A NEW GAME
"If we knew when walking thoughtless
Through some crowded, noisy way,
That a pearl of wondrous whiteness,
Close beside our pathway lay;
We would pause, where now we hasten,
We would often look around,
Lest our careless feet should trample
Some rare jewel in the ground."
It was like my extravagant nature to quote this verse of "speech day"
poetry while engaged in such a commonplace pursuit, but then the age
of Eve is an extravagant age.
I was in a tight little cell of a room back of the pantry, a hot
enough place on an August morning; a little den where we store old
magazines, last summer hats, pictures and bric-à-brac that we have
outgrown, and piles of newspapers.
It was the last named species of junk that was absorbing my earnest
attention, to say naught of perspiration, on the day I have in mind,
which is by no means a distant one. My forehead was wet and my hair
was sticking to it in damp little slabs, but I was unaware of this
until afterward, when my family called my attention to it, and
inquired where I had been and what I had been doing. Then I was in no
mood to tell them.
"It ought to be somewhere in the June lot," I mused, as I stretched my
arm across a bundle of worn-out bedroom curtains and dragged a batch
of dusty papers over into my lap.
I have been very idle and lonely for the last few days, else I doubt
if I should have been driven to such occupation as this. I knew it was
foolish, even as I did it, but the Claybornes have been away, staying
with the elder Claybornes a while, only returning this morning early,
and Cousin Eunice has been so busy since then repairing the damage
done Waterloo's clothes that she has been uninteresting to me. The
Sullivans spent last week down in the country at a tiny town named
Bayville, where there is no sign of a bay; and I have missed the
workings of Neva sadly.
It denoted the recent trend of my mind that, as I thought of Neva,
upon this occasion, I immediately remembered that her father is a
strict anti-Appleton man. Anti-Appleton! How much the term means to me
now! A week ago I cared no more for its sound than I cared for the
nouns of the fifth declension.
I picked up the paper lying on top and began to fan with it a while
before wading into the mazes of the stack. In the few papers which I
had already looked over I found, _not_ the object of my search, it is
true, but wood-cuts and cartoons of men whose names have been familiar
to me for months in a vague, unreal sort of way, making a sound to my
ears, but meaning nothing--like the ringing of the telephone bell in
the next room when you are fast asleep. Yet the telephone bell will
finally awaken you if you are not dead--even _so_ it might, if it is a
doctor's telephone--and with what a start do you come to your senses
as you reproach yourself for not recognizing its important voice
sooner! I have felt this way many times lately, since I have taken up
the study of politics; and have found it vastly more interesting than
geometry.
The first mighty political name which ever forced itself upon my
understanding was Cleveland, and it is not surprising to me now that I
was mixed up as to its significance and imagined that, instead of a
surname, it was a title of nobility. It sounded like such a swelling
note of praise to me, for I was only a few years old, and the
torchlight procession on the night of his election filled me with a
strange delight.
Since then I have always had a good memory for oft-repeated names,
although I have frequently held as hazy impressions concerning them as
I did of Mr. Cleveland's honored cognomen. The politicians of my
native state have all gone by names that were as sounding brass and
tinkling cymbals to my untutored ears until the last few days, when I
have turned in and studied them as most girls study new embroidery
stitches.
This is, in part, what I have learned: Appleton is our governor and is
said to be everything that Charles I. of England was beheaded
for--"tyrant, traitor, murderer, and enemy to his country." I know
this is true because the paper we take says so; and if you are going
to doubt what your favorite newspaper says, why, then, do you take it?
I believe in loyalty above everything, and I think if the paper which
supports the other side of the question should, by mistake, be thrown
into your yard, you ought to run and kick the horrid sheet over the
fence into the gutter. That is, if you are a man. If you are a lady I
advise you to use the tongs for the purpose, especially if there is
any one passing by at the time.
Personally, I do not know Mr. Appleton, but I heard one fat, motherly
woman, whose son held a job under him, say that he was such a
kind-hearted governor because he set free so many poor prisoners! This
remark impressed me, and I was beginning to think well of him, when
here came that paper again (Rufe's paper) saying that the governor was
turning them loose at so much per, a murderer being a little higher in
price than a "pistol-toter," who, in turn, is more expensive than a
boot-legger, the last really being a kind of bargain-day leader,
inasmuch as he is such a help to the administration!
