Part 8

“Well, we didn’t care and scrambled into our things and hied us to the theater, while the girls chanted my praises and sang pæans of rejoicing and gratitude. The theater was full when we arrived and everybody was in her most gorgeous things, and we were the haughtiest ever when the usher showed us to our box. Our box! Why, we acted as if we’d always had it for the season. There was a little delay, for some reason, that gave me time to think. The mystery of the tickets puzzled me and was beginning to worry me a little, too. What if there was some mistake and I had rushed into all this with my usual mistaken velocity! The responsibility made me feel a little queer, Mabel, honestly. If it had not been such a frightfully extravagant thing I wouldn’t have thought so much of it. But not many people send thirty dollar tickets around promiscuously among the deserving poor. The girls were as gay as larks, but I couldn’t let myself go some way. They could afford to be gay. They were simply guests, but I,—whose guest was I? It was sort of getting on my nerves when a little diversion came. Six dashing young men came into the theater and stood talking to the usher. They were quite different from the men about here and created a sensation. Any one could see they were strangers and we all wondered where they got their beautiful clothes. One seemed to be the head of the party and he was having quite a lengthy consultation with the usher, so we had a good look at them. We were staring with all our eyes, I dare say, when suddenly that first young man lifted his head from talking to the usher and looked straight into our box—looked not casually and accidentally but deliberately and prolongedly, Mabel, and I began to feel my hat was wrong when he turned back to the usher and shook his head decidedly. Then the usher looked at us and my heart jumped right up into my new stock. It was something about those awful tickets and perhaps there was something the matter and they would come and turn us out of the box. What would the girls do to me and what would the people think and who was that man and who was responsible for the tickets? I was beginning to wish I had never heard of “The Golden Quest” and was sure I couldn’t stand it till the third act, when the usher and the man turned around and went out to the box office. Something was going to happen. What could I do? Here were the five girls at the heights of bliss and anticipation, and here was I in the depths of anxious misery, and there were the five young men staring coolly around, waiting for their friend, and there was the man out at the box office probably demanding that I be seized and turned with my friends into the streets. But what could I do? It wasn’t my fault, for the tickets had been sent to me, surely. Perhaps they had been stolen and sent to me as a revenge from some inhuman enemy. I thought of everything, Mabel, and then the man came back, collected his friends and the whole party with their usher at their head, came down the side aisle toward our box. I had just time to arrange my sad story and be thankful I had on my best hat when they reached the curtains of our box. I started up, but, Mabel, they went right on to the next box and sat down. I breathed again, but not very freely, for surely that man knew something about our box, or was my guilty conscience causing me hallucinations? Yet why guilty? What had I done? Apparently the worst was over now, but I was not at ease and thought the incident might at any moment repeat itself with different results. There was a blare of orchestra and the curtain went up; after one hurried glance at the stage I glued my eye to the door again. Fifteen minutes passed and nothing happened and so I turned around—turned to look into the interested eyes of the man in the other box. Perhaps he was a detective and watching me, but he didn’t look a bit like that, though he had quite a different look from the one a man ordinarily gives a girl in a pretty hat. My hat was very pretty—you remember the big black one—but it didn’t justify, the inquiring interest with which he regarded me. Yet he did not stare. Really he did not, Mabel, but was very decent. I looked at the stage now but sort of felt him there some way, and had a little feeling about the door, too, so I wasn’t very comfortable. When the curtain went down on the first act I expected to have a swarm of irate claimants for the box swoop down upon me, but not a soul appeared, and surely no one would come after that. I took the little envelope out of my bag and looked at it again. Nothing but 1229 Second on it—in pencil—. That was our number all right. Then something struck me. It was just 1229 Second, and ours is 1229 West Second. But after all that could make little difference, as heaps of our things come out marked that way and there is rarely a mistake, as Aunt Myra’s, by some freak of fate, is 1229 East Second, and everybody knows us both and knows which is which. The only accident that ever happened was that awful thing about Mme. Durant and the bridesmaid’s hat—you remember that? That incident made me notice the address, but I could not explain the mystery that way, for no theater tickets like these could ever have been sent to Aunt Myra’s respectable door. These were the things I pondered and puzzled while the play went merrily on. I didn’t see or hear much of it and I don’t believe that man in the box saw much more. He seemed to be pondering something, too.

“At last the thing was over and the crowd trooped out—among them the five young men and _the_ man. You would have called him _the_ man, too, Mabel, for he was quite different from the rest. Such shoulders and such a carriage! He held his head as if he were commanding an army or a yacht. Yet when we passed them in the corridor outside the box he bowed with such respectful humility. He was awfully impressive, but I was too much troubled to consider him long.

