there was laughter, naturally, over the showman's absurd, yet not altogether unsentimental story and, after its recital he stood, undoubtedly, more nearly on a social footing with the others. there were his clothes, of course, and another excrudescence or two, but these were incidentals. the wayfarers did not even yawn, but looked inquiringly at the beaming and bestowed-by-providence colonel.
after all, it is doubtful if there be anything better in the world than a spinster—if she be of the right sort. of course all spinsters are not of the right sort; few of us are. when this one especially fine spinster was called upon by the colonel she did not know exactly what to do. she should have been as perfectly at ease and as possessed of aplomb as any voluptuously beautiful poser in a ball-room, yet she was somewhat embarrassed. she should not have been. she was an exquisitely beautiful woman, in the view of those who know things.[271] with her thin nose and thin lips and general expression of cultivation and eyes in which showed loving regard and thinking, she was adorable to those upon whose eyes had been rubbed the great ointment of perception. her one hundred and twenty-five pounds of existing womanhood, neat and good, was worth far more than its weight in gold or any other metal. when called upon this is what the spinster said most bravely:
"colonel livingstone, there is but one untold story of which i know and i wish i were capable of explaining to all of you how full of real life it was. yet it seems so simple and silly that it is commonplace, though it isn't. do you remember, colonel, about the great tower of the campanile, in venice and the square down upon the pavements of which the pigeons flutter to be fed? well this is a story—a true one—of something like those same pigeons and the doge who first instituted the feeding of them, five hundred years ago, or something like that, only the scene and time are different. as you know, colonel, i live in chicago, and this is but the story of the pigeons of st. mark's transferred to the corner of clark and madison[272] streets in a city in another hemisphere. and, as i said, it is all true. this is what actually happened."
a literary love affair
this is a love story of two of the class who know things. margaret selwyn was a graduate of one of the bluest women's colleges between the two seas, and, more than that, she had a background of home culture and refinement, having parents of brains. she came from college with those acquirements, which shine exteriorly, and had an incurved back, and was "tailor made" from head to heel, yet having within her all that gentleness and greatness of heart which make a woman better than anything else, not even excluding the strawberry upon which the right reverend bishop pronounced such a sincere eulogy.
as to the man, henry bryant, he belonged socially and in all other ways to the same class as the woman, even in brains and goodness, considering, of course, the limitations of sex. each of these two occupied a social position—if such a thing as recognized social position be defined enough in the united states—distinctly understood by the people who knew them. each was arrogant and self-sustained, and each[273] thoroughly and admiringly in love with the other. it was wonderful how these two, each accustomed to be obeyed, and each, in a gentle way, unconsciously dominant with those about, grew close and yielding together. each recognized the masterfulness, feminine or masculine, of the other, and there came a great sweetness to the understanding. yet to these two, well-poised and mentally well-equipped, came gusts and showers of difference of opinion. the man tried to be dignified and self-contained upon these occasions, but, as a rule, failed miserably. the woman didn't even try.
but these differences throughout the months of their engagement resulted in no tragedy of importance. they both had so much of the salt of humor in their composition that they recognized the folly of even a momentary antagonism, and each laughed and begged the other's pardon or rendered the equivalent of that performance. they smiled together over their mutual short lapses of realization of what it is that makes the world go round.
at such times as they quarreled the man would tell her the foolish but probably true story of the irishman who came annually whooping into town at fair time in some old irish village,[274] whirling his shillalah above his head and announcing to all the world that he was "blue-mouldy for want of a batin'." and, after this comparison, bryant would announce, in strictest confidence, to his sweetheart, that this blessed irishman never failed to get his "batin'," and that there were "others" even unto this day.
and so it came, in time, that this man, in love with a woman, called her his "blue-mouldy" girl, and this came to be the sweetest title in the heart of each.
