THANKSGIVING DAY
Thanksgiving day--and I have written nothing since the middle of
October! But you remember I told you in the beginning that my journal
might be, not so much a record of deeds as a setting forth of wishes;
and my wishes all come to pass so speedily these days that there is no
time to write them down.
To be honest, I had no idea of bringing my journal up here to
Charlotteville with me, when I came for this Thanksgiving visit, for I
thought of course Richard would be here all the time and I should not
find a moment dull enough for me to sit down and write. But, as it
happens, I am glad that the book was slipped into the tray of my trunk
almost without my knowledge, else I should be spending a lonely
evening right now.
Let me see--shall I begin where I left off--that sunny morning when I
parried with Richard across half the state and lived to regret it? Or
shall I begin with my entrée into Charlotteville and then jot down the
past happenings as they come to me? The latter course strikes me as
rather the better, then perhaps I shall not be tempted to give any one
little occurrence too much space. Things seen in a sort of
over-the-shoulder perspective are more likely to shrink into their
normal size.
If I had snatched you up, my journal, the day that Richard sent me
that exquisite chased card-case--a counterpart in pattern of his own
sacred cigarette-case which I had once fingered with admiring
reverence--I should have used up pages and pages of space, besides
impoverishing myself in the way of adjectives. But I spent so many
days dangling that card-case in front of me, as I stood before the
mirror--using always my sparkling left hand--that before I had grown
accustomed to the possession of it there came something even better
calculated to take my breath away. A dull gold brooch it was this
time, set with a green jade scarab--the little beetle bearing along
with it a page of typed pedigree, showing the why and wherefore of its
being. It in nowise detracted from the joy of possession, that these
trinkets came in the nature of olive branches.
Yes, my sovereign was angry when I brought up the discussion of the
book again, the Byron book, which I had promised to return, but with
the proviso, under my breath, that I should be made to see the reason
why first. I learned that he not only has the heart of a lion, but a
little of that beautiful animal's kingly fury also when he is aroused.
And he was aroused at what he termed my deception.
I made a clean breast of the matter the very first hour we were
together again, knowing that I could make him listen to reason if I
got him _literally_ at arm's length. But I had to listen to some
things, too, in that hour; coming off victorious to such an extent
that he finally called himself every kind of high-class villain
imaginable. Then, the next week this plethora of express packages.
So it seems that my idea concerning the warring elements in his
character was not altogether wrong.
But to hasten on to Charlotteville! Mrs. Chalmers wrote mother several
weeks ago that she wanted me to come for Thanksgiving, so there was
plenty of time for the getting together of clothes which I now knew to
be absolutely essential to my peace of mind when I should be with
Richard. I never knew a man to pay such attention to these little
details. But what else can you expect when you are engaged to an
Olympian god? Still--I almost wish sometimes that he did not lay so
much stress on mere luxuries, for people can have a lot of enjoyment
in life without them. Yet to Richard a big house, servants, expensive
clothes, all are as necessary as the air he breathes, and he wants to
make me feel the same dependence on them.
During the one little visit I have made in the city since our
engagement he kept his promise of taking me for long country
drives--but always in a big touring car, with a chaperon and a
chauffeur! When I suggested that it would be more "fun" to drive that
pretty horse of his and go alone, he assured me gravely that many
things in this life which were good "fun" were not proper. So I said
no more, but I felt a sudden sense of gratitude toward fate for not
ever sending Richard driving past me last winter when I used not only
to drive out the pikes with Alfred, but get out and go down on my
knees to help him with a puncture. True, I wasn't much help, usually
being good only to hand him things, or _blow_ on the patches to make
them dry the faster--but I always liked to help, and he always let
me.
But Charlotteville! Well, it is a small town in the eastern end of the
state--a citified little place enough--where there are at least a
dozen people who own handsome motor-cars; and the ices are always
frozen in fancy shapes at the parties. Still it is a little town,
where everybody likes to talk about everybody else--and the
power-house shuts off the electricity at midnight.
I was glad when I found that there were other guests for this
occasion, for I thought that would give me more time alone with
Richard, and after I had met these guests I felt glad on their own
account, for they are delightful.
Mr. Maxwell, the only other man, came down the same day that I reached
here; on the same train, in fact, but neither of us knew this at the
time, for I happened to be in the day-coach and he was in the Pullman.
When I reached the station here at Charlotteville, and at first saw no
one on the little platform to meet me, I felt a sudden sinking around
my heart; but, after the crowd had moved along a bit, I espied
Richard's tall form at the extreme end of the platform. He was looking
with a good deal of eagerness into the windows of the one Pullman
car. With him, and talking exuberantly, was a boyish-looking young
man who had forgotten to remove his traveling-cap. Richard seemed to
be paying no attention to this bright-faced youth.
