Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 46, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 December 1885 — SCIPIO'S OVER-ZEAL; —OR,— A Hitch in a Honeymoon. [ARTICLE]

SCIPIO'S OVER-ZEAL; —OR, — A Hitch in a Honeymoon.

BY NATHAN D. T URNER.

“Are you quite sure we shall not appear like, a newly married couple, dear?” whispered Eudocia, drawing a little closer as I at last apprised her that the next station, thirty miles distant, was our destination. “Certainly, my love,” I replied. “Not only is Scipio sure to have performed his mission discreetly, but just cast your eyes around the car. I would wager that not one of our fellow passengers suspects our secret. ” “True; but is Scipio to be trusted? I can not but recall the instances you have often laughingly recounted of his excessive and oven mistaken zeal in carrying out your ■wishes.”

“To be sure; but those were instances in which his instructions were of a complex nature. Now he is merely to apprise my housekeeper of our coming, get the house ready, throw out a number of hints that we have been married several years, instead of several weeks, and our arrival in the gossipy little town need excite no more comment than that of any truant couple after a foreign jaunt of a year or two.” “Then I shall be satisfied,” murmured Eudocia, sinking back in her seat with the refined composure of manner that so well 'became her. A few lines will suffice to explain the ■situation. • Soon after returning from our brief wod'ding tour we had decided to locate our family altar in Tattleton, my native village, which I had deserted about three years before to carry out a varied programme of 'travel, which had at last, as unexpectedly as happily, landed me in the arms of the -one fair creature of my dreams. We were agreeably harmonious on one point especially. We both felt that shrinking dislike of attracting attention to our changed condition which is, perhaps, the natural ae•companiment of sensitive and Aesthetic persons upon approximating to middle nge; for, if 1 was no longer young, neither could it be voraciously averred (behind her back) that Eudocia was any longer a chicken, though still, in my eyes, the embodiment of mellowed loveliness and womanly woith. She heartily shared, at all events, in my •dread of the village criticism upon our newly mjuried slate. Indeed it was half upon her suggestion that Scipio, my old and trusted body-servant, had been disI atched to Tattleton beforehand, in the manner and for the purpose alluded to. ‘ Now, above all, Scipio,” had been my last words at parting with him, “be discreet, •be circumspect! You have your instructions. If you carry them out properly, you may look for a new suit of clothes on your ibirthday.” “Fore de Lord, Marse Addersley, I’se ■ got it down fine!” he had earnestly replied. “None of dem busybodies in de ole town shall eben 'spect as how you hab jist come from de honeymoon. Jist leabe it to de 010 man.” So it had been “left to de ole man” Accordingly., S.-ipio had a carriage in waiting at the -station, and. as wu passed along the •crowded platform, h'e gave me a significant nod and leer, as much as to say that all had been agreeably arranged. Still my w ife was not satisfied. “Theophilus,” she whispered, pressing my arm, “something is wrong. lam sure some of the men here are staring at us quite rudely.” “Nonsense! All your imagination, my dove!” I replied, reassuringly, though secretly remarking something of the kind imyself. We were just seated in the coach w r hen Deacon Stickler, accompanied by his wife, drove up to the station. The Sticklers were of considerable consequence in the place, and I lost no time in presenting Eudoqia. To my surprise and mortification, the Deacon—who had known my father before me, and had always been very friendly —acknowledged the honor by the stiffest of •bows, while his good lady fairly transfixed imy bride through her spectacles, and barely ■offered her any recognition whatever. “Ah, indeed!” hemmed and hawed the Deacon; “Mrs. Addersly, you say? Unexpected pleasure quite honored, I am sure!” And away drove the Sticklers, leaving Eudocia and me indignant and mystified respectively, os we also ■ took the road.

I was trying to muster sufficient courage to. meet Eudocia’s stare of resentful inquiry, when whom should we meet just beyond the bridge but the Misses Tumblety, the rich old maids, whose ground adjoined my own, and I seized the opportunity to \ twist my head out of the window, and order •a halt.

