THE WEDDING TOURIST.
“She had the most curious and painful brainful of sense preferred in the whole show.
“When I was a small boy my pocket was one day dispossessed of some green apples, a quantity of horse nails and lead sinkers, a squirt gun, a bird's nest; a piece of beeswax and a hawk's wing. This collection would rank high as an exhibit of eccentric assets, but the contents of this lady's mind belongs in the same alcove.
“It is to be credited to Alabama where she was born about sixty years before I met her in Paris last summer. She had a charming southern accent. It was the best thing she had. I liked it. I like all those little provincialisms which have the flavor of their native air and soil. Why shouldn't the manner of decent men and women grow in the way of nature out of their environment? I love the drawl that is the natural product of New England, the quaint, indolent slur of Dixieland, the breezy dialect of the Far West. If they all talked alike what a dull country we should have!
“Certain of the schools are trying to force a common method of speech. It is the dialect of Mayfair and Fifth Avenue. It would seem that they wish to turn us into human bricks of the same size, grade and color. Under the encouragement of Mr. Henry James, whose slender Americanism perished at last in formal expatriation, our New York and New England girls have begun to talk like Duchesses. But among women of the South and the Far West, you may still hear the real, genuine American talk. To me it is refreshing.
“At least this may be said for The Wedding Tourist—she was no school-made, rococo Duchess. She was as real and unaffected as a bale of hay.
“Sometimes I call her The Grasshopper Widow because she was always on the move. She had hopped twice around the world and back. When she needed a husband she reached out and grabbed one and hastened away on another wedding tour as if nothing had happened.
“To her, life was a series of wedding tours. She had jumped from one honeymoon to another in the most casual and engaging fashion. She was, indeed, a kind of professional honey-mooner who from the beginning of her matrimonial career had enjoyed the pseudonym of Baby. Inns, table d'hôtes, ruins, art galleries, theaters, scenery and honey-fuglement had filled her life.
“She had explored the capitals of the world with real feminine curiosity. She had loved their music and doted upon their art and tasted their religion and rustled in their silks and generally beat the bushes to see what would run out.
“When we first met, a remark of hers suggested my query:
“'Was your husband a Yale man?'
“'Which one? I've had two an' a half.'
“'Two and a half I I never heard of a fractional husband before.'
“'My first husband was only half a man, suh. I married my guardian when I was sixteen. He nevah would do a thing between trips but sit around an' eat an' drink mint juleps. We went on our wedding tour and I kept him going for two years, but it was hard work. Nearly wore me out. He was like one of those toys that you have to wind up before it will go. Always had a pain in his feet—nevah could dance or do a thing but just sit, or ride on the cars or in a spring wagon. Lordy, girls! don't evah marry a man 'til you've tried his feet an' have confidence in 'em. Now, you hear me! He nevah did do a thing to please me but call me “Baby.”
“The next man I married had a sistuh with a weak mind by the name of Peggy. I had to look after her an' she'd take out her mind, like, an' open it an' show it to everybody that came into the house, an' turn it inside out as if she was right proud of it. Honestly, it reminded me of my boy when he got his first watch—how he'd open it an' show you the works an' then hold it up to your ear so you could hear it tick. That's what Peggy was always doing with her mind, recitin' poetry or showin' you pearls of thought taken out of the clam beds of her intellect. It certainly was awful!
“Tercy Higginbottom had a wooden leg an' limped some, but the worst thing about him was Peggy. I have erected a monument a mile high to that man in the graveyard of my memory. He was right good to me. He would stump around all day lookin' at sights and take me to the theater in the evening and to supper afterwards and nevah murmured. Sometimes his leg got sore but he kept up.
“'I married him in Paris. We started off on our weddin' tour an' it lasted about fifteen years. We traveled an' traveled all that time. We played we was just married and on our honeymoon.
“'He used to say: “Baby, what a wonderful time we are having on this wedding tour.”'
“'We had two children—a boy and a girl. Once a year we'd come back to Paris and spend two or three months with them.'
“'You didn't take them with you?'
“'We left them with Mr. Higginbottom's mothah an' a nurse an' governess. Peggy, the sistuh with a weak mind, went with us—she was all the care we needed. She knew enough to hook an' button my dresses an' help me pack. She was the only black spot in all those happy years.
