"It's so much more cozy right here," I said. "I'll telephone. There's
Brophy's, just round the corner, and they send in the loveliest things."
"Oh, they do! Well, tell 'em to begin sending."
I thought he'd follow me out in the hall to the 'phone, but he was
having some trouble in pulling out his purse--to count out his money, I
suppose. I got Central and asked for the number. Oh, yes, I knew it
all right; I had called up that same number once, already, to-day.
Brophy's? Why, Maggie Monahan, you ought to know there's no Brophy's.
At least none that I ever heard about.
With my hand over the mouthpiece, so that nobody heard but Edward, I
ordered a supper fit for a king--or a chorus girl! What didn't I
order! Champagne, broiled lobster, crab meat, stuffed pimentoes,
kirschkaffee--everything I'd ever heard Beryl Blackburn tell about.
"Say, say," interrupted Edward, coming out after me. "That's enough of
that stuff. Tell him to send in a Scotch and soda and--what--"
For at that moment the connection was made and I cut in sweetly with:
"Mrs. Edward Ramsay?--just a minute."
Mag, you should have seen the man's face! It was red, it was white; it
was furious, it was frightened.
I put my hand a moment over the mouthpiece and turned on him then.
"I've got her on the 'phone at Mrs. Gates' house. Shall I tell your
wife where you are, Edward? ... Just a moment, Mrs. Ramsay, hold the
wire; some one wants to speak with you."
"You little devil!" His voice was thick with rage.
"Yes, you called me that some time ago, but not in that tone. Quick,
now--the door or ... Waiting, Mrs. Ramsay?"
He moved toward the door.
"How'll I know you won't tell her when I'm gone?" he growled.
"Merely by my saying that I won't," I answered curtly. "You're in no
position to dictate terms; I am."
But I could, without leaving the 'phone, latch the chain on the door
behind him, leaving it half open. So he must have heard the rest.
"Yes, Mrs. Ramsay, waiting?" I croaked like the driest kind of
hello-girl. "I was mistaken. It was a message left to be delivered to
you--not some one wanting to speak with you. Who am I? Why, this is
Central. Here is the message: 'Will be with you in half an hour.'
Signed 'Edward.' ... Yes, that's right. Thank you. Good night."
I hung up, gave the door a touch that shut it in his face and went back
into the dining-room to throw open the windows. The place smelled of
alcohol; the moral atmosphere left behind by that bad old man sickened
me.
I leaned out and looked at the stars and tried to think of something
sweet and wholesome and strengthening.
"Ah, Nance," I cried to myself with a sob--I had pretended to take it
lightly enough when he was here, but now--"if you had heard of a girl
who, like yourself this evening, unexpectedly met two men she had
known, and the good man ignored her and the bad one followed her--oh,
Nancy--what sort of girl would you think she was at heart? What sort
of hope could you imagine her treasuring for her own future? And what
sort of significance would you attach to--"
And just then the bell rang again.
This time I was sure it was you. And, O Maggie, I ran to the door
eager for the touch of your hand and the look in your eyes. I was
afraid to be alone with my own thoughts. I was afraid of the
conclusion to which they were leading me. Maggie, if ever a girl
needed comfort and encouragement and heartening, I did then.
And I got it, dear.
For there was a man at the door, with a great basket of azaleas--pale,
pink earth-stars they are, the sweet, innocent things--and a letter for
me. Here it is. Let me read it to you.
"My dear Miss Omar:
Once on a time there was a Luckless Pot, marred in the making, that had
the luck to be of service to a Pipkin.
It was a saucy Pipkin, though a very winning one, and it had all the
health and strength the poor Pot lacked--physically. Morally--morally,
that young Pipkin was in a most unwholesome condition. Already its
fair, smooth surface was scratched and fouled. It was unmindful of the
treasure of good it contained, and its responsibility to keep that good
intact. And it seemed destined to crash itself to pieces among pots of
baser metal.
What the Luckless Pot did was little--being ignorant of the art by
which diamonds may be attained easily and honestly--but it gave the
little Pipkin a chance.
What the Pipkin did with that chance the Pot learned to-night, with
such pleasure and satisfaction as made it impossible for him not to
share it with her. So while he sent Burnett out to the conservatory to
cut azaleas, he wrote her a note to try to convey to her what he felt
when, in that nicely polished, neatly decorated and self-respecting
Vessel on exhibition in Mrs. Gates' red room, he recognized the poor
little Pipkin of other days.
The Pot, as you know, was a sort of stranded bit of clay that had never
filled the use for which pots are created. He had little human to
interest him. The fate of the Pipkin, therefore, he had often pondered
on; and, in spite of improbabilities, had had faith in a certain
quality of brave sincerity the little thing showed; a quality that
shone through acquired faults like a star in a murky sky.
This justification of his faith in the Pipkin may seem a small matter
to make so much of. And yet the Pot--that sleeps not well o' nights,
as is the case with damaged pots--will take to bed with him to-night a
pretty, pleasant thought due just to this.
But do not think the Pot an idealist. If he were, he might have been
tempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more pretentious
Vessel--a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, but
shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. No, the Pipkin is a
pipkin, made of common clay--even though it has the uncommon sweetness
and strength to overcome the tendencies of clay--and fashioned for
those common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comes
from the Potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow.
O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you are, as
you will be--a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering
to the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the Potter's 'a good
fellow and 'twill all be well.'
For the Pot--he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by
some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share--to a celebrated
repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched and
mended into temporary semblance of a useful Vessel; whether he shall
continue to be merely the same old Luckless Pot, or whether he shall
return at all, O Pipkin, does not matter much.
But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, we
met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory.