“And don’t you remember how frightened poor Mary was,
and how she cried?”
“Indeed I do!” said I. “Dear me, how it all comes back!”
I fervently wished it WOULD come back–but my memory was
a blank. The wise way would have been to frankly own up;
but I could not bring myself to do that, after the young
girl had praised me so for recognizing her; so I went on,
deeper and deeper into the mire, hoping for a chance clue
but never getting one. The Unrecognizable continued,
with vivacity:
“Do you know, George married Mary, after all?”
“Why, no! Did he?”
“Indeed he did. He said he did not believe she was half
as much to blame as her father was, and I thought he
was right. Didn’t you?”
“Of course he was. It was a perfectly plain case.
I always said so.”
“Why, no you didn’t!–at least that summer.”
“Oh, no, not that summer. No, you are perfectly right
about that. It was the following winter that I said it.”
“Well, as it turned out, Mary was not in the least
to blame –it was all her father’s fault–at least
his and old Darley’s.”
It was necessary to say something–so I said:
“I always regarded Darley as a troublesome old thing.”
“So he was, but then they always had a great affection
for him, although he had so many eccentricities.
You remember that when the weather was the least cold,
he would try to come into the house.”
I was rather afraid to proceed. Evidently Darley wa not
a man–he must be some other kind of animal–possibly
a dog, maybe an elephant. However, tails are common
to all animals, so I ventured to say:
“And what a tail he had!”
“ONE! He had a thousand!”
This was bewildering. I did not quite know what to say,
so I only said:
“Yes, he WAS rather well fixed in the matter of tails.”
“For a negro, and a crazy one at that, I should say he was,”
said she.
It was getting pretty sultry for me. I said to myself,
“Is it possible she is going to stop there, and wait for
me to speak? If she does, the conversation is blocked.
A negro with a thousand tails is a topic which a person
cannot talk upon fluently and instructively without more
or less preparation. As to diving rashly into such a
vast subject–”
But here, to my gratitude, she interrupted my thoughts
by saying:
“Yes, when it came to tales of his crazy woes, there was
simply no end to them if anybody would listen. His own
quarters were comfortable enough, but when the weather
was cold, the family were sure to have his company–nothing
could keep him out of the house. But they always bore it
kindly because he had saved Tom’s life, years before.
You remember Tom?
“Oh, perfectly. Fine fellow he was, too.”
“Yes he was. And what a pretty little thing his child was!”
“You may well say that. I never saw a prettier child.”
“I used to delight to pet it and dandle it and play
with it.”
“So did I.”
“You named it. What WAS that name? I can’t call it
to mind.”
It appeared to me that the ice was getting pretty
thin, here. I would have given something to know
what the child’s was. However, I had the good luck
to think of a name that would fit either sex–so I brought it
out:
“I named it Frances.”
“From a relative, I suppose? But you named the one that died,
too–one that I never saw. What did you call that one?”
I was out of neutral names, but as the child was dead
and she had never seen it, I thought I might risk a name
for it and trust to luck. Therefore I said:
“I called that one Thomas Henry.”
She said, musingly:
“That is very singular … very singular.”
I sat still and let the cold sweat run down. I was
in a good deal of trouble, but I believed I could worry
through if she wouldn’t ask me to name any more children.
I wondered where the lightning was going to strike next.