Then was there a mingling of hearts and of tears of rejoicing on
Telegraph Hill and in Eastport Square.
Servants were called by the elders, in both places. Unto one was given
the order, “Pile this fire high, with hickory wood, and bring me a
roasting-hot lemonade.”
Unto the other was given the order, “Put out this, fire, and bring me two
palm-leaf fans and a pitcher of ice-water.”
Then the young people were dismissed, and the elders sat down to talk the
sweet surprise over and make the wedding plans.
Some minutes before this Mr. Burley rushed from the mansion on Telegraph
Hill without meeting or taking formal leave of anybody. He hissed
through his teeth, in unconscious imitation of a popular favorite in
melodrama, “Him shall she never wed! I have sworn it! Ere great Nature
shall have doffed her winter’s ermine to don the emerald gauds of spring,
she shall be mine!”
III
Two weeks later. Every few hours, during same three or four days, a very
prim and devout-looking Episcopal clergyman, with a cast in his eye, had
visited Alonzo. According to his card, he was the Rev. Melton Hargrave,
of Cincinnati. He said he had retired from the ministry on account of
his health. If he had said on account of ill-health, he would probably
have erred, to judge by his wholesome looks and firm build. He was the
inventor of an improvement in telephones, and hoped to make his bread by
selling the privilege of using it. “At present,” he continued, “a man
may go and tap a telegraph wire which is conveying a song or a concert
from one state to another, and he can attach his private telephone and
steal a hearing of that music as it passes along. My invention will stop
all that.”
“Well,” answered Alonzo, “if the owner of the music could not miss what
was stolen, why should he care?”
“He shouldn’t care,” said the Reverend.
“Well?” said Alonzo, inquiringly.
“Suppose,” replied the Reverend, “suppose that, instead of music that was
passing along and being stolen, the burden of the wire was loving
endearments of the most private and sacred nature?”
Alonzo shuddered from head to heel. “Sir, it is a priceless invention,”
said he; “I must have it at any cost.”
But the invention was delayed somewhere on the road from Cincinnati, most
unaccountably. The impatient Alonzo could hardly wait. The thought of
Rosannah’s sweet words being shared with him by some ribald thief was
galling to him. The Reverend came frequently and lamented the delay, and
told of measures he had taken to hurry things up. This was some little
comfort to Alonzo.
One forenoon the Reverend ascended the stairs and knocked at Alonzo’s
door. There was no response. He entered, glanced eagerly around,.
closed the door softly, then ran to the telephone. The exquisitely soft
and remote strains of the “Sweet By-and-by” came floating through the
instrument. The singer was flatting, as usual, the five notes that
follow the first two in the chorus, when the Reverend interrupted her
with this word, in a voice which was an exact imitation of Alonzo’s, with
just the faintest flavor of impatience added:
“Sweetheart?”
“Yes, Alonzo?”
“Please don’t sing that any more this week-try something modern.”
The agile step that goes with a happy heart was heard on the stairs, and
the Reverend, smiling diabolically, sought sudden refuge behind the heavy
folds of the velvet windowcurtains. Alonzo entered and flew to the
telephone. Said he:
“Rosannah, dear, shall we sing something together?”
“Something modern?” asked she, with sarcastic bitterness.
“Yes, if you prefer.”
“Sing it yourself, if you like!”
This snappishness amazed and wounded the young man. He said:
“Rosarmah, that was not like you.”
“I suppose it becomes me as much as your very polite speech became you,
Mr. Fitz Clarence.”
“Mister Fitz Clarence! Rosannah, there was nothing impolite about my
speech.”
“Oh, indeed! Of course, then, I misunderstood you, and I most humbly beg
your pardon, ha-ha-ha! No doubt you said, ‘Don’t sing it any more
to-day.'”
“Sing what any more to-day?”
“The song you mentioned, of course, How very obtuse we are, all of a
sudden!”