Читать книгу The Triumph of Virginia Dale - John MacCunn Francis - Страница 8

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After Obadiah, highly indignant at the presence of the black orphans, had departed, his car moved slowly up the street. It stopped at the corner for the policeman’s signal. At the edge of the sidewalk stood a newsboy eating an ice cream cone with great enjoyment. The shouts of the pickaninnies were stilled at the pleasing spectacle of a fellow man partaking of food. Every eye watched the disappearing cone as if fascinated by some novel mechanical process.

The unusual silence aroused Virginia from uneasy thoughts of her father. Following the eyes of her guests she caught the common target as the last bite disappeared, and noted that the lips of the black company moved sympathetically coincident with its departure.

“These children will be late for lunch?” worried the young hostess, awakening to the requirements of the hour.

“Yas’m,” the woman confessed with indifference. “It ain’ no mattah.” From outward appearances the infants took issue upon the question, deeming it one of grave concern. “Dey eats at noon but ah fix ’em up er snack w’en we git back.” The orphans registered relief.

“How would they like an ice cream cone?” suggested Virginia.

The infants awaited the verdict in breathless anticipation.

“Ah guesses dey lak it mighty well.” The woman looked about her at the upturned mouths even as in a nest of fledgeling blackbirds. The financial extravagance daunted her. “Yo’all mought git one fo’ each two.”

Sore disappointment depressed the fledgelings.

Virginia sensed the prevalent dejection. “No,” she decided, “each child shall have one. Go on to Vivian’s, Ike.”

Now, Mr. Vivian maintained an establishment for the distribution of those mild refreshments appealing to youth. His fastidious soul endeavored to foster the delicate things of life. He dealt in sugars and syrups in preference to lard or kerosene. This spirit prevailed in his public parlors. Golden rays reflected in dazzling brilliancy in many mirrors from gilded grills. It was meet that in such a temple only the elect should partake of ambrosia. This thought exuded from every pore of Mr. Vivian. At times he spoke of it.

The world accepts a man at his own value. So, South Ridgefield appraised Mr. Vivian’s resort at his own valuation; but by no means does this mean that his clientele was limited. Far from it. The youth of South Ridgefield were not modest in their self-esteem. In spite of individual embarrassment, when first brought under the influence of the Vivian presence and decorations, they gathered daily in great numbers in the Vivian parlors, that the world might bear witness, through their presence, to their elevated social status.

Indeed, certain hardy and desperate spirits did, by continued presence and notable consumption of wares, become so bold that they dared to address the proprietor as “Bill,” and risked mild pleasantries as that the nectar was “rotten dope,” or that, through error, a “dash er onion or sumpin’ ” had been introduced into their sacchariferous cup. Such familiarity was for the few. Did not eye witnesses support tradition in evidence of the casting forth of the unworthy from the Vivian portals?

Had not reputable bibbers testified that certain dirty faced urchins, essaying early adventures in trade and tendering but five coppers instead of the eight, well known to be the post war value of the cone, been driven into the street with loud objurgation?

Likewise, there was the memorable episode of the drunken tramp. Stumbling into this resort of innocent youth under the belief that it was a saloon, he was summarily ejected by the police. For a time, a splintered mirror gave silent testimony to this banishment. It evidenced the casting of a root beer mug at the white coated soda dispenser by the vulgar varlet, obsessed by the delusion that he was enjoying the more thrilling sport of heaving a beer stein at a bartender.

But by far the greater number of refusals of service, with its corollary of altercation and throwings out, had to do with negroes.

“I ain’t serving ’em in my place,” Mr. Vivian had proclaimed, with a frank disregard of at least the spirit of the fifteenth amendment.

The sweets dispensed by Mr. Vivian drew the black people as molasses does the fly, and South Ridgefield had a large percentage of negro residents. For a time hardly a day passed without noisy wrangles. Comfortably seated in full view and hearing of such disputes, the elect were greatly edified thereby. Of late, such disturbances had decreased, and, as they had ended always in favor of the confectioner, he felt assured that he had settled the race issue in his own place at least.

Mr. Vivian waited today behind his marble topped counter and supervised his numerous assistants. Through the front windows he watched the multitude which had assembled to view the minstrel parade disperse. He observed an influx of gilded youth over his threshold. One listening to explanations would have gathered that the unusual number present was not due to interest in such low concerns as minstrel bands. Through untoward events the pageant had obtruded itself, as it were, into blasé vision.

