commonly polite to each other, nobody would have suspected anything was
the matter. While we had been friends we often had little tiffs; but
after we became enemies--for that was what we inevitably became--we
were politer than French dancing masters to each other. We didn't do
the balloon-trapeze act everywhere. If we only made one-night stands,
or if the stage was too small, or if the lessee of the house objected
to it, we didn't have it, but still we had five or six weeks of it
before Christmas, and Jenny never would witness it, but went and hid
her face when it came off--so that only made it plainer that she liked
one of us, but which one nobody could guess. It often occurred to me
when we were rising slowly on that trapeze in front of the foot-lights,
doing all kinds of monkey tricks while the people yelled and shouted,
and the balloon was going up into the flies, that Ted could do me a
mischief that nobody would know anything about after I was mashed and
bruised out of shape by the fall, and I dare say he thought the same of
me. Nothing happened, however, until one night--it was the very night
before Christmas. Now, excepting the bad blood between the Valbella
Brothers, I don't believe there was a man or a woman in that company
who wasn't at peace and in good-will with the others that blessed
Christmas Eve. Sam Stacker was such a kind, honest, soft-hearted but
hard-headed old customer that he made quarreling unpopular and almost
impossible. He had given us all something that day, and Jenny Hobbs's
present was the best of any. I wanted to give Jenny something too, but
I hardly thought it fair to my understanding with Ted. But just before
the performance began, Jenny came to me, smiling and blushing very
much, and said:
"I've--I've got a Christmas gift for you."
"Have you?" cried I, delighted.
"You've been so k--k--kind to me," she stammered, "getting Mr.
Stacker to give me an engagement, and taking Jack along too,
and--and--all--that. I want you to wear this in memory of a friend."
And she held out to me a little ring with a coral set in it, and
inside, sure enough, was, "In memory of a friend." Of course I was
delighted, and I must say I tried to kiss her, but she slapped my
face, and I went back where Dag and a lot of fellows were and showed
my Christmas gift, and they all laughed and wanted to know when it
was coming off. I dare say now it wasn't very generous to show it and
boast of it but the temptation was irresistible, and, besides, it was
no breach of our engagement. I had made no advances to Jenny, and
perhaps, as I thought a little dispiritedly, the mere friendliness of
my behavior may have been the reason she gave me the ring. But you may
be sure I kept that impression to myself, and was willing to let the
rest of the people think the whole thing was settled.
Ted had seen it all, and I knew he was a determined fellow, with a
devilish temper when he was roused, and he had enough to rouse him that
night. When we came on the stage together for our clog dancing he was
apparently as cool and smiling as ever, but I saw danger in his eye.
Mine didn't quail, I don't think; and as we stood side by side, our
arms and shoulders touching, while the clogs clattered and we sang our
best songs full of good hits, I knew that the final struggle was coming
that night, and I knew, too, that it would be on the trapeze. Naturally
I took fire too, and cared no more for breaking up the Valbella
Brothers and interfering with Sam Stacker's plans, nor, indeed, for
anything except that Ted should not get the better of me. The jealous
devil possessed us both. The performance went off first-rate. The
Dagmar was ill again for a wonder--this time a real _bona fide_
illness--and Jenny had to take her place. She came out all in clouds
of tulle, and danced a _ballet divertissement_ called "La Marguerite,"
in which she pulled a daisy to pieces to see if she was loved. She
danced it beautifully, and fairly brought the house down, and when she
got through she had half a dozen bouquets of flowers, and a great big
trapeze made of flowers was tilted over the heads of the orchestra to
her. I had had nothing to do with it, but she thought I had, and turned
to me as I stood in the wings and courtesied so prettily that it fairly
maddened Ted, who saw it all, and thought, too, I had sent it to her,
and thereby broken our agreement. I didn't choose to explain then and
there how it was, and the next minute it was our turn to go on the
stage.
We got through our part pretty well. Ted was cool, and so was I. The
people applauded tremendously, and when the red balloon came slowly
sailing down they almost went wild. As usual, when it came just above
our heads, we jumped up, caught the trapeze, got rid of the weights by
sleight-of-hand, and went up through the roof, vaulting and tumbling
over each other.
In a minute or two we were through the big hole in the top. It was then
the time for one of us to throw the rope to the fellows who stood about
on the roof to catch it, and to haul the balloon back. But instead of
throwing the rope--it was Ted's turn to throw it that night--he seized
it, and gathered it up out of reach of the fellows on the roof grabbing
for it, and--the balloon went flying up into the black sky!
