WRITING HOME
"Dear Brick and Bill:
"I don't know what to tell first. It's all so strange and grand--the
people are just people, but the things are wonderful. The people want
it to be so; they act, and think according to the things around them.
They pride themselves on these things and on being amongst them, and I
am trying to learn to do that, too. When I lived in the cove--it seems
a long, long time ago--my thoughts were always away from dirt-floors
and cook-stoves and cedar logs and wash-pans. But the people in the
big world keep their minds tied right up to such things--only the
things are finer--they are marble floors and magnificent restaurants
and houses on what they call the 'best streets.' At meals, there are
all kinds of little spoons and forks, and they think to use a wrong one
is something dreadful; that is why I say the forks and spoons seem more
important than THEY are, but they want it to be so.
"They have certain ways of doing everything, and just certain times for
doing them, and if you do a wrong thing at a right time, or a right
thing at a wrong time, it shows you are from the West. At first, I
couldn't say a word, or turn around, without showing that I was from
the West. But although I've been from home only a few days, I'm
getting so that nobody can tell that I'm more important than the
furniture around me. I'm trying to be just like the one I'm with, and
I don't believe an outsider can tell that I have any more sense than
the rest of them.
"Miss Sellimer is so nice to me. I told her right at the start that I
didn't know anything about the big world, and she teaches me
everything. I'd be more comfortable if she could forget about my
saving her life, but she never can, and is so grateful it makes me feel
that I'm enjoying all this on false pretenses for you know my finding
her was only an accident. Her mother is very pleasant to me--much more
so than to her. Bill, you know how you speak to your horse, sometimes,
when it acts contrary? That's the way Miss Sellimer speaks to her
mother, at times. However, they don't seem very well acquainted with
each other. Of course if they'd lived together in a cove for years,
they'd have learned to tell each other their thoughts and plans, but
out in the big world there isn't time for anything except to dress and
go.
"I'm learning to dress. I used to think a girl could do that to please
herself, but no, the dresses are a thousand times more important than
the people inside them. It wouldn't matter how wise you are if your
dress is wrong, nor would it matter how foolish, if your dress is like
everybody else's. A person could be independent and do as she pleased,
but she wouldn't be in society. And nobody would believe she was
independent, they would just think she didn't know any better, or was
poor. Because, they don't know anything about being independent; they
want to be governed by their things. A poor person isn't cut off from
society because he hasn't money, but because he doesn't know how to
deal with high things, not having practised amongst them. It isn't
because society people have lots of money that they stick together, but
because all of them know what to do with the little forks and spoons.
"It is like the dearest, jolliest kind of game to me, to be with these
people, and say just what they say, and like what they like, and act as
they act--and that's the difference between me and them; it's not a
game to them, it's deadly earnest. They think they're LIVING!
"Do you think I could play at this so long that one day I'd imagine I
was doing what God had expected of me when he sent me to you, Brick?
Could I stay out in the big world until I'd think of the cove as a
cramped little pocket in the wilderness with two pennies jingling at
the bottom of it named Brick and Bill? If I thought there was any
danger of that, I'd start home in the morning!
"We are in a Kansas City hotel where all the feathers are in ladies'
hats and bonnets instead of in the gentlemen's hair. To get to our
rooms you go to a dark little door and push something that makes a bell
ring, and then you step into a dugout on pulleys, that shoots up in the
air so quick it makes you feel a part of you has fallen out and got
lost. The dugout doesn't slow up for the third story, it just stops
THAT QUICK--they call it an 'elevator' and it certainly does elevate!
You step out in a dim trail where there are dusky kinds of lights,
although it may be the middle of the day, and you follow the trail over
a narrow yellow desert, turn to your right and keep going till you
reach a door with your number on it. When you are in your room, you
see the things that are considered more important than the people.
"There's an entire room set apart for the sole purpose of bathing!--and
the room with the bed in it is separate from the sitting-room. You can
go in one and stay a while, and go in another and stay a while, and
then go in the third--and you have a different feeling for each room
that you're in. I'd rather see everything at once, as I can in my
cabin. And that bed! If my little bed at home could be brought here
and set up beside this hotel wonder, the very walls would cry out....
