Jewel Weed. Alice Ames Winter
a man who lives on a few grains of rice by making him watch the herd gorge on salads and ices, can you?”
“And do you really believe that great mountain of flesh was built out of little grains of rice?”
“Mrs. Appleton—you remember her?”
“She has pounced on me already. She remembers that I waltz like a dream.”
“Dick,” said Miss Elton scornfully, “don’t make the mistake of considering yourself a plum. Mrs. Appleton told me that the Swami feeds on dew and flaming nebulae.”
“Humph!” said Dick, “I think he’s a big bronze fraud.”
“Oh, come, men may be great without playing foot-ball,” she laughed.
“Well, he’s not for me. I can believe in almost any kind of a prophet except one that works miracles.”
“Who knows? The Swami may be the molder of your destiny,” said Madeline gaily, with youth’s lightness in referring to the vague future.
“He may; but I’d lay long odds against it.”
“I must be going.” Miss Elton rose. “The crowd is thinning, and Mrs. Lenox looks impressively in my direction. We are going out together on the train. Their new country place is near us, you know. And you, ungrateful one, I suspect, have not even spoken to Mr. Early yet. Go and ‘make your manners,’ like a good boy. I’ll expect you to-morrow afternoon. Mr. Norris, Dick has promised to bring you with him to dinner to-morrow. Till then, good-by.”
“Come, Ellery, we’ll face the music, now that the real attractions are gone,” said Dick.
Mr. Early extended two hands, ponderous in proportion to the rest of his body, in fatherly greeting.
“Ah, Percival, my dear fellow, so you are done with Yale and back again in St. Etienne? I welcome you out of the fetters of mere bookishness into the freedom of real life, where it is man’s business to serve, and not to absorb.”
Dick blushed guiltily as several surrounding ladies turned their lorgnettes on him, but Mr. Early went on, undisturbed and very audible:
“I do not introduce you to Swami Ram Juna, because introductions belong to the world of conventionalities, and he lives in that world where real human relations are the only things that count; but I put your hand in his, in token of the contact in which your spirit may meet his great soul.”
“Very good of you, I’m sure,” murmured Dick, as the Swami bent his head and gave him a penetrating look.
“You, too, then, are a seeker?” Ram Juna inquired in a low tone, but with his delicate and distinct enunciation.
“Ah—I hope so,” Dick answered hastily, and with an evident desire to push the topic no further. “And this, Mr. Early, is my old chum, Norris, who has come West to be on the editorial staff of the Star.”
“The Star? It is the symbol of illumination. Is then your Star devoted to the enlightenment of mankind?” asked Ram Juna, transferring his fixed gaze.
“In a sense—yes,” Norris faltered with a swift guilty recollection of certain head-lines in last night’s edition.
“He who writes must think. He who thinks goes below the surface. He who goes below the surface is moving toward the center,” said the Swami oracularly.
Mr. Early’s broad face expanded into a benevolent smile, and an oncoming instalment swept the young men away.
“Does Mr. Early learn his remarks by heart?” asked Norris.
“I don’t know. But let us be seekers. Let us seek dinner, and fresh air. Give me fresh air—anything but Nirvana!”
CHAPTER II
MOTHER AND SON
To have been captain of the foot-ball team, which some student of sociology has called the highest office in the free gift of the American people, might seem glory enough for one life; but Richard Percival was of such stuff that all past triumphs became dust and ashes. He was greedy of the future. Now that the doors of college were fairly closed, that career became to him but as a half-dreaming condition, before one wakes.
On this summer evening, however, it was easy to prolong the dream, since the hour was one for quiet of body and for wandering visions. The room was large and suffused with that restfulness which comes to homes where serene and thoughtful lives have been lived. There were long straight lines; there was a scarcity of knickknacks; there were pictures gathered because they were loved and not to fill a bare space on the wall; there were books and books and books, many of them with the worn covers of old friends. Here, clasped in the arms of another old friend of a chair, half-sat, half-lay his mother, and near her lounged Ellery Norris, the friend whose delicate mingling of love and admiration was as fragrant wine to Dick, who believed in himself because others had always believed in him. The dying twilight, laden with rose-spiciness and with the first shrill notes of the warm night, came in through high narrow windows. Everywhere was the sweet repose that comes after sweet activity, and the center of it was the fragile woman who lay back in her chair, caressing with light hand the head of the young man who sat upon the rug and leaned against her knee.
Norris was looking at Mrs. Percival with a kind of wondering admiration which the son saw with a touch of pity. Poor old Norris! It must have been tough to grow up without a home. As for this fragrant type of femininity, young Percival took it for granted—at least in the women that belong to a man; and the other women hardly count.
Everything made Dick feel very tender toward his past, very well satisfied with his present, very secure about his future. All would be good. That was the natural order of the universe. He had always found it easy to do things and to be a good deal of a personage.
He stared up silently at the space above the mantel where hung a portrait that gazed back at him, with features pale in the fading light. Singularly alike were the boyish face that looked up and the boyish face that looked down, though the painted Percival, a little idealistic about the eyes, wholly firm about the mouth, appeared the more determined of the two. Perhaps this came from the shoulder-straps, the blue uniform, and the military squareness of the shoulders.
“Yes, you are like him, Dick.” Mrs. Percival spoke to his thoughts. The boy looked up startled.
“Am I?” he asked. “I wish I might be. I wish I might be half so much of a man.”
“And I hope you will be more—no, not that. He was my all. I can hardly wish you to be more, but I hope you will do more. At least you don’t have a drag on you from the beginning, as he had. Has Dick told you the story, Ellery?” She turned with a gentle smile toward the other man. “You see I can’t help calling you Ellery. Dick’s letters have made you partly mine already. We are not strangers at all.”
Norris flushed and impulsively laid his firm square hand over the slender one that was stretched upon the chair arm nearest him.
“You don’t know how glad I am to be yours, and to have you for mine,” he said. “I never knew my mother.”
“You know then how Minnesota was a pioneer state, and how she sent a fifth of her population to the war, and Dad among the first? You know how the First Minnesota held the hill and turned the day at Gettysburg, though few of them lived to tell of their own bravery? It makes the lump come up in my throat even to remember it, just as it did when I first heard the news and knew that my boy-lover was there.”
There was silence a moment.