Mr. Vivian’s eyes, as has been suggested, rested upon the street. Into his optical angle rolled the Dale car. It was well known to the confectioner. Often it paused for long periods before his place while Virginia refreshed herself within. It was his delight, at these times, to greet the maiden with profound respect, as his heart swelled with pride. The car of Obadiah Dale, the wealthiest, and in consequence, in Mr. Vivian’s judgment, the peak of the town’s social strata, awaited without. Within the house of Vivian, the heiress partook of Vivian products. What could be more appropriate?

The spectacle of the big machine given up to the conveyance of this small maiden had always pleased Mr. Vivian. There was a cavalier disregard of the cost of gasoline, oil, and tires which appealed to him. Today, the large passenger list astonished him, and, even as the number impressed him, their aspect amazed him.

“Negroes,” he gasped, “coming here!” There are moments in every life which have far-reaching consequences. The confectioner faced one.

The car stopped at the Vivian door. The glad shouts of infants penetrated the halls set apart for the fashionable. They offended the ears of the elect.

“There is Virginia Dale and those colored kids with whom she was making a spectacle of herself in the minstrel parade,” sneered an excited girl. “If she brings them in here, I’ll leave and never come back.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” a man of the world, of sixteen, calmed her. “Old Viv won’t stand for any foolishness. You watch him.”

“Virginia Dale has lived so long in that big house with only colored people that she likes them for friends,” declared another girl contemptuously. “Too good to associate with any of the young people of this town, she parades around like that. I think it is disgusting myself and I would tell her so, for very little.”

These and similar remarks filled the ears of the perplexed proprietor. He decided that whatever was done in this instance had better be done, contrary to his usual practice, beyond the hearing of the elect.

He rushed out to the waiting car. A smile was upon his face but it was not his usual one of hearty welcome. It spoke of hidden pain and anxiety.

“How do you do, Mr. Vivian,” Virginia courteously greeted the dispenser of toothsome delicacies. “I want you to meet these little people from the Lincoln Home.”

He cast a glance into the nest of the blackbirds. It lacked that interest with which new friends should be greeted. He felt the curious glances of the chosen, impinging against his back.

“They are hungry, Mr. Vivian. We have had a long ride and the children missed their lunch watching the parade. Each of us wants the nicest ice cream cone you can make. Seventeen, please.”

“Cones!” Light dawned in Mr. Vivian’s darkness.

“Bring them out, please?” Virginia begged.

“Out?” The clouds which had veiled the true Mr. Vivian rolled aside. Came sunshine and gladsome welcome.

In a moment the confectioner was behind his counter urging his assistants to diligence. In joyous relief, he shouted, “Make ’em big, boys. Make ’em big!”

Then, disregarding the feelings of the staring elect, Mr. Vivian hastened forth, bearing a box of cones. In a moment, with his kindest smile, encouraged by Virginia, he delivered with his own hand, to each infant, one of his products.

“The poor things. I don’t suppose orphans get ice cream cones very often, do they?” Virginia asked the woman.

“Some ain’ nevah had none afo’, Ah bets. Has you, chillun? Who had one?” Six worldly wise infants voted in the affirmative.

Mr. Vivian was stirred deeply by this information. That human beings were permitted to arrive at such an age without experience of cones struck him as an economic mistake. “It’s a shame,” he cried.

“They eat them as though they were used to them,” laughed Virginia.

“Yes,” he agreed, as he watched the mouths of the blackbirds wag in solemn unison. Another thought struck him. “You have had these orphans out for a ride all morning, Miss Dale?”

She nodded. “We’ve had a grand time, too. Haven’t we, children?”

Mouths were too full for utterance but there was a unanimous bobbing of heads.

When Virginia opened her purse to pay for the cones, Mr. Vivian, after inspecting the tendered currency for a moment, submitted a proposal. “Miss Dale, would you object if I presented the cones to the children? I would be glad to do it.”

There was a look of understanding in Virginia’s eyes as she answered him, “I know how you feel about it. I can’t let you do it today, though, Mr. Vivian. You see, it is my treat.”

Motionless as a statue, Mr. Vivian stood before the door of his establishment and watched the machine depart. As it disappeared a look of great approval rested upon his countenance. “There goes a darn fine girl,” he muttered. He threw back his fat shoulders and worked them as though a great load had been recently removed from them. “Thank heaven,” he cried, “she didn’t take it into her head to unload that outfit in my place.” He scratched his head. “What would I have done?”