The Oklahoma State Capital. (Guthrie, Okla.), Vol. 21, No. 14, Ed. 1 Saturday, May 8, 1909 Page: 3 of 8
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ETY" OWETR,
COPYF-IOHT 1900 JBV BE.NJ B.MAMPTOH\
A STORY WRITER is never what you expect
from his writings.
I have come to the conclusion that the
writer is not to blame for this. A man
is not easy to find. I did not find myself
till a year ago, and then it was through a book, of
mine..
It was my fourth novel, "John Dormer," which set
me thinking. I was continually going over the
scenes between Felicia and John. And suddenly the
truth dawned upon me, John Dormer was myself;
and he had done what I wanted to do.
The main point, and the point of likeness to my-
self is that John was a prosperous, practical man of
forty, unsuspected of sentiment even by himself.
In a moment of self-analysis he discovered that his
prosperity did not content him; that all his life he
had hungered for romance; and 'he went out from
his countinghouse into the world and found—her!
I did not quite reach the point of owning to my-
self that I wanted romance, or expected to find "her."
I put it that I desired to get outside the four walls
of my study and "see life"; to travel and learn to
know the world.
A few years earlier I could not have taken such
a trip, if I had wished to; but now there was no rea-
son why I should not. Five years before I could
not have afforded it. Eighteen months back I could
not have left my two little children. (I was a wid-
ower.) But now I was well to do, thanks to the
spinnings of my brain, and I had no uneasiness in
leaving the children with the charming lady who
presided over my house. She was not very old—
about twenty-eight—but she was very capable. She
was goodness itself to my little ones; and it was
their fondness for her which had induced mo to ask
her to come and take care of them, when her worth-
less husband died, and left her penniless; that and
my desire to help her, and my liking for her.
"You will -understand, Beatrice," I said—I had
known her since she was a child, "that I don't wish
you to be just a superior housekeeper, or a head
nurse. I want you to be a—let us say a young aunt,
or a big sister, to the children; to be the lady of
the house, and make the house a home for them. So
you must make the house your home too, and feel
at liberty to enjoy yourself. Will you come and see
if you can be happy with us?"
"How kind you are!" she had cried. "Indeed I will
come! And I will make it a happy home for them;
and for myself"—she held out her hand with her
pretty smile—"and for you."
She had kept her word, and made us all very con-
tented and comfortable. The children ran about at
her skirts and adored her. The servants competed to
please her—she was one of those women who are
fond of servants, and make their servants fond of
them—and I found her a companion to me, as well
as to the children. She took as keen an interest
In my affairs as if they were her own, and saved
me every labor that she could take upon herself.
She kept my accounts and made out the checks for
me, and even entered up the records of my stories,
and wrote business letters for me. I proposed to
give her a power of attorney to manage my af-
fairs while I was away. She frowned and pursed
tier lips when I suggested it; but after a moment
she smilingly consented.
"I am rather frightened," she owned; "but, of
course, I shouldn't like you to choose anyone else
instead. I shall do my best. And you won't grum-
ble. You never do."
"You never give me the chance," I said. "Thank
you!"
"It is I who have to thank you," she insisted. "I
do, you know."
So it was settled; and I arranged to go first to
South Africa, by the Union-Castle Line; and then
back to Marseilles by the East Coast route; and
then to take a trip round the Mediterranean home.
Beatrice brought the children—Bob was eight and
Elsa was six—to Southampton to see me off. My
last recollection was of her buttoning up Bob's over-
coat—there was a cold wind —and putting a wrap
over Elsa, and then standing with one arm round
each, as the ship moved away.
"God bless them!" I muttered. "All three of ihem!
—If I met a woman like her!—Well, now for life!"
I did not like to say "romance"; but that was what
I meant. In plain English I intended to marry again,
if I found the right woman; t.he woman who is in all
my tales. She is always the same—the lover and
comrade of|the man. That is all that matters.
But it matters very much, and I meant to make
quite sure that I had found just this woman, before
I married her. I had made one mistake which had
imbittered the best years of my life, and I was de-
termined that I would not make another. I was no
longer a boy to be carried away by a pretty face and
a touoh of moonlight, I told myself. I could weigh
a woman in the balance; and I would—before I fell
too far in love with her.