I wish I could sleep in my little bed tonight, and hear the wind
howling over the mountain.
"The dining-room is the finest thing I ever saw; I doubt if the kings
and queens of old times ever ate in richer surroundings. There are rows
of immense mirrors along the wall and gold borders--and then the
tables! I wonder what would happen if anybody should spread newspapers
on one of these wonderful tables and use them for a tablecloth? At
home, we can just reach out and take what we want off the stove, and
help our plates without rising. It's so different here! After you've
worried over crooked lists of things to eat that you've never heard of,
and have hurried to select so the waiter won't have to lose any time,
the waiter goes away. And when he puts something before you, you don't
know what to call it, because it's been so long, you've forgotten its
name on that awful pasteboard. But there's something pleasant when
you've finished, in just getting up and walking away, not caring who
cleans up the dishes!
"I've been to the opera-house, but it wasn't an opera, it was a play.
That house--I wish you could see it!--the inside, I mean, for outside
it looks like it needs washing. The chairs--well, if you sent that
stool of ours to a university you couldn't train it up to look anything
like those opera-chairs. And the dresses--the diamonds.... Everything
was perfectly lovely except what we had come to see, and my party
thought it was too funny for anything; but it wasn't funny to me. The
story they acted was all about a young couple fooling their parents and
getting married without father and mother knowing, and a baby brought
in at the last that nobody would claim though it was said to be
somebody's that shouldn't have had one--the audience just screamed with
laughter over that; I thought they never would quiet down. Out in The
big world, babies and old fathers and mothers seem to be jokes. The
star of the evening was a married actress with 'Miss' before her name.
You could hear every word she spoke, but the others didn't seem to try
to make themselves plain--I guess that's why they aren't stars, too.
"I've lived more during the last week than I had the previous
fifty-one. We must have been to everything there is, except a church.
Yesterday was Sunday, and I asked Mrs. Sellimer about it, but she said
people didn't go to church any more.
"Maybe you wonder why I don't tell you about our crowd, but I guess
it's because I feel as if they didn't matter. I wouldn't say that to
anybody in the world but to you, Brick and Bill, and if I hadn't
promised to write you every single thing, I wouldn't even tell you,
because they are so good to me. It sounds untrue to them, doesn't it?
But you won't tell anybody, because you've nobody to tell! And
besides, they could be different in a minute if they wanted to be; it
isn't as if they were helpless.
"Miss Sellimer is witty and talented, and from the way she treats me, I
know she has a tender heart. And her mother is a perfect wonder of a
manager, and never makes mistakes except such as happen to be the fad
of the hour. And Mr. Edgerton Compton could be splendid, for he seems
to know everything, and when we travel with him, or go to the parks and
all that, people do just as he says, as if he were a prince; he has a
magnificent way of showering money on porters and waiters and cabmen
that is dazzling; and he holds himself perfectly WITHOUT TRYING, and
dresses so that you are glad you're with him in a crowd; he knows what
to do ALL the time about EVERYTHING. But there he stops. I mean, he
isn't trying to do anything that matters. Neither are any of the rest.
"What they are working at now, is all they expect to work at as long as
they live--and it takes awfully hard work to keep up with their set.
They call it 'keeping in the swim,' and let me tell you what it reminds
me of--a strong young steer out in a 'tank,' using all the strength he
has just to keep on top of the water, instead of swimming to shore and
going somewhere. Society people don't go anywhere; they use all their
energy staying right where they are; and if one of them loses grip and
goes under--GOODNESS!
"I know what Mrs. Sellimer has set her heart on, because she has
already begun instructing me in her ideals. She wants her daughter to
marry a rich man, and Mr. Edgerton Compton isn't rich, he only looks
like he is. Mrs. Sellimer feels that she's terribly poor, herself;
it's the kind of poverty that has all it wants to eat and wear, but
hasn't as many horses and servants as it wants. It's just as hard on
her as it would be on you if the bacon gave out and you couldn't go for
more. Annabel--that's Miss Sellimer--likes Mr. Compton very, very
much, but she feels like her mother about marrying a rich man, and I
don't think he has much chance. One trouble is that he thinks he must
marry a rich girl, so they just go on, loving each other, and looking
about for 'chances.'
