SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE

The Rubberneck Auto was about ready to start. The merry top-riders had

been assigned to their seats by the gentlemanly conductor. The sidewalk

was blockaded with sightseers who had gathered to stare at sightseers,

justifying the natural law that every creature on earth is preyed upon

by some other creature.

The megaphone man raised his instrument of torture; the inside of the

great automobile began to thump and throb like the heart of a coffee

drinker. The top-riders nervously clung to the seats; the old lady from

Valparaiso, Indiana, shrieked to be put ashore. But, before a wheel

turns, listen to a brief preamble through the cardiaphone, which shall

point out to you an object of interest on life's sightseeing tour.

Swift and comprehensive is the recognition of white man for white man in

African wilds; instant and sure is the spiritual greeting between mother

and babe; unhesitatingly do master and dog commune across the slight

gulf between animal and man; immeasurably quick and sapient are the

brief messages between one and one's beloved. But all these instances

set forth only slow and groping interchange of sympathy and thought

beside one other instance which the Rubberneck coach shall disclose. You

shall learn (if you have not learned already) what two beings of all

earth's living inhabitants most quickly look into each other's hearts

and souls when they meet face to face.

The gong whirred, and the Glaring-at-Gotham car moved majestically upon

its instructive tour.

On the highest, rear seat was James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri,

and his Bride.

Capitalise it, friend typo--that last word--word of words in the

epiphany of life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the

bee, the primal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the

twist of lemon peel on the cocktail of creation--such is the bride. Holy

is the wife; revered the mother; galliptious is the summer girl--but the

bride is the certified check among the wedding presents that the gods

send in when man is married to mortality.

The car glided up the Golden Way. On the bridge of the great cruiser the

captain stood, trumpeting the sights of the big city to his passengers.

Wide-mouthed and open-eared, they heard the sights of the metropolis

thundered forth to their eyes. Confused, delirious with excitement

and provincial longings, they tried to make ocular responses to the

megaphonic ritual. In the solemn spires of spreading cathedrals they saw

the home of the Vanderbilts; in the busy bulk of the Grand Central depot

they viewed, wonderingly, the frugal cot of Russell Sage. Bidden to

observe the highlands of the Hudson, they gaped, unsuspecting, at the

upturned mountains of a new-laid sewer. To many the elevated railroad

was the Rialto, on the stations of which uniformed men sat and made

chop suey of your tickets. And to this day in the outlying districts

many have it that Chuck Connors, with his hand on his heart, leads

reform; and that but for the noble municipal efforts of one Parkhurst,

a district attorney, the notorious "Bishop" Potter gang would have

destroyed law and order from the Bowery to the Harlem River.

But I beg you to observe Mrs. James Williams--Hattie Chalmers that

was--once the belle of Cloverdale. Pale-blue is the bride's, if she

will; and this colour she had honoured. Willingly had the moss rosebud

loaned to her cheeks of its pink--and as for the violet!--her eyes will

do very well as they are, thank you. A useless strip of white chaf--oh,

no, he was guiding the auto car--of white chiffon--or perhaps it was

grenadine or tulle--was tied beneath her chin, pretending to hold her

bonnet in place. But you know as well as I do that the hatpins did the

work.

And on Mrs. James Williams's face was recorded a little library of the

world's best thoughts in three volumes. Volume No. 1 contained the

belief that James Williams was about the right sort of thing. Volume

No. 2 was an essay on the world, declaring it to be a very excellent

place. Volume No. 3 disclosed the belief that in occupying the highest

seat in a Rubberneck auto they were travelling the pace that passes

all understanding.

James Williams, you would have guessed, was about twenty-four. It will

gratify you to know that your estimate was so accurate. He was exactly

twenty-three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days old. He was well

built, active, strong-jawed, good-natured and rising. He was on his

wedding trip.

Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 H. P.

touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the

boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward--oh, turn backward and

give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an

hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees

looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin--even

if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can't do it? Very well; hurry

up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.

Just in front of Mrs. James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket

and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. Only in dreams and

milliners' shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one swipe.

This girl gazed with large blue eyes, credulous, when the megaphone man

roared his doctrine that millionaires were things about which we should

be concerned. Between blasts she resorted to Epictetian philosophy in

the form of pepsin chewing gum.

At this girl's right hand sat a young man about twenty-four. He

was well-built, active, strong-jawed and good-natured. But if his

description seems to follow that of James Williams, divest it of

anything Cloverdalian. This man belonged to hard streets and sharp

corners. He looked keenly about him, seeming to begrudge the asphalt

under the feet of those upon whom he looked down from his perch.

While the megaphone barks at a famous hostelry, let me whisper you

through the low-tuned cardiaphone to sit tight; for now things are about

to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over a scrap

of ticker tape floating down from the den of a Broad street bear.

The girl in the tan jacket twisted around to view the pilgrims on the

last seat. The other passengers she had absorbed; the seat behind her

was her Bluebeard's chamber.

Her eyes met those of Mrs. James Williams. Between two ticks of a watch

they exchanged their life's experiences, histories, hopes and fancies.

