IV The Story at Last. Attend!
Then, upon an idle day, searching one of the big stores in my city for a gift for them, I came upon the self-pouring teapot—not unmindful of the peril of the other one. I explained to the too polite clerk that I wanted something for my dear old ladies, and he assured me that I had discovered precisely the thing—that it had been invented with dear old ladies constantly in mind: the while he had been giving me the most deft “demonstration” I had ever beheld. Each act kept pace with some telling phrase.
It was a huge, mechanical thing, of which, if one depressed a cylinder, the air was forced out of the spout, and ahead of it flowed the tea. The name of it was “Eureka.”
I bought it and had the monograms of the dear old ladies graven unreadably on its triple-plated sides.
On the day of its presentation I noticed a certain lack of joyousness in the gift. But I explained that to myself by the appalling shining impudence of the thing in the midst of their chaste colorlessness. I labored industriously to quench its brilliance by passing my hands over it at every opportunity. But the servant—alas! there was one now—invariably brought it to the table in a renewed state of polish which maddened me. However, I taught them how to “work” the machine, and they diligently learned; so that whenever I came it was religiously used, though with a retrogression of skill at which I marvelled until I learned from the maid that it was used only when I was there, and in my absence was made immaculate, packed in its cotton wool, and put away in its gaudy box.
Unhappily the blind one lifted the thing heavily to pour from it one day. I restrained her. She flushed a little and said:
“I can’t and can’t seem to get used to it. Seems as if I must do it as grandmother did—which is ridiculous.”
“Why, God bless you!” I cried, “and so you shall. We will throw the thing into the yard. I hate it!”
They were both so stricken with horror at my passion that I did not—but I swear that that is the only reason.
To comfort me the frail one said: “We—we’re very fond of it, you know. I don’t suppose your teapot has a story?”
Do you observe that she unconsciously said your teapot?
I at once fancied the hideous history of the hideous mechanism. A hissing, grinding factory!
“No,” I answered, adopting her phrase of proprietorship, “my teapot has no story.”
But then I added, “Has yours?”
Some guilty exchange passed between the two old ladies in the occult way which needs no speech. And the mystery of the bit of clay was deepened. Most things (save the patent teapot) are not new. But I am sure that this question had never before been asked them.
“Yes,” said the frail one, with the assent of the other.
“I guess you may tell him,” said the blind one, huskily, looking down.
The frail one looked almost aghast.
“Why, sis!” she said breathlessly. And then, to me, “It is the first time she has ever let me tell it.”
“He won’t laugh,” said the blind one—and therein voiced an affection for me of which I shall always be glad.
Do you wonder that I hastened her to her story? Perhaps you are glad that I am at last come to it. Yet all I have said belongs together if it were properly told.
Now attend!