It was a murky night, but the moon shone fitfully at intervals. As we
shot up from the roof I heard a wild cry, and then another, louder and
wilder, from the people in the street, who saw us darting upward to a
hideous death. For my own part, I don't remember anything for a while,
but I clung instinctively to the trapeze and braced myself against the
horizontal bars. I could feel that we were rushing through currents of
air, but the balloon was steady, and as soon as I recovered my senses
at all I looked steadily upward. We were going through clouds, and I
could feel that Ted was crawling toward me on the trapeze.
At last he got quite close to me. His white, desperate face was fearful
in the ghastly uncertain glare. The moon shone out, and I saw that the
small rope connecting with the safety-valve was fastened around his
wrist. He held it up to me.
"You understand what this means?" he said. "If I go over, the valve
comes open."
I understood well enough.
"Now," he said, "we can settle about Jenny Hobbs."
It was cold, and my teeth were chattering, but I managed to say: "It's
all settled, it strikes me. We are both dead men."
"Not I," said he. "I have been studying up balloons on the sly. I know
all about this one. I can manage her. Now tell me, will you give up
Jenny Hobbs? If you don't--" He pointed to the clouds scurrying beneath
us.
"You are a sneak and a coward," I said. "We've both got to die this
Christmas Eve, but you'll meet your Maker a murderer and a suicide."
The balloon, it seemed to me, was stationary then. He crept closer and
closer to me. I could see the whites of his eyes. I thought my time had
come. I could not remember any words of prayer, but my soul uttered its
inarticulate cry for mercy, which God can hear.
Suddenly the balloon gave a furious lurch, and before my very eyes I
saw him jerked violently backward. I have no clear recollection of what
happened next. I suppose, with an acrobat's instinct, he clutched the
bar. But I felt the balloon descending with a horrible rush that no
human being could describe. Then it slacked up, and I saw Ted clinging
with both hands to the trapeze, but his legs were dangling frightfully
in the air. The rope was still tied to his wrist, and the spring of the
valve had closed.
It is easy enough for any active young fellow to climb on a bar if
he has a good purchase with his hands; but the best acrobat in the
world, suspended he knows not how far from the earth, in mortal danger
and mortal terror, can't do it. I saw that Ted couldn't. I saw his
terrified and distorted face turned up to mine. I won't describe what I
felt in that moment. But in the half darkness I felt the rope that the
balloon had been held by slap against my face. I reached up and caught
it. Then I crawled along the bar to Ted. I wanted to save him; but I
also knew, if he let go, the valve would come open, and we would both
be dashed into limitless space. He saw me coming toward him. I suppose
he thought I meant to push him off, for he uttered the first loud sound
I had heard in that awful stillness--a piercing scream of anguish. I
saw him clutch the bar with a wild determination that gave me courage
to proceed. I made the rope into a big loop, and threw it around his
body. It caught the first time, and I drew it up under his arms. Then
he seemed to realize that I was trying to save him. I took the ends of
the rope, and, holding on firmly to the bar, wrapped the ends securely
around it, and tied them, hard and tight. Then I reached over and
grasped the valve rope, and began to pull it gently.
I suppose the gas in the balloon had been considerably exhausted
before, for as soon as I touched the valve we began to go down
frightfully fast. I closed it up for a few moments, and noticed we
were descending slowly. I opened the valve again the least in the
world, and we began to go down pretty fast--not so alarmingly fast;
but it had flashed through me that perhaps if we went too slowly in
the beginning the gas would be exhausted before we reached the bottom
and we would be dashed to pieces, and I didn't understand enough about
balloons to know that the same quantity of gas would carry us the same
distance fast or slow. Presently I saw a line of light which I took to
be the river, then the masts of shipping in the harbor, then the church
steeples, the houses, the street lamps. Oh, God! I heard the cries of
human voices--so close, so close! and when we were only a few feet from
the ground I got dizzy and fell--far, far into space--and went to sleep
before I reached the bottom.
* * * * *
The next morning was Christmas morning. Ah, what a day! May be people
think that professional acrobats haven't any religious instincts; but I
know I went to church that day, and found Jenny there, and afterward we
took a walk out into the country. It was a very happy walk, and it was
God's day, and she had screamed "Oh, Ned!" after all, the night that
Jack made the row. This gave me much solid satisfaction.