“The girls were wild with enthusiasm, so I suppose the play was really good. Anyway the girls were so full of admiration and adjectives that it was very easy to slip away from them a minute. I stepped to the box office and inquired about those tickets. The man was very polite, but didn’t know anything except that they had been ordered by ’phone to be sent to that address. They had been sent, but the man who said he had ordered them arrived shortly before the matinee and said they had not come. The usher assured him they must have been delivered for they had been presented just a few minutes before, and he showed the man the box. Whereupon the man paid for the tickets and procured another box. The man in the box office was very calm about it as he had his money, but I wasn’t. I told him I had gotten the tickets by mistake and must pay for them. He said he had been paid. I tried to show him I must pay, but he seemed to think me very foolish and said if I paid anyone I must pay the man who bought the tickets. I said that was what I wanted to do, but couldn’t he do it for me. He said he couldn’t as he had no idea who the man was or where he could be found. But if I could get the address he would gladly forward the money through the theater. He had begun to look as if he thought it a joke, so I had to be satisfied with that and went back to the girls.”

“But, Cora, what would you have done if he had said, ‘Oh, yes; Mr. Z. is one of our regular patrons. If you will give me the money I’ll give you a receipt and reimburse him.’ You didn’t have your chatelaine full of bills, did you? I suppose you would have passed your gold handled umbrella through the window and given that to the man as a token of your grateful esteem.”

“I haven’t the remotest idea what I would have done if he had asked for the money. As it was, I became from that hour a man-hunter. It has its fascinations as a pastime but is discouraging in its results. My method has its limitations. My only hope is that he can’t escape the girls long and I’ll soon hear of him again. I’m praying I may hear of him before I meet him face to face. Wouldn’t it be ghastly, Mabel, if at a crush some time my hostess should suddenly confront me with this man—and he would cry, ‘This is the young person who defrauded me of thirty dollars worth of matinee tickets?’ Only I know he would never denounce me openly. He would just wither me with silent scorn. Yet he didn’t look withering Saturday. Why on earth didn’t he give me a chance to straighten things out then and there?”

“Yes, it would have been so much more comfortable if he had demanded an explanation as the curtain went down and your guests turned to thank you. No, Cora, I think he did the only thing to do and did it beautifully. His effacement of himself shows he has a heart of gold. Most men would have left some chance to be thanked, any way. Still, it is embarrassing for you. However, I would not look too hard for him till my next allowance came. Your father would never understand this delicate situation.”

“Father! Heavens, no! Not a soul knows but you and the box office man, and I know you understand, don’t you, dear? Isn’t it awful—but isn’t it interesting? I wish you could have seen the man. And I do wish your ankle was well enough to permit of your going about with me, for I know I shall faint when I see him again.”

Cora glanced at her absurd little watch, and jumped to her feet. “Goodness, nearly five, and I’m due at Aunt Myra’s for dinner at seven. It is to meet that nephew of hers and a missionary or two, probably. I hate to waste the time, because if I were somewhere else I might get a clue to my man.”

“So you haven’t met the nephew yet?”

“No, indeed; Aunt wanted to give Caddie a good chance at him first, because she wants Caddie to have what is left after he builds the chapel. As if I would look at the solemn prig.”

“How do you know he is a prig?”

“Because Aunt Myra likes him. Caddie won’t look at him, either, though, because her eyes are full of that downy little theologue, and all Aunt Myra’s talk against worldliness is going to rebound upon her own head. Is that a mixed metaphor? Anyway, Caddie has set her affections on things above and wouldn’t look twice at a million. Good-bye, dear. This burst of confidence has eased my nerves wonderfully, and I’ll come again the instant I find a clue and tell you all about it. You are the only relative I have that does not think me shocking, and I love you—good-bye.” An airy kiss and she was gone, leaving a faint suggestion of violets behind her fluttering veils.

It was half past nine the next morning and Mabel was having coffee and rolls in bed when in rushed Cora, radiant, glowing, and evidently bursting with news.

Mabel rose on her elbow.

“Cora, you have found him!”

Cora settled herself in a fluffy pink heap on the foot of the bed.

“Now, it’s not fair unless you let me tell you the whole affair just as it happened.”

“All right, but do hurry.”

“Well,” began Cora, then paused long enough to remove her hat carefully, toss it beside her on the bed, and pat her little fingers over the most obstreperously crinkly waves around her face. “Well,” she said, “when I got home last night I began right away to dress for Aunt Myra’s. Daddy sent word to tell her he couldn’t come because a business friend had just arrived. Daddy’s friends always arrive just about an hour before Aunt Myra’s dinners. I think he keeps a corps of them just for such emergencies. Then I was nearly late trying to decide whether I’d wear that black chiffon that I can’t afford to throw away just yet, or my sweet new pale green and make the missionaries dream of other worlds than theirs. I finally decided on the green because the other fastens in the back and Jane had a terrible toothache. So I wore the green, and of course that horrid little opal pin Aunt Myra gave me, but it didn’t show much.

