The Laughing Girl. Chambers Robert William
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on the hill,
And all the little chick-uns in the ga-arden!"
The city guy he laffed to scorn
What that old man did say:
"Before I bump you on the bean
Go chase yourself away.
Beat it! you bum blackmailing yap!
I never kissed your daughter's map
Nor thought of getting gay!
I'm here on my vacation
And I ain't done any harm,
I do not want your daughter, Bill,
Nor house and barn and farm,
Nor hay in mows
Nor pigs and cows
Nor wood-lot on the hill.
Nor all them little chick-uns in the ga-arden!"
Them crool words no sooner said
Than Jessie fetched a sob:
"I'll shoot you up unless we're wed!"
Sez she – "You prune-fed slob!
Get busy with the parson – "
Here Smith caught sight of me and ceased his saga.
"Yes," I said, "you're a Norwegian all right. Three cheers for King Haakon!"
"You speak in parables, O'Ryan."
"You behave in parabolics. I don't care. I like you. I shall call you Shan."
"Your companionship also is very agreeable to me, Michael. Sit down and have one on yourself."
We exchanged bows and I seated myself.
"By the way," I remarked carelessly, "her name is Thusis." And I filled my glass and took a squint at its color. Not that I knew anything about Moselle.
"What else is her name?" he inquired.
"She declines to answer further. Thusis seems to be her limit."
"I told you she was a mystery!" he exclaimed with lively interest. "What else did she say to you, Michael?"
"Her sister is coming to-night. Also a lady-friend named Josephine Vannis; and a farmer of sorts called Raoul Despres."
"Take it from me," said Smith, "that if truth is stranger than fiction in these days, this red-haired girl called Thusis is no more Swiss than you are!"
"No more of a peasant than you are a Norwegian," I nodded.
"And whoinhell," he inquired, keeping his countenance, "ever heard of a South American named O'Ryan?"
"It's a matter of Chilean history, old top."
"Oh, yes, I know. But the essence of the affair is that an Irish family named O'Ryan have, for several generations, merely been visiting in Chili. Now one of 'em's in Switzerland as close to the big shindy as he can get without getting into it. And, the question is this: how long before he pulls a brick and starts in?"
"Chili is neutral – "
"Ireland isn't. Sinn Fein or Fusiliers – which, Michael?"
"Don't talk nonsense," said I, virtuously. "I'm no fighter. There's no violence in me. If I saw a fight I'd walk the other way. There's none of that kind of Irish blood in me."
"No. And all your family in the army or navy. And you practically a Yankee – "
I stared at him and whistled the Chilean anthem.
"That's my reply," said I. "Yours is:
"My girl's a corker,
She's a New Yorker – "
"What piffle you talk, you poor prune," said this typical Norwegian.
So we filled our glasses to our respective countries, and another round to that jolly flag which bears more stars and stripes than the Chilean ensign.
It being my turn to investigate the cellar I went. Down there in one of the alleys between bins and casks I saw Thusis moving with a lighted candle – a startling and charming apparition.
What she might be doing down there I could not guess, and she was so disturbingly pretty that I didn't think it best to go over and inquire. Maybe she was counting the bottles of Moselle to keep reproachful tabs on us; maybe she was after vinegar. No; I realized then for the first time that the girl was far too pretty for any man to encounter her by candle-light with impunity.
She did not see me – wouldn't have noticed me at all in the dim light had not my bunch of bottles clinked – both hands being loaded, and a couple of extra ones under each arm.
The sound startled her apparently; she turned quite white in the candle-light and stood rigid, listening, one hand pressing her breast.
"It is I, Thusis," I said. "Did I frighten you?"
She denied it rather faintly. She was distractingly pretty in her breathless attitude of a scared child.
I ought to have said something cheerful and matter of fact, and gone out of the cellar with my cargo of bottles. Instead I went over to her and looked at her – a silly, dangerous proceeding. "Thusis," I said, "I would not frighten you for one million dollars!"
Realizing suddenly the magnitude of the sum I mentioned I pulled myself together, conscious that I could easily make an ass of myself.
So, resolutely expelling from voice and manner any trace of sex consciousness, I said in the spirit of our best American novelists: "Permit me, Thusis, to recommend a small glass of this very excellent Moselle. Sipped judiciously and in moderation the tonic qualities are considered valuable as a nourishment to the tissues and nerves."
"Thank you," she said, slightly bewildered.
So I knocked off the neck of the bottle in medieval fashion – which wasted its contents because she was afraid of swallowing glass, and said so decidedly. I then noticed a row of corkscrews hanging on a beam, and she, at the same moment, discovered a tasting porringer of antique silver under one of the casks.
She picked it up naïvely and polished it with a corner of her apron. Then she looked inquiringly at me.
So I drew the cork and filled her porringer.
"It is delicious Moselle," she said. "Is it Château Varenn?"
"It is. How did you guess?"
"I once tasted some."
"Another of your accomplishments," said I, laughing. She laughed too, but blushed a little at her expert knowledge of Moselle.
"I have rather a keen sense of taste and a good memory," she explained lightly; and she sipped her Moselle looking at me over the rim of the silver porringer – a perilous proceeding for me.
"Thusis," said I.
"Yes, Monsieur O'Ryan."
"Did you ever, by chance, see that photograph they sell all over Europe called 'The Laughing Girl'?"
Her dark-fringed eyes regarded me steadily over the cup's silver edge:
"Yes," she said, "I've seen it."
"Do you think that b-b-beautiful c-creature resembles you?"
"Do you?" she inquired coolly, and lowered the cup. There ensued a little silence during which I became vaguely aware of my danger. I kept repeating to myself: "Try to recollect that your grandfather was an Admiral."
After a moment she smiled: "Thank you for the tonic, Monsieur. I feel better; but I am afraid it was a presumption for me to drink in your presence… And no cup to offer you."
"I'll use yours," said I, taking it. She was still smiling. I began to feel that I ought to pull myself together and invoke the Admiral more earnestly. But when I remembered him he bored me. And yet, could it be possible that an O'Ryan was drinking Moselle in his own cellar with his cook? In no extravagance of nightmare had I ever evoked such a cataclysmic scene. I have dreamed awful dreams in the course of my life: –