"I feel like I oughtn't to be wasting my time telling about my friends
when there are all these wonderful lights and carpets and decorations
and conveniences, so much more interesting. Whenever you want hot
water, instead of bringing a bucketful from the spring and building a
fire and sitting down to watch it simmer, you just turn a handle and
out it comes, smoking; and whenever you want ice-water, you touch a
button and give a boy ten cents.
"The funny thing to me is that Annabel and Mr. Compton both think they
HAVE to marry somebody rich, or not marry at all. They really don't
know they COULD marry each other, because imagining they would be
unable to keep the wolf from the door. That's because they can't
imagine themselves living behind anything but a door on one of the
'best streets.' We know, don't we, Brick and Bill, that it takes
mighty little to keep the coyote from the dugout! And there's
something else we know that these people haven't dreampt of--that
there's happiness and love in many and many a dugout. I don't know
what's behind the doors on the 'best streets.'
"We are not going straight on to Chicago. A gentleman has invited the
Sellimers, which of course includes me, to a house-party in the country
not far from Kansas City. He is a very rich man of middle age, so they
tell me, a widower, who is interested in our sex and particularly in
Annabel Sellimer. Mr. Edgerton Compton isn't invited. You see, he's a
sort of rival--a poor rival. This middle-aged man has known the
Sellimers a long time, and he has been trying to win Annabel for a year
or two. If it hadn't been for Mr. Compton she'd have married HIS HOUSE
before now, I gather. The house is said to be immense, in a splendid
estate near the river. I am all excitement when I think of going there
for ten days. There are to be fifty guests and the other forty-nine
are invited as a means of getting Annabel under his roof. Won't I feel
like a little girl in an old English novel! The best of it is that
nobody will bother ME--I'm too poor to be looked at a second time, I
mean, what THEY call poor. Sometimes I laugh when I'm alone, for I
feel like I'm a gold mine filled with rich ore that nobody has
discovered. Remember the 'fool's gold' we used to see among the granite
mountains? I think the gold that lies on the surface must always be
fool's gold. The name of the country-house we are to visit is the same
as that of the man who owns it--"
Wilfred Compton held the letter closer to the light.
Brick Willock spoke impatiently: "No use to stare at that there
word--we couldn't make it out. I guess she got it wrong, first, then
wrote it over. Just go ahead."
Bill suggested, "I think the first letter is an 'S.'"
Wilfred scrutinized the name closely.
"Besides," said Willock, "we knows none of them high people, the name
wouldn't be nothing to us--and her next letter will likely have it
more'n once."
Wilfred resumed the letter: "I must tell you good-by, now, for
Annabel's maid has come to help me dress for dinner, and it takes
longer than it did to do up the washing, at the cove; and is more
tiresome. But I like it. I like these fine, soft, beautiful things.
I like the big world, and I would like to live in it forever and ever,
if you could bring the dugout and be near enough for me to run in, any
time of the day. I wish I could run in this minute and tell you the
thousands and thousands of things I'll never have time to write.
"Your loving, adoring, half-homesick, half-bewildered, somewhat dizzy
little girl,
"Lahoma.
"P. S. Nobody has been able to tell from word or look of mine that I
have ever been surprised at a single thing I have heard or seen. You
may be quite sure of that."
"I bet you!" cried Willock admiringly. "NOW, what do you think of it?"
"She won't be there long," remarked Bill, waving his arm, "till she
finds out what I learned long ago--that there's nothing to it. If you
want to cultivate a liking for a dugout, just live a while in the open."
"I don't know as to that," Willock said. "I sorter doubts if Lahoma
will ever care for dugouts again, except as she stays on the outside of
'em, and gets to romancing. A mouthful of real ice-cream spoils your
taste everlasting for frozen starch and raw eggs."
"Lahoma is a real person," declared Bill, "and a dugout is grounded and
bedded in a real thing--this very solid and very real old earth, if you
ask to know what I mean."