Before I got out of my bed that morning (I had had a regular fainting
spell, and had tumbled off the trapeze about ten feet from the ground,
but had been caught) I opened my eyes and saw Ted standing over me. He
looked like a ghost.
"Ned," said he, "I can't talk about it. I can hardly think or feel yet;
but you understand," he gasped out.
I thought I did understand, so I held out my hand. His hand felt like
a lump of ice. Sam Stacker was a sight to see. He had the hang of the
whole thing. Its value as an advertisement made him perfectly dizzy
with delight, but he was wild with misery at the same time, because
he hadn't the cheek--and Sam was a cheeky fellow too--to propose that
the Valbella Brothers should continue their performances; and between
admiration and chagrin he was almost crazy. All that day he was like
a wild man, and finally, considering the Valbella Brothers would
discontinue their performances immediately, as our reconciliation
didn't go the length of acting together again, we concluded to appear
before the curtain at the close of the Christmas performance that
night, just to please Sam.
As soon as Sam found it out he got out the biggest posters to be had
for love or money, saying we would appear on the stage that night,
although we were both too disabled by the severe shock we had received
to take any further part in the performances. We went, and when the
curtain rose at the end of the last act, and we were bowing, one on
each side of Sam, you never heard such a perfectly terrible commotion
in your life; and the next instant a party of gentlemen rustled out of
a box, headed by the mayor of the town, and, advancing to the stage,
made a long address. I didn't take in what it was about, but at last
it dawned upon my feeble intelligence that the mayor was commending
my bravery for rescuing my comrade by tying him to the trapeze, and
presenting me with a magnificent gold watch and chain. Of course I
couldn't say a word, but Sam Stacker returned thanks for me. He said it
was the greatest occasion of his life, and I believe it was. He spoke
three quarters of an hour, in a voice like a steam calliope, and waving
his arms up and down like a Dutch windmill. It makes my head swim now
to think about that speech. After it was all over I took Sam aside.
"Sam," says I, "don't you know if I hadn't tied Ted to the trapeze he'd
have fallen and dragged the valve open, and we'd both have been killed?"
"D'ye think I'm a durned fool?" said Sam quite fiercely. "Certainly
I know it, but I ain't a-going to tell them blooming idiots and
lunk-heads yonder that don't know beans from thunder."
These were the gentlemen whom Sam had just been apostrophizing as the
noblest examples of human virtue and intelligence he had ever yet come
across during a long experience with the greatest show on earth.
Well, there isn't much more to tell. The Valbella Brothers partnership
was dissolved, but I stayed on with Sam, and am at present part
proprietor of the show.
I forgot to say that Jenny and I were married just before the
performance that Christmas night.
THEODORA.
One morning in April, 1889, all that part of the population around
Prince's Gate that was up and stirring at seven o'clock, gaped with
surprise and said to each other, "The McGuckin houses are let." The
footmen loitering in the gorgeous vestibules, the housemaids lazily
straightening their caps as they threw wide the silken curtains, the
milkmen clattering upon their rounds, all regarded with interest the
great granite pile that had stood tenantless since the day the builders
and decorators left it ten years before. For the McGuckin houses were
so vast and splendid that living in them would have been dear had the
rent been thrown in. Luckily, there were but two of them. The lack of
tenants had driven the original McGuckin to suicide--but--it never
rains but it pours. The tenants that had been ten years in coming both
arrived the same week. One house was taken by Sir John Blood, of Blood
Hall, Suffolk, nephew and heir of the Marquis of Longacre, and the
other by an American family named March.
Although Sir John's wealth and position may be inferred from the meager
particulars already given of him, yet must the Marches be described
first. And Theodora March must not only take precedence of the nephew
and heir of the Marquis of Longacre, but of her own family as well--for
to Theodora had this precedence always been allowed, although the very
youngest scion of the house of March. She was slender and supple, and
had a beautiful head of rich gold hair that made an aureole around her
pure and sparkling face. By one of those freaks, so common in American
civilization, Theodora, whose ancestors had for unnumbered generations
sold hardware and cutlery and groceries, and were born and bred to
trade and barter, looked as if she had all of the blood of all of the
Howards in her veins. March _père_, like Napoleon, might have been
called the first of his family, but Theodora had grown up with all
the tendencies toward a privileged class floating around in American
society. She stamped her letters with a crest she could almost persuade
herself her ancestors had borne at the battle of Agincourt, and adopted
the Earls de la Marche of the middle ages as her progenitors. Like many
others who may be called fugitives from the lower middle class, she
hated it with indescribable intensity, and shook her small white fist
at it and stoned it whenever she got a chance.
