Would

Have Been Your Fault."

 

"I Knew Everything," Said Momma,  "The Minute I Heard Him Shut The Gate.

I Came Up Immediately,  And All This Time,  Dear,  You'Ve Been Confiding In

Us Both. My Dear Daughter."

 

Momma Carries About With Her A Well-Spring Of Sentiment,  Which She Did

Not Bequeath To Me. In That Respect I Take Almost Entirely After My

Other Parent.

 

"Very Well," I Said,  "Then I Won'T Have To Do It Again."

 

Her Look Of Disappointment Compelled Me To Speak With Decision. "I Know

What You Would Like At This Juncture,  Momma. You'D Like Me To Get Down

On The Floor And Put My Head In Your Lap And Weep All Over Your New

Brocade. That'S What You'D Really Enjoy. But,  Under Circumstances Like

These,  I Never Do Things Like That. Now The Question Is,  Can You Get

Ready To Start For Europe To-Morrow Night,  Or Have You A Headache Coming

On?"

 

Momma Said That She Expected Mrs. Judge Simmons To Tea To-Morrow

Afternoon,  That She Hadn'T Been Thinking Of It,  And That She Was Out Of

Nerve Tincture. At Least,  These Were Her Principal Objections. I Said,

On Mature Consideration,  I Didn'T See Why Mrs. Simmons Shouldn'T Come To

Tea,  That There Were Twenty-Four Hours For All Necessary Thinking,  And

That A Gallon Of Nerve Tincture,  If Required,  Could Be At Her Disposal

In Ten Minutes.

 

"Being Protestants," I Added,  "I Suppose A Convent Wouldn'T Be Of Any

Use To Us--What Do You Think?"

 

Momma Thought She Could Go.

 

There Was No Need For Hurry,  And I Attended To Only One Other Matter

Before I Went To Bed. That Was A Communication To The _Herald_,  Which I

Sent Off In Plenty Of Time To Appear In The Morning. It Was Addressed To

The Society Editor,  And Ran As Follows:

 

"The Marriage Arranged Between Professor Arthur Greenleaf Page,  Of Yale

University,  And Miss Mamie Wick,  Of 1453,  Lakeside-Avenue,  Chicago,  Will

Not Take Place. Mr. And Mrs. Wick,  And Miss Wick,  Sail For Europe On

Wednesday By S.S. Germanic."

 

I Reflected,  As I Closed My Eyes,  That Arthur Was A Regular Reader Of

The _Herald_.

Chapter 2

 

We Met Poppa On The Germanic Gangway,  His Hat On The Back Of His Head

And One Finger In each Of His Waistcoat Pockets,  An Attitude Which,  With

Him,  Always Betokens Concern. The Vessel Was At That Stage Of Departure

When The People Who Have Been Turned Off Are Feeling Injured That It

Should Have Been Done So Soon,  And Apparently Only The Weight Of Poppa'S

Personality On Its New York End Kept The Gangway Out. As We Drove Up He

Appeared To Lift His Little Finger And Three Dishevelled Navigators

Darted Upon The Cab. They And We And Our Trunks Swept Up The Gangway

Together,  Which Immediately Closed Behind Us,  Under The Direction Of An

Extremely Irritated Looking Chief Officer. We Reunited As A Family As

Well As We Could In connection With Uncoiled Ropes And Ship Discipline.

Then Poppa,  With His Watch In His Hand,  Exclaimed Reproachfully,  Well In

Hearing Of The Chief Officer,  "I Gave You Ten Minutes And You _Had_ Ten

Minutes. You Stopped At Huyler'S For Candy,  I'Ll Lay My Last Depreciated

Dollar On It."

 

My Other Parent Looked Guiltily At Some Oblong Boxes Tied Up In White

Paper With Narrow Red Ribbon,  Which,  Innocently Enough I Consider,

Enhance The Value Of Life To Us Both. But She Ignored The Charge--Momma

Hates Arguments.

 

"Dear Me!" She Said,  As The Space Widened Between Us And The Docks. "So

We Are All Going To Europe Together This Morning! I Can Hardly Realise

It. Farewell America! How Interesting Life Is."

 

"Yes," Replied Poppa. "And Now I Guess I'D Better Show You Your Cabins

Before It Gets Any More Interesting."

