It was Old Home Week in the little village, and this was to be the
biggest day. From a distant city was to come the town's one really Great
Man, to speak in the huge tent erected on the Common for just that
purpose. From end to end the village was aflame with bunting and astir
with excitement, so that even I, merely a weary sojourner in the place,
felt the thrill and tingled pleasantly.
When the Honorable Jonas Whitermore entered the tent at two o'clock that
afternoon I had a good view of him, for my seat was next the broad
aisle. Behind him on the arm of an usher came a small,
frightened-looking little woman in a plain brown suit and a plainer
brown bonnet set askew above thin gray hair. The materials of both suit
and bonnet were manifestly good, but all distinction of line and cut was
hopelessly lost in the wearing. Who she was I did not know; but I soon
learned, for one of the two young women in front of me said a low
something to which the other gave back a swift retort, woefully audible:
"_His wife_? That little dowdy thing in brown? Oh, what a pity! Such an
ordinary woman!"
My cheeks grew hot in sympathy with the painful red that swept to the
roots of the thin gray hair under the tip-tilted bonnet. Then I glanced
at the man.
Had he heard? I was not quite sure. His chin, I fancied, was a trifle
higher. I could not see his eyes, but I did see his right hand; and it
was clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white with the strain. I
thought I knew then. He had heard. The next minute he had passed on up
the aisle and the usher was seating the more-frightened-than-ever little
wife in the roped-off section reserved for important guests.
It was then that I became aware that the man on my right was saying
something.
"I beg your pardon, but-did you speak--to me?" I asked, turning to him
hesitatingly.
The old man met my eyes with an abashed smile.
"I guess I'm the party what had ought to be askin' pardon, stranger," he
apologized. "I talk to myself so much I kinder furgit sometimes, and do
it when folks is round. I was only sayin' that I wondered why 'twas the
good Lord give folks tongues and forgot to give 'em brains to run 'em
with. But maybe you didn't hear what she said," he hazarded, with a jerk
of his thumb toward the young woman in front.
"About Mrs. Whitermore? Yes, I heard."
His face darkened.
"Then you know. And she heard, too! 'Ordinary woman,' indeed! Humph! To
think that Betty Tillington should ever live to hear herself called an
'ordinary woman'! You see, I knew her when she _was_ Betty
Tillington."
"Did you?" I smiled encouragingly. I was getting interested, and I hoped
he would keep on talking. On the platform the guest of honor was holding
a miniature reception. He was the picture of polite attention and
punctilious responsiveness; but I thought I detected a quick glance now
and then toward the roped-off section where sat his wife and I wondered
again--had he heard that thoughtless comment?
From somewhere had come the rumor that the man who was to introduce the
Honorable Jonas Whitermore had been delayed by a washout "down the
road," but was now speeding toward us by automobile. For my part, I fear
I wished the absentee a punctured tire so that I might hear more of the
heart-history of the faded little woman with the bonnet askew.
"Yes, I knew her," nodded my neighbor, "and she didn't look much then
like she does now. She was as pretty as a picture and there wa'n't a
chap within sight of her what wa'n't head over heels in love with her.
But there wa'n't never a chance for but two of us and we knew it: Joe
Whitermore and a chap named Fred Farrell. So, after a time, we just sort
of stood off and watched the race--as pretty a race as ever you see.
Farrell had the money and the good looks, while Whitermore was poor as a
church mouse, and he was homely, too. But Whitermore must have had
somethin'--maybe somethin' we didn't see, for she took _him_.
"Well, they married and settled down happy as two twitterin' birds, but
poor as Job's turkey. For a year or so she was as pretty and gay as ever
she was and into every good time goin'; then the babies came, one after
another, some of 'em livin' and some dyin' soon after they came.
"Of course, things was different then. What with the babies and the
housework, Betty couldn't get out much, and we didn't see much of her.
When we did see her, though, she'd smile and toss her head in the old
way and say how happy she was and didn't we think her babies was the
prettiest things ever, and all that. And we did, of course, and told her
so.
"But we couldn't help seein' that she was gettin' thin and white and
that no matter how she tossed her head, there wa'n't any curls there to
bob like they used to, 'cause her hair was pulled straight back and
twisted up into a little hard knot just like as if she had done it up
when some one was callin' her to come quick."