And all, mind you, with the eye, before two men could have decided

whether to draw steel or borrow a match.

The bride leaned forward low. She and the girl spoke rapidly together,

their tongues moving quickly like those of two serpents--a comparison

that is not meant to go further. Two smiles and a dozen nods closed

the conference.

And now in the broad, quiet avenue in front of the Rubberneck car a man

in dark clothes stood with uplifted hand. From the sidewalk another

hurried to join him.

The girl in the fruitful hat quickly seized her companion by the arm and

whispered in his ear. That young man exhibited proof of ability to act

promptly. Crouching low, he slid over the edge of the car, hung lightly

for an instant, and then disappeared. Half a dozen of the top-riders

observed his feat, wonderingly, but made no comment, deeming it prudent

not to express surprise at what might be the conventional manner of

alighting in this bewildering city. The truant passenger dodged a hansom

and then floated past, like a leaf on a stream between a furniture van

and a florist's delivery wagon.

The girl in the tan jacket turned again, and looked in the eyes of Mrs.

James Williams. Then she faced about and sat still while the Rubberneck

auto stopped at the flash of the badge under the coat of the

plainclothes man.

"What's eatin' you?" demanded the megaphonist, abandoning his

professional discourse for pure English.

"Keep her at anchor for a minute," ordered the officer. "There's a man

on board we want--a Philadelphia burglar called 'Pinky' McGuire. There

he is on the back seat. Look out for the side, Donovan."

Donovan went to the hind wheel and looked up at James Williams.

"Come down, old sport," he said, pleasantly. "We've got you. Back to

Sleepytown for yours. It ain't a bad idea, hidin' on a Rubberneck,

though. I'll remember that."

Softly through the megaphone came the advice of the conductor:

"Better step off, sir, and explain. The car must proceed on its tour."

James Williams belonged among the level heads. With necessary slowness

he picked his way through the passengers down to the steps at the front

of the car. His wife followed, but she first turned her eyes and saw the

escaped tourist glide from behind the furniture van and slip behind a

tree on the edge of the little park, not fifty feet away.

Descended to the ground, James Williams faced his captors with a smile.

He was thinking what a good story he would have to tell in Cloverdale

about having been mistaken for a burglar. The Rubberneck coach lingered,

out of respect for its patrons. What could be a more interesting sight

than this?

"My name is James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri," he said kindly, so

that they would not be too greatly mortified. "I have letters here that

will show--"

"You'll come with us, please," announced the plainclothes man. "'Pinky'

McGuire's description fits you like flannel washed in hot suds. A

detective saw you on the Rubberneck up at Central Park and 'phoned down

to take you in. Do your explaining at the station-house."

James Williams's wife--his bride of two weeks--looked him in the face

with a strange, soft radiance in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks,

looked him in the face and said:

"Go with 'em quietly, 'Pinky,' and maybe it'll be in your favour."

And then as the Glaring-at-Gotham car rolled away she turned and threw

a kiss--his wife threw a kiss--at some one high up on the seats of the

Rubberneck.

"Your girl gives you good advice, McGuire," said Donovan. "Come on,

now."

And then madness descended upon and occupied James Williams. He pushed

his hat far upon the back of his head.

"My wife seems to think I am a burglar," he said, recklessly. "I never

heard of her being crazy; therefore I must be. And if I'm crazy, they

can't do anything to me for killing you two fools in my madness."

Whereupon he resisted arrest so cheerfully and industriously that cops

had to be whistled for, and afterwards the reserves, to disperse a few

thousand delighted spectators.

At the station-house the desk sergeant asked for his name.

"McDoodle, the Pink, or Pinky the Brute, I forget which," was James

Williams's answer. "But you can bet I'm a burglar; don't leave that

out. And you might add that it took five of 'em to pluck the Pink. I'd

especially like to have that in the records."

In an hour came Mrs. James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison

Avenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero's

innocence--for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by

an automobile mfg. co.

After the police had sternly reprimanded James Williams for imitating

a copyrighted burglar and given him as honourable a discharge as the

department was capable of, Mrs. Williams rearrested him and swept him

into an angle of the station-house. James Williams regarded her with

one eye. He always said that Donovan closed the other while somebody

was holding his good right hand. Never before had he given her a word

of reproach or of reproof.

"If you can explain," he began rather stiffly, "why you--"

"Dear," she interrupted, "listen. It was an hour's pain and trial to

you. I did it for her--I mean the girl who spoke to me on the coach. I

was so happy, Jim--so happy with you that I didn't dare to refuse that

happiness to another. Jim, they were married only this morning--those

two; and I wanted him to get away. While they were struggling with you

I saw him slip from behind his tree and hurry across the park. That's

all of it, dear--I had to do it."

Thus does one sister of the plain gold band know another who stands in

the enchanted light that shines but once and briefly for each one. By

rice and satin bows does mere man become aware of weddings. But bride

knoweth bride at the glance of an eye. And between them swiftly passes

comfort and meaning in a language that man and widows wot not of.

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 734