followed his wife into the drawing-room on the evening of their arrival
at Grantleigh Manor. (Tompkins is asked everywhere on account of his
relationship to old Lord Wrexford.) My fancy, which I had allowed to
play freely about the lady of Tompkins' choice since I had heard of his
marriage, had wavered between a spinster of uncertain age who had
accepted him as a _dernier resort_ and a simpering school girl too young
to know her own mind. I now glanced at the bride--and gasped.
She was one of those women whose beauty is so absolute, so compelling,
as to admit of neither question nor criticism. It quite took away
one's breath. Every man in the room was gaping at her, but she bore
the ordeal with all grace and calm, though she was the daughter of a
struggling curate in some obscure locality remote from social
advantages. She was of a singularly striking type: the beauty of her
face was almost tragic in its intensity: the ghost of some immemorial
sorrow seemed to lurk in the depths of her dark eyes: but when her too
sombre expression was irradiated by the transient gleam of her rare
smile, she was positively dazzling. (I am aware that I shall seem to
"promulgate rhapsodies for dogmas" so to speak, but my proverbial
indifference to feminine charm should endorse me.)
* * * * *
As the days passed--we were at Grantleigh for a fortnight--I found
myself watching for some flaw in her conception, some inaccuracy in
her interpretation of her _role_. But I watched in vain. There was
always a perfect appreciation of the requirements of the situation,
always the perfection of taste in its treatment. Evidently she had
thrown herself into the part and was playing it--would play it,
perhaps, to the end--with artistic _abandon_, tempered by a fine
discretion and discrimination. If her yoke galled, this proud woman
made no sign. But even the subtlest artiste has her unguarded moment,
and it was in such a moment that I chanced to see her the night before
the last of our stay.
The men had come in late from a day's shooting over the moors and were
on their way to their rooms to dress for dinner. Tompkins had gone up
stairs just ahead of me (his apartments were next mine) and had
carelessly left a door opening on the corridor slightly ajar. In
passing I unconsciously glanced that way and my eyes fell full upon
the mirrored face of Elinor Tompkins as her husband crossed toward
where she sat at her dressing table. The flash of feeling that crossed
her countenance held me for a moment transfixed. Such a look, such an
unbelievable complex of shrinking, repugnance, utter loathing and
self-contempt I had never seen or imagined.... Like a flash it came
and went. The next instant she had forced herself to smile and was
lifting her face for her husband's caress, while Tompkins, physically
and mentally short-sighted, bent and inclined his lips to hers. I
caught my breath sharply. A choking sensation in my throat paid
tribute to her art. Not even Duse was more a mistress of emotional
control, expression, and repression. But this was something more than
the perfection of acting: it was courage, the courage of endurance
long drawn out--a greater than that which impels men to the cannon's
mouth and a swift and sure surcease from suffering.
That evening at dinner, Villars, who had run up to town for the day,
and found time for a gossip at the Club, proceeded to open his budget.
He had had the satisfaction of surprising us with the rumored
engagement of Lady Agatha Trelor to the scapegrace son of an
impoverished peer: he had hinted delicately at a scandal in high
official life: and had made his climax with the announcement of the
sudden demise of old Lord Ilverton and the consequent succession of
Delmar to his title and estates--when I glanced, by purest chance, at
Mrs. Tompkins. (I had fallen into a way of looking at her often--she
was certainly an interesting study.) Her face was white, even to the
lips. Chancing to turn, she found my eyes upon her. In an instant she
had somehow compelled the color to her cheeks and recovered her wonted
perfect poise and calm.
That night in the smoking room, Villars shed light upon the subject.
Tompkins was presumably haunting his wife's footsteps at the moment.
In his unconscious egotism he never spared her: there was seldom a
moment when she might drop her smiling mask: the essence of his
personality pervaded her whole atmosphere.
"I met old Waxby at the Club to-day," Villars was saying,
"and--_apropos_ of Delmar's succession to the title--he mentioned that
there had been a serious affair of the heart between him and our
fellow-guest, Mrs. Tompkins, then Elinor Barton. It seems one of
Ilverton's innumerable country places was near the village where the
Bartons lived and Delmar met the girl there last Autumn. The affair
soon assumed serious proportions: Ilverton heard of the engagement:
cut up an awful shindy: had a scene with Del, and finally bundled him
off to India post haste. The girl had grit, though. She sent her
compliments to Lord Ilverton with the assurance that he need have
given himself no uneasiness, as she had already twice refused his son
and heir, and was prepared to repeat the refusal should occasion
arise. They say his Lordship, who had cooled down a bit, chuckled
mightily over the message and vowed that had it only been one of his
younger sons, she should have had him, by Jupiter!... But things
weren't easy for the girl at home. She had an invalid mother, a
nervous, nagging creature, who dinned it into her ears that she'd lost
the chance of a lifetime: that she was standing in the light of three
marriageable younger sisters: that with her limited social advantages
few matrimonial opportunities might be expected to come her way--and
more to the same effect till the poor girl was nearly driven frantic."
