Finally the coveted object was restored to Miss Little, who, straightening herself with a supreme effort, sat resting both hands on the gold crutch while Lyddy hailed the approach of imaginary dignitaries with the successive announcements: “The Bishop—the Mayor… But, no, they’d better be seated before you arrive, hadn’t they, cousin Martha? And exactly when is the cane to be presented? Oh, well, we’ll settle all the details to-morrow … the main thing now is the stepping down from the platform and walking out of the Hall, isn’t it? Miss Lusky, careful, please… Gentlemen, will you all move your chairs back? … Uncle Henly,” she appealed to Warbeck, “perhaps you’ll be kind enough to act as Mayor, and give your arm to cousin Martha? Ready, cousin Martha? So—”
But as she was about to raise Miss Little from her seat, and hook her securely onto Warbeck’s arm, a cry between a sob and an expletive burst from the purple lips of cousin Syngleton.
“Why can’t I be the Mayor—ain’t I got any rights in this damned show?” he burst out passionately, his legs jerking upward as he attempted to raise himself on his elbows.
His Antigone intervened with a reproachful murmur.
“Why, uncle Syngleton, what in the world are you thinking of? You can’t act as anybody but yourself tomorrow! But I’m going to be the Bishop now, and give you my arm—there, like this…”
Miss Little, who had just gained her feet, pressed heavily on Warbeck’s arm in her effort to jerk around toward Mr. Perch. “Oh, he’s going to take the Bishop’s arm, is he? Well, the Bishop had better look out, or he’ll take his seat too,” she chuckled ironically.
Cousin Syngleton turned a deeper purple. “Oh, I’ll take his seat too, will I? Well, why not? Isn’t this my anniversary as much as it is yours, Martha Little? I suppose you think I’d better follow after you and carry your train, eh?”
Miss Little drew herself up to a height that seemed to overshadow every one around her. Warbeck felt her shaking on his arm like a withered leaf, but her lips were dangerously merry.
“No; I think you’d better push the Mayor out of the way and give me your arm, Syngleton Perch,” she flung back gaily.
“Well, why not?” Mr. Perch rejoined, his innocent smile meeting her perfidious one; and some one among the lookers-on was imprudent enough to exclaim: “Oh, wouldn’t that be too lovely!”
“Oh, uncle Syngleton,” Lyddy appealed to him—”do you really suppose you could?”
“Could—could—could, young woman? Who says I can’t, I’d like to know?” uncle Syngleton sputtered, his arms and legs gyrating vehemently toward Miss Little, who now stood quite still on Warbeck’s arm, the cane sustaining her, and her fixed smile seeming to invite her rival’s approach.
“An interesting experiment,” Warbeck heard some one mutter in the background, and Miss Little’s head turned in the direction of the speaker. “This is only a rehearsal,” she declared incisively.
She remained motionless and untrembling while the Antigone and Lyddy guided cousin Syngleton precariously toward her; but just as Warbeck thought she was about to detach her hand from his arm, and transfer her frail weight to Mr. Perch’s, she made an unexpected movement. Its immediate result—Warbeck could never say how—was to shoot forward the famous ebony stick which her abrupt gesture (was it unconsciously?) drove directly into the path of uncle Syngleton. In another instant—but one instant too late for rescue—Warbeck saw the stick entangled in the old man’s wavering feet, and beheld him shoot wildly upward, and then fall over with a crash. Every one in the room gathered about with agitated questions and exclamations, struggling to lift him to his feet; only Miss Little continued to stand apart, her countenance unmoved, her aged fingers still imbedded in Warbeck’s arm.
The old man, prone and purple, was being cautiously lifted down from the platform, while the bewildered spectators parted, awe-struck, to make way for his frightened bearers. Warbeck followed their movements with alarm; then he turned anxiously toward the frail figure on his arm. How would she bear the shock, he asked himself, with a leap of the imagination which seemed to lay her also prone at his feet. But she stood upright, unmoved, and Warbeck met her resolute eyes with a start, and saw in their depths a century of slow revenge.
“Oh, cousin Martha—cousin Martha,” he breathed, in a whisper of mingled terror and admiration…
“Well, what? I told you it was only a rehearsal,” said Martha Little, with her ancient smile.
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