I dropped my bag and hastened down the platform.
"Oh, she's disappointed you, old boy! 'Tain't another thing," the man
in the cap was saying as I came up close behind them and slackened my
pace. "I'll swear there wasn't a thing in that car that looked like a
cross between Venus de Milo and--"
"Richard," I called softly, and he wheeled around in delighted
surprise.
"Bless your little heart!" he said, so genuinely glad to see me that
he forgot for a moment the presence of the other man. That is, I
thought at the time he had forgotten, but I soon saw that he
considered Mr. Maxwell too much of a good-natured fool to count. "I
thought you had failed to come," he kept on. "Where the dickens were
you?"
"I was in the day-coach," I answered, after I had shaken hands with
Mr. Maxwell, when Richard remembered to present him.
"What?"
His tone was low and quiet, but his eyes spoke surprise, and I
remembered, with a sudden chill, that according to his ethics I had
done almost a disgraceful thing.
"There were some people in the day-coach I--wanted to be with," I
began by way of explanation, but I saw that this was making matters
worse.
"What kind of people?" he asked drily.
"A woman. I got to talking to her when we changed trains at M--; she
had _such_ a headache--and two babies. The littlest one consented to
let me walk him around some; and I fed the other one the remains of a
box of chocolates. When this train came they got into the day-coach,
and of course I went with them."
"Why 'of course?'" he asked again, but with an amused smile dawning in
his eyes.
"Well, I was still carrying the baby! I couldn't go off into another
car with him, could I?"
Richard looked at Mr. Maxwell and laughed perfunctorily, but I knew
that in some way he felt that I had humiliated him. Mr. Maxwell did
not laugh, although his is essentially a laughing face.
"I understand," Richard said finally, turning to me again and asking
for my checks. "You have quite the appearance of a good Samaritan.
Your hair is--er--just a trifle ruffled. Couldn't you have managed
some way to smooth it a little before you reached here? Evelyn always
spends the last hour of a journey back in the dressing-room arranging
her hair and powdering her face."
"Well, of course I know that is the ladylike thing to do," I
responded, with something more nearly like sarcasm than I had ever
used to him before.
Mr. Maxwell was busy taking his things from the porter, and as he
exchanged his cap for a more dignified, but less becoming, hat, I
noticed a scar on his forehead, high up and extending quite a distance
toward the crown of his head. His hair grew queerly along the line of
the scar. He seemed purposely to have detached himself from us for a
moment, so I spoke to Richard again.
"Richard," I said, speaking low and rapidly, so that only he could
hear. "I am sorry if I am a _fright_! But I just couldn't prink before
that woman on the train. She was deathly sick, so I kept the baby all
the way. Then she was _poor_ and proud and--I didn't care about
opening my bag and spreading all my silver things out before her!"
He laughed again.
"You are an extremist, Ann," he said. "But you are not a fright.
Only, you're so fine, when you're at your best--and mother won't
understand."
"Of course not," I answered rather shortly; and the drive out to the
house might have been a very quiet one if it had not been for Mr.
Maxwell's irrepressible chatter.
I was grateful for the chatter at the time, still more so when we
reached the house, for it helped my ruffled hair to pass unnoticed.
The feminine portion of the family met us at the front steps, and, as
darkness was drawing on, I failed to take in at the time the full
magnificence of the outside of the house. When I saw it next morning
in the bright sunshine it struck me as being an oppressively massive,
gleaming structure, with a great display of plate-glass doors and
windows; and, instead of long, generous porches, as we have at home,
there are several tiled vestibules that each morning are--no, not
scoured, they are _manicured_.
Mr. Maxwell is a great friend of Richard's, strange as it may seem
that two such incompatible natures should find so much in common; and,
being heir to his mother's fortune, is such a desirable catch that
Mrs. Chalmers frequently has him down here, hoping that he and Evelyn
will take a fancy to each other. Richard told me this, quite simply.
Evelyn wears her prettiest gowns and uses her softest tones when he is
around, but she is no more interested in him than she is in any other
man. In fact, she is too well brought-up to display any preference in
her marriage. Whatever her mother arranges for her will be entirely
satisfactory.
And as for Mr. Maxwell--but that brings me up to a mention of the
other guest here now, and it is surprising that I have not said
something about her before, for she and I have been great friends from
the day I arrived.