"Why not have tried the stage--with her voice and presence any manager
would have been glad to take her on," Landis suggested.
"She considered it, they say, but her reverend father turned a fit at
the bare suggestion. At this juncture, Tompkins presented himself as a
suitor: it was duly pointed out to Miss Barton by her loving parents
that he was rather an eligible _parti_: rich, not bad looking, and a
nephew of Wrexford's, and that she would better take the goods the
gods provided, which, in sheer desperation, she ultimately did. You
can see she loathes him, but she's evidently made up her mind to be
decent to him--and by Jove, she doesn't do it by halves! She's got
sand, all right, and I honor her for the way she makes the best of a
bad bargain--though it's not a pleasant thing to see."
"It's a beastly pity!" broke in Ronalds warmly. "It makes me ill to see
her wasting herself and her subtleties on a dolt like Algy. What a
splendid pair she and Del would have made, and what a shame his Lordship
didn't obligingly die a few months sooner--since it had to be!"
At this precise moment I caught sight of Tompkins standing just
without the parted portierres. How long he had been there I could not
guess, but doubtless quite long enough. He looked like a man who had
had a facer and was a bit dazed in consequence. I think I gasped, for
on the instant he looked my way with a glance that held an appeal,
which I must somehow have answered. In an instant he was gone and the
other men, all unaware of his proximity, pursued their theme.
I did not see Tompkins at our hurried buffet breakfast next morning, and
I began to hope he would not go out with the guns that day, thus sparing
me the awkward necessity of meeting him again. But he presently appeared
on the terrace in his shooting togs, and I knew I was in for it. His
manner, however, which was entirely as usual, reassured me. Either he
had heard less than I had feared or the callousness of stupidity
protected him. He chatted with his wonted gayety with the men: he made
the ladies at hand to see us off a labored compliment or two, and met my
eye without consciousness or embarassment. I wondered if it were
stolidity or stoicism? All day he was in the best of spirits: he was
positively hilarious when we gathered at the gamekeeper's cottage for
luncheon--and I decided upon the former with a sense of relief, for the
thing had somehow got on my nerves.
But later, as we returned to the field, he so palpably waited for me
to come up with him (we always put Tompkins in the van for safety's
sake--he did such fearful and wonderful things with his gun) that I
was forced to join him. After a moment he said, with an effort:
"Sibley, I want to ask, as a very great personal favor, that you will
never, under any circumstances, mention to anyone--to _any one_," he
repeated, with a curious effect of earnestness, "about--last night."
I hastened to give him my assurance. It was the least I could do.
"Thank you," he said simply. "I felt I might depend upon you." Then,
because we were men--and Englishmen--we spoke of other things.
Late that afternoon, as we bent our steps homeward, Tompkins and I
found ourselves again together. We had somehow strayed from the rest,
and under the guidance of a keeper, striding ahead, laden with
trappings of the hunt, were making our way toward Grantleigh.
Tompkins' manner was entirely simple and unconstrained. A respect I
had not previously accorded him was growing upon me. We were both dead
tired, and when we spoke at all it was of the day's sport.
As we neared the Manor, the keeper, far in the lead, vaulted lightly
over a stile in a hedgerow. I followed less lightly (my enemies aver
that I am growing stout) with Tompkins in the rear.... Suddenly a shot,
abnormally loud and harsh in the twilight hush, rang out at my back.
Blind and deaf--fatally blind and deaf as I had been--I realized its
import on the instant. Even before I turned I knew what I should see.
Tompkins was lying in a huddled heap at the foot of the stile, and as
I bent over him I saw that it was a matter of moments. He had bungled
things all his life, poor fellow, but he had not bungled this.
"An accident, Sibley," he gasped, as I knelt beside him. "I
was--always--awkward--with a gun, you know. _An accident_--you'll
remember, old man? Elinor must not--"
Speech failed him for an instant. An awful agony was upon him, but no
moan escaped his lips. His life had been a farce, a failure, but if he
had not known how to live, assuredly he knew how to die.... The
shadows were closing round him. He put out a groping hand for mine.
"I think I'm--going, Sibley," he whispered. "Tell Elinor--" And with
her name upon his lips, he went out into the dark.
FOOTNOTE:
[81] Copyright, 1904, by the Frank A. Munsey Company.
