All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography Part 26

Then he stooped and drew from under the bed a very low bedstead, and showed me that it had a good spring and mattress, and clean, soft linen; and I was astonished and delighted. I thought I had never seen any contrivance equal to it for convenience and comfort, and I told Robert that I must have trundle beds under all our large beds when we furnished. And both men smiled broadly at my enthusiasm.

So we took the room, and my little trunk was brought to me, and I began to bathe and dress and make ready for dinner, which I was told would be at six promptly. A Chinese gong summoned us to the meal--a gong in the hands of a negro boy, whose face shone with delight in the noise he was making. But his grinning and gesticulating brought a laughing company into the dining-room. There was nothing in this room but what was absolutely necessary. The floor was bare but clean, the chairs of a plain wooden variety, and the china, gla.s.s, and damask very suitable to the room. The only extravagance about the service was an arrangement like an East India _punka_ above the whole length of the table--a movable wood frame, hung with clean towels, and kept in motion by two negro boys. It certainly made the room cool, and prevented the intrusion of a single fly.

The dinner itself was excellent, though the courses were left to every one's taste and capacity. There was roast beef, and chicken pie, bear meat, and antelope steaks, and I noticed that some old men who ate bear meat ate honey with it, so I resolved to try the luxury some day when I was quite alone. I did so, and found it very good, but an old Texan told me, that the most aristocratic dainty of the Spanish Texan was bear's paws preserved in Madeira wine, and a little brandy. The paws then look like walnuts, but are said to excel any tidbit known to epicures. I am sorry that I never had an opportunity of verifying this statement by personal experience. The dessert to our dinner is not worth naming; it was a pudding of some kind, but the majority left it alone, and seemed very well contented with the bowl of delicious clabber and fresh milk. There were no liquors of any kind on the table, but plenty of tea and coffee, and I do not think any one ate their dinner without drinking their tea at the same time. I took kindly to the custom, and have never quite resigned it, except under medical advice, which I follow with that desultory reluctance usually given to ordinances with which we are not quite satisfied.

After dinner the children were eager to go to the trundle bed, and their delight with it would have made any looker-on believe the little ungrateful ones had never had a decent bed in all their lives before.

It was so "nice," so "soft," so "easy to get into," so "cool," so "sleepy." I felt almost angry at their unreasonable pleasure in this very ordinary convenience, and was quite "short" with the offenders before they found the "sleepy" part of their new bed. Then I sat down at the open window and began to think. Very quickly I discovered that I had been guilty in the same kind. Had I not been lauding this bit of Texas as an outskirt of Paradise all afternoon? No one could have supposed I had lived in Kendal, and Penrith, wandered in the laurel woods of Windermere, and walked the storied streets of Edinburgh. I smiled contemptuously at my raw enthusiasm, and felt as if my native land had been wronged by it.

So I began to write a poem to Mother England, and had got the three first lines to my satisfaction, when Robert entered the room. He was smoking a huge cigar, and the odor of it was strange and unpleasant.

But he was as pleased about his cigar as the children about their trundle bed, and I listened rather coolly to his praises of the men he had been talking with. "A new kind of humanity, Milly," he said. "I never saw men like them. I think I will go and talk to them an hour or two longer."

And, when I looked into his buoyant, happy face, and remembered that he would have to live and work with this new kind of humanity, I understood at once the necessity of sympathy and agreement. I told him that I felt inclined to write poetry, and would doubtless go to sleep about the sixth line, "so go, and talk, and enjoy yourself, Robert, dear," I added. "I am glad you have such good company."

"Better company there could not be, Milly," and, with these words, he kissed me, and ran lightly down stairs. Did I write any more poetry?

No, I went to sleep. But I have not yet forgotten two lines of the poem to Mother England I began that night, and have never yet finished,

My heart is like a weaning child, That never can be weaned:

I did not dream at that date of a time when Robert Bonner would pay me ten dollars every week for a poem, and that for a period of nearly fifteen years. When that time arrived, I had outgrown the longing and the need--I had been adopted by New York.

CHAPTER XIII

IN ARCADIA

"'Tis not for nothing that we Life pursue.

It pays our hopes with something still that's new; Each day's a gift we ne'er enjoyed before, Like travelers, we're pleased with seeing more."

There are no little events in life, those we think of no consequence may be full of fate, and it is at our own risk if we neglect the acquaintances and opportunities that seem to be casually offered, and of small importance. And, as for what we call "accidents," they are G.o.d's part in every occurrence so called. I am led to this reflection by a circ.u.mstance that happened just at this time. When the coach which brought us to Austin was on the point of leaving Bastrop, a man rode rapidly up to it, and, flinging his bridle to a bystander, made a leap to the outside seats, and landed close to Robert. Robert smilingly made room for him, saying as he did so, "That was a clever jump. It is a jump you mustn't make a miss of--if you try it."

