10 In Which Snowball Is Disposed Of

THERE is a funeral next day from the Hotel Hopkins, such a funeral as the quiet little town of Clangville has rarely turned out to see. The Six-and-Twenty attend to a man; the circus people are all there; there, too, are Mr. Farrar and Mr. Vane Valentine.

It is a gusty November day—the stripped brown trees rattle in the bleak blast, an overnight fall of snow lies on the ground, and whitens the black gulf down which they lower the coffin. It looks a desolate resting place, cold, wet, forlorn—Vane Valentine turns away with a shudder—death, graves, all things mortuary are horrible to him.

Perhaps they remind him too forcibly that his turn too must come; that all the wealth of all the Valentines will not be able to avert it one hour. Mr. Farrar stands grave and pale—an impressive figure in the scene; standing with folded arms—dark and tall, looking down at the wet sods, rattling rapidly on the coffin lid. Poor little Mimi! Poor little frail, reckless butterfly! What a hollow sound the frozen clay has as it tumbles heavily down on the shining plate. What a tragic ending of a shallow, selfish-perhaps sinful life!

It is over.

As the dusk of the short November afternoon shuts down, the two young men—friends, as Vane Valentine terms it, though, perhaps, it is hardly the correct term—find themselves back in Mrs. Hopkins’ parlor, with that severe lady, still moist and tearful after the funeral, and Jemima Ann, with eyes quite red and swollen from much sympathetic weeping. Little Snowball is present, too, and it is little Snowball, and her future they are there to discuss.

The child has on a black frock and black shoes—things she has never worn before, and she eyes both with much disapprobation.

“Narsy, narsy,” she remarks, with some asperity. ” Narsy brack dress; narsy brack shoes. ‘Noball not like ’em! Take ’em off, Mimy Ann.”

“No, deary,” says Jemima Ann, wiping her red eyes. “Snowball must wear the poor little black dress. It is for mamma, Snowball knows.”

“Where my mamma gone? When her tum back?”

This inquiry causes Jemima’s tears to flow afresh. Snowball eyes them with considerable disgust.

“What you cwyin for? What you always cwyin for? ‘Noball tired you cwyin. Want see ‘Noball dance?”

Forthwith Snowball flirts out her somber skirts and cuts an infantile pigeon wing—that last ballet step poor Mimi taught her bantling. If anything can comfort Jemima Ann, and stem the torrent of her tears, Snowball is convinced this must.

“Look at that child,” says Vane Valentine, much amused. “Blood tells, doesn’t it? Do what you please with her, that fairy changeling will grow up like her mother before her—a thorough Bohemian.”

Mr. Farrar is looking, and thoughtfully enough, at Snowball’s performance. She dances wonderfully well for such a baby, every motion is instinct with lithe, fairy-like, inborn grace. The cloud of pale flaxen hair floats over her shoulders like a banner, the black dress brings out the pearly tints of the milk-white skin, the sweet baby face is like a star set in jet.

“She is a lovely little creature,” Mr. Farrar says. “She bids fair to become a beautiful woman.”

“Ten to one she grows up blowsy or freckled,” replies Vane Valentine, in a bold cheap voice; “these very blonde girls often do. But yes—she is pretty at present. Let us hope judicious training may eradicate somewhat the wild vagrant strain that flows in her veins, and turn her out a civilized young woman.”

Mr. Farrar looks at him—a look half amused, half sardonic. “You abominable young prig!” is his thought. ” Let us hope so,” he says, aloud, dryly. “To whom do you, propose confiding that herculean task? Does Madam Valentine intend taking her in hand herself?”

“My aunt? My dear fellow, you never saw my aunt, did you? She would as soon take in hand the training of a young gorilla. I told you she detests pets—poodles and little girls included. No; whatever is done with the waif, it will not be that.”

“And yet, I should have thought, after her offer to provide for her—adopt her, after a fashion—she would like, at least, to see her. We mostly are interested in that for which we provide. But perhaps I have misunderstood. It is your intention to take her home with you to-night?”

“My good Farrar.” retorts Vane Valentine, with a very marked touch of impatience, “no! My aunt has expressed no wish, none whatever to see this little girl. How could it be possible for her—her—to be interested in the child of a strolling acrobat—a vagrant by profession?”

“Mlle. Mimi is dead, Mr. Vane Valentine,” says Mr. Farrar, with a sudden dark flash leaping angrily from his eyes, “Your patrician feelings are rather carrying you away!”

“Beg pardon. I speak warmly—the idea is so preposterous. It was bad form all the same.”

Mr. Valentine turns away, at his stiffest, but decidedly discomposed. He speaks warmly, because, although it is true in the letter, that Madam Valentine has expressed no distinct desire to see Snowball Trillon—to have George’s daughter brought home—he is perfectly conscious that she does desire it, that she desires it strongly, that it is only her pride that prevents her putting the desire in words. And Vane Valentine is horribly afraid of any such consummation. Who knows what may follow? This small girl—as George’s daughter, and owned as such—has a claim on the Valentine millions far, and away, better than his own. And she is so perilously pretty—so winning—so charming—with all her infantile sweetness and grace, that-oh! that is out of the question—quite out of the question to let Madam Valentine set eyes on her at all. She is not in the least like the family, that is something, the Valentines are all dark and dour, as the Scotch say—this child is fair as a lily.