"Yes, I can imagine it," I nodded.
"Well, that's the way things went at the first, while he was gettin' his
start, and I guess they was happy then. You see, they was pullin' even
them days and runnin' neck and neck. Even when Fred Farrell, her old
beau, married a girl she knew and built a fine house all piazzas and
bow-winders right in sight of their shabby little rented cottage, I
don't think she minded it; even if Mis' Farrell didn't have anythin' to
do from mornin' till night only set in a white dress on her piazza, and
rock, and give parties, Betty didn't seem to mind. She had her Joe.
"But by and by she didn't have her Joe. Other folks had him and his
business had him. I mean, he'd got up where the big folks in town begun
to take notice of him; and when he wa'n't tendin' to business, he was
hobnobbin' with them, so's to bring _more_ business. And--of course
she, with her babies and housework, didn't have no time for that.
"Well, next they moved away. When they went they took my oldest girl,
Mary, to help Betty; and so we still kept track of 'em. Mary said it was
worse than ever in the new place. It was quite a big city and just
livin' cost a lot. Mr. Whitermore, of course, had to look decent, out
among folks as he was, so he had to be 'tended to first. Then what was
left of money and time went to the children. It wa'n't long, too, before
the big folks _there_ begun to take notice, and Mr. Whitermore
would come home all excited and tell about what was said to him and what
fine things he was bein' asked to do. He said 'twas goin' to mean
everythin' to his career.
"Then come the folks to call, ladies in fine carriages with dressed-up
men to hold the door open and all that; but always, after they'd gone,
Mary'd find Betty cryin' somewhere, or else tryin' to fix a bit of old
lace or ribbon on to some old dress. Mary said Betty's clo's were awful,
then. You see, there wa'n't never any money left for _her_ things.
But all this didn't last long, for very soon the fine ladies stopped
comin' and Betty just settled down to the children and didn't try to fix
her clo's any more.
"But by and by, of course, the money begun to come in--lots of it--and
that meant more changes, naturally. They moved into a bigger house, and
got two more hired girls and a man, besides Mary. Mr. Whitermore said he
didn't want his wife to work so hard now, and that, besides, his
position demanded it. He was always talkin' about his position those
days, tryin' to get his wife to go callin' and go to parties and take
her place as his wife, as he put it.
"And Mary said Betty did try, and try hard. Of course she had nice clo's
now, lots of 'em; but somehow they never seemed to look just right. And
when she did go to parties, she never knew what to talk about, she told
Mary. She didn't know a thing about the books and pictures and the plays
and quantities of other things that everybody else seemed to know about;
and so she just had to sit still and say nothin'.
"Mary said she could see it plagued her and she wa'n't surprised when,
after a time, Betty begun to have headaches and be sick party nights,
and beg Mr. Whitermore to go alone--and then cry because he did go
alone. You see, she'd got it into her head then that her husband was
ashamed of her."
"And was--he?" demanded I.
"I don't know. Mary said she couldn't tell exactly. He seemed worried,
sometimes, and quite put out at the way his wife acted about goin' to
places. Then, other times, he didn't seem to notice or care if he did
have to go alone. It wa'n't that he was unkind to her. It was just that
he was so busy lookin' after himself that he forgot all about her. But
Betty took it all as bein' ashamed of her, no matter what he did; and
for a while she just seemed to pine away under it. They'd moved to
Washington by that time and, of course, with him in the President's
Cabinet, it was pretty hard for her.
"Then, all of a sudden, she took a new turn and begun to study and to
try to learn things--everything: how to talk and dress and act, besides
stuff that was just book-learnin'. She's been doin' that for quite a
spell and Mary says she thinks she'd do pretty well now, in lots of
ways, if only she had half a chance--somethin' to encourage her, you
know. But her husband don't seem to take no notice, now, just as if he's
got tired expectin' anythin' of her and that's made her so scared and
discouraged she's too nervous to act as if she _did_ know anythin'.
An' there 't is.
"Well, maybe she is just an ordinary woman," sighed the old man, a
little sternly, "if bein' 'ordinary' means she's like lots of others.
For I suspect, stranger, that, if the truth was told, lots of other big
men have got wives just like her--women what have been workin' so tarnal
hard to help their husbands get ahead that they hain't had time to see
where they themselves was goin'. And by and by they wake up to the fact
that they hain't got nowhere. They've just stayed still, 'way behind.