It is amazing that people can get so well acquainted in such a short
space of time when they are staying together in the same house, yet
when neither of them is what you would call "easy to get acquainted
with." I am not, I know, and I feel equally as sure that Sophie is the
same way, yet you will notice that sometimes when two such diffident
people are thrown together they will take a liking to each other right
away.
It was this way with Sophie Chalmers and me. She is Richard's cousin
and lives in some vague place "out west." She happened to be visiting
some of the other Chalmers relatives in a near-by town for a few
weeks this fall and I think Mrs. Chalmers must have felt that if she
had to invite her it would be less trouble to have her when there were
other guests, so she asked her to come and spend the Thanksgiving
holidays with them. If the girl had been less obviously a sort of
"poor relation" (though by no means looking the part) or if Mrs.
Chalmers had not tried so persistently to keep her in the background
the "unexpected" which happened in this case would have been less
surprising.
For Mr. Maxwell had no more than walked into the drawing-room and been
presented to her than he fell in love with her; and, like most
merry-eyed people, he fell very deeply in love.
Even their meeting was most unusual--dramatic, you might call it. And,
as it took place at the moment of our arrival, it served to divert
somewhat the attention from my disheveled looks, which had been such a
shock to Richard. "Mr. Maxwell--Miss Chalmers," some one had said, as
we all passed into the house and the tall, rather tired-looking girl
unfolded herself from one of the big chairs drawn up close to the
hearth. She showed no surprise as she extended her hand to the new
arrival, but Mr. Maxwell looked at her for a moment as he held her
hand in his; then he asked quite simply: "Where have we met before?"
The question was so earnest and so direct that the girl's face
flushed, but before she could even start to offer a suggestion as to
whether they had met before or had not, Mrs. Chalmers hastily put in
that there was little probability of a former meeting, inasmuch as
Sophie had not been in this part of the country in several years.
"We have certainly met before," Mr. Maxwell persisted, his eyes still
fastened on Sophie's face, and running his fingers through his hair,
along the line of the scar, as if that could help him in remembering.
"I am certain of that. And I should surely not be so discourteous as
to acknowledge that I have forgotten--except there are so many things
hazy in my mind--since that night just outside El Paso."
I, too, was watching Sophie intently, as we all were, and I saw her
eyes wander to the scar along his forehead. She looked away, but in
another moment had returned to it again, as if the queer little white
line held a fascination for her. At his mention of El Paso she gave a
distinct start, but regained her equilibrium almost immediately.
"I must be a very common-looking person," she said with a little
laugh, turning to me as she spoke, "for I seldom meet a stranger who
doesn't know some one whom I am so exactly like that the resemblance
is startling!"
We had all moved about a little from the positions into which Mr.
Maxwell's first earnest words had petrified us, and Mrs. Chalmers was
beginning to say something about taking us to our rooms, when that
persevering young man spoke again. He had not moved an inch, but stood
there in the middle of the floor, his eyes fastened on Sophie's face.
"It's not your looks, that is, your looks are not so convincing as
your--your voice," he said, his expression still showing his
bewildered surprise; but something in the girl's face must have
pleaded with him to change the subject, which he did, easily.
"Well, don't you think the scar adds to my list of attractions?" he
asked banteringly, as he turned to Mrs. Chalmers, who beamed approval
upon him. "The girls all think I acquired it in some brave, though
mysterious, manner--those who don't know that I got my sky-piece
cracked in a wreck in Texas last year."
From that hour he began a course of small attentions, minor
courtesies, but none the less meaning, all of which have been
calculated to make Sophie regard him with quite a degree of favorable
interest, and if I am not mistaken none of these calculations has
failed to hit the mark. But since their first meeting I have only once
heard him refer to that unusual resemblance she bears to some one whom
he has known; and I am sure he found the impulse then to speak so
strong and sudden that the words were out before he had time to think,
for Sophie so clearly disliked a mention of the subject. This proves
to me that they have known each other in some mysterious manner, but
as she has never told me the secret, of course I have never questioned
her.
Last night at the dinner table was when it came about, and, when I
think it over, it was a ludicrous happening rather than a sentimental
or even mysterious one. Mrs. Chalmers had been holding forth upon some
Scriptural interpretations which her beloved pastor has recently made
use of in his sermons, and, among others, the casting of pearls before
swine was brought forward for discussion.
From the moment the word "swine" was mentioned Mr. Maxwell's face took
on its bewildered look and he fixed his eyes on Sophie with that same
intensity of expression which they have worn so often this last week.
Suddenly he seemed to remember what his mind was so evidently
searching for.