This introduction preceded a day of pleasant conversation together, and, when the coach stopped at Smith's Hotel, the Honorable William Bentley stopped there, and at the dinner table we found him again at Robert's side. The big cigar Robert was smoking when he came to tell me he was going to sit and talk an hour or two, was made from tobacco grown on the Bentley plantation; and, in the course of that evening's conversation, he told Robert he was the member for his county, and had come to Austin to take his seat in the legislative hall.

"When I got religion," he continued, "the folks began to talk of sending me to Austin. I was not onto the thing at first, but got sort of dragged into it and at last I gave up, as any Christian might do, specially one new to the business. Now I like it, and there's no one more ready to devote himself to his country than William Bentley. I want you to know that. So come to the Capitol with me in the morning, and you will see and hear something worth while. If you don't you may call me short stock, even if I am six feet three in my stockings."

Robert repeated this speech to me with certain Texan interjections I need not insert, and I asked, "Will you go with him?"

"Certainly, Milly. I expect to enjoy it very much. He says he will show me legislators who are alive, and not a lot of respectable graven images, like they have in Was.h.i.+ngton. He told me, that young Terry was going to speak for the Rangers, and that the men who did not like plain truths would have to get up and squander, for they would be sure to have the _bleeding frontier_ served up to them, in every heartbreaking style, Terry could manage; and they say he can tell Indian tales that make men s.h.i.+ver, and shout, '_Shut up, Terry!_'

Milly, I have had one of the pleasantest days that I have known in all my life. Is it not strange, dear?"

"Not at all, Robert," I answered. "The land is so lovely, and the people so friendly, that any good thing seems possible."

In the morning I watched him, as he dressed with more than usual care, though he was always particular on this subject, more so than I could patiently endure when "hurry" was the order, and I had the children to dress as well as myself, and yet was always kept waiting for some trifling adjustment that seemed to me unnecessary.

Comparing notes on this subject with numberless other women, I have come to a fixed and solid conviction that vanity and love of dress is a male, and not a female, foible, and I think, moreover, that Nature in all her departments supports this theory. I am at least quite sure that any woman still young and beautiful would have prepared herself for a possible interview with a Texan legislator, in much less time than my young and still handsome husband found necessary. But the result was perhaps worth the labor, and I watched the Honorable William Bentley and Robert walking up the avenue together, with smiles of satisfaction.

Robert had the English air of reserve, and of entire complacency with his apparel and appearance. His high silk hat typified the quality and fas.h.i.+on of all the garments beneath it, and I have no doubt that he was the only man in Austin wearing gloves that day. His honorable companion was at least a picturesque contrast. He was tall, and thin, and aquiline, loosely and carelessly dressed in a white flannel s.h.i.+rt, dark tweed trousers, and a broad leather belt _without furnis.h.i.+ngs_.

Gentlemen then wore Wellington boots--no amount of vanity could have made women put on such affairs--but the Honorable Bentley wore very low-cut shoes, and I hardly think his hands had ever dreamed of gloves. However, he wore on his head a handsome black sombrero, with a silver cord and ta.s.sel round it.

Looking at the two figures, as they slowly trailed up the avenue, I was forcibly impressed with the fitness of the Texan dress for the Texan climate, and I decided that it would be proper for Robert to adopt as much of it as was suitable to him. I thought he would be pleased to do so. I was as much mistaken when I named the subject. I found Robert wedded to his waistcoat, ashamed to go to the street without a proper coat, and quite sure he would not feel respectable without his suspenders. As for a belt taking their place, that idea was out of the question.

Occupied with such thoughts, I sat sewing at the open window, unconsciously inhaling the sweet air, and bathing myself in the warm, brilliant suns.h.i.+ne. The children were playing with Mrs. Smith's little daughter in a shady yard at the back of the hotel, and I was alone and full of thought and speculation. The small white dress I was making, I had begun on that morning when Robert returned home with the news that drove us from Memphis so hastily. I had thrown it and my sewing materials into the trunk that was going with me, thinking I should certainly find many hours in which I could finish the garment. But on that dreadful sail down the Mississippi I could not have touched a needle, and ever since the travel had been so continuous, and so unrestful, that sewing had been impossible.

But now! now, I should be at rest, and, as soon as the wagons with the emigrants for New Braunfels reached Austin, we should receive our trunks, for they had taken charge of them at Harrisburg, and could then rent a house and make a new home. Of course, this idea at once recalled our first home in Glasgow, then my mind went reluctantly to Chicago and the pitiful home-breaking there, then to Memphis and the "flee-for-your-lives" hurry with which we had abandoned the home made there. But I was still hopeful. This place was so different. The people were so different. Life itself was different. No one was in a hurry, and I had already caught the spirit of the place, for my needle was taking its time, and going leisurely down a seam it would have once run rapidly over.