MARGARET S. ANDERSON
Miss Margaret Steele Anderson, poet and critic, was born at
Louisville, Kentucky, in 1875. She was educated in the public schools,
with a short special course at Wellesley College. Since 1901 Miss
Anderson has been literary editor of _The Evening Post_, of
Louisville, having a half-page of book reviews and literary notes in
the Saturday edition. From 1903 to 1908 she was "outside reader" for
_McClure's Magazine_; and since quitting _McClure's_, she has been a
public lecturer upon literature and art in New York, Philadelphia,
Pittsburg, Memphis, and Lake Chautauqua. Miss Anderson's fine poems
have appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_, _The Century_, _McClure's_,
but the greater number of them have been published in _The American
Magazine_. She has also contributed considerable verse to the minor
magazines. The next year will witness Miss Anderson's poems brought
together in a charming volume, entitled _The Flame in the Wind_, which
form they very certainly merit. No Kentucky woman of the present time
has done better work in verse than has she.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _McClure's Magazine_ (August, 1902); _The Century_
(September, 1904).
THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK[82]
[From _McClure's Magazine_ (September, 1909)]
Lord of all strength--behold, I am but frail!
Lord of all harvest--few the grapes and pale
Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, O Lord,
Who holdest in Thy gift the tempered sword,
Hast armed me with a sapling! Lest I die,
Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry:
Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one
Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun;
Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed
Let me lift up my sapling like a blade;
Then, Lord, Thy cup for mine abundant wine!
Then, Lord, Thy foeman for that steel of mine!
NOT THIS WORLD[83]
[From _McClure's Magazine_ (November, 1909)]
Shall I not give this world my heart, and well,
If for naught else, for many a miracle
Of spring, and burning rose, and virgin snow?--
_Nay, by the spring that still shall come and go
When thou art dust, by roses that shall blow
Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss,
Not this world, oh, not this!_
Shall I not give this world my heart, who find
Within this world the glories of the mind--
That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God?--
_Nay, by the little footways it hath trod,
And smiles to see, when thou art under sod,
And by its very gaze across the abyss,
Not this world, oh, not this!_
Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold
One figure here above myself, my gold,
My life and hope, my joy and my intent?--
_Nay, by that form whose strength so soon is spent,
That fragile garment that shall soon be rent,
By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss,
Not this world, oh, not this!_
Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain?
Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain,
And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot?
_Thou child and thankless! On this little spot_
_Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not;
Yea, shall forget, through many a world of bliss,
Not this world, oh, not this!_
WHISTLER (AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM)[84]
[From _The Atlantic Monthly_ (August, 1910)]
So sharp the sword, so airy the defense!
As 'twere a play, or delicate pretense;
So fine and strange--so subtly-poised, too--
The egoist that looks forever through!
That winged spirit--air and grace and fire--
A-flutter at the frame, is your desire;
Nay, it is you--who never knew the net,
Exquisite, vain--whom we shall not forget!
FOOTNOTES:
[82] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.
[83] Copyright, 1909, by S. S. McClure Company.
[84] Copyright, 1910, by the Atlantic Monthly Company.
ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH
Mrs. Abby Meguire Roach, "the very cleverest of the Louisville school
of women novelists," was born at Philadelphia in 1876. She was
educated in the schools of her native city, finishing her training
with a year at Wellesley College. In 1899 she was married to Mr. Neill
Roach, of Louisville, Kentucky, and that city has been her home since.
Mrs. Roach wrote many stories of married life for the New York
magazines, which were afterwards collected and published as _Some
Successful Marriages_ (New York, 1906). These have been singled out by
the reviewers as "charming" and "most beautiful"; and her work has
been compared to Miss May Sinclair's, the famous English novelist. One
of Mrs. Roach's most recent stories was published in _The Century
Magazine_ for July, 1907, entitled "Manifest Destiny," but this has
not been followed by any others in the last year or so.
"Unremembering June," one of the best of the tales in _Some Successful
Marriages_, relates the love of Molly-Moll for her invalid husband,
after whose death she falls in love with Reno, the father of Lola,
"who had been his salvage from the wreck of his marriage."
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Magazine_ (May, 1907); _Library of
Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. xv), contains Miss Marilla
Waite Freeman's excellent study of Mrs. Roach.
UNREMEMBERING JUNE[85]
[From _Some Successful Marriages_ (New York, 1906)]
"And you will let me have word of you? Surely? And give me a chance to
be of use? Won't you?" he persisted, taking leave. She swept his face
swiftly with a glance of inquiry, intelligence. "Won't you?"
"O-h--perhaps," with just the faintest puckering of the mouth.
But spring passed without word from her, until there were times when
Reno's impatience seethed like a colony of bees at hiving-time.
