Rudder Grange — Ch. 14: Pomona takes a Bridal Trip, pt. 2

“Miguel!

” cried Euphemia.

“Is that your husband's name?

” “Well, no,” said Pomona, “it isn't. His given name is Jonas, but I hated to call him Jonas, an' on a bridal trip, too.

He might jus' as well have had a more romantic-er name, if his parents had 'a' thought of it.

So I determined I'd give him a better one, while we was on our journey, anyhow, an' I changed his name to Miguel, which was the name of a Spanish count.

He wanted me to call him Jiguel, because, he said, that would have a kind of a floating smell of his old name, but I didn't never do it.

Well, neither of us didn't care to stay about no dry falls, so we went back to the hotel and got our supper, and begun to wonder what we should do next day.

He said we'd better put it off and dream about it, and make up our minds nex' mornin', which I agreed to, an', that evenin', as we was sittin' in our room I asked Miguel to tell me the story of his life.

He said, at first, it hadn't none, but when I seemed a kinder put out at this, he told me I mustn't mind, an' he would reveal the whole.

So he told me this story: “'My grandfather,' said he, 'was a rich and powerful Portugee, a-livin' on the island of Jamaica.

He had heaps o' slaves, an' owned a black brigantine, that he sailed in on secret voyages, an', when he come back, the decks an' the gunnels was often bloody, but nobody knew why or wherefore.

He was a big man with black hair an' very violent.

He could never have kept no help, if he hadn't owned 'em, but he was so rich, that people respected him, in spite of all his crimes.

My grandmother was a native o' the Isle o' Wight.

She was a frail an' tender woman, with yeller hair, and deep blue eyes, an' gentle, an' soft, an' good to the poor.

She used to take baskits of vittles aroun' to sick folks, an' set down on the side o' their beds an' read “The Shepherd o' Salisbury Plains” to 'em.

She hardly ever speaked above her breath, an' always wore white gowns with a silk kerchief a-folded placidly aroun' her neck.'

'Them was awful different kind o' people,' I says to him, 'I wonder how they ever come to be married.'

'They never was married,' says he.

'Never married!'

I hollers, a-jumpin' up from my chair, 'and you sit there carmly an' look me in the eye.'

'Yes,' says he, 'they was never married.

They never met; one was my mother's father, and the other one my father's mother.

'Twas well they did not wed.'

'I should think so,' said I, 'an' now, what's the good of tellin' me a thing like that?'

“'It's about as near the mark as most of the stories of people's lives, I reckon,' says he, 'an' besides I'd only jus' begun it.'

“'Well, I don't want no more,' says I, an' I jus' tell this story of his to show what kind of stories he told about that time.

He said they was pleasant fictions, but I told him that if he didn't look out he'd hear 'em called by a good deal of a worse kind of a name than that.

The nex' mornin' he asked me what was my dream, an' I told him I didn't have exactly no dream about it, but my idea was to have somethin' real romantic for the rest of our bridal days.

“'Well,' says he, 'what would you like?

I had a dream, but it wasn't no ways romantic, and I'll jus' fall in with whatever you'd like best.'

“'All right,' says I, 'an' the most romantic-est thing that I can think of is for us to make-believe for the rest of this trip.

We can make-believe we're anything we please, an' if we think so in real earnest it will be pretty much the same thing as if we really was.

We aint likely to have no chance ag'in of being jus' what we've a mind to, an' so let's try it now.'

“'What would you have a mind to be?'

says he.

“'Well,' says I, 'let's be an earl an' a earl-ess.'

“'Earl-ess'?

says he, 'there's no such a person.'

“'Why, yes there is, of course,' I says to him.

'What's a she-earl if she isn't a earl-ess?'

“'Well, I don't know,' says he, 'never havin' lived with any of 'em, but we'll let it go at that.

An' how do you want to work the thing out?'

“'This way,' says I. 'You, Miguel--' “'Jiguel,' says he.

“'The earl,' says I, not mindin' his interruption, 'an' me, your noble earl-ess, will go to some good place or other--it don't matter much jus' where, and whatever house we live in we'll call our castle an' we'll consider it's got draw-bridges an' portcullises an' moats an' secrit dungeons, an' we'll remember our noble ancesters, an' behave accordin'.