"Lord, _I_ knows what you mean," retorted Willock. "You've lived in a
hole in the ground most of your life, and are pretty near ripe to be
laid away in another one, smaller I grant you, but dark and deep,
according. We'll never get Lahoma back the same as when we let her
flutter forth hunting a green twig over the face of the waters. She
may bring back the first few leaves she finds, but a time's going to
come...." He broke off abruptly, his eyes wide and troubled, as if
already viewing the dismal prospect.
"Maybe I AM old," Bill grudgingly conceded, "but I don't set up to be
no Noah's ark."
"Oh," cried Willock, his sudden sense of future loss causing him to
speak with unwonted irony, "maybe you're just a Shem, or Ham or that
other kind of Fat-- What's the matter, Wilfred? Can't you let go of
that letter?"
"I've made out the name of that widower who's paying court to my old
sweetheart," he said, "but it's one I never heard of before; that's why
it looked so strange--it's Gledware."
Willock uttered a sharp exclamation. "Let me see it." He started up
abruptly, and bent over the page.
"What of it?" asked Bill in surprise. Willock had uttered words to
which the dugout was unaccustomed.
"That's what it is," Willock growled; "it's Gledware!" His face had
grown strangely dark and forbidding, and Wilfred, who had never
imagined it could be altered by such an expression, handed him the
letter with a sense of uneasiness.
"What of it?" reiterated Bill. "Suppose it IS Gledware; who is HE?"
"Do you know such a man?" Wilfred demanded.
"Out with it!" cried Bill, growing wrathful as the other glowered at
the fire. "What's come over you? Look here, Brick Willock, Lahoma is
your cousin, but I claim my share in that little girl and I ask you
sharp and flat--"
"Oh you go to--!" cried Willock fiercely. "All of you."
Wilfred said lightly, "Red Feather has already gone there, perhaps."
"Eh?" Willock wheeled about as if roused to fresh uneasiness. The
Indian chief had glided from the room, as silent and as unobtrusive as
a shadow.
Willock sank on the bench beside Bill Atkins and said harshly, "Where's
my pipe?"
"Don't you ask ME where your pipe is," snapped Bill. "Yonder it is in
the comer where you dropped it."
Willock picked it up, and slowly recovered himself. "You see," he
observed apologetically, "I need Lahoma about, to keep me tame. I was
wondering the other day if I could swear if I wanted to. I guess I
could. And if put to it, I guess I could take up my old life and not
be very awkward about it, either--I used to be a tax-collector, and of
course got rubbed up against many people that didn't want to pay. That
there Gledware--well! maybe it isn't this one Lahoma writes about, but
the one I knew is just about middle age, and he's a widower, all right,
or the next thing to it--I didn't like Gledware. That was all. I hate
for Lahoma to be throwed with anybody of the name--but I guess it's all
right. Lahoma ain't going to let nobody get on her off-side, when the
wind's blowing."
Bill inquired anxiously, "Did that Gledware you knew, live near Kansas
City?"
"He lived over in Indian Territory, last time I heard of him. But he
was a roving devil--he might be anywhere. Only--he wasn't rich; why,
he didn't have nothing on earth except a little--yes, except a little."
"Then he can't be the owner of a big estate," remarked Wilfred, with
relief.
"I don't know that. Folks goes into the Territory, and somehow they
contrives to come out loaded down. But I hope to the Almighty it's a
different Gledware!"
"Lahoma can hold her own," Bill remarked confidently. "You just wait
till her next letter comes, and see if she ain't flying her colors as
gallant as when she sailed out of the cove."
Wilfred reflected that his invitation to remain had been sincere; there
was nothing to hurry him back to the Oklahoma country--he would, at
least, stay until the next letter came. His interest in Lahoma was of
course vague and dreamy, founded rather on the fancies of a
thousand-and-one-nights than upon the actual interview of a brief hour.
But the remarkable change that had taken possession of Willock at the
mention of Gledware's name, had impressed the young man profoundly. In
that moment, all the geniality and kindliness of the huge fellow had
vanished, and the great whiskered face had looked so wild and
dangerous, the giant fists had doubled so threateningly, that long
after the brow smoothed and the muscles relaxed, it was impossible to
forget the ferocious picture.
"That's what I'll do," Wilfred declared, settling back in his seat,
"I'll wait until that next letter comes."