"Mary says she don't believe Betty would mind even that, if her husband
only seemed to care--to--to understand, you know, how it had been with
her and how--Crickey! I guess they've come," broke off the old man
suddenly, craning his neck for a better view of the door.
From outside had sounded the honk of an automobile horn and the wild
cheering of men and boys. A few minutes later the long-delayed programme
began.
It was the usual thing. Before the Speaker of the Day came other
speakers, and each of them, no matter what his subject, failed not to
refer to "our illustrious fellow townsman" in terms of highest eulogy.
One told of his humble birth, his poverty-driven boyhood, his strenuous
youth. Another drew a vivid picture of his rise to fame. A third dilated
upon the extraordinary qualities of brain and body which had made such
achievement possible and which would one day land him in the White House
itself.
Meanwhile, close to the speaker's stand sat the Honorable Jonas
Whitermore himself, for the most part grim and motionless, though I
thought I detected once or twice a repetition of the half-troubled,
half-questioning glances directed toward his wife that I had seen
before. Perhaps it was because I was watching him so closely that I saw
the sudden change come to his face. The lips lost their perfunctory
smile and settled into determined lines. The eyes, under their shaggy
brows, glowed with sudden fire. The entire pose and air of the man
became curiously alert, as if with the eager impatience of one who has
determined upon a certain course of action and is anxious only to be up
and doing. Very soon after that he was introduced, and, amid deafening
cheers, rose to his feet. Then, very quietly, he began to speak.
We had heard he was an orator. Doubtless many of us were familiar with
his famous nickname "Silver-tongued Joe." We had expected great things
of him--a brilliant discourse on the tariff, perhaps, or on our foreign
relations, or yet on the Hague Tribunal. But we got none of these. We
got first a few quiet words of thanks and appreciation for the welcome
extended him; then we got the picture of an everyday home just like
ours, with all its petty cares and joys so vividly drawn that we thought
we were seeing it, not hearing about it. He told us it was a little home
of forty years ago, and we began to realize, some way, that he was
speaking of himself.
"I may, you know, here," he said, "for I am among my own people. I am at
home."
Even then I didn't see what he was coming to. Like the rest I sat
slightly confused, wondering what it all meant. Then, suddenly, into his
voice there crept a tense something that made me sit more erect in my
seat.
"_My_ indomitable will-power? _My_ superb courage? _My_
stupendous strength of character? _My_ undaunted persistence and
marvelous capacity for hard work?" he was saying. "Do you think it's to
that I owe what I am? Never! Come back with me to that little home of
forty years ago and I'll show you to what and to whom I do owe it. First
and foremost I owe it to a woman--no ordinary woman, I want you to
understand--but to the most wonderful woman in the world."
I knew then. So did my neighbor, the old man at my side. He jogged my
elbow frantically and whispered:--
"He's goin' to--he's goin' to! He's goin' to show her he _does_
care and understand! He _did_ hear that girl. Crickey! But ain't he
the cute one to pay her back like that, for what she said?"
The little wife down front did not know--yet, however. I realized that,
the minute I looked at her and saw her drawn face and her frightened,
staring eyes fixed on her husband up there on the platform--her husband,
who was going to tell all these people about some wonderful woman whom
even she had never heard of before, but who had been the making of him,
it seemed.
"_My_ will-power?" the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was saying then.
"Not mine, but the will-power of a woman who did not know the meaning of
the word 'fail.' Not my superb courage, but the courage of one who, day
in and day out, could work for a victory whose crown was to go, not to
herself, but to another. Not my stupendous strength of character, but
that of a beautiful young girl who could see youth and beauty and
opportunity nod farewell, and yet smile as she saw them go. Not my
undaunted persistence, but the persistence of one to whom the goal is
always just ahead, but never reached. And last, not my marvelous
capacity for hard work, but that of the wife and mother who bends her
back each morning to a multitude of tasks and cares that she knows night
will only interrupt--not finish."
