A VISIT OF CEREMONY.
“You don’t mean to tell me you don’t know what ‘aeroplane’ means?”
almost shouted Morey, when he saw from his mother’s look that she was
puzzled. “Well, I’ll be--”
“Mortimer!” exclaimed Mrs. Marshall with as much sternness as she ever
used.
“Mater,” he laughed, “you certainly are behind the times.”
“What does it mean?” she asked placidly.
“I suppose you never heard of ‘aviator’ either?”
“I’ve heard of ‘aviary’. I believe that has something to do with birds.”
“Right! Though I never heard of an aviary,” added Morey, partly to
himself. “It _is_ a bird. It’s a human bird. An ‘aviator’ is a man who
drives an aeroplane.”
“And this--this airy--?”
“Mother, sit down,” answered Morey in despair, “and I’ll begin your
aeronautical education.”
For the next quarter of an hour Mrs. Marshall dodged and parried
verbal volleys of airship talk. Beginning with hot air balloons Morey
led his mother along through a history of aeronautics until he came to
aeroplanes. And then, not satisfied with the bewildered condition of
his patient parent, he began with the dreams of the enthusiast.
“In war and peace, in commerce and pleasure, from the Pole to the
tropics, these human birds will darken the air on pinions swifter than
the eagle’s wing. The snow-crested peaks of the Himalayas, the deepest
recesses of the tropic wilderness, the uncharted main and the untrodden
ice of the hidden Poles will unroll before the daring aviator like
the--like--the--”
“The pictured pleasures of the panorama,” continued his mother,
pointing to the underscored page of the “History of Aeroplanes” which
she had been holding during Morey’s discourse.
“Yes,” said Morey, blushing, and then recovering himself. “Anyway,
that’s my plan of a career. I’m going to be an ‘aviator’. And I’m going
to begin at the bottom. I’m going to start by making an aeroplane right
here--out in the old carpenter shop.”
“Mortimer, I suppose I am just a little behind the times. Is this a
desirable thing?”
“Beats the world.”
“Have you been studying this at school?”
“’Taint in the course, but everybody’s studying it.”
“When did you interest yourself in such a peculiar subject?”
“Oh, ages ago--long before Christmas,” answered Morey. “I’ve read all
the books in the public library at Richmond and all the magazines, and
I’ve got all the circulars I could find. All I want now is a set of
tools and some spruce lumber and some silk and an engine--I can do it.
Needn’t fear I can’t.”
“And these things,” suggested Mrs. Marshall, her smooth brow wrinkling
just a trifle, “do they require any considerable outlay of funds?”
“Well,” said Morey--hesitating a little now--“The tools won’t cost
much, but I wanted to ask you about the engine. Of course,” and he put
his arm affectionately about his mother’s shoulders, “I know it isn’t
just as if father was with us, and I ain’t figuring on the best engine.
I would like a revolving motor, that’s the newest thing, one with a
gyroscopic influence, but that costs a good deal.”
“How much?” asked his mother taking the illustrated price list of
engines that Morey handed her.
“Twelve hundred dollars.”
His mother gasped and the circular dropped from her hand.
“I thought myself that was too much,” quickly exclaimed Morey,
puckering his lips. “But, mater, I’m not going to be extravagant. I’ve
arranged for a cheap one, a second-hand one. It’s at Hammondsport. I
saw it when I was visiting at Uncle’s.”
His mother sighed, looked for a moment out toward the ruined and
ramshackle barn and then, with a new smile, asked indifferently:
“And the price of this--approximately?”
“This one,” answered Morey, proudly, “is a real Curtiss six-cylinder,
and it’s a regular aeroplane engine. It’s cheap, because the man it
was made for didn’t take it. Cousin Jack knows a boy who works in Mr.
Curtiss’ shop. I saw Mr. Curtiss about it myself. It was such a bargain
that I--I--well I bought it.”
Mrs. Marshall breathed a little heavily and rearranged her dress.
“You didn’t mention the price,” she said at last, patting Morey’s hand.
“Only four hundred dollars!”
His mother laughed nervously. “I’m afraid my boy is a little
extravagant,” she remarked slowly.
“Do you know what that engine’s worth!” exclaimed Morey. “It’s worth
$800 any day.”
“Well, I suppose the young men of today must have their amusements.
Your father’s was horses and hunting. But it did not interfere with
his business as a planter. I trust you will not become extreme in the
fancy. It must not be carried too far.”
“Too far? I’m not going to do anything else until I get rich.”
“Nothing else? You mean no other amusement?”
“That’s not amusement; it’s business. It’s going to be my job.”
“You mean along with tobacco planting?”
“I should say not. What, me a farmer? Tobacco is played out.”
“Mortimer Marshall!”
“You don’t think I’m going to be a planter, do you?”
“Mortimer!” Mrs. Marshall was erect in her chair, her cheeks pale.
“Why, mater, I had no idea that you felt that way. You don’t mean that
I’m to come back here and take old Marsh Green’s place. I can’t grow
tobacco. I don’t know how and I don’t want to. Young men don’t do those
things nowadays. They get out and hustle.”
“Mortimer, your father was a planter from boyhood until he died. His
father was one and his father’s father. Aspley Place has grown tobacco
for one hundred and fifty years. In Virginia it is a gentleman’s life.”