 

We Had A Calm Evening,  Though Nothing Would Induce Momma To Think So,

And At Ten O'Clock Senator J.P. Wick And I Were Still Pacing The Deck

Talking Business. The Moon Rose,  And Threw Arthur'S Shadow Across Our

Conversation,  But We Looked At It With Precision And It Moved Away. That

Is One Of Poppa'S Most Comforting Characteristics,  He Would As Soon Open

His Bosom To A Shot-Gun As To A Confidence. He Asked For Details Through

The Telephone Merely For Bravado. As A Matter Of Fact,  If I Had Begun To

Send Them He Would Have Rung Off The Connection And Said It Was An

Accident. We Dipped Into Politics,  And I Told The Senator That While I

Considered His Speech On The Silver Compromise A Credit To The Family On

The Whole,  I Thought He Had Let Himself Out Somewhat Unnecessarily At

The Expense Of The British Nation.

 

"We Are Always Twisting A Tail," I Said Reproachfully,  "That Does

Nothing But Wag At Us."

 

This Poppa Reluctantly Admitted With The Usual Reference To The Irish

Vote. We Both Hoped Sincerely That Any English Friends Who Saw That

Speech,  And Paused To Realise That The Orator Was A Parent Of Mine,

Would Consider The Number Of Irish Resident In Illinois,  And The Amount

Of Invective Which Their Feelings Require. Poppa Doesn'T Really Know

Sometimes Whether He Is Himself Or A Shillelagh,  But Whatever His

Temporary Political Capacity He Is Never Ungrateful. He Went On To Give

Me The Particulars Of His Interview With The President About The Chicago

Post Office,  And Then I Gradually Unfolded My Intention Of Preparing Our

Foreign Experiences As A Family For Publication In book Form. While I

Was Unfolding It Poppa Eyed Me Askance.

 

"Is That Usual?" He Inquired.

 

"Very Usual Indeed," I Replied.

 

"I Mean--Under The Circumstances?"

 

"Under What Circumstances?" I Demanded Boldly. I Knew That Nothing Would

Induce Him To Specify Them.

 

"Oh,  I Only Meant--It Wasn'T Exactly My Idea."

 

"What Was Your Idea--Exactly?" It Was Mean Of Me To Put Poppa To The

Blush,  But I Had To Define The Situation.

 

"Oh," Said He,  With Unlooked-For Heroism,  "I Was Basing My Calculations

With Reference To You On The Distractions Of Change--Paris Dry-Goods,

Rowing Round Venice In Gondolas,  Riding Through The St. Gothard Tunnel,

And The Healing Hand Of Time. I Don'T Intend To Give A Day Less Than Six

Weeks To It. I'M Looking Forward To The Tranquilising Effect Of The

Antique Some Myself," He Added,  Hedging. "I Find These New Self-Risers

That We'Ve Undertaken To Carry Almost More Than My Temperament Can

Stand. They Went Up From An Output Of Five Hundred Dollars To Six

Hundred And Fifty Thousand,  And Back Again Inside Seven Days Last Month.

I'M Looking Forward To Examining Something That Hasn'T Moved For A

Couple Of Thousand Years With Considerable Pleasure."

 

"Poppa," Said I,  Ignoring The Self-Risers,  "If You Were As Particular

About The Quality Of Your Fiction As You Are About The Quality Of Your

Table-Butter,  You Would Know That The Best Heroines Never Have Recourse

To Such Measures Now. They Are Simply Obsolete. Except For My Literary

Intention,  I Should Be Ashamed To Go To Europe At All--Under The

Circumstances. But That,  You See,  Brings The Situation Up To Date. I

Transmit My European Impressions Through The Prism Of Damaged Affection.

Nothing Could Be More Modern."

 

"I See," Replied Poppa,  Rubbing His Chin Searchingly,  Which Is His

Manner Of Expressing Sagacious Doubt. His Beard Descends From The Lower

Part Of His Chin In The Long Unfettered American Manner,  Without Which

It Is Impossible For _Punch_ To Indicate A Citizen Of The United States.

When He Positively Disapproves He Pulls It Severely.

 

"But Europe'S Been Done Before,  You Know," He Continued. "In Fact,  I

Don'T Know Any Continent More Popular Than Europe With People That Want

To Publish Books Of Travel. It'S Been Done Before."

 

"Never," I Rejoined,  "In Connection With You,  Poppa!"

 

Poppa Removed His Hand From His Chin.

 

"Oh,  If I'M To Assist,  That'S Quite Another Anecdote," He Said Briskly.

"I Didn'T Understand You Intended To Ring Me In. Of Course,  I Don'T Mean

To Imply There Is Any Special Prejudice Against Books Of Travel In

Europe. About How Many Pages Did You Think Of Running It To?"

 

"My Idea Was Three Hundred,"