It then struck me that the worthy spinsters—usually the kindliest of women—submitted to the stoppage with ill-disguised reluctance. Indeed, I had no sooner presented Eudocia than they recoiled shiveringly, as though encountering an iceberg. Then, with a faintly murmured “Most delighted to know ili-s. Addersly!” they at once ignored her altogether, and began to overwhelm me with stereotyped questions •about my travels. I was feeling my way out of the dilemma as best I could, when Eudocia almost •screamed out: “Scipio, tell the coachman >to drive on! I’m tired of this sort of thing!” The coachman whipped up at once, and I saw the fossils exchange significant .glances as we left them on the road. Eudocia was lying back in her seat, with iher teeth on edge and a slumbering fire in .her line eyes. “Well, Theophilus?” “Don’t mind them, my dear.” I responded, a little huskily. “Wretched, inflated, .stuck-up old maids! They’re entirely beneath your notice!” “Ah! but how about the Sticklers, then? I’ve heard you vaunt them as prominent persons in this lovely village of yours,” •said Eudocia, in an abruptly metallic voice dhat actually rang in my ears like a fireibell. “I don’t know what to make of it all!” I •exclaimed. “Beally—by Jove! I think I .shall call the Deacon to an account.” “Perhaps, you will call the whole town <to an account, then!” she cried, with positive fierceness. “Look!” As I followed the direction of her pointing finger, I perceived that we had entered the village main street, and the sight that presented itself well-nigh appalled me. Every door and every window had a head in it, and every head a pair of eyes that fairly gorgonized us with the species of remorseless criticism which is usually elicited by a prisoners’ van or a taveling menagerie. "The tavern-porch and shop-entrances were

thronged with gazers. Urchins, rosy and round-eyed, stared at us from the gates and fence-tops. Nurse-girls halted their perambulators on the sidewalks to give us the benefit of their gaping attention. I doubt if a “barking cur” could have mads our cheeks flame any more pronouncedly than they did at that moment, but I am quite certain that, if there had chanced to be any “fantastic gables” within gun-shot, they, too, would have, “crowding, stared.” Even a faint cheer—or something worse—was bestowed on us as we rolled by the hotel.

“Your paragon of a servant has probably advertised us as pardoned convicts,” commented Eudocia, returning glare for glare in the most creditable manner, considering the odds against her, and then sinking back, her iron nerve broke down in a sort of piteous wail. “They not only know we are newly married,” she sobbed, “but very likely suppose we have just eloped from somewhere.” I did not know what to do. I was almost beside myself. I could only sit helplessly by her side, confused, crushed, perplexed, and eaten up with rage, while my hand had such a convulsive itching to be on Scipio’s throat that I felt like a murderer. On reaching the house, I hurried Eudocia within, hastily threw her on old Mrs. Gimp’s protection, 'and then rushed once more into the open air to seek an explanation of Scipio. But he had caught the alarm and was nowhere to be found. The coachman was taking off the trunks unaided. ‘ “I dunno what got into Stop, sir,” he replied to my rather vehement inquiries. “He sort o’ growed oneasy ez soon ez we was focused by the big targetin’ ez was awaiting’ fur us in the town, and the minute we stopped he broke fur the stables ez if shot out of a gun.” “Ah! Then have you any, idea, Jake, of the occasion of the—the rather inordinate curiosity excited by our arrival here?” “I rather fancy,” he stammered, while scratching his head, “ez how it’s all along o’ the leddy, sir.” “So! But does my wife bear any resemblance to a wild animal, that she should thus be stared out of countenance?” I cried. “Your wife?” “Whv, certainly! Whom else should she be?” I roared, thoroughly exasperated. “What in thunder do you mean?” “I hain’t said ez how I meant nothin’ outen the common run,” was the rather sullen rejoinder; and Jake remounted his box and drove away. I ran to the stables, but Scipio was too firm an advocate of self-preservation to bo found there. lieturning to the house, my wife was invisible, and I was met in the entry by my x housekeeper. Mrs. Gimp was a sort of ninety-second cousin or aunt of mine, and one of those piously resigned, devoutly miserable, good old souls who seem to be continually evoking a vast amount of secretly hoarded spiritual resource to sustain them against imaginary trials. Three years had passed since we had parted, but she met me with the old-time, watery-eyed, voiceless woe, as though I had said good-by but the day before.

Howerer, I complimented her on her good looks, adding that I was overjoyed at being home once more, and then asked if my wife was up-stairs. “Your wife!” she echoed, with a wild, startled expression. “Why, my good woman, whom else, in heaven’s name, should she be?” I cried. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Mrs. Gimp?” Her only answer was to point mournfully up the staircase, and then sit down beside the hat-rack, throw her apron over her head, and indulge in a few sniffling little sobs. Not knowing what to make of it, I ran up the stairs, and, entering the front chamber, found my wife. She had taken off her hat and gloves, and was sitting at a window in statuesque despair. But her cheeks glowed, her eyes snapped, and her lips wore the sneer direct, as she slowly turned to meet my gaze. “Well, Theophilus, what does it all mean!”

