The Strollers Part 51

"A shadow! That is all she ever could have been to me!"

CHAPTER III

FROM GARRET TO GARDEN

"Celestina, what do you think this is?" Waving something that crackled in mid air.

"A piece of paper," said Celestina from her place on the hearth.

"Paper!" scoffed Straws. "It's that which Horace calls a handmaid, if you know how to use it; a mistress, if you do not--money! It is--success, the thing which wrecks more lives than cyclones, fires and floods! We were happy enough before this came, weren't we, Celestina?"

The girl nodded her head, a look of deep anxiety in her eyes.

"Oh, why did the critics so d.a.m.n the book it fairly leaped to popularity!" went on the bard. "Why did they advise me to learn a trade? to spoil no more reams of paper? To spoil reams of paper and get what--this little bit in return!"

"Is it so very much money?" asked Celestina.

"An enormous amount--one thousand dollars! And the worst of it is, my publishers write there may be more to come."

"Well," said the child, after a long, thoughtful pause, "why don't you give it away?"

"Hum! Your suggestion, my dear--"

"But, perhaps, no one would take it?" interrupted Celestina.

"Perhaps they wouldn't!" agreed Straws, rubbing his hands. "So, under the circ.u.mstances, let us consider how we may cultivate some of the vices of the rich. It is a foregone conclusion, set down by the philosophers, that misery a.s.sails riches. The philosophers were never rich and therefore they know. Besides, they are unanimous on the subject. It only remains to make the best of it and cultivate the vanities of our cla.s.s. Where shall I begin? 'Riches betray man into arrogance,' saith Addison. Therefore will I be arrogant; while you, my dear, shall be proud."

"That will be lovely!" a.s.sented Celestina, as a matter of habit. She went to the bed and began smoothing the sheets deftly.

"My dear!" expostulated Straws. "You mustn't do that."

"Not make the bed!" she asked, in surprise.

"No."

"Nor bring your charcoal?"

"No."

"Nor wash your dishes?"

"Certainly not!"

Celestina dropped on the floor, a picture of misery.

"Too bad, isn't it?" commented Straws. "But it can't be helped, can it?"

"No," she said, shaking her head, wofully; "it can't be helped! But why--why did you publish it?"

"Just what the critics asked, my dear! Why? Who knows? Who can tell why the G.o.ds invented madness? But it's done; for bad, or worse!"

"For bad, or worse!" she repeated, gazing wistfully toward the rumpled bed.

"If somebody tells you fine feathers don't make fine birds, don't believe him," continued the poet. "It's envy that speaks! But what do you suppose I have here?" Producing a slip of paper from his vest pocket. "No; it's not another draft! An advertis.e.m.e.nt! Listen: 'Mademoiselle de Castiglione's select seminary. Young ladies instructed in the arts of the _bon ton_. Finesse, repose, literature!

Fashions, etiquette, languages! P. S. Polkas a specialty!' Celestina, your destiny lies at Mademoiselle de Castiglione's. They will teach you to float into a drawing room--but you won't forget the garret?

They will instruct you how to sit on gilt chairs--you will think sometimes of the box, or the place by the hearth? You will become a mistress of the piano--'By the Coral Strands I Wander,' 'The Sweet Young Bachelor'--but I trust you will not learn to despise altogether the attic pipe?"

"You mean," said Celestina, slowly, her face expressing bewilderment, "I must go away somewhere?"

Straws nodded. "That's it; somewhere!"

The girl's eyes flashed; her little hands clenched. "I won't; I won't!"

"Then that's the end on't!" retorted the bard. "I had bought you some new dresses, a trunk with your name on it, and had made arrangements with Mademoiselle de Castiglione (who had read 'Straws'

Strophes'), but perhaps I could give the dresses away to some other little girl who will be glad to drink at the Pierian--I mean, the Castiglione--spring."

Celestina's eyes were an agony of jealousy; not that she was mercenary, or cared for the dresses, but that Straws should give them to another little girl. Her pride, however, held her in check and she drew herself up with composure.

"That would be nice--for the other little girl!" she said.

"The only difficulty is," resumed Straws, "there isn't any other little girl."

At that, Celestina gave a glad cry and flew to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Oh, I will go anywhere you want!" she exclaimed.

"Get on your bonnet then--before you change your mind, my dear!"

"And aunt?" asked Celestina, lingering doubtfully on the threshold.

"Your aunt, as you call that shriveled-up shrew, consented at once,"

answered Straws. "Her parental heart was filled with thanksgiving at the prospect of one less mouth to fill. Go and say good-by, however, to the old harridan; I think she has a few conventional tears to shed.

But do not let her prolong her grief inordinately, and meet me at the front door."

A few moments later, Straws and the child, hand-in-hand, started on their way to the Castiglione temple of learning and culture. If Celestina appeared thoughtful, even sad, the poet was never so merry, and sought to entertain the abstracted girl with sparkling chit-chat about the people they met in the crowded streets. A striking little man was a composer of ability, whose operas, "Cosimo," "Les Pontons de Cadiz," and other works had been produced at the Opera Comique in Paris. He was now director of the French opera in New Orleans and had brought out the charming Mademoiselle Capriccioso and the sublime Signor Staccato. The lady by his side, a dark brunette with features that were still beautiful, was the nimble-footed Madame Feu-de-joie, whose shapely limbs and graceful motions had delighted two generations and were like to appeal to a third. Men who at twenty had thrown Feu-de-joie posies, now bald but young as ever, tossed her roses.

"I don't like that lady," said Celestina, emphatically, when the dancer had pa.s.sed on, after petting her and kissing her on the cheek.

"Now, it's curious," commented the bard, "but your s.e.x never did."

"Do men like her?" asked the child, with premature penetration.

"They did; they do; they will!" answered Straws, epigrammatically.