In the earlier portion of the voyage I weighed
Miss Marvain; the first really clever woman I had
ever met. She had traveled much, and read much,
and thought much, and colored it all with her origi-
nal and kindly personality; she was good-looking
and good-humored. But she was—at any rate out-
wardly—less soft-hearted than I liked a woman to
be; and she did not care for music or for children.
My idea of her received a blow when she sang flat
at the second Sunday's service—Beatrice was a de-
lightful singer and had rather spoiled me. The
ideal was killed when she shrugged her shoulders at
my playing so much with the children on board.
The second lady to be weighed was Mrs. Rich-
ards; or rather I think she weighed me. She was
a soft, smiling little widow, who loved to have the
babies round her, and stitch away at rag dolls and
dolls' clothes for them. She played everyone's ac-
companiments, and, though she always said that she
•had no voice—and hadn't—she sang plaintive songs
so delightfully that you never thought about the
voice, only the singing. But when I asked her to
sing one song, she put it aside, with a sad little
smile.
"That song is dead," she said, "with something
else in me. We became great friends-after that;
and I told her more about myself than I had ever
told anybody—even the Teason of my travels—and
she looked at the stars—it was a warm tropical night
—and nodded.
"You see," she said, clasping and unclasping her
hands, "I am not good at expressing myself, but—
you just love some one—or you don't. I don't think
it is any use looking for a particular ideal. Some
day you may find some one perhaps, and—she may
be quite different, but—she will alter your ideal so
easily, ack wasn't what I expected before I knew
him; or even when I thought that I did—but I
cannot make up stories like you can; and I expect
it will sound ridiculous to you, but—but I make up
one little story so often. I think that Heaven is
just—just a gate in a lane—where it begins; and I
find Jack waiting there; and he says—'You've been
a confounded long time coming, old girl; but I knew
you d come all right.' He'll never worry about my
thinking of anyone else. Never! And I know he's
waiting there; fidgeting with his mustache as he al-
ways did, if he was kept waiting- "
She looked up at the stars and smiled; and I knew
that I had learned one lesson, at least, by coming
out of my study.
After that I abandoned the deliberate quest of
romance.
I spent a pleasant week at Cape Town, at the
Queen's Hotel—and began to wonder whether ro-
mance was coming to me In the shape of one I
wasn't sure which—of three bonny sisters; jolly, un-
affected girls, half Dutch and half English, born to
make happy homes for some lucky fellows, as I have
no doubt they have or will. But, when the English
mail arrived. I understood how little these nice
women really mattered to me. Beatrice had sent an
amateur photo of the children aud herself; and when
I put it beside a snapshot of the ladies at the
Queen's, she looked like a race horse beside cart
horses. They weren't common-looking girls either.
It was simply that she had set my ideals a terribly
high standard. She was such a pretty, graceful
woman.
The children's letters made me feel very home-
sick. Bob's was written by himself, "but arnty
rouled thee lines." They called Beatrice "auntie.")
world aloof, coming nearest to companionship with
a broken-down man of seven languages who was
head waiter at a hotel. "The Transvaal is the best
place in the world." he told me, 'for leaving!" I
took his advice and went on to Natal two days earl-
ier than I had intended,#so as to arrive there as soon
as the mail, I had two weeks' mails at once;- two
pairs of dear little letters from the children, two
batches of papers from Beatrice and two long double
letters from her; for she wrote separately about
business and home affairs. "So, you see," the last
one concluded "I am managing all right. It is a
great pleasure to manage things for you. I always
remember that you have given me, not a situation,
but a home. Thank you!"
After that my voyage to Europe seemed only the
means to an end. As I met my letters I became
T'iE>T YOU IS A DOOSE, AUNTIE!" ELSA CRIED,
Elsa's hand had been guided; but Beatrice assured
me in her pleasant letter that tin composition was
Elsa's own. "You may feel quite sure," she con-
cluded, "that the children are well and happy, and
that you will find everything right on your return
home. I hope you are finding your temporary habi-
tations as comfortable as home. I am mean enough
to hope not more comfortable!"
I wrote and assured her that no place could be so
comfortable as she had made home for all of us.
After that I went up country for a fortnight, but
did not find friends and became verj' dull and lonely.
If there is a place in the world where one needs
human companionship, it is South Africa.
During that dreary fortnight I seemed to dwell in a
more and more impatient to be home again. On
the Avay from Egypt to Marseilles my impatience
became positively worrying; and when I reached
Marseilles, and received my letters there—one in
faltering round hand, and one "guided," and two
from Beatrice- I cut out the Mediteranean cruise
and went straight home overland.