"I am going to be happy at last!" I whispered, and then I perversely added, "_Perhaps_." Have we not all of us, at some time in our lives, said ill-omened words, which we would gladly have recalled, if it had been possible? The Greeks prayed Demeter not to permit them to use such words, and I instantly prayed to be forgiven the doubting syllables, while within me I heard distinctly the sorrowful spirit's reproach, "O thou of little faith." So I dropped my work, and sat silent as a chidden child, a little sorry, a little afraid, and beneath all some hot anger at whatever influence prompted the ill-boding expression.

As I sat I heard the gong announcing lunch, and I wondered why Robert had not returned in time for the meal. He did not come at all, and I went to my room cross and disappointed. I told myself, that however much Robert had been interested, he ought to have remembered the difficulty I had in attending to both children during a meal. He knew how anxious I was, and also how lonely. There was always the little company of men on the sidewalk for him to join, but there was no similar provision for women in the house. Oh, I had a score of small grievances to complain of, and, I am sorry to admit, that I took the hour after lunch to interview every one of them.

Then Mrs. Smith came to my room, and she had a letter in her hand, "It is for you," she said pleasantly, "and, what do you think? It was brought by one of the House messengers."

"The House messengers!" I repeated.

"Yes; by one of the boys who wait upon the members. I hope Mr. Barr is all right."

I had opened the letter, as she was speaking, and I answered cheerfully, "All is well. He says he will be here before five o'clock." Then we had a little conversation, and, when she was going, I asked her to send the children to me, in order that I might dress them for the afternoon.

Then I read my letter over and over again. It contained only two or three lines, but Oh, how good they were!

MILLY, DARLING,

Do not expect me until near five o'clock. I have met the most extraordinary good fortune. Be happy, dear. All is well.

ROBERT.

I stood with this blessed piece of paper in my hands a few minutes, speechless, my heart br.i.m.m.i.n.g over. Then I spread it open on my bed, and kneeling down beside it, I let my tears of contrition and grat.i.tude wet the happy message. The gift of prayer is not always in our power, and at that hour it was far from me, but I thanked G.o.d with repentant tears, and then rising with a glad spirit, I put under my feet every doubtful complaining thought.

About five o'clock I heard Robert's footsteps on the pavement, and also his voice answering those who spoke to him, and his steps were light and firm, and his voice had those happy inflections that only hope realized can utter--sweet and thrilling and full of promise. I was at the door of our room to meet him, and he took me in his arms and whispered, "Dearest, I am so happy to bring you good news."

"Tell me, Robert. Tell me all about it," I said, and we sat down together, and he continued, "You know, Milly. I went away with Bentley this morning soon after nine, and we had walked barely two blocks when he said, 'We will shake up Lawyer Scot for half-an-hour. I want his advice, and you might find his acquaintance a mighty good thing.' So we entered a small building and were evidently in the lawyer's office, though no one was visible. Bentley told me to 'have off my hat and take a chair,' and he would hunt up Scot. There was a New York paper lying on the table, and also a copy of the _Scotchman_. I lifted the latter and Bentley went into another room, where I soon heard him talking with great emphasis. In twenty minutes he came back to me accompanied by a man about forty years of age, a man so visibly and plainly Scotch that I could not help smiling when he looked at me."

"Did he return the smile?" I asked.

"He walked to the table, poured out a gla.s.s of water, and gave it to me, then filling one for himself, he touched my gla.s.s and said, '_Here's to the men o' Glasgo!_' Then I touched his gla.s.s and answered, '_Fife and all the lands about it!_'"

"Was he Fife, Robert? What did he say?"

"He said, 'O man, you're right! You're right! I am Fife! Bone and blood, nerve and brain, I am Fife!'"

"Then, Robert?"

"I offered my hand, and he clasped it between his two large brown hands, and said, 'Sit a few minutes. I want a word with you.' So he asked my name and what I was in Texas for. I told him that we had been driven from Memphis by fever and the threat of cholera, and had not escaped the terror either in New Orleans, Galveston or Harrisburg. He readily understood the position, and inquired next if we intended to return to Memphis, as soon as it was safe to do so? I told him we intended to remain in Austin if I could find any way in which it would be possible to make a living.

"'How did you make it in Memphis?' he asked and I answered, 'As a professional accountant.'

"'Accountant!' he cried, leaping to his feet. 'Great Scot, you are the very man now wanted! Come, Bentley. I must go to the House with this news. And I must see Raymond before he goes to his office.'