In The Bishop's Carriage [41]
may seem a small matter to make so much of. And yet the Pot--that sleeps not well o' nights, as is the case with damaged pots--will take to bed with him to-night a pretty, pleasant thought due just to this.
But do not think the Pot an idealist. If he were, he might have been tempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more pretentious Vessel--a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, but shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. No, the Pipkin is a pipkin, made of common clay--even though it has the uncommon sweetness and strength to overcome the tendencies of clay--and fashioned for those common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comes from the Potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow.
O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you are, as you will be--a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering to the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the Potter's `a good fellow and 'twill all be well.'
For the Pot--he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share--to a celebrated repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched and mended into temporary semblance of a useful Vessel; whether he shall continue to be merely the same old Luckless Pot, or whether he shall return at all, O Pipkin, does not matter much.
But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, we met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory. LATIMER."
* * * * * * * * * *
O Maggie, Maggie, some day I hope to see that man and tell him how sorely the Pipkin needed the Pot's letter!
IX.
It's all come so quick, Maggie, and it was over so soon that I hardly remember the beginning.
Nobody on earth could have expected it less than I, when I came off in the afternoon. I don't know what I was thinking of as I came into my dressing-room, that used to be Gray's--the sight of him seemed to cut me off from myself as with a knife--but it wasn't of him.
It may have been that I was chuckling to myself at the thought of Nancy Olden with a dressing-room all to herself. I can't ever quite get used to that, you know, though I sail around there with all the airs of the leading lady. Sometimes I see a twinkle in Fred Obermuller's eye when I catch him watching me, and goodness knows he's been glum enough of late, but it wasn't--
Yes, I'm going to tell you, but--it's rattled me a bit, Maggie. I'm so--so sorry, and a little--oh, just a little, little bit glad!
I'd slammed the door behind me--the old place is out of repair and the door won't shut except with a bang--and I had just squatted down on the floor to unbutton my high shoes, when I noticed the chintz curtains in front of the high dressing-box waver. They must have moved just like that when I was behind them months--it seems years--ago. But, you see, Topham had never served an apprenticeship behind curtains, so he didn't suspect.
"Lordy, Nancy," I laughed to myself, "some one thinks you've got a rose diamond and--"
nd at that moment he parted the curtains and came out.
Yes--Tom--Tom Dorgan.
My heart came beating up to my throat and then, just as I thought I should choke, it slid down to my boots, sickening me. I didn't say a word. I sat there, my foot in my lap, staring at him.
Oh, Maggie-girl, it isn't good to get your first glimpse after all these months of the man you love crouched like a big bull in a small space, poking his close-cropped black head out like a turtle that's not sure something won't be thrown at it, and then dragging his big bulk out and standing over you. He used to be trim--Tom--and taut, but in those shapeless things, the old trousers, the dirty white shirt, and the vest too big for him--
"Well," he said, "why don't you say something?"
Tom's voice--Mag, do you remember, the merry Irish boy's voice, with its chuckles like a brook gurgling as it runs?
No--'tisn't the same voice. It's--it's changed, Maggie. It's heavy and--and coarse--and--brutal.
But do not think the Pot an idealist. If he were, he might have been tempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more pretentious Vessel--a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, but shallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. No, the Pipkin is a pipkin, made of common clay--even though it has the uncommon sweetness and strength to overcome the tendencies of clay--and fashioned for those common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comes from the Potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow.
O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you are, as you will be--a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering to the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the Potter's `a good fellow and 'twill all be well.'
For the Pot--he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share--to a celebrated repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched and mended into temporary semblance of a useful Vessel; whether he shall continue to be merely the same old Luckless Pot, or whether he shall return at all, O Pipkin, does not matter much.
But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, we met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory. LATIMER."
* * * * * * * * * *
O Maggie, Maggie, some day I hope to see that man and tell him how sorely the Pipkin needed the Pot's letter!
IX.
It's all come so quick, Maggie, and it was over so soon that I hardly remember the beginning.
Nobody on earth could have expected it less than I, when I came off in the afternoon. I don't know what I was thinking of as I came into my dressing-room, that used to be Gray's--the sight of him seemed to cut me off from myself as with a knife--but it wasn't of him.
It may have been that I was chuckling to myself at the thought of Nancy Olden with a dressing-room all to herself. I can't ever quite get used to that, you know, though I sail around there with all the airs of the leading lady. Sometimes I see a twinkle in Fred Obermuller's eye when I catch him watching me, and goodness knows he's been glum enough of late, but it wasn't--
Yes, I'm going to tell you, but--it's rattled me a bit, Maggie. I'm so--so sorry, and a little--oh, just a little, little bit glad!
I'd slammed the door behind me--the old place is out of repair and the door won't shut except with a bang--and I had just squatted down on the floor to unbutton my high shoes, when I noticed the chintz curtains in front of the high dressing-box waver. They must have moved just like that when I was behind them months--it seems years--ago. But, you see, Topham had never served an apprenticeship behind curtains, so he didn't suspect.
"Lordy, Nancy," I laughed to myself, "some one thinks you've got a rose diamond and--"
nd at that moment he parted the curtains and came out.
Yes--Tom--Tom Dorgan.
My heart came beating up to my throat and then, just as I thought I should choke, it slid down to my boots, sickening me. I didn't say a word. I sat there, my foot in my lap, staring at him.
Oh, Maggie-girl, it isn't good to get your first glimpse after all these months of the man you love crouched like a big bull in a small space, poking his close-cropped black head out like a turtle that's not sure something won't be thrown at it, and then dragging his big bulk out and standing over you. He used to be trim--Tom--and taut, but in those shapeless things, the old trousers, the dirty white shirt, and the vest too big for him--
"Well," he said, "why don't you say something?"
Tom's voice--Mag, do you remember, the merry Irish boy's voice, with its chuckles like a brook gurgling as it runs?
No--'tisn't the same voice. It's--it's changed, Maggie. It's heavy and--and coarse--and--brutal.