I was going to telegraph at first, but I decided to
take them by surprise, as an additional pleasure.
I arrived at the house at three in the afternoon, and
walked round the back to the French windows un-
observed. Then I heard voices and peeped in. Bea-
trice was sitting in the drawing-room, with Elsa
squeezed in the armchair beside her, and Bob lean-
ing against her knees, telling them a story. The
children looked bonny, but Beatrice seemed a trifle
pale and thin, though she looked prettier than ever.
T always considered her the prettiest woman I knew.
I was afraid that she had been-overworked and wor-
ried; and my heart went out to her with a warmth
that I had never felt in my play at romance.
"The dear woman!" I thought. "How sweet she
is!"
The story was about two little children, "such
nice little children," who had "a very dear daddy";
and he went away and came home. It was delight-
ful to hear her fresh voice, and to watch her face
while she told it.
"When he came," she said, opening her eyes and
folding up her hands, "he brought them fourteen
presents; one from every place he had been to"—
I had told her that I Intended that. "Just fancy!
Fourteen lovely, foreign, funny presents!"
"And fourteen for their auntie," Bob suggested.
"No-o." &he demurred, with her fingers to hei
lips. "An auntie couldn't expect so many as that;
but I dare say he brought her 3ome, because—he
knew that she did her best. He was a very kinc
daddy, and he loved the little children very much."
"Didn't he love their auntie too?" Elsa inquired.
Beatrice laughed a funny little laugh. (How 1
like that laugh of hers!)
"Did she love him?" Bob wanted to know.
"Bob," said Beatrice, "that's six questions since I
began this story; and five are enough for any little
boy. Let's go out to the park and feed the swans."
They jumped up; and then Elsa saw me and
gave a scream of delight; and I gave a shout and
ran in. The children rushed at me and caught hold
of me; and so did Beatrice. She was very flushed
and pleased and smilng. Her eyes blinkel a little
too.
"You dear daddy!" the children cried.
"I am so glad," Beatrice said.
"You dear children!" I cried and hugged them.
"And you dear woman!" I added. I squeezed her
hand for a long while; and she grew pink.
"How many presents, dad?" the children demand-
ed, pulling at my Jacket.
"There will be fifteen each," I said, "when I've
bought those for the places I didn't go to after all.
Some are coming afterwards; but I've brought four
each in my bag."
'That's one more than auntie said," Bob pro-
nounced.
"Auntie is a goose," I stated. "She left out one
place-home! The best place of all—since auntie
came to us." I looked at Beatrice and she dropped
her eyes. I couldn't remember where I had found
that look before; and then I discovered. She was
•—Felicia!
"That was—goosey," Bob agreed; "but auntie isn't
a goose, because"—he considered—"because she's
handsome."
"She is!" I agreed.
"Oh, you sillies!" she cried.
"She said," Elsa began, "she ackshully said that
you didn't "
"Elsa!" Beatrice cried, and grabbed at her, but
she dodged behind me with a laughing scream.
"She finked you didn't love her!" Elsa concluded.
"Ah!" I said. "But I do!"
And in a moment my arm was round Beatrice, and
her head was on my shoulder. I could only kiss a
pink ear.
"Then you is a doose, auntie!" Elsa cried, and
clapped her chubby hands.
"Yes," she agreed. "I'm a goose—such a happy
one!"
Our hands closed together tightly; and I knew
that I had gone hunting the world for my romance
and all the while the sweetest romance, since ths
world began, was waiting for me at home.
-nil—nn—_ nil—mi-
The First Generation
By FREDERICK ORION BARTLETT
THE bell tingled and a maid brought in the
card of Robert Wainwright. A few
touches of her haid and dress, a hurried
glance in the mirror, and Marion was
standing before him, hand outstretched.
'As they faced one another, it was clear to be seen
that she was easily in control. Yet she met him
with an eagerness which he detected and reflected
in his dark eyes.
In a few moments she was bundled from head to
foot and all the opportunity the sharp wind had at
her was in the few steps from the door to the
carriage. Even then it had to pass Wainwright first,
who clung to her arm as though fearing she might
be blown away into space.