with all the saving grace of the sense of proportion, which is a good part of the sense of humor, and with all their love and understanding of each other, with such characters it was inevitable that something must happen. there are laws of nature. vesuvius gets dyspeptic. certain javan islands spill up into the sky and the world has red sunsets for a while. one day, this woman, good product of a good race, sat in her parlor awaiting her lover. she was reading a book as she waited.
now as to certain facts: miss selwyn was in her literary tastes an ibsenite, hardyite, jamesite, or something of that sort. bryant was a kiplingite or conan doyleite. she trimmed[275] close to something sere, and where nerves were. he was chiefly in his literary tendencies "let her go, gallagher!"
margaret, having become absorbed in her book, looked up with saddened eyes from her literary draft of wormwood and tea, with the beginning of beautifully creased brows, to note the entrance of some lusty flesh and blood. less in accord in mood and thought than were these, for the instant, never existed two people on the face of the earth, earnest lovers though they were and of about the same quality of thought and being. something had to happen.
"why weep ye by the tide, ladye?" began bryant, glancing at the face of his sweetheart, and from that to the book she had laid aside. as she did not reply immediately, he continued, taking up the volume:
"is it the han't that walks or the browning of the overdone biscuit that has lowered your spirits?"
"i don't know what you are talking about," she said.
"neither do i," said he.
there they were, he, overcoat still on and hat in hand, and she sitting there and looking up at him but still enwrapped in a more or less emotional[276] feverishness contracted from the volume in his hand. any purely objective onlooker would have required no announcement of the approaching "circus."
the girl made an effort to recover command of herself. "leave your hat and overcoat with the maid," she said, "and come and sit here in the window and look at the lake, while i read to you the beautiful ending of the story i have just finished."
"i will stay," bryant declared; "i was going to ask you to go with me to the park and idle among the chrysanthemums, but this will be better." and he seated himself near the window. "may i be allowed to look at you, instead of following your advice to the letter and keeping my eyes upon the cold, gray lake water outside?" he continued. "no matter what i hear, i shall be content if i can see you."
miss selwyn flushed a little, but laughed good-humoredly.
here the purely objective looker-on afore-mentioned might murmur over the foolhardiness of man when he meets, unawares and all uncomprehendingly, one of the bewildering moods of an impressionable sweetheart. the contented male creature rushed blindly to his fate.[277]
"before you begin, dear, tell me; tell me it is not tolstoi or ibsen you are going to read, nor yet george meredith or sarah grand!"
at the last reference miss selwyn's eyes began to flash dangerously.
"you know i detest her!" she exclaimed.
"do you refer to all four of the writers i mentioned as of the feminine gender?" inquired bryant with an appearance of fervid interest. the fool was actually enjoying it all.
seeing that her lover was only chaffing, margaret made a brave effort, settled herself in her chair and found the place in her book.
"before you begin—i beg your pardon," said bryant deferentially, "but let me say that i was up late last night, and if i can't keep awake under the spell of your voice, don't blame me. wake me up at the catastrophe, when the distant door slams or somebody breaks a teacup."
miss selwyn laid the volume down again, and, still smiling, answered quietly but a shade frostily:
"it would take something written with a mixture of raw brandy, blood and vermilion paint to arrest your attention, i believe! your authors write with—with—an ax in place of a pen. but i can't harrow up my own imagination[278] with their horrors, much less read them aloud!"
"an exclusive régime of problem novels, plays and moralizings on pessimistic lines is bad for the mental digestion," admitted bryant in judicial tones. "poor girl! i must teach you to live in and love this beautiful, violent, sweet and good old world of ours—the world of real nature, real men and women, and real literature!"
"i thank you for your indulgent, patronizing intentions," she flashed back at him. "you would feed butterflies on brawn, teach the bluebird to scream like a macaw, make the trembling, silver-leaved white birches all over into oaks."
"my dear margaret—" stammered bryant, starting up, but he could not lay the spirit he had raised.
