MAGNOLIA LAND.
My wages were small, and I saved every possible penny; I gave up
smoking, slept in the stable, and rarely paid more than fifteen cents
for a meal. In my mind I settled upon the island of Vancouver, and I
resolved to go as soon as I could save money enough to buy a suit of
clothes and a railway ticket to Seattle. And from my exile I would dare
write to the Senator. "Why not now?" I thought as I sat on my cab. "But
he might believe the story set up by circumstances; he might long ago
have condemned me as guilty of Estell's blood. And what must _she_
think?" The beginning of my musings mattered not, for the end was always
the same, with the woman. And in the night, when the fierce wind howled
about the barn, with the stamping and snorting of horses beneath me, I
lay in the dark and the cold, and gazed into my heart's illuminated
memory. Her face was always frank and, though her lips were dumb, her
eyes were full of whispers. "But what must she think now?" always came
to drive her away into the dark and the cold.
In impatience, and sometimes in fear, I watched the slow growth of my
savings. Once a man, a detective I was sure, came to the stable to ask,
he said, concerning a woman whom I had that day driven to a railway
station. He may have told the truth, but he put me in distress, and the
next day when I counted my money I said, "I will go to-morrow." But on
that day a paragraph leaped out of a newspaper and smote me. "In
Magnolia Land" was soon to be produced at McVicker's Theatre. I had
cause to believe that I was suspected of at least some sort of
crookedness, since in my mind it was almost settled that the man had
come to the stable to look me over in the hope of finding a "bargain,"
but I was resolved to take the risk to see the play. And I read the
newspapers at night and at morning, nervous with the fear of finding an
announcement that the drama was the work of a man now charged with the
murder of Mississippi's Treasurer. As the time drew near the press agent
multiplied his licks; the play was by a man who chose to call himself
"The Elephant;" it had been read by "several of our leading dramatists
and pronounced a masterpiece of originality, character, and strength."
But to me the faith of Manager Maffet did not hold the piece above an
ordinary experiment, a truth set forth by the meagerness of his "paper;"
and, as nothing was said of the cast, I knew that my lines were not to
be given over to well-known "people."
Would the day, which had sounded so near, never come! "Who are you?" a
snail inquired of a wild pigeon. "I am Time," the pigeon answered.
"No," said the snail. "You may have been Time and you may be again, some
day, but _I_ am Time now."
In the evening I drove a drunken man to his home, four miles on the
North Side, and when I helped him out in front of his door, he tried to
hold me, to tell me that I was his friend, but I broke loose from him,
and almost furiously I drove to the theatre. I had not time to go to the
stable; I hired a boy to look after my horse, and hastened to buy a
balcony ticket. The night was warm for the time of the year, but a
threat of rain was in the air, and I was afraid that the house would be
small, but the people kept sprinkling in, and I stood in a corner to
watch them, uneasy and annoyed whenever anyone passed along, without
even looking in toward the box office. The orchestra began with Dixie,
and my blood tingled as I went up the stairs. Viewed from my seat, the
lower part of the house appeared to be well filled and the balcony was
crowded. I had not taken account of those who had gone in before I
arrived. No program had been given to me and I was almost afraid to ask
for one. I did not permit myself to speculate upon my misfortune, an
outcast sneaking in to see his own play; I did not muse upon fate; I sat
there with my pulse beating fast. But I did indulge the comfort of the
thought that should the play prove a failure no one could discover the
humiliation of the author.
The music ceased, the curtain went up, my heart leaped, and the soft
beauty of the scene brought tears to my eyes. Could I believe it, there
were Culpepper and Miss Hatch, their mouths full of "The Elephant's"
words. A droll line, and the people laughed; a sentiment, and they
applauded. So the ice was broken. The curtain went down with generous
applause. Culpepper and Miss Hatch were called out; but I could hardly
see them, for the foolish tears in my eyes. I knew that the acts to come
were better and my heart swelled with the thought. There were many
faults, of course, but good humor and enthusiasm do not hunt for flaws,
and I laughed and cried and yearned to grasp the hand of a friend.