That was one thing he always made her conscious
of—protection. Sitting there by her side in the car-
riage he somehow impressed upon her—with almost
needless insistence--that, so far as man could, he
would always stand between her and all things dis-
ngreable. Oftentimes this extended to the point
-where it irritated her.
She broke several dangerous silences with laugh-
ing nothings and so reached the house safely—safe
from the crisis that menaced her. Once she swept
through the door into the music and laughter and
chatter, she seemed to blend herself with it and
lose all sense of self.
She had always liked his people, better than she
liked his friends. As she crossed the room to meet
them, she felt a little thrill of satisfaction. She was
glad to be there. But this gladness was apart from
Robert himself; it was associated with that first
generation, with that thickset father and his tense,
willful lips; with the kindly mother with her patient,
loyal face.
Both of them greeted her affectionately, and she
stood there by their sides for a moment enjoying the
music, listening to the rustle of silken skirts, soothed
by the sight of the heavy curtains and soft pictures,
by the lights and perfumes and sparkle of jewels.
It was to her, for the moment, as though she had
never seen all this before. It came in upon her with
-ii*
initial piquancy.
It was only when Mrs. Wainwright, while the gen-
tlemen were at their cigars, sat down beside her
that Bhe was at all conscious of being in Robert's
home.
"Your gown is quite the prettiest here," whispered
the mother.
The girl would have resented the compliment from
anyone else. As it was, she blushed prettily with
pleasure.
"1 think it must have gathered something from
mother," she said frankly. "It is made over from
her wedding gown."
"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Wainwright, "that is the trou-
ble in having sons—we women can't live over our
youth again in them."
The girl leaned forward with sudden interest.
"You must have had a beautiful youth, Mrs. Wain-
wright."
"Yes, dear. It is pleasant to look back upon it
now. But there were many bare places along the
road—many times when the clouds hung low."
"But you fought your wan on—struggled and won."
"Ben and I," she corrected.
"And that is the beauty of it! It is what must
make all this seem so good to you now."
Her eyes had brightened and her mouth grown
tense. She heard the mother saying:
"You, my dear, will have no bare places in your
life. We, of the first generation, have all our recom-
pense in looking on at the lives of our children. Tho
thought that Ben and I may have suffered a little
for others brings a new pleasure to us now."
The girl impulsively placed her soft fingers upon
the withered hand.
"I would rather have had your life than any I
know of," she said.
On the ride back it was still the face of the
mother which was uppermost in her mind. Robert
was very tender of her, but she#felt not the slightest
sense of intimacy with him. She parried all his
overtures with the keeness of one lichtini: back the
inevitable. But as they stood before the fire in her
own home again, he broke through her guard.
"Marion," he said, "it is useless to pretend any
more; 1 love you. I—I think you have known it a
long time, haven't you?"
"Yes," she answered.
"And you love me—a little?"
"I don't know," she said.
"I have waited so long. And mother," he laughed
lightly, "mother says she has waited twenty-fivo
years! She loyes you. Come to me," he ran on
eagerly, encouraged by her silence and the drooping
eyes. 'The home is all ready for you. Everything
in the world shall be yours. You'll not a dream that
the three of us will not try to make come true."
She looked up at him a moment, her blue eyes
warm with affection. In his pleading eyes she
caught a suggestion of the eyes of his mother. It
came to her like a shock that she—this other wom-
an who was Robert's mother- would not have ac-
cepted this offering. It was a David and a David's
life that she had chosen, and it was that which
made her what she was.
"Robert," she said, with a quick intuitive flash
she knew she would never call him "Bob," "i can't
answer you to-night. It is only fair that I should,
but I can't unless 1 say 'No.' I am not sure enough
of myself to say Yes."
"I will wait," he cried. "Don't say 'No.' "
"Then good night," she said quickly, holding out
her hand.
"Good night," he whispered. At the door, he
turned.
"And a 'Merry Christmas' to you."
"Christmas?" she faltered. "Why this is Christ-
mas eve!"
II.
Marion stood peering out the window into the
confusion of snow and darkness, as the time ap-
proached for David's arrival. At length she saw, as
part of the mist itself, a form which somehow she
knew was his long before she could clearly distin-
guish it.
"Are you all ready? You'll need to bundle up
well, girl, because there isn't any earqfige."
'Tin glad of it. It will do me good to walk."
"I am taking you to 'Le Petite Oiseau,' " he said
as he assisted her from the car. "and not a dozen
people outside the comfortable French in the city
know of its existence. You will probably only set
n dinner of herbs as compared *ith last night. But
this is home to many who come here and home to
me."
