She had succeeded in amusing at least one of them, for at this Mr. Marsh gave her the not disagreeable shock of that singular, loud laugh of his.  It was in conversation like something-or-other in the orchestra . . . the cymbals, that must be it . . . made you jump, and tingle with answering vibrations.

“Ashleyians in the role of worshipers of beauty!” he cried, out of the soft, moist, dense darkness about them.

“None so blind as those who won’t see,” she persisted.  “Just because they go to it in overalls and gingham aprons, instead of peplums and sandals.”

“What is a night-blooming cereal?” asked Mr. Welles, patient of the verbose by-play of his companions that never got anybody anywhere.

What an old dear Mr. Welles was! thought Marise.  It was like having the sweetest old uncle bestowed on you as a pendant to dear Cousin Hetty.

“. . . -eus, not -eal,” murmured Marsh; “not that I know any more than you what it is.”

Marise felt suddenly wrought upon by the mildness of the spring air, the high, tuneful shrillness of the frogs’ voices, the darkness, sweet and thick.  She would not amuse them; no, she would really tell them, move them.  She chose the deeper intonations of her voice, she selected her words with care, she played upon her own feeling, quickening it into genuine emotion as she spoke.  She would make them feel it too.

“It is a plant of the cactus family, as native to America as is Ashley’s peculiar sense of beauty which you won’t acknowledge.  It is as ugly to look at, the plant is, all spines and thick, graceless, fleshy pads; as ugly as Ashley life looks to you.  And this crabbed, ungainly plant-creature is faithfully, religiously tended all the year around by the wife of a farmer, because once a year, just once, it puts forth a wonderful exotic flower of extreme beauty.  When the bud begins to show its color she sends out word to all her neighbors to be ready.  And we are all ready.  For days, in the back of our minds as we go about our dull, routine life, there is the thought that the cereus is near to bloom.  Nelly and her grim husband hang over it day by day, watching it slowly prepare for its hour of glory.  Sometimes when they cannot decide just the time it will open, they sit up all through a long night, hour after hour of darkness and silence, to make sure that it does not bloom unseen.  When they see that it is about to open, they fling open their doors, wishing above everything else to share that beauty with their fellows.  Their children are sent to announce, as you heard Toucle say tonight, ‘The cereus is going to bloom.’  And all up and down this end of the valley, in those ugly little wooden houses that look so mean and dreary to you, everywhere people tired from their day’s struggle with the earth, rise up and go their pilgrimage through the night . . . for what?  To see something rare and beautiful.”

She stopped speaking.  On one side of her she heard the voice of the older man say with a quiver, “Well, I can understand why your neighbors love you.”