CHIN CHIN AND PETER SKERRETT SEIZE THE FORELOCK OF OPPORTUNITY
Mr. Dulger arose in the morning dull and early. He stood several hours
over the industrious prolétaire who was mending Miss Center’s parasol.
Meantime Billy smoked weak cigars, pulled at his sporadic moustache,
and studied at a formula of words he meant to use, but would forget.
At eleven, he might have been seen walking in Millard’s halls,
uneasily, with a neat parasol in hand.
At 11.03, Miss Millicent descended Jacob’s Ladder equipped for a walk.
She was evidently oblivious of her appointment, and taking no notice of
poor Dulger at the lower turn of his beat, she turned into the parlour
and sat there quite alone, playing with her gloves. Surely she was
waiting for someone.
Trepidatingly Dulger approached---- When they returned from their walk,
an hour afterward, it was announced, proclaimed, thundered, through
Millard’s and through Newport, that Miss Center and Mr. Dulger were
engaged. Bulletins to that effect were dispatched to postoffices from
the Aroostook to the Rio Grande, as members of Congress say. Billy
telegraphed to his friend, the bookkeeper, to send a thousand-dollar
diamond ring from Tiffany’s by express; it came, and glittered on her
finger that evening at the hop. Billy’s investment for the ring was
one-tenth of one per cent. on her million, and, _certes_, was not
extravagant. Rich Milly! Poor Milly! Poor Dulger! Rich Dulger! Poor,
rich Mr. and Mrs. Dulger!--the man never forgetting his long and sulky
apprenticeship--the woman, unapproached any more by exhilarating
flirtations, and never forgetting that her yielding was part
compunction and part pis-allerage. So ends the Billy-dulgerid.
Dunstan came down to inquire about to-morrow’s race. Mr. Waddy begged
him not to withdraw, unless Diana’s condition should be critical. No
one else could ride Pallid. Peter Skerrett, in search of Mr. Waddy,
came up and mentioned the new engagement. No one was surprised.
“It was as sure as shooting,” said Gyas Cutus. “He treed her. I gaads!
I knew she’d have to come down. He’s been lamming her with bouquets
ever since she came out.”
“And now,” says Peter, “she has come down in a shower of gold,
reversing the fable of _Danae_.”
“There’s no fable about the million,” said Cloanthus. “I wonder if
Billy would lend me a V on the strength of it?”
“I think it’s a case of _dépit amoureux_,” whispered to Dunstan, Peter
Skerrett, penetrating sage.
Dunstan said nothing, and presently walked off. This gossip was
distressing to him; he could only think of his love regained, his
love perhaps dying. He must not see her that day. Absolute repose was
necessary.
“The old wound,” he thought; “the old wound,” and thinking of it, he
shuddered again.
Peter Skerrett took Mr. Waddy’s arm, and walked him away to a quiet
corner.
“That damned scoundrel of a Frenchman wouldn’t accept your
proposition,” he began. “He said it was wealth for him, but the
infernal coxcomb also said he wanted to range himself and become a
virtuous man, and a happy father of a family. He must have the ‘fair
Arabella, whom he loved and whom he believed was secluded from him by
the decree of a harsh parent’; some such stuff he uttered and then blew
a kiss from his bruised, swelled lips. Faugh!”
Mr. Waddy echoed the exclamation; he shared in all Peter’s disgust, and
all his anxiety.
“It’s lucky,” continued Peter, “he can’t come out to-day. Everyone’s
inquiring about the row, and Sir Comeguys says he will only keep still
until the fellow is out of bed and able to speak for himself.”
“Well,” said Waddy, as Peter paused again, “what’s to be done? Is that
all the scoundrel said?”
“Not by a blamed sight; but it’s so damned unpleasant I hate to repeat
it. After refusing your offer, he repeated his threat of exposing Mrs.
