“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Judd. “I’m not doubting their worth. It’s only kind of sudden,” and he drew his hands across his eyes, as if to shut out the dazzling mass that flashed balefully up at him from the table. For a New England farmer, Josiah Judd was a prosperous man. In fact he was the richest man in Daleford. But if all his earthly possessions were converted into cash they would never realize a tenth part of the unwelcome treasure that now lay before him. He was, therefore, somewhat startled at being deluged, as it were, out of a clear sky, with the responsibility of nearly a million dollars. The guests also mentioned some pearls of extraordinary value in one of the trunks.
“Well,” he said, with an air of resignation, “I s’pose there’s no dodgin’ it, and I’ll have to do the best I can till I hear from Morton. After the boy goes back to India of course I sha’n’t have the care of it.”
The General glanced toward the sofa to be sure he was not overheard, then answered, in a low voice: “It will be better for him and will save the shedding of blood if he never returns.”
But the boy heard nothing in that room. He was slumbering peacefully, with his head against the high back of the sofa, and his spirit, if one could judge from the smile upon his lips, was once more in his own land, among his own people. Perhaps playing with another little boy in an Oriental garden, a garden of fountains and gorgeous flowers, of queer-shaped plants with heavy foliage, a quiet, dreamy garden, where the white walls of the palace beside it were supported by innumerable columns, with elephants’ heads for capitals: where, below a marble terrace, the broad Ganges shimmered beneath a golden sun.
Maybe the drowsy air of this ancestral garden with its perfume of familiar flowers made his sleep more heavy, or was it the thrum of gentle fingers upon a mandolin in a distant corner of the garden, mingling with a woman’s voice?
Whatever the cause, it produced a shock, this being summoned back to America, to exile, and to the hair-cloth sofa by the voice of Mrs. Judd announcing dinner; for the step was long and the change was sudden from the princely pleasure garden to the Puritan parlor, and every nerve and fibre of his Oriental heart revolted at the outrage. There was a war-like gleam in the melancholy eyes as he joined the little procession that moved toward the dining-room. As they sat at table, the three guests with Mrs. Judd, who poured the tea, he frowned with hostile eyes upon the steak, the boiled potatoes, the large wedge-shaped piece of yellow cheese, the pickles, and the apple-pie. He was empty and very hungry, but he did not eat. He ignored the example of the General and the Prince, who drank the strong, green tea, and swallowed the saleratus biscuits as if their hearts’ desires at last were gratified. He scowled upon Mrs. Judd when she tried to learn what he disliked the least. But her husband, swaying to and fro in a rocking-chair near the window, had no perception of the gathering cloud, and persisted in questioning his visitors in regard to India, the customs of the people, and finally of their own home life. Mrs. Judd had noticed the black eyebrows and restless lips were becoming more threatening as the many questions were answered; that the two-pronged fork of horn and steel was used solely as an offensive weapon to stab his potatoes and his pie.
At last the tempest came. The glass of water he had raised with a trembling hand to his lips was hurled upon the platter of steak, and smashed into a dozen pieces. With a swift movement of his arms, as if to clear the deck, he pushed the pickles among the potatoes and swept his pie upon the floor. Then, after a futile effort to push his chair from the table, he swung his legs about and let himself down from the side. With a face flushed with passion, he spoke rapidly in a language of which no word was familiar to his host or hostess, and ended by pointing dramatically at Mr. Judd, the little brown finger quivering with uncontrollable fury. It appeared to the astonished occupant of the rocking-chair that the curse of Allah was being hurled upon the house of Judd. Standing for a moment in silence and glowering upon them all in turn, the boy swung about with a defiant gesture, stalked through the open door and out of the house.
Josiah Judd, whose heart was already sinking under the responsibility of the crown jewels of a kingdom, experienced a sickening collapse in the presence of the Oriental thunderbolt that had just exploded on his peaceful New England hearthstone. His jaw fell, he ceased rocking, and turned his eyes in painful inquiry upon his guests.
There was an awkward silence. The General and the Prince had risen to their feet as if in apology to the hostess, but she had accepted the outburst with unruffled calmness. Her kind, restful, homely face showed no annoyance. Rising quietly from the table she followed the stormy guest and found him around in front of the house, sitting upon the granite doorstep, his chin in his hands, frowning fiercely upon the quaint old flower-garden before him. He got up as she approached and stood a few feet away, regarding her with a hostile scowl. Seating herself upon the step she said, with a pleasant smile:
“Of course you are tired, sonny, we all understand that, and you are unhappy to-day, but it won’t be for long.”