At last he wrote.
With unpardonable deliberation a brief answer came: Molly's son was a
couple months old, but not yet finished enough to be much to look at.
He wrote again: Lola was pale from the city, and bored with herself
and her maid; a farm with other children on it sounded like fairyland
to her. Could some arrangement be made...?
Lola had been there a month before he had any word but her own
hard-written and naturally not very voluminous love-letters, letters in
which the homesickness was an ever fainter and fainter echo of the first
wild cry, and in which the references to "Dandie" made it plain that she
had adopted the other children's auntie into a peculiar relationship
with herself. At last a postscript from Mrs. Loring herself:
"Wouldn't you like to come to see her? It's worth a longer trip."
"Of course I would. You're uncommon slow asking me. What kind of
father, and man, do you think me?"
Molly was standing with the baby in her arms, chewing its chub of
fist. In the warm wind soft wisps of blown brown hair curled all
around forehead and neck. Her flesh was firm, transparent, aglow; her
skin as clear, satiny, pink as the baby's. And what generous, sweet
plumpness! She was at perhaps the most beautiful time of a woman's
life--in the glamour of first young motherhood, with the beauty of
perfect health and uncoarsened maturity.
And in the black-and-white of her shirt-waist suit there was no more
suggestion of mourning than there is thought of winter in full
June--rich, warm, full of promise, "unremembering June," the present
and future tenses of the year's declension.
As she stood biting the baby, Reno understood why. His look devoured
her.
Seeing him, her eyes only gave greeting, and, smiling, directed his to
the group of animated children's overalls in a sand-pile in front of
her. One particular occupant of one particular pair of overalls spied
him. Lola flew. He held her off, brown, round, rosy. "Why, who is
this? Whose little girl--or boy--are you?"
Her head dropped; she dropped from his hand like a nipped flower.
"Whose little girl _are_ you?" coached a rich voice with an
undercurrent of laughter.
Like a flower again, the child swayed at the breath of that elemental
nature. "Dandie's little girl," ventured a small voice. At sight of
the father's face, Molly laughed, a laugh of many significances. And
with a flood of recollected loyalty, "_Papa's!_" gasped the child, and
smothered him with remorse.
"Wouldn't you like to be Dandie's and papa's little girl all at once?"
("Well! I like that!")
"Why, yes. Ain't I? Can't I?"
"I think you can."
("Oh, you do?")
"No?" His grip on her wrist hurt, and forced her to look up. ("Is it
only a mother you want for Lola--and yourself?"); and, looking, she
was satisfied; and, looking, she flushed slowly from head to foot,
answering him.
"The most loyal, affectionate woman in the world!" he added, after a
little.
"Oh, never mind the fairy tales!" she scoffed, pleased, waiting.
He spoke none of the time-honored commonplaces that belittle or
dignify or mask the real individual feeling under the stereotype of
what it is assumed love ought to be. He could foresee her amusement.
Besides, it would have been about as appropriate as trying to capture
a bird with a smile.
"But I would never marry any woman that I wasn't sure would be kind to
Lola and fond of her."
"Oh, Lola!" Her whole look was soft and sweet. "I am fond of her now."
Then a mischievous laugh bubbled in her throat. "And could be of you,
too, if you insist." Even with the laugh her eyes were deeper than
words, grave and tender.
"As to that, also, Molly-Moll, what you will be to me I am quite
satisfied, quite."
FOOTNOTE:
[85] Copyright, 1906, by Harper and Brothers.
IRVIN S. COBB
Irvin Shrewsbury Cobb, humorist and short-story writer, was born at
Paducah, Kentucky, June 23, 1876. He was educated in public and
private schools, but the newspaper field loomed large before him, and
at the age of nineteen he became editor of the Paducah _Daily News_.
For three years he conducted the "Sour Mash" column in the Louisville
_Evening Post_, when he returned to Paducah to become managing editor
of the _News-Democrat_, which position he held from 1901 to 1904. Late
in the year of 1904 Mr. Cobb went to New York, and for a year he was
editor of the humorous section and special writer for _The Evening
Sun_. In 1905 he became staff humorist for _The World_, and for the
following six years he remained with that paper. Mr. Cobb has written
several plays, none of which have been published in book form, but
they have been produced upon the stage. They include: _The
Campaigner_, _Funabashi_, _Mr. Busybody_, _The Gallery God_, _The
Yeggman_, and _Daffy-Down-Dilly_. He has written many humorous
stories, among which may be mentioned: _New York Through Funny
Glasses_, _The Hotel Clerk_, _Live Talks with Dead Ones_, _Making
Peace at Portsmouth_, _The Gotham Geography_, and _The Diary of Noah_.