Amazing Grace, Who Proves That Virtue Has Its Silver Lining

by Kate Trimble Sharber

  CHAPTER VIII

  LONGEST WAY HOME

  "You hadn't forgotten?" he inquired, coming up behind me with anexpression of uneasiness as I passed the first two or three cars inthe line.

  "No--that is, I forgot for only a moment! I'm so used to going to townon this trolley-car."

  "Then--ah, here we are--"

  The limousine to which I was conducted was a gleaming dark-blueaffair, with light tan upholstery, and the door-knobs, clock-case andmouth-piece of the speaking-tube were of tortoise-shell.

  The chauffeur touched something and the big creature began a softened,throbbing breathing. Isn't it strange how we can not help regardingautomobiles as _creatures_? Sometimes we think of them as glidingswans--at other times as fiery-eyed dragons. It all depends uponwhether _we're_ the duster, or the dustee.

  I gained the idea as I stepped into this present one--which of coursebelonged to the gliding swan variety--that its master must be ratherridiculously well-to-do--for a cave-man. His initials were on thepanels, and the man at the wheel said, "Mr. Tait, sir," after afashion that no American-trained servant, white, black, oralmond-eyed, ever said. Evidently the car had come down fromPittsburgh and the chauffeur had made a longer journey. Together,however, they spelled perfection--and luxury. Still, strange to say,the notion of this man's possible wealth did not get on my throat andsuffocate me, as the notion of Guilford's did. I felt that the manhimself really cared very little about it all. The idea of his being aman who could do hard tasks patiently did not fade in the glamour ofthis damask and tortoise-shell.

  "Which is--the longest way to town?" he asked in a perfectly grave,matter-of-fact way as we started.

  "Down this lane to the Franklin Pike, then out past Fort Christian toBelcourt Boulevard--and on to High Street," I replied in a perfectlygrave, matter-of-fact way, as if he were a tubercular patient, boundto spend a certain number of hours in aimless driving every day.

  "Thank you," he answered very seriously, then turned to the chauffeur.

  "Collins, can you follow this line? I think we drove out this way theday the car came?"

  "Oh, yes, sir--thank you," the man declared, slipping his way in andout among the throngs of other vehicles.

  Then as we whirled away down the pike I kept thinking of thisman--this young Englishman, who had come to America and elevatedhimself into the position of vice-president and general-manager of theConsolidated Traction Company, but, absurdly enough, no thought of thelimousine nor the traction company came into my musings. I thought ofhim as a spirit--a spirit-man, who had lived in the woods. He haddwelt in a hut--or a cave--and toiled with his hands, hewing downtrees, burning charcoal, eating brown bread at noon. Then, at dusk, helaid aside his tools, rumbling homeward in a great two-wheeled cart,whistling as he went, but softly--because he was deep in thought.

  The seven _ages_ of man are really nothing to be compared in point ofinterest with the different conditions of mind which women demand ofthem.

  Very young girls seek about--often in vain--for a man who can compel;then later, they demand one who can feel; afterward their ownexpansion clamors for one who can understand--but the final stage ofall is reached when the feminine craving can not be satisfied save bythe man who can _achieve_.

  This, of course, indicates that the woman herself isexperienced--sometimes even to the point of being a widow--but it isdecidedly a satisfying state of mind when it is once reached, becauseit is permanent.

  And your man of achievement is pretty apt to be an uncomplicatedhuman. His deepest "problem" is how to make the voices of thenightingale and alarm clock harmonize. For he is a lover betweensuns--and a _laborer_ during them.

  At Solinski's Japanese tea-room in Union Street, the limousine slowedup. The band was playing _The Rosary_ as we went in, for it was thehour of the afternoon for the professional seers and seen ofOldburgh's medium world to drop in off the sidewalks for half an hourand dawdle over a tutti-frutti. The ultra-sentimental music alwaysgets such people as these--and the high excruciating notes of thislove-wail were ringing out with an intense poignancy.

  "Each hour a pearl--each pearl a prayer--"

  "Which table do you prefer?" my companion asked me, but for a moment Ifailed to answer. I was looking up at the clock, and I saw that thehands were pointing to six. I had met Maitland Tait at four!--Thus Ihad two pearls already on my string, I reckoned.

  "Oh, which table--well, farther back, perhaps!"

  I came down to earth after that, for getting acquainted with thecaprices of a man's appetite is distinctly an earthly joy. Yet itcertainly comes well within the joy class, for nothing else gives youthe comfortable sense of possession that an intimate knowledge of hislikes and dislikes bestows.

  Just after the "each-hour-a-pearl" stage you begin to feel that youhave a _right_ to know whether he takes one lump or two! And thehomely, every-day joys are decidedly the best. You don't tremble atthe sounds of a man's rubber heels at the door, perhaps, after you'reso well acquainted with him that you've set him a hasty supper on thekitchen table, or your fingers have toyed with his over the dear taskof baiting a mouse-trap together--but he gets a dearness in this phasewhich a pedestal high as Eiffel Tower couldn't afford.--It is thisdearness which makes you endure to see Prince Charming's coronetmelted down into ducats to buy certified milk!