“It is the dickens own puzzle to know what to do with her,” he says, gnawing the end of his callow mustache, “she cannot stay in here, I suppose, and she can’t come to the cottage, that is clear. She might go to a boarding-school, or a nunnery, or—or that,” helplessly. “What would you do, Farrar? You ‘re a man of resources.”

“It’s rather like having a white elephant on your hands, isn’t it? Poor little elephant—that a man could take up between his finger and thumb—to be such a dead weight, such an Old Man of the Sea, on any one’s shoulders! Are you really serious in that question, Valentine? I know what you could do, but will you do it? It would be a capital thing for the child too.”

“My dear fellow, speak out. I will do anything—the little thing’s good, of course, being paramount.”

“Of course,” dryly. “Well, you might give her to me.”

“What?”

“Not to adopt—not to bring back to Fayal—only to take off your hands for the present. I will make a handsome sacrifice on the altar of friendship, my boy, put your small white elephant in my overcoat pocket, and take her ‘over the hills and far away.'”

Vane Valentine stands and stares at him, half in anger at his ill-timed jesting—half in doubt whether it be jesting.

Farrar is a queer fellow, full of whims and oddities, out, also, as he has said, full of resources.

“Don’t stand there looking as if you thought I had gone idiotic!” exclaims Farrar, impatiently. “Have I not said I don’t want the little one for myself? Look here, Valentine, I am going to my friends, the Macdonalds. Dr. Macdonald lives on an island in Bay Chalette, if you ever heard of such a place. Isle Perdrix is the name. He is an old Scotchman, his wife is a young French Canadian lady, and the sweetest woman that ever drew breath. That is saying a good deal, isn’t it?

“They have two sons, little chaps of six and nine. There is no girl, and the desire of Madam Macdonald’s heart is a little girl.

“She will take this one, and bring her up in the very choicest French fashion; if there is any possibility of changing and improving that Bohemian’s nature, you so deeply deplore, she is the lady to do it.

“As they are by no means wealthy, you will make compensation, of course. The flourishing township of St. Gildas is over the river from the island, and there is an excellent convent school, when she attains the age for it. I start to-morrow morning; if you think well of this, Petite shall be my traveling companion. There is my offer.”

“My dear fellow!” cries Mr. Vane Valentine—”my dear Farrar!”

He is not generally effusive, it is not “form;” but he grasps his friend’s hand now, or tries to do so—for Mr. Farrar stands with his hands in his pockets, and is slow to take them out.

“I accept with delight; take her, by all means; nothing could be better. You say—you will start to-morrow. Sorry to lose you, of course. These good women will see that the child is ready. The question of ample, of liberal compensation, we will arrange later. Nothing in the world could be better than what you propose.”

“Madam Valentine will be satisfied?”

“Perfectly satisfied. She will amply provide for the child.”

“Had you not better put it to her? as it is she who is virtually Snowball’s guardian now, should you not?”

“My dear Farrar, I can answer for her. It is not necessary at all. I have full power to act for her in this matter. She does not want to see the little one, or be annoyed with questions about her.”

“It would annoy her, would it? That makes a difference, of course. Come here, little white elephant such a poor little helpless elephant! and tell me if you will leave your Minny Ann, and come with me?”

He lifts the fairy to his knee, with infinite tenderness, and puts back with gentle fingers the falling, flaxen hair.

“Will you come with me, little Snowball? I want to take you to the kindest lady in the world—a pretty new mamma, who will love little Snowball with all her good heart.”

The child puts up her two snow-flake hands and strokes the cheeks of her big friend.

“‘Noball like you,” she says. “You is a pritty, pritty man. ‘Noball will give you a kiss.”

Which she does, an emphatic little smack right on the bearded lips.

“Flattering, upon my word,” says Vane Valentine. “Don’t you like me, too, Snowball?”

“No,” says Snowball, curling her mite of a nose. “You is not a pritty genpyman. You is very narsy.”

“By Jove!” says Mr. Valentine, and stands discomfited.

Mr. Farrar laughs.

“And you will come with me, Snowball?”

“Yes,” nods Snowball. “‘Noball tum wiz you. May my Mimy Ann tum, too?”

“Well—no—not unless you wish it very much, Miss Trillon. And your Mimy Ann, I take it, cannot be spared.”

“You will want some one,” suggests Valentine. “You cannot travel with that child alone, Farrar; think of the dressing and undressing, the feeding and sleeping, and all that. You couldn’t manage it. You must have a woman.”

