“Oh!—oh!—you wicked man!—(where’s my sal volatile!) to mislead your old friend and neighbor! No danger! No danger! Why, the powers of the air cried out upon your deceits!” she exclaimed, between sniffs at the hartshorn in a little gilded bottle that hung from a chain about her waist.
There seemed a vast incongruity between Mervyn’s mild short-comings and the tumultuous rebukes of the thunder as it rolled about the house. Despite his duplicity he was esteemed by the old lady the most reliable support attainable against the anger of the elements, and she clung to one arm, while he held the lute in the other hand. As he turned to note how far the coals had been scattered on the puncheons, the instrument struck the back of a chair and the blow elicited a plaintive susurrus of protest. At the unexpected sound Mrs. Annandale gave a galvanic start so violent that it seemed as if it might have dislocated every bone in her body.
“Man alive!” she exclaimed, irritably, upon observing the cause of the sound, “put the dratted thing down—somewhere—anywhere! Do you think this is a time to go perking and majoring around, like a troubadour!”
One might have thought the lute was hot, so quickly did Mervyn let it slide upon the table. Then with a certain air of importance, for he was not accustomed to be rated in this tone, and infinitely did he deprecate ridicule in the presence of Arabella, he said, “Let me conduct you to a chair, Mrs. Annandale; you would be more comfortable seated.”
Despite her nerves and terror the little lady detected the change in his tone, and made haste to insinuate her apology.
“Oh, child—child!” she said, gazing up artfully at him. “You do not know what it is to be afraid—you are the very spirit and frame of a soldier! But me—Lord!—I am so timid!”
And with another flash and crash she clung to him anew.
As far as a mere matter of good-nature might go, Mervyn would not have hesitated to sacrifice his comfort or pleasure to the terrors with which he could not sympathize; he would have permitted her indefinitely whatever solace she derived from her painful grip upon his arm. But he had become alert to the idea of ridicule. He was aware that he cut a farcical figure as he stood in the pronounced elegance of his attire,—his brilliant gold-laced uniform, his powdered hair, the delicate, costly lace at throat and wrist, his silk stockings and gold-buckled shoes,—in the custody of the ancient lady, clinging frantically to his arm, and berating him as she would. At all events he had been subjected to the situation in Arabella’s presence as long as he had a mind to endure it. Mrs. Annandale felt very definitely the firmness of his intention under the gentle touch as he contrived to unloose her clutch, and holding the tips of her fingers with a courtly gesture he led her across the room and to a seat. She sank down with a sense of luxury amidst the soft folds of the buffalo rug that covered it, but she relinquished his arm reluctantly. She felt the need of something alive to cling to—a fold of the buffalo rug did not answer; something to clutch that could tingle and respond with sympathy. Suddenly she caught at the chain that hung from her waist and supported her fan, her pomander-box, and a bunch of trinkets of more or less utility, and sounded a silver whistle—a dulcet, seductive tone all incongruous with the service to which it summoned. This man was no better than a lay-figure, she said scornfully within herself,—a mere bit of padding, tricked out in the latest military style! He hadn’t enough mortality about him to feel the electric thrills in the air. He could not hear the thunder, he could not see the lightning,—and for her own part she wished it might strike close enough to tickle him, and to tickle him well, provided of course it tickled no one else. She wanted her maid; she wanted Norah; who was here on the instant at the door, with very big eyes and red cheeks, smart enough, too, with a blue dimity gown and white cap and apron.
“And why are you genuflecting there at the door, you vixen?” cried the irate lady, as the girl reached her side. “Waiting to see me struck by lightning, eh?”
“Oh, no, sure, mem. God is good!” volunteered the girl, reassuringly.