“'Percy took care o' my jewels. It was all he had to do.'
“'A tender husband and a watch dog of the jewels!' I remarked.
“'And there were hours when it kept him mighty busy—you hear me. I can't help laughin' whenever I think of it.
“'Once we missed one of my rings. We thought it had been stolen. The hotel manager had every maid and bell boy brought into our room and searched. Suddenly Percy found it in a waistcoat pocket.
“'One evening we were gettin' off a steamer. Suddenly I slapped my hand on my breast and yelled:
“'"My sunburst! Lord o' mercy! it's gone!”'
“'I was suah that I had put it on. We ran back up the gangway. We had only five minutes. Peggy fainted away—she was that weak-minded. You didn't dare sneeze for fear she would faint away. Percy grabbed her. I ran for the stateroom an' found the sunburst where I had left it under my pillow. We were all in, believe me—it nearly killed us. When we moved Percy always called the roll like: “The ruby ring,” an' I answered, “Here.”'
“The jade necklace.”
“Here.” Like that, until we knew that we had them all. That evening we didn't have time.
“'But we certainly did see the world until we lost something better than all the jewels. Lordy! Lordy! what a world it is!'
“'The boy died when he was eight. We were in Cairo. We hurried back to Paris. Mr. Higginbottom was nevah the same after that. I nevah could get him out of Paris again. He died there.
“'My next husband was the dearest and best man that evah did live. I met him here in Paris. His name was Horton. Weighed three hundred and fifty pounds. Some man! I says to myself: Now here's a man that'll las' me as long as I live. He drank too much, but I soon cured him o' that. He gave it up entirely an' our weddin' tour lasted 'til he died.'
“'Perhaps it wore him out,' I suggested.
“'No, he liked it and we were just as happy as two turtle doves. When I asked him to do anything, he would always say: “Well, Baby, you know best.”'
“'But he couldn't walk much. Weight was his great weakness. If you were jus' to think of him as a husband he was a little heavy; but no man is perfect.'
“'We had a big limousine an' he toted me around in that an' hired a maid to climb stairs an' go to the churches an' theaters an' art galleries with me.'
“'My daughtah had married an' settled in Chicago. One Decembah we thought it would be nice to go and spend Christmas with her. I just thought I'd stop beating around and get acquainted with my own family. We left Paris on the tenth and reached Chicago on the twenty-second. I called my daughtah on the telephone from our hotel.'
“'"My goodness! Is that you?” she said.
“'"Yes,” I said, “we have come all the way from Paris to spend Christmas with you.”
“'I'm awfully sorry, mothah,” she says. “The house will be full Christmas Day, but we'll have you for New Yeah's.”
“She stopped and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“'Say, I felt as if I had been hit with an axe. My husband said:
“'Well, Baby, I guess they don't want us. Don't you mind. We'll have a good Christinas dinner here at the hotel and then we'll go and spend a month in New York.”
“'I stopped traveling and went to thinking. Poor Mr. Horton didn't live long. Now he's gone an' I haven't anybody. No, my daughtah does not care for me. Her ol' nurse lives with her—an ignorant French woman. I offered to work hard if she would send that nurse away an' take me to live with her. She wouldn't do it—no, suh! She loves that nurse an' doesn't care for me—not the snap of her fingah. I have been trying to get a chance to work for the Red Cross. My money is about gone. They say money talks but all it evah says to me is “good-by.” My daughtah's husband has offered me a small allowance, but I will not take their money—no, suh! One wants affection from her daughtah—not charily! Lordy! what a world it is an' what fools we are!'
“'You've been playing ever since you were a little girl, and you're tired.'
“'Yes, I'm tired. I remember how my big brother used to come an' plague me an' break my toys. That is what Death has been doing to me. Wouldn't let me alone. I reckon he saw how foolish I was. I've seen about everything but I think the grandest sight in the world would be some one who was glad to see me. You can't make friends an' be always on the move.'
“I suppose she had come back to Paris to comb the beach for another wreck. But her beauty was gone—so was her occupation of Baby.
“Often, I wonder just how the story is to end—the story of that pathetic woman who was reaping what she had sown—the harvest of the childless mother.
“Well, anyhow, at last, common sense had landed in her intellect. She had never given it a chance before. Hadn't stood still long enough.”