CHAPTER V A VISIT OF CEREMONY

“You don’t mean to tell me you don’t know what ‘aeroplane’ means?” almost shouted Morey, when he saw from his mother’s look that she was puzzled. “Well, I’ll be—”

“Mortimer!” exclaimed Mrs. Marshall with as much sternness as she ever used.

“Mater,” he laughed, “you certainly are behind the times.”

“What does it mean?” she asked placidly.

“I suppose you never heard of ‘aviator’ either?”

“I’ve heard of ‘aviary’. I believe that has something to do with birds.”

“Right! Though I never heard of an aviary,” added Morey, partly to himself. “It is a bird. It’s a human bird. An ‘aviator’ is a man who drives an aeroplane.”

“And this—this airy—?”

“Mother, sit down,” answered Morey in despair, “and I’ll begin your aeronautical education.”

For the next quarter of an hour Mrs. Marshall dodged and parried verbal volleys of airship talk. Beginning with hot air balloons Morey led his mother along through a history of aeronautics until he came to aeroplanes. And then, not satisfied with the bewildered condition of his patient parent, he began with the dreams of the enthusiast.

“In war and peace, in commerce and pleasure, from the Pole to the tropics, these human birds will darken the air on pinions swifter than the eagle’s wing. The snow-crested peaks of the Himalayas, the deepest recesses of the tropic wilderness, the uncharted main and the untrodden ice of the hidden Poles will unroll before the daring aviator like the—like—the—”

“The pictured pleasures of the panorama,” continued his mother, pointing to the underscored page of the “History of Aeroplanes” which she had been holding during Morey’s discourse.

“Yes,” said Morey, blushing, and then recovering himself. “Anyway, that’s my plan of a career. I’m going to be an ‘aviator’. And I’m going to begin at the bottom. I’m going to start by making an aeroplane right here—out in the old carpenter shop.”

“Mortimer, I suppose I am just a little behind the times. Is this a desirable thing?”

“Beats the world.”

“Have you been studying this at school?”

“’Taint in the course, but everybody’s studying it.”

“When did you interest yourself in such a peculiar subject?”

“Oh, ages ago—long before Christmas,” answered Morey. “I’ve read all the books in the public library at Richmond and all the magazines, and I’ve got all the circulars I could find. All I want now is a set of tools and some spruce lumber and some silk and an engine—I can do it. Needn’t fear I can’t.”

“And these things,” suggested Mrs. Marshall, her smooth brow wrinkling just a trifle, “do they require any considerable outlay of funds?”

“Well,” said Morey—hesitating a little now—“The tools won’t cost much, but I wanted to ask you about the engine. Of course,” and he put his arm affectionately about his mother’s shoulders, “I know it isn’t just as if father was with us, and I ain’t figuring on the best engine. I would like a revolving motor, that’s the newest thing, one with a gyroscopic influence, but that costs a good deal.”

“How much?” asked his mother taking the illustrated price list of engines that Morey handed her.

“Twelve hundred dollars.”

His mother gasped and the circular dropped from her hand.

“I thought myself that was too much,” quickly exclaimed Morey, puckering his lips. “But, mater, I’m not going to be extravagant. I’ve arranged for a cheap one, a second-hand one. It’s at Hammondsport. I saw it when I was visiting at Uncle’s.”

His mother sighed, looked for a moment out toward the ruined and ramshackle barn and then, with a new smile, asked indifferently:

“And the price of this—approximately?”

“This one,” answered Morey, proudly, “is a real Curtiss six-cylinder, and it’s a regular aeroplane engine. It’s cheap, because the man it was made for didn’t take it. Cousin Jack knows a boy who works in Mr. Curtiss’ shop. I saw Mr. Curtiss about it myself. It was such a bargain that I—I—well I bought it.”

Mrs. Marshall breathed a little heavily and rearranged her dress.

“You didn’t mention the price,” she said at last, patting Morey’s hand.

“Only four hundred dollars!”

His mother laughed nervously. “I’m afraid my boy is a little extravagant,” she remarked slowly.

“Do you know what that engine’s worth!” exclaimed Morey. “It’s worth $800 any day.”

“Well, I suppose the young men of today must have their amusements. Your father’s was horses and hunting. But it did not interfere with his business as a planter. I trust you will not become extreme in the fancy. It must not be carried too far.”

“Too far? I’m not going to do anything else until I get rich.”

“Nothing else? You mean no other amusement?”

“That’s not amusement; it’s business. It’s going to be my job.”

“You mean along with tobacco planting?”

“I should say not. What, me a farmer? Tobacco is played out.”

“Mortimer Marshall!”

“You don’t think I’m going to be a planter, do you?”

“Mortimer!” Mrs. Marshall was erect in her chair, her cheeks pale.

“Why, mater, I had no idea that you felt that way. You don’t mean that I’m to come back here and take old Marsh Green’s place. I can’t grow tobacco. I don’t know how and I don’t want to. Young men don’t do those things nowadays. They get out and hustle.”

“Mortimer, your father was a planter from boyhood until he died. His father was one and his father’s father. Aspley Place has grown tobacco for one hundred and fifty years. In Virginia it is a gentleman’s life.”