“No, mater,” answered Morey in a low and kind voice. “It was. But it
isn’t now. You love this place--so do I. But I’ve been out in the
world, a little--you haven’t. Things have gone on all around us and we
didn’t know it. I can’t be a tobacco planter. I won’t.”
Mrs. Marshall’s lips trembled but she said nothing.
“I’ll go to school, mater; I’ll even go to college if you like. But
then I want to go to an engineering school. After that I’m going to
make you famous. I’m going to make the perfect flying machine. Then
we’ll move away from this old place--”
“Mortimer!” quivered his mother. “From Aspley Place? Your father’s
home? Never!” Then, with an effort, she became calm. Rising, as if
both hurt and indignant, she exclaimed:
“My son, I am your mother and your guardian. I have my own plans for
your future--your father’s plans. From now you will dismiss these
ideas. I shall countermand your foolish purchase or ask your uncle to
do so. This summer you will spend with me. You will return to your
school and then to the University. When, in time, you graduate and are
able to do so you will return here and assume charge of the patrimony
bequeathed you by your father. Meanwhile, Mr. Green will remain in
charge.”
And leaving Morey standing crestfallen among the jumble of books and
papers, his mother walked sadly from the room.
It was the first time Mortimer had ever been balked in his life. For
six months he had thought and dreamed of nothing else. His pride was
hurt, too, for to his cousin Jack, in Hammondsport, he had outlined
carefully the exact details of his future plans. He had managed to
secure an invitation from Jack Marshall to visit Hammondsport soon
after his investigation into aeroplane and airship affairs had revealed
to him that in that little town Inventor Curtiss had his motor
shop and aeroplane factory and that other balloon manufacturers and
experimenters had collected there in sufficient numbers to make it
the aeronautical center of America. There he had seen real dirigible
balloons, had met and talked with Carl Meyers, the oldest balloon
navigator in the country, had witnessed flights of the Curtiss
aeroplane, had gazed upon the renowned Professor Graham Bell, had
lounged for days about the mysterious and fascinating shops and
factories, and, best of all and most unforgettable, had tasted the joys
of gliding on the kites and planes of the various aeronautical experts.
Then he recalled the mocking laugh of his uncle.
He was a stubborn boy, but--he did not know whether he was a
disobedient one. In all his life he had never been tested. Flushed and
sick with disappointment he caught up his precious books and circulars
and was banging them into the trunk when the door opened and Amos stuck
his head into the room:
“Marse Morey, yo’ ma says yo’ all gwine ober to Marse Major Carey’s
soon as yo’ has yo’ supper. An’ yo’s to put on yo’ bestest cloe’s an’
slick up.”
Bang! went “Aeroplanes, their Manufacture and Use.” It missed the
colored boy’s head and crashed against the door jamb.
“Here, you black rascal,” shouted Morey, red in the face and full of
anger, “come back here and give me my knife, you thief!”
But the accusation was lost. Amos was on the long stair rail shooting
to the bottom like a sack of wheat.
When the old-fashioned supper bell clanged out in the hall below,
Morey, white of face, marched downstairs and into the dining room in
silence. At the humble board with Morey’s trout, almost the only dish,
on the snowy white cloth before her, sat his mother, also pale, but
with her usual smile. A look of surprise swept over her face as she
noticed that Morey had ignored her orders.
“The evening is very agreeable,” said his mother softly. “It will be
light for some time. Major Carey has asked you to come and see him. We
are going immediately after supper. I have ordered out the carriage.”
“Won’t tomorrow do?” said Morey sharply--and then he was sorry.
“If you prefer,” answered his mother. “Your trout are delicious.”
“Oh, I’ll go tonight,” said Morey, ashamed of his anger.
“The Careys are our oldest friends,” went on his mother, smiling again.
“I had hoped you would look your best. When Major Carey does me the
honor to appear in our home he comes clothed as a gentleman. He carries
his gold-headed cane. His linen is immaculate.”
“It won’t take me but a minute,” said Morey, crowding back a tear of
mortification but disposing of a couple of crisp trout nevertheless.
“I’ll be ready as soon as you are.”
He was about to dash from the room when he turned, hastened to his
mother’s side and kissed her on the cheek.
“That’s a good boy, Mortimer. I’m glad you realize that I know best.”
While Morey was making his hasty toilet he heard a creaking sound
outside. Rushing to the window he was about to break out into laughter.
Then he stopped and a little flush came into his face. Slowly advancing
along the road from the stable lot was his mother’s carriage. It was
the old surrey that his father had once used in transporting the hounds
to the distant meets. Paintless, its bottom gaping, its top cracked and
split and its wheels wobbling, it groaned forward toward the mounting
block at the end of the gallery. To it was hitched fat Betty, sleek
and shiny with rubbing. The harness used only on such occasions, still
withstood the final ravages of time, for on one bridle blinder shone
one glittering polished silver M--old Marsh’s pride and joy.
What had amused Morey was the sight of the old servitor, “Colonel
Marshall’s overseer,” Marsh Green. His shoes were shining, and a fresh
white shirt showed resplendent beneath his worn coat, but the old man’s
chief glory was his battered silk hat. By his side rode Amos, splendid
in his shoes and Morey’s trousers--his “meetin’ pants.”
What had brought the flush to Morey’s face was the sudden thought:
“the Careys do not come to Aspley Place in such a turnout.” And, for
the first time in his life, Morey felt ashamed of the old home and its
surroundings.