Well, I dare say no governor is a hero to all the papers in his state!
This is quite enough penmanship wasted on Mr. Appleton anyway; for he
is as dead as Philadelphia on Sunday, and the public, with its
handkerchief held to its nose, is only waiting until next election,
when quicklime will be poured over the remains by the young and
gallant Richard Chalmers.
Of course, you understand the cause of the political unrest? It is the
whisky question, and everything in our state has been turned upside
down by it; that is, everything except the whisky. It is turned upside
down only when there is a glass under the bottle. Mr. Appleton favors
this phase of the whisky agitation.
Next in importance after the governor is a man named Blake, Jim Blake,
whom nobody ever calls James, and who is so much like a big fat worm
that I never pass him in the streets without wanting to mash him. He
is like one of those soft, white worms, you know, which I am sure I
have eaten dozens of on nights when I used to take a handful of
chestnuts to bed with me.
In the mountainous regions during his campaigns, they say, to make
himself solid with the boys, Jim Blake uses bad English and good
whisky; in the cities he uses good English and better whisky. All in
all, he is the most popular man in the state--a fact which makes you
wish you had anticipated Carlyle's remark about the population of his
country being mainly fools.
Major Blake was a power in politics a few years back, then he went
into obscurity for a while, on account of an ailing daughter, it was
said, who had to live in the West if she would live at all. The story
goes the rounds that at one time he gave up a senatorship for the sake
of staying with this daughter; and, if this is true, I beg his pardon
for calling him a worm!
Her name is Berenice Blake, which sounds so beautiful to me that I
feel sure her mother must have been the one who named her. I suppose
she improved somewhat in health from her outdoor life in the West, for
her father came back after a while, and at this present time she makes
frequent vibrations between her home and Denver, every one of which
causes prolonged paroxysms in the society columns.
In his political affiliations Jim Blake is like--like--my kingdom for
a simile! I might with truth say that he is like a chameleon, but I
have already likened him to a worm, and I do not care about getting
reptiles on the brain, especially this late at night. Also I might say
that he is like a lake of quicksilver, except that such a body would
resemble a stagnant, green-scummed pool compared with the surface
spring of his opinions--opinions which vary with the tinkle of silvery
sounds.
Yet the fact is there, and as immovable as a window-sash in wet
weather, that he is the most popular man in the state. And, while what
I have repeated about him is truth, or as near truth as anything is
supposed to be in politics, it is disloyal gossip coming from me
_now_, for Jim Blake is at home at present, he is unpledged, and we
are hoping high hopes that he will come out on our side. The spectacle
is pretty much like a body of priests which might be standing by
watching for the devil to shed horn, hoofs and tail and put on a clean
collar, buttoned behind.
With their zest for canonizing their leaders I wonder what the
temperance workers _will_ do with a man as handsome as Richard
Chalmers is said to be? How the "popular young ladies" of the towns
will fall over one another in trying to present him with a great sheaf
of roses at the close of his speech! I hate that bouquet-presenting
worse than anything else done by the women who mix up with candidates!
Men hate it, too, and when I sounded Rufe on the subject he just
frowned and said: "Oh, it's _awful_, but what are you going to do?" I
suggested that he have the candidate say "Please omit flowers," or "I
will not look upon the roses while they are red," or words to that
effect, at the close of his speech.
But Rufe shook his head sadly.
"There are three things in this life that a woman is a fool about," he
explained to me, "the surgeon who removes her appendix, the minister
who saves her soul, and the politician who lets her 'take on' over him
in public!"
"But the candidate _hates_ the flowers and the praying at the polls and
the general patting on the back like 'he's-mamma's-good-little-boy'
that they inflict upon him, doesn't he?"
"I should _think_ so," Rufe admitted.
I was studying over this phase of the next year's campaign when I
attacked the pile of papers in my lap and was wondering if Richard
Chalmers would hate the fuss they would inevitably make over him.
June 14, 15, 16, I glanced through without finding anything of
interest, and it was tiresome work. Oh, why did I not realize at the
time these papers were fresh and new that they held a "pearl of
wondrous whiteness?" It would have saved all this trouble. But likely
Mammy Lou had used the _very_ one to kindle the fire with. That would
be worse than tramping the rare jewel in the ground! Ah!