"there are questions in life that cannot be settled by the stroke of a sword or ax," she went on. "your favorite writer has smirched the fair figure of childhood in his brutal pictures of boys' life. he has made an unwholesome, disgusting thing out of what should be and is healthful and fine. how can you, who read him with patience, carp at my taste for what seems to me well thought and well expressed?"
"the effect of your favorites upon you to-day[279] has not been particularly reassuring," said bryant, more stirred by margaret's tone and manner than by her words. seeing that he had angered her, and trying to stem the tide of her indignation, he still blundered most flagrantly, and within a half hour the quarrel had culminated in an avowed separation for the rest of their lives, bryant leaving the house in a state of indignant misery such as fond and over-confident lovers alone may know.
not a word had been said, this time, about the "blue-mouldy" girl. the atmosphere had been too electric, the mood too tense for a laughing word.
then followed silence between these two. stubborn pride on the part of the woman, proud stubbornness on the part of the man. they were earnestly and faithfully in love, but each waited to hear the first word of forgiveness.
bryant did write, but in his preoccupation left his letter upon the desk unposted, and in a day it was snowed under by his unopened or carelessly glanced at mail. of course he misunderstood miss selwyn's silence and she resented his.
one sunday morning margaret, with an innate grasping and running back to the faith in[280] which she had been bred, sought help at the source which best suited her—the relief which comes from religion.
it so chances that there is a shrine upon the bank of the ganges. it so chances that there is what we call a mecca. it so chances that we all occasionally seek our shrines.
margaret selwyn sat in her shrine, the outgrown old episcopal cathedral on washington boulevard, and listened to her pastor, one of the great old men who have grown up with a creed, but with thought and lovingness; one who has learned how to heal wounds, the wounds of which no tongue can tell, and how to advise genially and generally as to the affairs of life. somehow, the old gentleman, with his white hair and robes, his simple, clean, old-fashioned honesty, had imparted to her a strength and faith in god which calmed and helped her. it may be there could not have been imparted to her by any one else in the world, politics and power and inherited splendor all considered, as much as could this plain old man.
the white-robed boys sang their recessional, and she became perhaps clearer and more comprehensive of mind than before she entered[281] the church—certainly more equipoised than she had been for days.
meditatively alive to the quiet of this sunday noon, miss margaret selwyn, as she neared the centre of the city, stopped short and looked about her. where was she?
the pavement of the street was gray-blue, spotted with white, and gleaming here and there with the iridescent living tints of bird plumage. the air was winged by soft forms, and a crowd of idlers were scattering grains of corn upon the ground to lure and keep in sight the most graceful creatures that live between the sky and earth.
against a sky as blue as that of venice two snow-white pigeons were flying straight down the street toward their companions. a swarthy italian stood with the birds almost under his feet, but, save the dark face of the street-vender, the pigeons and the perfect sky, the picture involuntarily imaged in miss selwyn's mind was all away and awry.
here was no stately tower, remote and solitary as a recluse in a worldly throng; no byzantine temple delighted her eye with its warm and gracious humanity of suggestion. the vast sunny space of the venetian square, with its[282] columned coffee-houses and shops, was in spirit and in truth far removed from here. st. mark's, and the place where the dream of a moment had arisen in an impressionable mind, might have been on two different planets, so opposed were they in every outline, spirit and detail—save one: the fluttering, flying, eager, unafraid pigeons.
the sun shot side glances down through the thoroughfare and really did some good on this day, because this was the day of the nazarene, and even the money-seekers on this day had abandoned in their affairs the consumption of bituminous coal. that is why on sunday, in one of the greatest cities in the world, the air is clear and the breath better. that is one reason why, on sunday, the american cousins of the "pigeons of st. mark's" come fluttering from somewhere about the city, from only the maker of them knows where, and dip downward out of the ether trustingly to the feet of the passer-by, be he thug or preacher.