  "And what are--those?" Maitland Tait asked, after the tea-service wasbefore us, and I had poured his cup. He was looking about the placewith a frank interest, and his gaze had lighted upon a group ofmarcelled, manicured manikins at a near-by table. They were chatteringand laughing in an idly nervous fashion.

  I dropped in two lumps of sugar and passed him his cup.

  "They are wives," I answered.

  "What?"

  "Just wives."

  Being English, it took him half a second to smile--but when he did Iforgave him the delay.

  "_Just_ wives? Then that means not mothers, nor helpmeets, nor--"

  "Nor housekeepers, nor suffragettes, nor saints, nor sinners, noranything else that the Lord intended, nor apprehended," I finished upwith a fierce suddenness, for that was what Guilford wanted me to be."They're _just_ wives."

  He stirred his tea thoughtfully.

  "That's what I find all over America," he said, but not with the airof making a discovery. "Men must work, and women must _eat_."

  "And the sooner it's over the sooner to--the opera," I said.

  He looked at me in surprise.

  "Then you recognize it?" he asked.

  "Recognize it? Of course _I_ recognize it--but I'm not a fair sample.I work for my living."

  He was silent for a moment, looking at the manikins with a sort ofhalf-hearted pity.

  "If they could all be induced to work they'd not be what they are--tomen," he observed.

  "To men?"

  "I find that an American wife is a tormenting side-issue to a man'sbusy life," he said, with a tinge of regret. "And I am sorry, too--forthey are most charming. For my part, I should like a woman who coulddo things--who was clever enough to be an inspiration."

  I nodded heartily, forgetful of personalities.

  "I too like the workers in the world," I coincided. "My ideal man isone whose name will be made into a verb."

  He laughed.

  "Like Marconi, eh, and Pasteur--and--"

  "And Boycott, and Macadam, and--oh, a host of others!"

  It was quite a full minute before he spoke again.

  "I don't see how I could make my name into a verb," he said quietly,"but I must begin to think about it. It is certainly a valuablesuggestion."

  It was my turn to laugh, which I did, nervously.

  "In Oldburgh, Tait seems to stand for the opposite of dictate," Ihazarded. "That means to _talk_, and you won't--talk."

  "But I am talking," he insisted. "I'm asking you questions as fast asever I can."

  "However, your technique is wrong," I replied. "You shouldn't askquestions of a newspaper woman. You should let her ask the questions
,and you should furnish the answers."

  "But you're not a newspaper woman now, are you?" he demanded in somealarm. "I hope not--and certainly I must ask you questions before Ibegin to tell you things. There are quite a few facts which I wish tofind out now."

  "And they are, first--?"

  "Where you live?"

  I told him, and he took from his pocket a small leather book with hisname, Maitland Tait, and an address in smaller letters which I couldnot make out, on the inside lining. In a small, rather cramped hand,he wrote the address I gave him, "1919 West Clydemont Place," thenlooked up at me.

  "Next?" I laughed, in a flutter.

  "Next I want to know when you will let me come to see you?"

  "When?" I repeated, rather blankly.

  He drew slightly back.

  "I should have said, of course, _if_ you will let me come, but--"

  "But I shall be very glad to have you come," I made haste to explain."I--I was only thinking!"

  I was thinking of my betrothed--for the first time that afternoon.

  "The length of time I am to stay in the South is very uncertain," hewent on to explain with a gentle dignity. "At first it appeared that Imight have to make a long stay, but we are settling our affairs sosatisfactorily that I may be able to get back to Pittsburgh at anytime now. That's why I feel that I can't afford to lose a single dayin doing the really important things."

  "Then come," I said, with a friendly show, which was in truth adesperate spirit of abandon. "Come some day--"

  "To-morrow?" he asked.

  "To-morrow--at four."

  But during the rest of the meal grandfather and Uncle Lancelot cameand took their places on either side of me. They were distinctly detrop, but I could not get rid of them.

  "This is--really the wrong thing to do, Grace," grandfather said, sosoberly that when I rose to go and looked in the mirror to see that myhat was all right, his own sad blue eyes were looking out at me inperplexed reproach. "--Very wrong."

  Then the sad blue eyes took in the lower part of my face. I believeI've neglected to say that there is a dimple in my chin, and UncleLancelot's spirit is a cliff-dweller living there. He comes out andtaunts the thoughtful eyes above.

  "Nonsense, parson!" he expostulated jauntily now. "Look on the lipswhile they are red! She's _young_!"

  "Youth doesn't excuse folly," said grandfather severely.

  "It exudes it, however," the other argued.

  I turned away, resolutely, from their bickering. I had enough tocontend with besides them--for suddenly I had begun wondering what onearth mother _would_ say, after she'd said: "Grace, you amaze me!"