“Aunt received me with her usual sanctimonious frigidity and inquired after my health. We sat in stony silence for a few minutes. Caddie was sitting by the window but there were no missionaries about. Finally the clock struck seven. We had waited only three minutes but I was already frozen to my chair. When the clock struck Aunt Myra turned to Caddie and said:

“‘Where is your cousin Robert?’

_I_ should have asked if I were my cousin’s keeper, but Caddie is meek and said he had been detained down town and was dressing, she thought.

“‘Your cousin seems to have no regard for a regular family life,’ said Aunt accusingly, and stalked out, evidently to drag the culprit to his dinner. I knew by the way she shoved the relationship off on Caddie that she didn’t approve of her nephew, and so I thought he might prove a possible person, after all.

“The minute Aunt had closed the door after her Caddie rushed over to me and began to whisper. She is a sweet little thing, but suppressed beyond belief.

“‘Oh, Cousin Cora,’ she said, ‘I have been dying to tell some one and you will be just the one to understand. It is the most exciting thing! Poor Cousin Robert isn’t a bit like us and he has a dreadful time with Mamma. He hasn’t been brought up in our way, but lives in New York in such a worldly family, and he doesn’t think anything of dancing and the theater, and he even plays cards. He seems very nice, though, and as long as that is the way he was taught I don’t know that he is to blame. But Mamma preaches at him all the time and he escapes whenever he can politely, because he is always considerate, even when Mamma is the worst. He has been lovely to me and I told him all about Clifford and he is going to help us. Well, he told me his troubles, too. A lot of his college friends came through here the other day and he couldn’t invite them to the house, because he knew Mamma wouldn’t approve of them, so he gave a little lunch down town somewhere and invited them to go to some play. He ’phoned for the tickets early in the morning and they were to come here, but they didn’t come, so he said he would get them at the theater. Well, Cora, he got home just in time for dinner and was so excited, and afterwards he took me into the library and told me all about it. There was some mistake about the tickets for they had been used already and the people were in the box—,’ Mabel, it would sound awfully silly for me to tell you all she said he said.”

“Go on,” said Mabel, sternly; “I must hear all.”

“Well, Caddie said he said it was the mistake of his life for it showed him the sweetest girl in the world. And then she told me a lot of stuff like that and wound up by asking me if I’d help her find the girl for him, because he had vowed he would spend the rest of his life looking, if necessary, and if she helped him he would see that Clifford had the new chapel. She was explaining it all to me when in came her Cousin Robert. He stopped short, and I was the color of that cushion. Caddie didn’t notice, but introduced us and told Mr. Page that she was sure I could help him in his search, as the girl was probably in my set. He looked hard at me and said he thought I might be able to help him—and, Mabel, I was awfully glad I had on that green. And Caddie said, ‘Tell Cousin Cora what the girl was like, Robert,’—and Mabel, that man had the brazen effrontery to do it. He looked me straight in the eye and told me what he thought of my hair and eyes and nose and even my clothes. And Aunt Myra came in and was displeased. Caddie had told her something of the matinee experience, and Aunt said severely, ‘Are you still discussing that impudent creature at the theater? I should think it would have been enough to have seen her at such a place without her being there on stolen tickets!’ So we dropped the matinee girl, to my infinite relief. When I rose to go home Mr. Page insisted upon accompanying me and told Aunt Myra he hoped to interest me in the plans for the chapel. And on the way home, Mabel, he didn’t allude to the matinee and I hated to drag it in. He kept talking about that chapel and said he wanted me to help him with the architect’s plans, as he wished my opinion on it because I might have to go there some time. He expected to. I suppose he was just talking to kill time. He said he was nearly dead from an excess of virtue that came from staying with Aunt Myra a week, and wouldn’t I please, as one heathen to another, ask him to tea? So he is coming this afternoon, Mabel. What do you think of it all, anyway?”

“I think it is beautiful and just what I always expected, Cora, and I shall order my hat of Mme. Durant.”

“O, you horrid thing!” and Cora buried her rosy face in the counterpane.

THE OLD ORDER PASSETH.

BY GRACE McGOWAN COOKE.

I can’t read, yit I knows de Book, As you won’t never know it. “You reads a chapter every day?” Well, honey, you don’t show it.

Now, gal, you lay it by, an’ sing De hymn I loves de best, ‘Bout de wicked cease dey troublin’, An’ de weary be at rest.

De wicked—dat’s dese new style folks, Pleased wid de things dey see, Wid ruffled caps an’ uppish ways,— And de weary—dat is me!