My eyes were still on the little brown-clad woman down in front, so I
saw the change come to her face as her husband talked. I saw the terror
give way to puzzled questioning, and that, in turn, become surprise,
incredulity, then overwhelming joy as the full meaning came to her that
she herself was that most wonderful woman in the world who had been the
making of him. I looked then for just a touch of the old frightened,
self-consciousness at finding herself thus so conspicuous; but it did
not come. The little woman plainly had forgotten us. She was no longer
Mrs. Jonas Whitermore among a crowd of strangers listening to a great
man's Old-Home-Day speech. She was just a loving, heart-hungry, tired,
all-but-discouraged wife hearing for the first time from the lips of her
husband that he knew and cared and understood.
"Through storm and sunshine, she was always there at her post, aiding,
encouraging, that I might be helped," the Honorable Jonas Whitermore was
saying. "Week in and week out she fought poverty, sickness, and
disappointments, and all without a murmur, lest her complaints distract
me for one precious moment from my work. Even the nights brought her no
rest, for while I slept, she stole from cot to cradle and from cradle to
crib, covering outflung little legs and arms, cooling parched little
throats with water, quieting fretful whimpers and hushing threatening
outcries with a low 'Hush, darling, mother's here. Don't cry! You'll
wake father--and father must have his sleep.' And father had it--that
sleep, just as he had the best of everything else in the house: food,
clothing, care, attention--everything.
"What mattered it if her hands did grow rough and toil-worn? Mine were
left white and smooth--for my work. What mattered it if her back and her
head and her feet did ache? Mine were left strong and painless--for my
work. What mattered her wakefulness if I slept? What mattered her
weariness if I was rested? What mattered her disappointments if my aims
were accomplished? Nothing!"
The Honorable Jonas Whitermore paused for breath, and I caught mine and
held it. It seemed, for a minute, as if everybody all over the house was
doing the same thing, too, so absolutely still was it, after that one
word--"nothing." They were beginning to understand--a little. I could
tell that. They were beginning to see this big thing that was taking
place right before their eyes. I glanced at the little woman down in
front. The tender glow on her face had grown and deepened and broadened
until her whole little brown-clad self seemed transfigured. My own eyes
dimmed as I looked. Then, suddenly I became aware that the Honorable
Jonas Whitermore was speaking again.
"And not for one year only, nor two, nor ten, has this quintessence of
devotion been mine," he was saying, "but for twice ten and then a score
more--for forty years. For forty years! Did you ever stop to think how
long forty years could be--forty years of striving and straining, of
pinching and economizing, of serving and sacrificing? Forty years of
just loving somebody else better than yourself, and doing this every
day, and every hour of the day for the whole of those long forty years?
It isn't easy to love somebody else _always_ better than yourself,
you know! It means the giving up of lots of things that _you_ want.
You might do it for a day, for a month, for a year even--but for forty
years! Yet she has done it--that most wonderful woman. Do you wonder
that I say it is to her, and to her alone, under God, that I owe all
that I am, all that I hope to be?"
Once more he paused. Then, in a voice that shook a little at the first,
but that rang out clear and strong and powerful at the end, he said:
"Ladies, gentlemen, I understand this will close your programme. It will
give me great pleasure, therefore, if at the adjournment of this meeting
you will allow me to present you to the most wonderful woman in the
world--my wife."
I wish I could tell you what happened then. The words--oh, yes, I could
tell you in words what happened. For that matter, the reporters at the
little stand down in front told it in words, and the press of the whole
country blazoned it forth on the front page the next morning. But really
to know what happened, you should have heard it and seen it, and felt
the tremendous power of it deep in your soul, as we did who did see it.
There was a moment's breathless hush, then to the canvas roof there rose
a mighty cheer and a thunderous clapping of hands as by common impulse
the entire audience leaped to its feet.
For one moment only did I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Jonas Whitermore,
blushing, laughing, and wiping teary eyes in which the wondrous glow
still lingered; then the eager crowd swept down the aisle toward her.
"Crickey!" breathed the red-faced old man at my side. "Well, stranger,
even if it does seem sometimes as if the good Lord give some folks
tongues and forgot to give 'em brains to run 'em with, I guess maybe He
kinder makes up for it, once in a while, by givin' other folks the
brains to use their tongues so powerful well!"
I nodded dumbly. I could not speak just then--but the young woman in
front of me could. Very distinctly as I passed her I heard her say:
"Well, now, ain't that the limit, Sue? And her such an ordinary woman,
too!"