miss selwyn had never heard of the vast flock of doves which dwell in security among the towering buildings of the city. their wings flash across wide darkling streets all day, welcome to every careworn man who[283] watches, for a moment, their graceful flight. they were here before her now—there, parading strutting, looking up hopefully toward the men about them, each eagerly seeking the next flip of the corn. they were—and are to-day—because of some gracious instinct in humanity, the best casual street exemplification of what is best in human nature.
they dripped and dropped from somewhere almost simultaneously. there was one who strutted the most struttingly and whose only really justifiable claim was that from crown to midway of his body he had such iridescent purple as all the shell-opening fishermen of tyre and sidon never devised half-way. there was another one, a quaint little maiden, who will probably marry some english nobleman of the birds, snow-white, with strange geometrical lines crisscross about her back, and who was almost duplicated by a dozen or two others of her breed. there were two rufous things, the red of whose top and back lapsed into a white beneath, almost as exquisitely as blends the splendid red hair of a woman into the ever accompanying white of the skin beneath. there were little drizzled things, pert, like bantams, off-breeds which had introduced[284] themselves into the community. and there was nothing but just a tossing about among those beautiful creatures upon the pavement there, nothing but an oliver twistish clamor for "more" from those who stood above them, to whom they were doing more good than they could know.
on week days the pigeons fly out in foraging parties to the railway yards and the neighborhood of the huge grain elevators. they can be seen glancing above the tall buildings, far flying, specks of gleaming light, along the hollow spaces above the streets as they go and come from their feeding places. the crowded masses of wagons, street cars, carriages, horses and hurrying people keep the pigeons from the street where they are most at home together for six days. but on the seventh, when the burden of labor is lifted or a brief space from the shoulders of toiling mankind, the pigeons rally in force upon one of the most busy, prosaic, care-breeding corners in the great spreading city by the lake. and every sunday come, as surely, men and boys to feed the air-travelers and look at them with the worship all men feel for natural beauty and grace.
miss selwyn had chanced upon this unique function, the pigeons' sunday banquet. here were no appealing graces of architecture and venetian balm of atmosphere. the rough pavement on which the yellow corn was scattered was a contrast to the smooth and perfect floor of the great piazza. on one side was the inevitable american drug store, plain, matter-of-fact, yet giving, by its crimson and purple window globes, the only touch of pure color in that part of the street. across the way was a hotel. a clothing store, with its paraphernalia of advertisement, occupied another corner. it was clark and madison streets.
miss selwyn saw every detail of this scene at a glance, and then her eyes were fastened upon one figure.
standing among the others was henry bryant. his straight, powerful figure, commanding in presence and pose, seemed to separate him, in a way, from the men around him. but, like all the onlookers, he bought corn and scattered the grain on the ground, watching the pigeons as they clustered around his largess. he was as unconscious as a child, and as gentle, about his simple pleasure. his face was a little worn and changed by the suffering of the days of separation[286] from her—margaret's eyes were quick to see that.
that was the man from whom she had separated after a wordy war over wordy books. that was her lover over there. his whole look, attitude and occupation appealed to her tenderness. love rushed tumultuously onward, a tide of irresistible strength, sweeping away every carefully-built structure of repulse and every barrier of opinion. their quarrel was forgotten. yet the reserve of a proud nature and of custom kept miss selwyn from crossing over to speak to bryant.
she walked home with a springing step. once the thought came into her mind that bryant might go away somewhere at once; that the message she was hurrying to send him might not reach him, and at the idea she felt faint and disheartened. she stopped and, for an instant, almost turned back, but, checking herself with a smile at her own impatience and trivial forebodings, she held on her homeward way again.
she could see her lover, and see him as plainly as when he was in reality before her, all unconscious of her presence, half absent-mindedly and all tenderly scattering grain for the cooing, fluttering pigeons at his feet.[287]
the next morning, bryant, looking over his mail with little relish—for much of the interest in living was out of him just then—found a letter which aroused him most effectually from his mood of listlessness. it said:
dear: i am "blue-mouldy for want of a batin'." come to me.
margaret.