Besides Theodora there was Anne, a pretty but incomplete model of
Nature's gorgeous after-thought, the younger sister. Theodora was a
leonine blonde, while Anne was a nondescript. Mrs. March, an amiable,
obstinate old person, was the third and last and least interesting of
the family.
The Marches had endured for years the nomadic existence preferred by
many rich Americans. Like the Bedouins of the desert, they had moved
their belongings from place to place at a moment's notice. But an
acquaintance at Homburg with the Honorable Mrs. Wodehouse had inspired
in Theodora a yearning for a London season--and Theodora, being the
master spirit and motor for the March family, promptly transported them
all to London, and the first week in April found them settled in one of
the two finest mansions at Prince's Gate. Meanwhile a great event had
happened in Anne's life. One William McBean, a lieutenant in a Highland
regiment, with one thousand pounds to his fortune besides his pay, had
met Anne on the Continent, and, after falling hopelessly in love and
communicating the same malady to her, was just about exchanging into
a regiment going to India because he had not the courage to ask the
rich American girl to marry him. Theodora, who had a good heart, and
was grieved to see Anne pale and _distrait_, and poor William McBean
looking like a ghost, homely and red-headed at that, took matters into
her own hands. She made a vigorous sortie on William McBean, wormed
his secret out of him, laughed at his scruples, proposed for him,
accepted for Anne, and had the satisfaction of seeing two worthy people
perfectly happy, and all her own doing too. Mrs. Wodehouse laughed at
the match; but Theodora extended her protecting arm over the lovers,
and, slender and white as that arm was, it was a mighty ægis.
It can not be supposed that the Marches remained long in ignorance of
the name and quality of their next neighbor at Prince's Gate. Within a
fortnight Theodora had seen Sir John on his balcony smoking, had heard
the click of his billiard balls through the open window, while Sir
John had listened with pleasure to her clear trilling as she took her
singing lesson. Anne did nothing now but sit on a bench in Kensington
Palace Gardens and gaze in rapture on William McBean's honest, ugly
face--a gaze which the red-headed lieutenant returned with compound
interest. The sight of their innocent happiness amused and pleased
Theodora excessively. It was love's young dream with a vengeance.
One morning Mrs. Wodehouse arrived at the Marches' house in a great
flutter. She had got cards for them to a grand ball to be given at the
house of a K. G., K. C. B., S. E. I., and what not, and the cards bore
the talisman "To meet H. R. H.--" It was the finest of the very great
balls of the season, and Mrs. Wodehouse was in high feather at the
notion of introducing her young friends on such an occasion, for Mrs.
March had thankfully rendered up to her the office of chaperon. The
question of a presentation at court was wisely deferred until another
season.
"And it's not improbable, dear," said Mrs. Wodehouse, surveying with
admiration Theodora's fresh beauty and captivating air, "that you may
go as Miladi with--"
"A great big lozenge on my carriage," laughed Theodora. "I used to
think," she added more gravely, "that Englishmen were pachyderms, but
upon my word they are the spooniest set--Anne, what are you blushing
for?"
"I was thinking of--of--," answered Anne, turning a yet more fiery red.
"Of William McBean," said Theodora, with cruel mirth, "you know you
were. You're always thinking of William McBean."
"My dear girl," remarked Mrs. Wodehouse plaintively to Anne, "with your
opportunities and nice looks, and money--you might look higher than a
lieutenant in a marching regiment. It's a sacrifice, dear--a sacrifice
which I--"
"Mrs. Wodehouse," cried Anne, rising and looking at Mrs. Wodehouse
quite savagely, "I insist that you shall not mention this matter again.
I'm--I'm not called upon to justify myself to you--but I think when
a girl marries a man and a gentleman--even if he is poor--she does
herself honor, and although we've got money ourselves, I feel the
greatest respect for a poor gentleman--and if he is so disinterested
that he almost forces her to make the offer herself, it's no
sacrifice--"
If a meek and much enduring sheep had turned on a hungry wolf, Mrs.
Wodehouse could not have been more surprised than at Anne's spirit. But
Theodora, who rarely permitted Anne to finish a sentence, here broke
in:
"No, it _isn't_ a sacrifice--even if he _has_ a red head and lisps
dreadfully. Fortunately, I don't want to marry William McBean myself. I
want--I don't know what I want. Not money--I have plenty of that."