An' the people we meet we can make into counts and dukes and princes, without their knowin' anything about it; an' we can think our clothes is silk an' satin an' velwet, all covered with dimuns an' precious stones, jus' as well as not.'

“'Jus' as well,' says he.

“'An' then,' I went on, 'we can go an' have chi-VAL-rous adventures,--or make believe we're havin' 'em,--an' build up a atmosphere of romanticness aroun' us that'll carry us back--' “'To ole Virginny,' says he.

“'No,' says I, 'for thousands of years, or at least enough back for the times of tournaments and chi-VAL-ry.'

“'An' so your idea is that we make believe all these things, an' don't pay for none of 'em, is it?'

says he.

“'Yes,' says I; 'an' you, Miguel--' “'Jiguel,' says he.

“'Can ask me, if you don't know what chi-VAL-ric or romantic thing you ought to do or to say so as to feel yourself truly an' reely a earl, for I've read a lot about these people, an' know jus' what ought to be did.'

“Well, he set himself down an' thought a while, an' then he says, 'All right.

We'll do that, an' we'll begin to-morrow mornin', for I've got a little business to do in the city which wouldn't be exactly the right thing for me to stoop to after I'm a earl, so I'll go in an' do it while I'm a common person, an' come back this afternoon, an you can walk about an' look at the dry falls, an' amuse yourself gen'rally, till I come back.'

“'All right,' says I, an' off he goes.

“He come back afore dark, an' the nex' mornin' we got ready to start off.

“'Have you any particular place to go?'

says he.

“'No,' says I, 'one place is as likely to be as good as another for our style o' thing.

If it don't suit, we can imagine it does.'

“'That'll do,' says he, an' we had our trunk sent to the station, and walked ourselves.

When we got there, he says to me, “Which number will you have, five or seven?'

“'Either one will suit me, Earl Miguel,' says I. “'Jiguel,' says he, 'an' we'll make it seven.

An' now I'll go an' look at the time-table, an' we'll buy tickets for the seventh station from here.

The seventh station,' says he, comin' back, 'is Pokus.

We'll go to Pokus.'

“So when the train come we got in, an' got out at Pokus.

It was a pretty sort of a place, out in the country, with the houses scattered a long ways apart, like stingy chicken-feed.

“'Let's walk down this road,' says he, 'till we come to a good house for a castle, an' then we can ask 'em to take us to board, an' if they wont do it we'll go to the next, an' so on.'

“'All right,' says I, glad enough to see how pat he entered into the thing.

“We walked a good ways, an' passed some little houses that neither of us thought would do, without more imaginin' than would pay, till we came to a pretty big house near the river, which struck our fancy in a minute.

It was a stone house, an' it had trees aroun' it, there was a garden with a wall, an' things seemed to suit first-rate, so we made up our minds right off that we'd try this place.

“'You wait here under this tree,' says he, 'an' I'll go an' ask 'em if they'll take us to board for a while.'

“So I waits, an' he goes up to the gate, an' pretty soon he comes out an' says, 'All right, they'll take us, an' they'll send a man with a wheelbarrer to the station for our trunk.'

So in we goes.

The man was a country-like lookin' man, an' his wife was a very pleasant woman.

The house wasn't furnished very fine, but we didn't care for that, an' they gave us a big room that had rafters instid of a ceilin', an' a big fire-place, an' that, I said, was jus' exac'ly what we wanted.

The room was almos' like a donjon itself, which he said he reckoned had once been a kitchin, but I told him that a earl hadn't nothin' to do with kitchins, an' that this was a tapestry chamber, an' I'd tell him all about the strange figgers on the embroidered hangin's, when the shadders begun to fall.

“It rained a little that afternoon, an' we stayed in our room, an' hung our clothes an' things about on nails an' hooks, an' made believe they was armor an' ancient trophies an' portraits of a long line of ancesters.

I did most of the make-believin' but he agreed to ev'rything.

The man who kep' the house's wife brought us our supper about dark, because she said she thought we might like to have it together cozy, an' so we did, an' was glad enough of it; an' after supper we sat before the fire-place, where we made-believe the flames was a-roarin' an' cracklin' an' a-lightin' up the bright places on the armor a-hangin' aroun', while the storm--which we made-believe--was a-ragin' an' whirlin' outside.

I

told him a long story about a lord an' a lady, which was two or three stories I had read, run together, an' we had a splendid time.

It all seemed real real to me.

”