Читать книгу The Triumph of Virginia Dale - John MacCunn Francis - Страница 11

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The morning was beautiful. During the hours of darkness a shower had cleansed the great outdoor world with its gentle moisture. Now, in all of its new laundered freshness, the earth welcomed the warm rays of the rising sun, sweeping with millions of scintillating reflections through the air, clear and pellucid in its purity. The rays sparkled and glittered on the drops of moisture which clung to the grass blades and to the leaves. They gave warm caresses to the bushes and to the trees and from the upturned faces of the flowers, waving coyly and coquettishly, they stole sly kisses, until the blossoms blushed red and pink and hid their faces beneath the leaves for very shame.

Down from the hills danced a gentle breeze, and, catching the naughty lovemakers, laughed merrily and rushed away to whisper the story in the branches of the trees. The birds overheard it and they laughed, too, and spread the news, the naughty gossips, in a cheery chorus of song.

Then the world awakened and heard the laughter of the wind and the merry song of the birds and felt the caress of the sun and wise men threw back their shoulders and took deep draughts of the morning air and were happy, too.

At the hospital, a nurse in her garb of white was humming softly as she moved about among the awakening patients, setting the ward in order. She stopped by a bed to remove a glass from the enameled table.

A big, handsome fellow, arrayed in pink pajamas, opened a pair of black eyes beneath a mop of disheveled black hair and smiled up at her.

“Good morning,” she greeted him. “How are you this morning?”

“Good–ouch!” An attempt to move was the cause of the peculiar response.

She came to his assistance. “Isn’t that better?”

“Yes, thank you. I forgot about yesterday’s troubles while I slept. How could I get so many sore spots when I only struck in one place?” he asked.

The nurse laughed as she inspected his chart. “How’s your head this morning?”

“Sister–” he grinned good humoredly–“that dome of mine has completely recovered. I am healing from the top down.”

She raised a shade and a ray of sunshine flashed across the foot of his bed. “Isn’t that better? It’s a beautiful day.”

He rolled and twisted his eyes until he was able to get a glimpse of a bit of blue sky through the window. His face registered great regret. “What a day for a two or three hundred mile spin, sister,” he mused.

Again she examined his chart. “Say, Mr. Joseph Tolliver Curtis,” she remonstrated sharply.

“Those who love me call me Joe,” he interrupted in a gentle voice as he watched with great interest and amusement the snap in her hazel eyes.

She disregarded the brazen hint and proceeded to reprimand. “It’s time for you to cut out this ‘sister’ business. I might stand for it once in awhile but you have a chronic case of it. You took a spin yesterday which is going to make us intimate acquaintances for some time.”

“Oh death, where is thy sting?” he interjected.

Perfectly oblivious to his remark, she continued, “It will be better, particularly for you, if our acquaintance is a pleasant one. You will call me–Miss Knight–Mr. Curtis,” she intimated with a grave dignity which the wayward blonde curls beneath her cap did not loyally support.

“ ‘Night, sable goddess, from ebon throne descends,’ ” he quoted with dramatic emphasis. “Do you furnish breakfast as well as lectures on behavior in this hospital?”

She retired with great hauteur between smiling masculine eyes to the end of the ward. Suddenly, she whirled and waved her hand at the injured one, and, as if addressing an old and intimate friend, called, “You can have your breakfast in a minute, Joe.”

In his apartment above the garage at the Dale home, Ike was awakened by the shrill alarm of an electric bell rung from a button pressed by Serena in the comfort of her own bed. Thus he arose betimes of necessity, rather than from personal desire to salute the rising sun.

Breathing deeply, the spirit of the morning entered into the chauffeur’s veins as he watched a couple of fat robins enjoying a breakfast of elastic worms pulled from the moist earth. Lifting his voice in muffled song, he ran the big car out of the garage, and, opening its bonnet, reclined on the radiator and lazily looked at the engine.

Like a high priestess veiled in clouds of incense while engaged in holy mysteries, Serena moved about her kitchen in the midst of appetizing odors, preparing coffee, frying ham and cooking waffles for the morning refreshment of the Dales. Now, as if such dainties were insufficient, she brought forth another skillet and put diverse parts of a fowl therein, and with skilled, fork-armed hand shifted them about until they sissled and hissed and fried.

The morning breeze faintly wafted pleasing odors to Ike. They assailed his nostrils delightfully. He breathed yet a little deeper and sang yet a little louder. Closing the bonnet, he climbed into a seat that he might, in pleasant anticipation, rest from labor. Suddenly, there came to him a more delicious scent. He sniffed in disbelief that fate could be so kind, but his experienced olfactory nerves reassured him. In such matters, they could not err.

“Chicken!” He sniffed and sought appropriate outlet for joy. With a roar which shook the early peace of the neighborhood as a salute of artillery, Ike raced the engine of the machine and in the midst of this diabolical furore, he sang a paean of joy.

The uproar smote the calm of Serena’s kitchen. She jerked with alarm, but the wisdom of years asserted itself. Rushing out on the stoop she fixed indignant eyes on the chauffeur. “You, Ike,” she cried, “stop dat noise.”

He returned her words with a cheery smile of trust and confidence. Deafened by his own row, he judged that she desired speech with him. The engine slowed and the noise decreased until there could be distinguished the words of a ballad of strenuous love,