“No, mater,” answered Morey in a low and kind voice. “It was. But it isn’t now. You love this place—so do I. But I’ve been out in the world, a little—you haven’t. Things have gone on all around us and we didn’t know it. I can’t be a tobacco planter. I won’t.”

Mrs. Marshall’s lips trembled but she said nothing.

“I’ll go to school, mater; I’ll even go to college if you like. But then I want to go to an engineering school. After that I’m going to make you famous. I’m going to make the perfect flying machine. Then we’ll move away from this old place—”

“Mortimer!” quivered his mother. “From Aspley Place? Your father’s home? Never!” Then, with an effort, she became calm. Rising, as if both hurt and indignant, she exclaimed:

“My son, I am your mother and your guardian. I have my own plans for your future—your father’s plans. From now you will dismiss these ideas. I shall countermand your foolish purchase or ask your uncle to do so. This summer you will spend with me. You will return to your school and then to the University. When, in time, you graduate and are able to do so you will return here and assume charge of the patrimony bequeathed you by your father. Meanwhile, Mr. Green will remain in charge.”

And leaving Morey standing crestfallen among the jumble of books and papers, his mother walked sadly from the room.

It was the first time Mortimer had ever been balked in his life. For six months he had thought and dreamed of nothing else. His pride was hurt, too, for to his cousin Jack, in Hammondsport, he had outlined carefully the exact details of his future plans. He had managed to secure an invitation from Jack Marshall to visit Hammondsport soon after his investigation into aeroplane and airship affairs had revealed to him that in that little town Inventor Curtiss had his motor shop and aeroplane factory and that other balloon manufacturers and experimenters had collected there in sufficient numbers to make it the aeronautical center of America. There he had seen real dirigible balloons, had met and talked with Carl Meyers, the oldest balloon navigator in the country, had witnessed flights of the Curtiss aeroplane, had gazed upon the renowned Professor Graham Bell, had lounged for days about the mysterious and fascinating shops and factories, and, best of all and most unforgettable, had tasted the joys of gliding on the kites and planes of the various aeronautical experts.

Then he recalled the mocking laugh of his uncle.

He was a stubborn boy, but—he did not know whether he was a disobedient one. In all his life he had never been tested. Flushed and sick with disappointment he caught up his precious books and circulars and was banging them into the trunk when the door opened and Amos stuck his head into the room:

“Marse Morey, yo’ ma says yo’ all gwine ober to Marse Major Carey’s soon as yo’ has yo’ supper. An’ yo’s to put on yo’ bestest cloe’s an’ slick up.”

Bang! went “Aeroplanes, their Manufacture and Use.” It missed the colored boy’s head and crashed against the door jamb.

“Here, you black rascal,” shouted Morey, red in the face and full of anger, “come back here and give me my knife, you thief!”

But the accusation was lost. Amos was on the long stair rail shooting to the bottom like a sack of wheat.

When the old-fashioned supper bell clanged out in the hall below, Morey, white of face, marched downstairs and into the dining room in silence. At the humble board with Morey’s trout, almost the only dish, on the snowy white cloth before her, sat his mother, also pale, but with her usual smile. A look of surprise swept over her face as she noticed that Morey had ignored her orders.

“The evening is very agreeable,” said his mother softly. “It will be light for some time. Major Carey has asked you to come and see him. We are going immediately after supper. I have ordered out the carriage.”

“Won’t tomorrow do?” said Morey sharply—and then he was sorry.

“If you prefer,” answered his mother. “Your trout are delicious.”

“Oh, I’ll go tonight,” said Morey, ashamed of his anger.

“The Careys are our oldest friends,” went on his mother, smiling again. “I had hoped you would look your best. When Major Carey does me the honor to appear in our home he comes clothed as a gentleman. He carries his gold-headed cane. His linen is immaculate.”

“It won’t take me but a minute,” said Morey, crowding back a tear of mortification but disposing of a couple of crisp trout nevertheless. “I’ll be ready as soon as you are.”

He was about to dash from the room when he turned, hastened to his mother’s side and kissed her on the cheek.

“That’s a good boy, Mortimer. I’m glad you realize that I know best.”

While Morey was making his hasty toilet he heard a creaking sound outside. Rushing to the window he was about to break out into laughter. Then he stopped and a little flush came into his face. Slowly advancing along the road from the stable lot was his mother’s carriage. It was the old surrey that his father had once used in transporting the hounds to the distant meets. Paintless, its bottom gaping, its top cracked and split and its wheels wobbling, it groaned forward toward the mounting block at the end of the gallery. To it was hitched fat Betty, sleek and shiny with rubbing. The harness used only on such occasions, still withstood the final ravages of time, for on one bridle blinder shone one glittering polished silver M—old Marsh’s pride and joy.

What had amused Morey was the sight of the old servitor, “Colonel Marshall’s overseer,” Marsh Green. His shoes were shining, and a fresh white shirt showed resplendent beneath his worn coat, but the old man’s chief glory was his battered silk hat. By his side rode Amos, splendid in his shoes and Morey’s trousers—his “meetin’ pants.”

What had brought the flush to Morey’s face was the sudden thought: “the Careys do not come to Aspley Place in such a turnout.” And, for the first time in his life, Morey felt ashamed of the old home and its surroundings.