There was a sepulchral quietude in her voice, but her foot was beating the tattoo upon the carpet which I knew by experience to presage a storm. “I’ll swear I don’t know!” I exclaimed, flinging myself in a chair, and doggedly thrusting my hands in my pocket. “Spare me your conundrums, Eudocia, or ask me something easy. I feel as mean as you possibly can yourself. She had, doubtless, expected something palliafory, and braced herself accordingly, but my undisguised disconsolateness so far disarmed her that she burst into tears.

“Take me away!” she sobbed. “Let me fly from this horrible place! Iwee how it is; they think I am not good enough for you. I might have foreseen this result from your marrying a dowerless girl like me!” (Poor thing! the census-taker had notched her at thirty-eight, and she had a married grand-niece of twenty odd.) “If I had only my artless beauty and my innocent heart to offer you, was it my fault? Take me away, oh, take me away!” “By Jupiter! I’ll do nothing of the sort,” I cried, taking her in my arms. “Not good enough, you say? Why, there’s not one of ’em, man or woman, fit to button your gaiters! We will brave it out togethegLmy precious. That villain, Scipio, haglpiHde some outrageous blunder!” “No, no; they think me umdKpPiy—that is it!” she persisted. “Evenj«your own house—even the old womimlwe ” “Ha! What next?” I interrupted. “What has Mrs. Gimp been cloiigs” “Doing? Why, she —she showed me to —to this apartment as my room, saying that yo-yo-yours would be ready for you by bed-time. Then, when I h-hinted that we were in the habit of sleeping—l mean, of occupying the same room, she gave a sort of scream, and I thought she was going to faint. But perhaps it is one of the customs of the country; perhaps married folks occupy separate houses, as well as separate rooms. Who knows?”

“Perhaps they do nothing of the kind!” I cried. “What the deuce! is the old woman gone moon-struck?” We were here interrupted by a knock at the door, nnd the female hoodlum who had be, n engaged by us as a waitress and chambermaid noisily intruded herself, grinning from ear to ear, to inform us that Miss Fryer had called to pay her respects. Eudocia at first refused to go downstairs, but, upon my representing that our visitor was the chief milliner, as well as the most unconscionable gossip of the place, she finally con-

eented, perhaps, more out of curiosity than anything else. W* receiv ed Miss Pryer with considerable ceremony. After mercilessly scrutinizing my wife, she all at once struck up a conversation upon topics which I had never known her to evince any interest in before. She grew scientific, socialistic and {esthetic all in a breath, and at last lot us know that she had been deeply interested of late in the subject of philosophical marriages. Wholly at a loss to understand her drift, I sat smiling vapidly, while Eudocia, evidently setting her visitor down as a garrulous sort of lunatic permitted to go at large, merely listened to her with pitying forbearance:

At last the little milliner, in a sudden impulse of friendliness, caught her by the hand, sayjng, half-confidentially: “Oh, you dear, brave creature! I feel so proud to meet a really true, lofty-minded woman like you, who can afford and dare—ay, dare!—to follew the example of Heloise, Sappho, Madame Kecamier, George Sand. Marian Evans, and others of the great ones of the past, in living boldly and openly with the man you love, regardless oi the straight-laced opinions of a punybrained, narrow-hearted, bloodless and unsympathetic Social Despotism! Oh, you must be as brave as a lion—as grand and noble as Hypatia herself —or as Cleopatra, Zenobia, or any of the rest of ’em!” “Y T ou must excuse me, madame,” said my wife, coldly, “if I intimate that I don’t know what you are talking about.” “Capital!” cried Miss Pryer, clapping her hands. “You view it from the sublimest standpoint! You refuse to accept praise for simply following the dictates of your courageous, untrammeled heart!

“Not at all!” said Eudocia. “I do not see that I am follow ing any specially illustrious examples, or necessarily bidding defiance to society, in living boldly and openly with the man I love, when that man happens to bs my husband.”

