“It isn’t poetry, mother,” was the reply, and there was an ironical look in Orlando’s eyes. “Poetry’s the truth of life,” he hastened to add carefully, “and it’s not poetry to say that you could be a kill-joy.”
The little lady tossed her head. “Well, you’ll never have a chance to prove it, for I’m taking the express east on the night of your wedding. That’s settled. Amelia needs me, and I’m going to her.... Your wedding present will be the ranch and a hundred thousand dollars,” she added.
“You’re the sun-dried fruit of Paradise, Mother,” Orlando said, taking her by the arms.
“I heard the Young Doctor call me a bird of Paradise once,” she returned. “People don’t know how sharp my ears are.... But I never stored it up against him. Taste is born in you, and if people haven’t got it in the cradle, they never have it. I suppose his mother went around in a black alpaca and wore her hair like a wardress in a jail. I’m sorry for him—that’s all.”
“Suppose I should get homesick for you and run away from her!” remarked Orlando slyly.
“Run away with her to me,” chirruped Eugenie, with a vain little laugh.
Suddenly her manner changed, and she looked at her son with dreamy intensity. “You are so wonderfully young, my dear,” she said, “and I am very old. I had much happiness with your father while he lived. He was such a wise man. Always he gave in to me in the little things, and I gave in to him in all the big things. He almost made me a sensible woman.”
There was a strange wistfulness in her face. Through all the years, down beneath everything, there had been the helpless knowledge in her own small, garish mind that she had little sense; now she realized that she was given a chance to atone for all her pettiness by doing one great sensible thing.
Orlando was about to embrace her, but she briskly, turned away. She could not endure that. If he did it, the pent-up motherhood would break forth, and her courage would take flight. She was something more than the “parokeet of Pernambukoko,” as Patsy Kernaghan had called her.
She went to the door of the other room. “I want to talk to the Young Doctor about Amelia,” she said. “He’s clever, and perhaps he could give her a good prescription. I’ll send Louise to you. It’s nicer courting in this room where you can see the garden and the grand hills. You’re going to give Louise the little gray mare you lassooed last year, aren’t you? I always think of Louise when I look at that gray mare. You had to break the pony’s heart before she could be what she is—the nicest little thing that ever was broken by a man’s hand; and Louise, she had to have her heart broken too. Your father and I were almost of an age—he was two years older, and we had our youth together. And you and Louise are so wonderfully young, too. Be good to her, son. She’s never been married. She was only in prison with that old lizard. What a horrible mouth he had! It’s shut now,” she added remorselessly. Opening the door of the other room, she disappeared.