B., and he gave me details. He said he wanted to see her, and if he
sent a waiter, she would have to come. I knew that would never do,
so I bullied him a little and said I would see her myself. By Jove!
think what a box I was getting into. Mrs. B. is cool; perhaps I may as
well put it, brassy. She was complimentary enough to say that she was
surprised a man of my experience should listen to the idle talk of a
man bruised and angry; that possibly Arabella (blinking entirely the
question, as touching herself--I had stated his threat as delicately
as I could) had given him so much encouragement as to persuade him
he had rights. Very probably, for she herself had hoped that he and
Arabella would make a match, and still hoped it. As to the slanders of
that young brute of an Englishman, they were pure jealousy. She was
satisfied of De Châteaunéant’s position, and thought his abuser a vile
coward for profiting by his personal strength to put a rival out of
the way. She would talk over the matter with Arabella and see me in an
hour.”
“Yes?” said Waddy encouragingly, as Peter paused again, choked with
rage. He rather wondered at Peter’s emotion, for that gentleman
usually held himself well in hand--but then this was an extraordinary
case.
“Well,” continued Peter, “in an hour, I happened to pass through the
corridor. Arabella, cried to a perfect jelly, was just opening the door
for her mother. How the harridan must have been bullying that poor
girl! And yet she was as cool, and smiling, and handsome, as if she was
coming out of St. Aspasia’s after her Sunday afternoon nap. She said
she had found a little proper ladylike hesitation on the part of Miss
Arabella; that young ladies did not like this courting by proxy; and
that she had no doubt that when De Châteaunéant was able to plead his
own cause, that her daughter’s long-existing inclination for him would
develop immediately into the desirable degree of affection. By Jove!
I couldn’t help admiring the woman as she stood and told me all this,
perfectly self-possessed, though she knew I believed it was every word
a lie. Then she said that, as I was quite the confidential friend of
the family, she would ask me to go with her to M. De Châteaunéant. And
I went! What do you think of that, Waddy?”
“I don’t know what to think,” answered Ira. “And yet it was probably
the best thing to do.”
“So I thought,” agreed Peter. “She sat down by the beggar’s bedside
and told him, by Jove! that she thought he needed a little motherly
sympathy; that she had always looked with great favour upon his suit
for her daughter, and that she hoped and had no doubt the young lady
would smile upon him. She could promise it, in fact, after an interview
this morning. I tell you, Waddy, she took my breath away. I could have
screamed with laughter.”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Waddy grimly. “How did the farce end?”
“It ended with a few minutes’ earnest whispering on the part of the
lady. Then she got up triumphantly, and that blackguard turned his ugly
swollen face towards me.
“‘Monsieur Skarrette,’ he said, in his dirty, broken English, ‘I veel
vate faur ze promesse auf Mees Arabella teele aftare to-morrah. I
veel not be anie maur cheete. Ef she do not agree, I sall tale all to
Meestare Buddilung.’
“Well,” continued Peter, “I was white hot--I don’t think I shall be
ever quite so angry again--I certainly hope not. I think Mrs. B. saw
it and feared some further injury to the Gaul, for she said good-bye
hastily and carried me away with her. Out in the hall, she turned to me
again, cool as a cucumber.
“‘You see he is quite reasonable,’ she said, with amazing impudence,
‘though naturally rather ardent for his object. We are much obliged to
you, Mr. Skerrett.’
“She gave me her hand and the only sign of emotion she showed in
the whole interview was to grasp mine like a vice. A few minutes
afterward, I saw Belden help her into his buggy and they drove off
together. Do you suppose it possible that she meditates some escapade
with him? Of course all this couldn’t be told to poor old Flirney; he
should be saved, if possible. But I could not bear to think of Arabella
being the victim of such an infernal plot, without a friend. The matter
had gone too far for ceremony, so I went up and knocked at her door.
There is so much of that familiarity going on, that I supposed no one
would notice it. She opened the door and, when she saw me, burst into
tears. I felt so sorry for the poor child that I couldn’t help----”
“Oh, you did, did you?” interrupted Ira, seeing a great light.
“Yes, I did; and she shall be Mrs. Peter Skerrett, if her step-mother
is a---- She shall, by Jove!”