Was it prophetic that just as I was thinking over the words "rare
jewel" the object of my search met my eyes? Of course, you are not
stupid, my journal, and you have long ago seen that I was looking
diligently for all the news, but _mostly_ the picture of Richard
Chalmers, the good-looking young David who might slay the monster
Goliath, if he would take his smooth pebble from a _brook_ and not
from a brewery!
Well, it was the picture I found, and his name was in big letters
beneath. I looked at the face first, then quickly at the name, but I
put the two together with difficulty.
"So Richard Chalmers is _you_!" I said aloud in my surprise. Then I
stared at the picture as steadfastly as Ahmed Al Kamel must have
looked at the portrait of the princess, the first woman's face he had
ever seen. A feeling of superstition came stealing over me and daring
me to say that this was only a happen-so.
"So it's _you_," I repeated without moving my eyes from the picture,
"and that must be why I felt such a curious interest in this political
business."
The stuffy heat of the tight little room, the piles of dusty old
papers, the politics and rumors of politics were all forgotten in a
twinkling as my memory bounded back and even took in the details of
the landscape that dull day last November when I saw him first. Alfred
Morgan had asked me to drive with him out one of the pikes where he
had a call to make. I was at Cousin Eunice's and he had called me by
telephone to ask me to go; Cousin Eunice and Ann Lisbeth were
wrestling over an intricate shirt-waist pattern, but they both stopped
long enough to insist that it was too cold for me to go so far out
just for the fun of going. But I insisted equally as firmly upon
going, so Ann Lisbeth made me wear her motor bonnet and long fur coat,
which were very becoming.
Our route lay out one of the pikes which I like most, a beautiful
driveway, with a lovely little Jewish cemetery about three miles out.
I found that it _was_ cold, and when we reached the cemetery I asked
Alfred to put me out so that I could walk around a bit and try to get
warm--while he made his call just a short distance farther up the
road. He could honk-honk for me if I had wandered out of sight by the
time he came back. We frequently did that way.
Then it was that I first saw Richard Chalmers, coming out of the
little red lodge house at the gates of the cemetery. He was dressed in
gray, with a long gray overcoat and a soft gray hat; and his fairness
made no break in the dull monochrome of the surroundings. The
brilliant-hued lodge, with the Oriental dome, made the only warm spot
of color in my line of vision, but he was looking at me, too, and I am
sure he saw other spots of color, for my face flushed somewhat as I
recognized him as being the first man I had ever seen in my life whom
I cared about looking at.
He must be tall, for the coat he wore that day was quite long, but I
do not remember taking in any details except his face. This was
natural, for it appeared to me then as being a very good face to look
at, even aside from the peculiar charm which afterward made me
remember it so. Cameo-like in its distinctness, with steel-gray eyes,
it reminded me of the face I used to tell Jean about years ago when we
each had an Ideal. "Cold-blooded and lean as Dante," my description
had been in those bygone days, and Richard Chalmers' face strangely
fitted it, though by no means so cold nor so lean as I had formerly
thought necessary for perfect charm. It was only lean enough to be
intellectual-looking, and, if the keen gray eyes were cold, they were
also strong. His hair was short and of a very light-brown color; I
remembered this distinctly, for he had taken off his hat as he bade
good-by to whoever was inside the lodge, and he had stood a moment
bareheaded as he saw me, and looked at me with a degree of well-bred
surprise. There was nothing unusual in this, for, in driving out the
country roads with Alfred and Doctor Gordon, I have often observed
that when two well-dressed people pass each other they usually look.
Each one is likely wondering what the other is doing so far from the
madding crowd.
I was wondering what he was doing, Anglo-Saxon that he so evidently
was, coming from a Hebrew cemetery; then he untied the hitch-rein of a
horse that was restlessly twitching its head at a post near by, jumped
into the light buggy and drove off. Alfred and I passed him a little
later on, for he had been driving slowly, evidently to the distaste of
the horse. The creature was just the kind of animal you would expect a
man of his appearance to drive--slim and satiny and fast. Alfred
slowed up as we were passing, for the horse had drawn quickly to one
side of the road and was trembling with fright. The man in the buggy
held a tight rein and spoke a soothing word to her, then turned and
regarded us again. My heart bounded as our eyes met, and I wondered
why he had driven back to town so slowly.