“Not if I know it. There are always ladies traveling—nice matronly ladies, ready to interest themselves in helpless manhood and childhood. They will attend to Mademoiselle Snowball’s infantine wants and wardrobe. St. Gildas is only two days off. I am willing to risk it. No woman, Valentine, my boy, an’ thou lovest me.”

“Wretched misogynist,” laughs Mr. Valentine. “Some one must have used you shamefully in days gone by, Farrar. I wonder why—you are a tall and proper fellow enough. You must have been jilted in cold blood. Well, as you like it, only I would rather it were you traveling two days and nights with a girl-baby in charge than myself.”

Thus it is settled, and life opens on a new page for little Snowball. The circus, with its lights and its leaps, its riding, its dancing, its danger, and its wanderings, its flavor of vagabondism, is to be left behind forever, and seclusion, and respectability, and training in the way she should go a la Française, begins for the motherless waif, afloat like a lost straw on life’s great tide.

All is speedily settled. Mr. Farrar is eminently a man of promptitude and dispatch. Vane Valentine is only too anxious to get it all over and have the child out of the town. His aunt will shut up the cottage, and depart in a day or two. Money matters are arranged, and are liberal as young Valentine has promised. He shakes hands with his friend late that evening, full of self-congratulation that a knotty point has been so well and easily gotten over.

“If she had seen the young one,” he says to himself, thinking of his aunt, “no one knows what might have happened. Shut out of the world on this far-away island, she will speedily forget, I trust, all about her. It shall be the business of my life to compel her to forget. Until the fortune is actually mine, I am daily in danger of losing it, unless she forgets her son’s daughter.”

Early the next morning the first train bears away among its passengers Mr. Paul Farrar and Miss Snowball Trillon. Jemima Ann weeps copiously at the parting. A glimpse of romance has come to brighten the dull drab of her existence, and it goes with the going of Snowball.

“Good-by, good-by,” she sobs. “Don’t, oh! don’t forget poor Mimi Ann, little Snowball!”

“What you cwyin’ for now?” demands Snowball, touching a tear with one minute finger, and an expression of much distaste. “‘Noball don’t like cwyin’. You is always cwyin’. What you want for cwy some more?”

Snowball cries not. Her small black cloak is fastened, her little black bonnet tied under one delicious dimple, she is kissed, and departs in high glee, and even the memory of good Jemima Ann waxes pale and dim before the first hour has passed.

Mr. Farrar has been right. All the way, ladies take a profound interest in pretty Snowball. Her deep mourning, her exquisite face, her feathery, floating hair, her blue, fearless eyes, her enchanting baby smile, her piquant little remarks, captivate all whom she meets.

“Isn’t she sweet?”

“Oh, what a pet!”

Mr. Farrar hears the changes rung on these two feminine remarks the whole way. Snowball fraternizes with every one—she does not know what bashfulness means; she flits about like a bird the whole day long. Perhaps, too, some of these good ladies are a trifle interested in the tall, silent, bearded, handsome gentleman, who has her in charge, and who is not her father, brother, uncle, anything to her, so far as they can find out from the small demoiselle herself, whose name she does not even know. She comes back to him once from her peregrinations, replete with cake and questions, perches herself on his knee, gives one bronzed cheek a preliminary peck with her rosy lips, and puts this leading question:

“Is you my papa?”

“No, Snowball, I don’t think I am.”

“Is you my untle?”

“Nor your uncle.”

“Is you my broder?”

“Not even you brother.”

“What is you, den? Tause de lady she ast ‘Noball.”

“The lady had better not ask too many questions. A thirst for knowledge, you may inform her, has been the bane of her sex. And Snowball must not distend herself like a small anaconda with confectionery. The lady means to be kind, but perhaps Snowball has heard of people who were killed with kindness?”

To which Snowball’s reply is that she is sleepy. And then the flaxen head cuddles comfortably over the region of Mr. Farrar’s heart, and the blue eyes close, and the dewy lips part, and Snowball is safely in the land of dreams.

The close of the second day brings them to St. Gildas. Cold weather awaits them, in this Canadian seaport. The snow lies deep, winds blow keenly. Snowball shivers under her wraps in Mr. Farrar’s arms. They spend the night at a hotel, and after breakfast next morning, cross the St. Gildas river to Isle Perdrix. There an amazed and joyful welcome awaits them. Snowball’s reception is all Mr. Farrar has predicted, both from the elderly Scotch doctor and the youthful French wife. They accept the charge with delight, the two boys of the household alone eying the intruder with dubious eyes, as it is in the nature of boys under nine to regard small girls. But nature is sometimes outgrown.

Mr. Farrar remains ten days—ten days of transport to the two Macdonald lads, who worship him, or there abouts, ten days of gladness to their parents, ten days of much caressing and infantile love-making on the part of Snowball, ten happy, peaceful days. Then he goes back to Fayal, out there in the Azores, and to the monotonous life of the manager of a large estate, in that dullest of fair tropical islands. And Snowball remains, and life on its new page, a breezy and charming and healthful life on the sea-girt isle, begins.