“Peter, you’re the king of trumps!” cried Mr. Waddy, and held out his
hand. “And, by curry! you deserve to be congratulated. She’s a nice
girl.”
“She is!” agreed Peter, with conviction. “I’ve known it a long time.
Well, to return, the poor thing was actually bewildered with terror.
She said that she liked the fellow well enough at first--you know he
has the talents of an adventurer--he flattered her and led her on,
always speaking French, until he had got up a great intimacy. Then Mrs.
Budlong,--she no longer called her mother,--began to persuade her to
accept him, and then to treat the matter as settled; and then to bully
her and say that her honour was engaged, and her character would be
gone if she did not marry him.
“Imagine the poor girl, so young, and totally uneducated to think for
herself, in the grasp of that infernal crocodile! Then her brother,
that mean little squirt, Tim, made some heavy gambling debts to the
Frenchman, and he told her he thought the marriage was just the
thing, and wouldn’t listen to a word from her. Mrs. Budlong said that
her father had given his full approval to the match. Arabella felt
utterly abandoned, and I do believe that horrid hag would have carried
her point before this, if Ambient hadn’t stepped in with his timely
licking. At the picnic the Frenchman was continuing to treat her with
tyrannical familiarity. She hated him so much that she longed to go to
Diana and Clara for protection, but she feared they would think her a
silly little snob and send her to her mother. Mother!” repeated Peter
with emotion, and swallowed hard.
Mr. Waddy also felt an unaccustomed lump in his gullet.
“Peter,” said he, a little huskily, “I’m proud of you. By Jove! I’m
proud to know you. You’re the best man in the lot. The rest of us would
have stood around and seen that girl sent to the devil and never have
lifted a finger to prevent it.”
“Oh, come,” protested Peter, “I know better than that. And then,
besides, you see, you--you didn’t have my incentive. She needed
someone, Waddy; she said she’d always thought me one of her best
friends--but she couldn’t speak to any gentleman about her troubles,
much less me. And then she began to cry again and I had to kiss her
again like a brother and tell her that I was her best friend and would
save her. Luckily, no one happened to pass; so I let her sob herself
quiet in my arms and told her to have courage and not to speak to
anyone on this subject. What a damnable infamy it is! I don’t care
for Mrs. Budlong, and would let her be exposed and go to the devil,
but it will kill the old gentleman. He’s a good old boy, and actually
loves that woman. We must save him if we can. Here is old Mellasys,
Saccharissa’s father; couldn’t we get him to kidnap the Frenchman for a
fugitive slave?”
“Peter,” said Waddy, “we may get the Frenchman off, but there is left
behind a man much more dangerous than any Frenchman--Belden!”
* * * * *
About eight o’clock that evening, Mr. Waddy sent Chin Chin to inquire
of Diana’s health. On his return, Chin Chin made a circuit to a shop
he knew of. His object was lager beer, a washy beverage, favoured
by Chinamen, Germans, and such like plebeian and uncouth populaces.
Feeling sleepy after his draught, he gradually subsided into a ball
and sank under the table. Except, perhaps, Box Brown and Samuel Adams,
packed some years ago by John C. Colt, corner Broadway and Chambers
Street, no being is known, bigger than an armadillo or a hedgehog,
capable of such compact storage as a slumbering Chinaman.
Chin Chin under the table was therefore not perceived by two men who
came in to get beer and mutter confidences over it. He, however, waking
and craftily not stirring until he could do so without disturbing legs
endowed with capacity to kick, heard this secret parley. He could not
recognise the legs, but could the voices.
As soon as he was released, he ran to the Millard, and gave his message
to Mr. Waddy; then, in consequence of the beer-shop discoveries, he
crept along like a quick snake to his master’s hired stable. The night
was very dark, the clouds obstructing the moon. Chin Chin’s mission
and his plan were perfectly suited to his crafty Malayan nature. He
knew the stable intimately. He had often found it a handy place to
snooze away the effects of beer or gluttony--larger and more airy
than his usual habitation, and much less liable to rude invasion. He
had prepared a secret means of ingress and egress; now, after a quick
glance around, he glided along to one corner, moved a board slightly
and crept inside through the crevice thus revealed.