The marked look of intellect which his face bore gave it an appearance
of asceticism, which his handsome clothes and general make-up belied.
He looked almost as unworldly as a monk--a monk fashionably dressed
and driving a race-horse!
We passed each other again the very next week, in the lobby of the
city hall this time, where I had gone with Ann Lisbeth to pay the
water-tax. He was talking with two men, and, as he recognized me, he
drew both of these men slightly to one side that Ann Lisbeth and I
might make our way to the elevator without being crowded. This time I
had passed so close to him that I could see the tiny lines around his
eyes, left there by the warring elements of his character, I imagined
afterward, when I was trying to recall every feature with its own
expression and thereby piece out, to my own satisfaction, a nature for
my impressive Unknown.
"He may do bad things sometimes," I finally concluded triumphantly,
"but he never enjoys doing them, because he has a conscience that
will not let him."
Once again I saw him, some time afterward, at the entrance of a
theater one crowded night when the most popular actress on the
American stage was playing. An emotional little actress she is, whose
feelings seem to be stationed largely in her finger-tips, for she uses
them as if she were talking to deaf mutes with them. I criticized the
play, pronounced the leading man a "plumber," made remarks about the
extravagant finger-play and otherwise spoiled my pleasure to such an
extent that I realized for the first time what a hold upon my
imagination the face of this Unknown had taken. He had passed quite
close, but he had not seen me!
After this I had thought about him very often, and, while he was not
exactly only a "type" to me, as I had been careful to explain to
Cousin Eunice, still, as the weeks slipped by and I had not seen him
again, his face became a kind of pleasant picture that I might draw
out sometimes and look at. A miniature, it must have been, for I
carried it with me everywhere I went; and it always seemed to bring
with it a sudden radiance, like a burst of sunshine at the close of a
dreary day.
A burst of sunshine at the close of a dreary day! The words were
lingering pleasantly in my memory when I was called back to earth by
the united voices of my family.
"Ann!" mother called. "_Ann!_"
"I've looked all over the place for her," I heard Cousin Eunice say,
and the sound of hurrying feet toward the dining-room gave me a
suggestion that it was time to eat again.
I ducked through the pantry door and made my way up-stairs without
being seen by any one. I bathed my face in cold water, which helped a
little, then I came on back down-stairs and faced them. They all
looked up at me. It was awful!
"Where you been at?" Mammy Lou inquired in a low but penetrating voice
as I passed her at the dining-room door; and the question was repeated
in other degrees of sound and grammatical precision. They were all
looking at my damp forehead.
"I tried to find you an hour ago," Cousin Eunice said, "I wanted to
tell you the news."
"And I wanted you to polish the silver on the sideboard," mother said
in an injured voice.
"Ann, we looked evvywhere fer you," Waterloo chimed in, with his mouth
so full that Cousin Eunice's attention was attracted to it and she
made him unload the portions of nourishment that were visible
externally. "Me and Grapefruit found a little _tarrypin_. Aunt Mary
said you wasn't scared of 'em!"
"Well, I'm glad it was nothing more important than a 'tarrypin' that
needed my ministrations," I began, thankful for a topic so entirely
earthly, but there was a hue and cry.
"Important!" Cousin Eunice exclaimed. "There are three mighty
politicians coming here to dinner to-night!"
"And the silver needs polishing," mother supplemented.
"Rufe was talking with them over the telephone this morning," father
explained. "They are in Bayville at a temperance rally and will have
to come here to-night to catch a car back to the city. Mother and I
thought it would be a shame to let them go to the hotel for
dinner--they're such friends of Rufe's."
"Now, you needn't lay it on Rufe," mother said, smiling at him. "You
know that if an Englishman dearly loves a lord, an American dearly
loves a lion. It's _you_ who want to hear them roar."
"Richard Chalmers is the only lion, so don't look so startled, Ann,"
Rufe said, as he began passing me things to eat; but I was not hungry.
"The other two likely eat with their knives," Cousin Eunice added
soothingly, as she still used her endeavors toward having Waterloo
feed himself like an anthropoid being.
"Oh, Ann doesn't worry over company," mother said, as she glanced at
me again. "She's been asleep. That's what makes her look--startled."