‘ Better and better! The true Platonic spirit! But don’t despair in your valorous departure from the time-lioary, miserable custom that has so degraded and enslaved our sex. You will have me for a friend —a secret friend, at least—in the death-grapple you have inaugurated.” My wife was so surprised as not to be able to frame a reply before our eccentric visitor bowed herself out of <he room. But Miss Pryer came running back in a moment to say, in a loud whisper, that, besides her stock of the sweetest things constantly on hand, she could get up anything “strongminded” to order, from a regular Bloomer costume or divided skirt to the latest thing in vogue in intellectual circles; after which she danced out again. “What can she mean?” cried my wife. I shook my head despondingly, while the murderous itching again crept into my hand as the ebon image of Scipio flitted across my mind. “At all events, I trust we are not to have any more such visitors thrust upon us,” said Eudocia. “One more is sure to come,” said I, dolefully. “Old Saurian, the savant, will hardly skip us.” My words were prophetic. At that instant there was a ring at the door-bell; and then Mr. Saurian himself was ushered in. He was an odd old genius, who had been a particular friend of my father’s, and had always taken an interest in myself. He at once bowed very impressively to my wife, and then, taking me solemnly by the hand, said in his peculiarly funereal voice: “My dear boy, so you have come into our ranks at last! So you, too, are about to enter upon a career of defiance against the orthodoxy of the age! Gad? lam glad of it. Let me congratulate you upon having obtained so fair a partner in the life-long struggle that looms up before you both.” Another bow to Eudocia. “Courage, my children, and you shall not fail!” “I am sure both my wife and I are most grateful for your good wishes, Mr. Saurian,” said I. “I even trust that you will not deem our total inability to comprehend your language any bar to our appreciation of your goodness of heart.” “Ah, indeed! Perhaps, as you are new upon the battle field for liberal ideas, you are right in not wishing to have the philosophy of your mutual relations more openly discussed at present,” said he, with an owlish smile of occult significance. “But I will dine with you to-morrow, if agreeable, and then we may be able to understand each other better.” I conceived a sudden idea, and acted upon it. “We intend giving a dinner party tomorrow to all my old friends,” said I, rubbing my hands, and investing my voice and manner with as much geniality as I could. “Of course, such a gathering would be incomplete without the presence of my father’s old and learned friend, Mr. Voltaire Saurian. We shall expect you at six.”

“Aha! to-morrow, you say? You are bold, my boy—bold is the word —in carrying it so defiantly at the start; but perhaps you are right. Stand like an anvil! aiftl depend on me for all the moral support you require. Bye, bye!” “And, pray, what lunatic asylum is he from?” was Eudocia’s satiric inquiry when we were again alone. “I fancy he still runs an individual one in his own house —he used to,” I replied, not without a dreary sense of humor. “And were you in earnest about the dinner party?” “Of courre. It was the inspiration of the moment, but isn’t it better, after all, my dear, to force this mystery to a final issue at once? I shall write out the invitations to-night, have them distributed in the morning, early, and we shall see what comes of it.”

Eudocia was a sensible as well as a spirited woman. She hesitated but a moment, and then so far fell in with the idea as to sweep across the room and imprint a kiss on my forehead; while I forthwith exerted myself to making her feel as much at home as possible by showing her over the house and grounds. We actually managed to delude ourselves into a pretty good humor by dinner-time, which I think was realty creditable under the circumstances. After dinner, the writing of the invitations, in which Eudocia materially assisted, occupied two or three hours, and bed-time found us in a much pleasanter frame of mind than we had experienced since our arrival. The business of the day, however, was not to be wholly shelved without a fresh manifestation of my worthy housekeeper’s incomprehensibility. Eudocia had just gone into her room, and, after securing the lower part of the house, as had been my custom, I was about to follow her, when Mrs. Gimp confronted me at the head of the stairs, with com-

pressed lips, stem eyes, aEd the generalb set, grimly virtuous aspect of one who hail made up her mind to encounter even martyrdom, if necessary, in the fearless assertion of a great principle. “Mr. Addersly—Theophilns,” she said, in a quivering voice, “your own room has been prepared for yon at the other end of the passage. I have had your trunk carried into it.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Gimp,” said I. “But mj wife and I are quite content to occupy the same apartment; so that to-morrow yon must have my baggage transferred.” “Oh, Theophilus!” cried the provoking woman, setting down her candlestick, that she might the more eloquently, the more beseechingly, extend her clasped hands toward me; “do not, my son, my old master’s son, do not, I implore you, set the conventionalities at naught in this homeplace of your birth!”

“My good woman,” I replied, a little warmly, “as long as you choose to speak in riddles, you must excuse me from attempting to divine your meaning. Good-night.” I entered the room, and closed the door behind me, leaving her in tears. After breakfast on the following day, Scipio being still missing, I lost no tune in procuring a messenger to distribute the invitations. I would then have token Eudocia out shopping or driving, but she declared she would not again appear in public until our mystery was cleared up. The acquaintances whom I met individually through the day were very shy, and seemed disposed to keep up what I now seriously began to consider a monstrous and ill-timed practical joke. They were willing enough to chat about my travels, and of home affairs that had taken place during my absence, but the moment I approached the subject of my altered domestic relations they at once grew taciturn, if not surly, and began to exchange odd glances in a manner puzzling and trying to my temper, to say the least. I at last besought one of them— Jack Whitely, an old college chnm and a theretofore deuced good fellow—to clear away the c louds, if there were any, or let me into the joke, if joke it was. My earnestness seemed to stagger him for a moment, but immediately thereafter he looked at me half-pityingly, half-angrily, and, muttering some excuse, strode away. So, in much mental distress, I returned home to await the developments of the evening's venture, and to cheer up Eudocia as best I could.

At a little before six we were in the draw, ing-room.awaiting our guests; with considerable uneasiness on my own part, I had tc confess, though my wife—who was splendidly dressed—retained her composure admirably. Everything was a success, so far as the arrangements went. The dinner was irreproachable. The boisterous chambermaid had been thrust out of sight below stairs, her place in attendance upon the door being supplied by a gigantic footman, who stepped about in his patent-leather pumps with surprising noiselessness. The waiters (experts from the hotel) were at their posts. There was evidently nothing wanting that good taste and style demanded—save the guests. The gentlemen, it is true, began to arrive punctually, hut with apologies, one after the other, for the non-appearance of their respective ladies, in words of such surprising sameness as to forcibly suggest a preconcerted agreement upon the terms. When the dinner hour arrived not a single lady guest hud appeared. Eudocia began to grow very red, and I was also so mortified as hardly to know what course to take. But suddenly a mountain was lifted off my mind by Mrs. Gimp coming to the door/ and whispering to me that Scipio was in the hall, very drunk, and insisting on ousting the big footman from his post of honor. “Excuse me one moment, gentlemen,” I exclaimed excitedly, turning to my guesls; “and forgive me if I force a little scene upon you at such a time and place. But this misunderstanding has become insupportable, and it is about to be explained at last.”

I think I may be pardoned for the all but delirious haste with which I rushed into the hall, swooped upon Scipio, and dragged him by the collar, panting and squirming, before the assembled guests. “Tell me, you rascal! tell me!” I thundered, “what infernal report you have set on foot against my wife or myself that has caused us to he covered with contumelj and insult! Out with it, or I will not be responsible for the harm I may do you!” “’Fore de Trone ob Grace, Marse Addersly, I’se done said nuffin but what you tole me to!” gasped the miserable fellow, frightened to semi-sobriety. “I didn’t tink dey’d take it de way dey did, shuh’s you’re homed!”

“What have you told them? Speak!” “Didn’t you say fur to gib it out as how you warn’t new-married?” “Certainly.” , “An’ so I did, Marse Addersly. But I wanted to make a shuh ting,' so I jist done gib it out as how you warn’t married ut all.” The mystery was at last out. I released the marplot and staggered back with a wild laugh, while Eudocia started from her chair, her face suffused with shame. “Gentlemen,” she faltered, “is it possible that—that ” She could say no more, but hid her face. “Here has been some awful mistake,” said Jack Whitely, coming forward and grasping my hand, after a hurried consultation with several others. “I say, can you just put off the dinner for half an hour, while we ran home and make certain explanations? ” Of course we could and of course we did. Away they went, and in less than the allotted time they were back again, accompanied by wife, sister; or sweetheart, according to the original programme; and not only was the dinner-party an unqualified success, but the ladies made their genuine and heartfelt amends so charmingly as to make Eudocia almost forget the embarrassing complications that had arisen, and at once feel herself at home in the really delightful society of which Tattleton could boast.

Now that everything is happily rectified, I need not dwell upon the false impressions that had, perhaps but naturally, prevailed, either as entertained by the Sticklers, the TumhJeties, Miss Pryer, Mr. Saurian, old Mrs. Gimp, or any of the rest.

Suffice it to say that everything was agreeable thereafter. Eudocia did not disdain to have our marriage certificate duly framed and conspicuously displayed in the drawing-room, after the prevailing rustic custom. As for Scipio, he was forthwith relegated to less delicate service than that upon which his headlong over-zeal had so nearly encompassed our domestic ruin.