In the stable were Mr. Waddy’s three horses. Pallid stood next to a
vacant stall. A roughly contrived manger, with no division, passed
through all the stalls. The back door of the stable opened upon a yard,
separated by a low fence from a dark lane. There was a locked door
through this fence; both the stable doors were also locked.
Pallid recognised the Chinaman and whinnied a welcome nearly as
articulate as the other’s reply. Chin Chin’s plan was already laid. He
did not seem to need light to execute it. He groped about for a billet
of wood in a spot he knew of, and drawing a fine fishing line from his
pocket, made it fast to the billet, which he then threw over a beam
running the length of the stable. He drew the billet up to the beam by
his line, and holding the end, wormed himself in under a heap of hay
that filled the stall next to Pallid’s. He found that, without changing
his position, he could pass his hand into the adjoining manger. It
seemed he had a fancy of possible danger, for he took from his breast
pocket a perilous piratical knife and laid it in the manger at his side.
“Pigeon--all same--Hi yah!” said he, with gleaming teeth and a grin.
Chin Chin waited, probably dreaming of the Central Flowery Land and
fancying himself under the shade of his native tea plant, offering a
tidbit of rat pie to the fair Pettitoes in sabots, skewered hair, talon
finger-nails, and brocaded raiment.
His tender, nostalgic reverie was disturbed by the cautious turning of
a key. The door opened and two men armed with a slide lantern entered.
They drew up the slide and stood revealed, a precious pair, Belden and
Figgins, come to superintend the training of Pallid for to-morrow’s
race.
They peered cautiously round the stable--nothing but horses and
hay. They could not see that snake-in-the-grass watching them with
glittering eye and keen delight.
“We must do it quick, Figgy,” said Belden; “give me the ball. You hold
the light. Whoa, Pallid!”
He stepped to the stall, and patting Pallid on the neck, placed a very
suspicious-looking horse-ball in the manger. Pallid was beginning to
turn it over and sniff at it, when--slam, bang!--Chin Chin let go the
billet. It crashed to the floor, knocking down sundry objects with a
terrible clatter.
The conspirators started, looked at each other fearfully, and sprang
back as if to escape. The noise ceasing, they looked about with
anxiety. Belden caught sight of the billet and its effects.
“Bah!” said he. “Nothing but a stick of wood fallen down----” and
turned back to the horse.
Meantime, under cover of the noise and panic, Chin Chin had snatched
away the dosed sausage from Pallid’s manger, and thrown in a handful of
oats. The horse champed them.
“The greedy brute has swallowed his pill and is licking his damned
chops,” Belden announced. “Well, you black devil, so much for you
for throwing me, and so much for your master. You won’t win any race
to-morrow nor this year.”
Again examining suspiciously everywhere, they went out as cautiously as
they had entered.
Chin Chin chuckled. He was fond of Pallid and fond of the turf, a novel
fancy for a Chinaman. He knew if he revealed this adventure to Mr.
Waddy, that the race would come to an end, so far as that gentleman was
concerned, at least. Chin Chin wanted to see the fun. Unluckily for
Figgins, he had bets with him. Chin Chin determined to consider himself
the executive of retribution and keep his own counsel till after the
race. He looked at the ball; he smelt it.
“Pose good for Chinaman,” he said, “ebryting all same pigeon eat em
rat; eat em puppy; pose eat em sossidge. Hi yah! first chop good, all
same.”
He nibbled a little bit, ate a little bit, and then looking out and
finding the coast clear, cautiously crept homeward in the shadow. As
he ate, he seemed at first very well satisfied, then less satisfied,
and finally not at all satisfied, and throwing away the remnants of the
ball, he made for the Millard, pressing both his hands on that part of
his person which seemed the centre of dissatisfaction.