They turned down a tiny side street, and then
into a warm lighted doorway. Just a single long
cozy room with a few dozen tables along the two
walls. This evening the place had been made jolly
with holly and evergreen, and with big wreaths tied
with scarlet ribbon at the window. The stout pro-
prietor and his buxom wife had for this evening
gathered together a small orchestra from among
their friends and between the selections its mem-
bers sat down with the guests and drank their good
healths. Monsieur Bartol greeted the two as they
entered with a "Merry Christmas," and was followed
by Madame Bartol, smiling and echoing him. Then
came Pierre to place their chairs for them, beaming
with as much pleasure as though they were his own
guests.
The chatter, laughter, and clatter of dishes at once
put them in good spirits. Marion felt not so much
one of a company as one with a company, and David
seemed very near to her and very much a part of
her happiness.
"Christmas has just begun for me." he said. "All
day long 1 have been in the midst of it—have watch-
ed others glow with the peace and Joy of the day—
but somehow it hasn't struck home. It has been,"
he laughed, "like looking upon another's romance."
"I wished you with me yesterday," she said in
reply.
"Did you? It Is the possibility of your wishing me
near when I cannot come that sometimes makes me
rebellious with my work."
"But you love your work, David?"
"Yes," he said as Pierre came up with the soup,
"I love it because of the struggle. You fight so for
all you accomplish."
"Do you never get discouraged?"
"I don't know." He hesitated. "I get lonesome.
Perhaps that is the same thing."
"But you get so little for it all. At the end of the
day, you have so little for reward!"
"At the end of the day." he said slowly, "I have
my dreams. And it is those which make it all worth
while. They put red blood into pale duties; they
give a biting zest to life. It is like turning your eyes
from a dull sky to a flaming sunset. They make you
feel that you are yourself—an individuality—as dis-
tinguished from any who ever came before or who
will come after. It is the winning of things more
than the things themselves which makes life worth
living. And Marion I feel somehow that the same
spirit is in you somewhere. When things go the
worst. I seem to see you with me and feel that you
would enjoy even the sting of it."
"There are those," she said shamefacedly, for her
quick breathing almost denied the words, "there are
those who are so fond of contentment that they
fear to risk for happiness."
"There are those," he said, "who do not know
themselves."
"Madame does not like the soup?" asked Pierre,
frowning a little.
The dinner was good—so good that she was con-
scious of enjoying it as she had not done for
months. And the company was good—so good that
she remembered each and every face afterwards.
And the music was good so good that., after every-
body had joined in the choruses and several others
had been persuaded to give solos, she to her sur-
prise, rose and sang a Christmas carol in a way
that won the appiause of the evening.
"I feel now," she said, "as though I had discov-
ered a new country. I—I wish I had something to
do in it. Tell me'more of the work you are plan-
ning. I—1 guess 1 must do my work at second
hand."
He told her quite simply at first, but witl sue a
growing interest that she began to feel as thouga
she really did have a part in it.
And then David choking back words he felt he
scarcely had the right to utter, exclaimed out of &
full heart:
"How you could help a man!"
Her heart began to pound in a quite Furprir'n?
manner. The whole world seemed to snap out of
the darkness. The blood leaped to her cheeks—
the strength to her arms.
"How I would try!" she answered.
"Marion, could you? Can you dream dreams and
fight for dreams and love for dreams?"
"Yes," she said. "And to make them come true,
as you have made Christmas come true to me."
And after he found her hand there was really
little more left to be said.
"When I came here," she confessed, "I thought
I had a mighty problem on my hands. And it isn't
a problem at all' 1 have 'ound that I I belong to
the first generation, David!"
"God bless you." he said, half choking.
As thev rose, all those remaining in the room rose,
too. after the manner of the guests at 'Le Petite
Oiseau ' and wished them a "Happy New Year. But
it was Pierre who knew. He knew. when, as he was
putting on Monsieur's coat, the latter turned and
said: , _. „
"I shall come here no more alone, Pierre. j
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Greer, Frank H. The Oklahoma State Capital. (Guthrie, Okla.), Vol. 21, No. 14, Ed. 1 Saturday, May 8, 1909, newspaper, May 8, 1909; Guthrie, Oklahoma. (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc127187/m1/3/: accessed April 24, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.