SOURCES OF SOUTHERN WEALTH.

By Austin P. Foster.

In the undeveloped resources of the South lie dormant the possibilities of fortune that “far surpass the wealth of Ormus or of Ind.” For more than two centuries the incomparable climate and soil of this section have commanded the admiration of the world; and during this period fortunes were amassed purely by agriculture, mainly in the last century by cotton, and were handed down from father to son, until the corner stone of the industrial system was wrenched loose by a fratricidal war, and anarchy for a time supervened. As Henry Watterson pithily puts it: “The whole story of the South may be summed up in a sentence: She was rich, and she lost her riches; she was poor and in bondage; she was set free, and she had to go to work; she went to work, and she is richer than ever before.”

Yet what a change from the happy years of ante-bellum prosperity, when the South was by far the wealthiest section of the country, to the desolation, the poverty and the criminal oppression of reconstruction times! After four years of the most sanguinary strife in the history of the world the Southern soldier took up the battle of existence and of maintenance and of rehabilitation. Let Henry W. Grady tell the situation:

“What does he find when, having followed the battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half so much as surrender, he reaches the home he left prosperous and beautiful? He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves free, his stock killed, his barn empty, his trade destroyed, his money worthless; his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very traditions gone; without money, credit, employment, material training; and besides all this, confronted with the gravest problem that ever met human intelligence—the establishing of a status for the vast body of his liberated slaves.

“What does he do—this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. The soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had charged Federal guns marched before the plow, and fields that ran red with human blood in April were green with the harvest in June; women reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made breeches for their husbands, and, with a patience and heroism that fit women always as a garment, gave their hands to work.”

None but people whose civilization has never had its equal in chivalric power and grace, whose ability of mind and strength of heart were derived from the purest Anglo-Saxon blood, could have restored their fortune and excelled the material welfare of its past as have the people of the South within the short expanse of forty years.

In its struggles for advancement the South has known, and still knows, two problems:

First, its duty to an inferior, dependent race; and second, its duty to industrial development.

In its conscious and its unconscious evolution and in its conscious and its unconscious solutions of these problems the South has been favored by certain material and climatic advantages:

It possesses by nature the fairest and richest domain on the face of the earth. Here we find a vast stock of the materials proper for the art and ingenuity of man to work upon; treasures of immense worth, concealed from the ignorant aboriginal red man, unknown or neglected by the planter, and utilized only within the last thirty years. Now the rocks are disclosing their hidden gems; huge mountains of iron and coal and limestone, of lead and zinc and marble and phosphate, are pouring forth vast stores; and more than one-half the timber wealth of the entire country is found within the Southern states conserved in virgin forests and reserved for the present and for the coming generations. The South produces two-thirds of the cotton of the world. The water power is enormous and perennial, and the commercial situation relative to the world is unequalled. Of the four essentials to all industries, therefore, iron, wood, cotton and motive power, the South is abundantly blessed. Add to these a perfect climate and a fertile soil which yields every product of the temperate zone, and who shall deny to the South the primacy in the years to come?

The remarkable results effected in the South since the war between the States have been attained principally in the last twenty-five years. Statistics, which are often dry and uninteresting, in this case prove the argument most conclusively.

The wages paid to factory hands in the South, which in 1880 were $75,900,000, had risen to $249,413,150 in 1900, and are now $350,000,000 annually.

The capital invested in manufacturing in the South in 1880 was $257,000,000; in 1900, $1,153,002,368, and now $1,500,000,000, annually, and rapidly increasing.

The value of its manufactured products in 1880 was $457,400,000; in 1900, $1,463,643,177, and now $2,000,000,000.

In the last twenty-five years the increases of other important products were:

Pig iron from 397,000 tons to 3,000,000 tons.

Coal from 6,000,000 tons to 45,000,000 tons.

Phosphate (since 1890), from 750,000 tons to 3,000,000 tons.

Railroad mileage, from 20,600 miles to 55,000 miles.

Cotton, from 5,757,397 bales to 12,162,000 bales.

The grain crop (corn, wheat, oats and rye), from 431,000,000 bushels to 791,000,000 bushels.

These facts are impressive, convincing and full of hope for the future.

The value of the staple crops—corn, wheat, oats, Irish potatoes, rye and hay—in 1904 was $542,121,000; the value of the other farm crops was $550,000,000; and the value of the cotton not less than $515,000,000, besides the cotton seed, amounting to $50,000,000 more. All this amounts to an aggregate sum of $3,657,121,000, earned annually by the South from the sources indicated, not including the lumber and other raw material, which, amounting to hundreds of millions of dollars, leave the South annually for all the parts of the habitable globe.