"What do you think of it?" I asked of a rough man who sat beside me.
"Great," he answered.
"Would you mind shaking hands with me?"
"I don't know you," he replied, "but I'm a good ways from home, and
we'll call it a go. Put her there."
He thrust forth his hand. I grasped it and pressed it hard--the first I
had touched in sentiment for many a day; and I was loth to let it go,
but he was forbearing. "Shake again whenever you want to," he said. "A
man that cries at a putty thing ain't a bad feller."
At the end of the third act there was a roar for the author, and at that
moment I felt almost willing to risk my neck to thank those generous
hearts.
It was over--and the great organ lifted its voice in triumph as the
audience arose. But if I strode out with the tread of a conqueror, it
was not unmixed with a sorrowful limp, the halting walk of one who sees
the black word "bitterness" written upon the bright banner of his
victory. A cold rain was falling. I stood against the wall to catch the
echo of my achievement, the "good," "enjoyed it so much," "beautiful,"
of the hastening throng. The loud cab-calls ceased, and I stepped
forward to drive my vehicle to the stable, when, glancing back, I saw
something that almost wrung a cry from my heart. Beneath the awning
stood the Senator and his daughter. I ran to my cab, threw money to the
boy, seized the horse by the bridle, led him to the curb in front of the
Senator, and bowing under the glistening drip I said, "Cab, Sir?"
"Yes, I think so," he replied. "We haven't far to go, just around yonder
to the Great Northern Hotel. Let me help you in, Florence. I reckon they
are right in saying that this place has about the worst climate in the
world."
I held the door open until they were seated, and stood there in a
tremble after I had closed it, yearning to make myself known to them.
But the success of the play could not mean that I was innocent of an old
man's death. They might never have believed me guilty. "I could throw
myself upon their mercy," I mused. "But what if they should turn away
with a cold word and a shudder?" Reason is the offspring of wisdom, but
it has always been a coward.
"What are you waiting for?" the Senator inquired, with a tap on the
window. "Drive on, please."
I mounted, not trusting myself to speak, and drove slowly away, with my
eager ear bent low.
"Never saw anything like that play," said the Senator, "never did. But I
tell you I was scared at first. Why, when that fellow Bugg Peters came
out there I thought surely he would ruin the whole thing. And he was
Bugg, up and up. Yes, thought he would spoil it all. Why, Florence, that
fellow is the biggest liar on the earth!"
"But he is art, as we saw him to-night, Father."
"Well, yes. He said the very things that Bugg would have said. Yes, art
all right enough, but whenever he _is_, art has turned out to be a
monstrous liar. It does seem to me, however, that Bolanyo could have
furnished a batch of more respectable characters--more representative,
don't you understand--people of better standing. Washington is all
right, an advancement, a high type of his race, but the pilot and the
shoemaker are--oh, well, they don't represent us. And that old woman's
meant for your Aunt Patsey as sure as you live. But in spite of these
minor faults it is a beautiful play."
"I wonder," she said, after a moment of silence, "I wonder where Mr.
Belford is to-night; if he could only have seen his victory; if--"
"Say, there, driver," the Senator cried, "why don't you go ahead? What
do you want to halt along here for? I don't want to hurt your feelings,
you understand, but I could have more than walked there by this time.
Drive up, please."
We were now near the hotel. I drew up at the curb, jumped down and
opened the cab door. The Senator got out. I did not look at him. I did
not dare to feed my hungry eyes upon her face. He took her hand, and
when she had stepped upon the pavement, she turned about. "Oh, wait a
moment," she said, "my dress is caught. No, it isn't."
"I will settle with you in a moment," he remarked, looking back at me,
as with haste, though with most gallant gentleness, he urged his
daughter toward the door, out of the rain. I looked hard at her now,
with my heart full of another night, when she had glanced back at me; I
waited, gazing, enchained by her grace, until she reached the door, and
then I sprung upon the cab and drove away. The Senator shouted, but I
did not look around, until, turning a corner, I glanced back, to see him
standing bare-headed in the rain, waving his hat at me.