"I think," continued Anne quite boldly, "that American girls are seldom
mercenary. We have our faults, but that's not one of--"
"Yes," said Theodora, with an air of great magnanimity, marching up and
down the room, "we have our faults, but at least we are not mercenary,
or designing, or mean, or anything of that sort. Nor are we headstrong
like English girls are sometimes--or ungenerous toward each other, or
given to gossip. We make ourselves agreeable abroad, but that does not
prevent our making our homes little paradises for those we love--and we
are not a bit conceited."
Anne attempted a mild suggestion that Theo hadn't left any faults
at all with which American girls could be justly charged, but it
was ruthlessly swept away in a hurricane of merry talk and laughter
from Theodora about the ball, her gown, and all the cheerful, costly
things that made up the life of Josiah C. March's lucky daughter. Mrs.
Wodehouse left, arranging to come to their house on the evening of the
ball, whence they would all go in the March's carriage and she would
remain the rest of the night at Prince's Gate.
* * * * *
The night of the ball finally arrived. By one of those occult processes
so difficult for the masculine intelligence to comprehend, Theodora
and Anne and Mrs. March found out that Sir John Blood was going to
the ball too. Many speculations as to whether he would ask to be
introduced or not went through the head of this young daughter of the
great republic, but she said never a word. Anne and her mother though
prattled incessantly about Sir John and the ball, to all of which
Theodora listened with the air of lofty indifference which an American
girl assumes where men are concerned, and apparently cared no more
about Sir John Blood than she did about the future King of Bulgaria.
The March carriage containing Mrs. Wodehouse drove up to Prince's Gate
about ten o'clock on a bright May evening. At the same instant Sir
John Blood's brougham was whirled to his door. Mrs. March stood in the
doorway to enjoy the sight of her nestlings getting into the carriage.
Mrs. Wodehouse did not descend. Anne came first, tripping down the
carpeted steps, looking uncommonly pretty in a blue gown.
"How charming you are, dear!" cried Mrs. Wodehouse.
"Just wait till you see Theo," answered Anne a little discontentedly.
It is hard to be always and invariably outshone even when one has an
angel named McBean to soothe one's self-love.
At that moment Sir John Blood appeared at his own door. He might
well have got into his brougham and gone, but he delayed a moment or
two--and in that moment Theodora sailed down the steps. A cloud of
silver _crêpe_ enveloped her and floated far behind her. Her slender
form was molded into a bodice so simple and yet so exquisite that it
was a poem in satin. Around the white pillar of her matchless throat
she wore a string of pearls, and pearls hung upon the front of her
corsage and skirt until both seemed sowed with gems. Mrs. Wodehouse
threw up her hands in silent ecstasy. The coachman turned and gaped
with delight, and so did the footman who shut the carriage door after
her.
Not only did Sir John Blood as well as his servants gaze in admiration,
but a group of ragged urchins began to "hooray," as the carriage rolled
off. Theodora leaned back in her corner of the carriage, enjoying her
little triumph as only a young and beautiful woman can. Nor did the
triumph end there. When they ascended the grand staircase and entered
the ball-room, a kind of admiring murmur followed Theodora. The whole
evening was a repetition of these trivial but delicious successes that
are dear to every woman's heart.
The very first person on whom Theodora's eyes rested was Sir John
Blood, and half an hour had scarcely passed before he came up and asked
for an introduction. Theodora was surprised to see Mrs. Wodehouse
receive Sir John with something like haughtiness. She barely consented
to introduce him, and seized the first opportunity to whisper in
Theodora's ear agonizingly--"He's a widower--don't for Heaven's
sake--dear girl--"
Theodora thought Mrs. Wodehouse had gone suddenly crazy, but she
retained her self-possession and gracefully returned Sir John's bow,
which was a kind of salaam or kowtow.
"I have the honor," he said, "of living next to Miss March."
Theodora smiled her own dazzling smile at this. "Yes," she replied,
"and I want you to credit me with great virtue in shutting tight all
the double windows when I am taking my singing lessons so that I shall
not make myself odious to my neighbors."
"Do you call that kind?" said Sir John. "Shall we take a turn and talk
about it?"
Mrs. Wodehouse actually put out her hand to detain Theodora, but Theo
was already beyond her grasp.