"Swine! _Pigs!_" he blurted out, in such a startled way that we all
instinctively stopped eating to await developments. "_That's_ what I
heard you--or the girl with your voice--saying that night. I remember
it distinctly now! It was hot--heavens, how hot it was!--and there was
a fierce pain in my head for some reason; but I heard your voice, just
a short distance away from me, saying: 'This little pig went to
market, this little pig stayed at home; this little pig had--' and
there you broke off, because you couldn't remember what it was the
third little pig had. There was a peevish child's voice crying: 'Tell
little pigs! Tell little pigs,' and then a man's voice, trying to help
you out. You asked the man, '_Do_ you know what the third little pig
had--or did?' But he couldn't remember either. He began saying the
doggerel over again, 'This little pig went to market; this little pig
stayed at home; this little pig had--'
"'Roast beef, damn you,' I hollered, for somehow I wasn't as near
being dead as you thought. 'Roast beef, but you needn't stand outside
my door rehashing it all night. Then you and the man laughed in a
surprised, though subdued way, and walked away from me, although I
didn't hear the sound of footsteps."
His scar showed very white as he finished this queer little story; and
he looked at Sophie almost beseechingly. He had the appearance of a
man groping about in the dark.
Sophie, too, was clearly embarrassed, but said nothing by way of
explanation; and, ridiculous as the incident was, not one of us even
smiled.
There was a heavy, tense silence about the board for a moment, then
Richard spoke.
"Upon my word, but this is interesting," he said, in a slow, sarcastic
drawl. "Sophie, have you been traveling in vaudeville?"
* * * * *
As we left the dining-room one of the servants told Richard that there
was a long-distance call for him, a bit of news which brought a frown
to my lord's handsome face.
"Well, tell 'em I can't be found," he commanded briefly, as he caught
the extreme tip of my elbow and began steering our course toward the
library. We usually had a few short minutes alone there after dinner.
"The operator has already told the party that you are here, Mr.
Chalmers," the colored boy answered, looking embarrassed and trying to
slink away into the back hall as soon as he could.
"The devil!" Richard exclaimed, under his breath, but he loosed his
hold upon my arm as we reached the foot of the steps, and he suggested
that I run on up-stairs and wait until I thought he had had time to
finish his conversation, then come back and join him in the library.
"If you mix up with them in the drawing-room now you can't find an
excuse to get up and leave when I have finished," he explained, and I
smiled a happy assent.
Sophie, too, had gone to her room for a few minutes after dinner, and,
as she heard me stirring around in mine, she called at my open door to
say that she wanted my advice about something.
"Come in, by all means," I bade her. "I have lots of advice."
"It's about a dress for the ball to-morrow night," she said, holding
over her arm a dainty gown of soft white silk. She spread the garment
out upon my bed, then stood off a few steps and looked at it. "Do you
think it will do?" she finally asked.
"Do? Why, I think it's lovely!" I declared truthfully.
"Well, I want to look lovely," she answered, with a queer little
smile, but as she sat down on the bed and picked up a bit of chiffon
flounce in the neck of the gown, she looked up at me again, with an
expression of almost tragedy in her eyes. "But I have no gloves that
are long enough and clean enough to wear with this!"
"Well, wear a pair of mine, then," I began, noting that her hands and
mine are about the same size, but before I could suggest this she had
interrupted me.
"I didn't come in here for _that_," she exclaimed, rather haughtily,
throwing back her head a little and looking me squarely in the eyes.
"I wanted to talk with you a little because you don't seem so
oppressively elegant and _rich_, you know--"
"I am not in the least rich," I assured her comfortingly. "Nearly all
my gloves have been _cleaned_."
I hastily threw up the top of my trunk and scrambled around for my
glove box.
"See!" I exclaimed, holding up a pair that she had seen me working on
the day before. "They _look_ as good as new, but whew! it would take
one of your Texas cyclones to blow the smell of gasolene out!"
"One of _my_ Texas cyclones?" She looked surprised, but I fancied that
she was pleased. "Who told you that I live in Texas?"
"Nobody that I remember; yet I got it into my head somehow that you
live in Texas."
"I do. I live in El Paso," she threw aside the flounce of chiffon
which she was still fingering and started to her feet. I was standing
in front of her with the pair of freshly cleaned gloves in my hand.
"Ann, I hate lying, and I am going to tell you something, for I can't
keep up this deception any longer. I don't care what Aunt Ida says."
There was a quick rap at the door at this most interesting juncture
and Evelyn stuck her head in.
"Ann," she said, glancing quickly at us both and seeming a little
surprised to see us closeted together in this familiar fashion.
"Richard has just had a long-distance message from the city. He has to
go up there to-night on business and he wants to know if you'll let
him come up to your door and say good-by?"