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Page 90
"Don't you think that Shakespeare was a great writer?" she would ask,
with such a pretty little knit of her arched brows that the late
Ignatius Donnelly, himself, had he seen it, could scarcely have saved
his Bacon.
Ileen was of the opinion, also, that Boston is more cultured than
Chicago; that Rosa Bonheur was one of the greatest of women painters;
that Westerners are more spontaneous and open-hearted than Easterners;
that London must be a very foggy city, and that California must be
quite lovely in the springtime. And of many other opinions indicating
a keeping up with the world's best thought.
These, however, were but gleaned from hearsay and evidence: Ileen had
theories of her own. One, in particular, she disseminated to us
untiringly. Flattery she detested. Frankness and honesty of speech
and action, she declared, were the chief mental ornaments of man and
woman. If ever she could like any one, it would be for those
qualities.
"I'm awfully weary," she said, one evening, when we three musketeers
of the mesquite were in the little parlor, "of having compliments on
my looks paid to me. I know I'm not beautiful."
(Bud Cunningham told me afterward that it was all he could do to keep
from calling her a liar when she said that.)
"I'm only a little Middle-Western girl," went on Ileen, "who justs
wants to be simple and neat, and tries to help her father make a
humble living."
(Old Man Hinkle was shipping a thousand silver dollars a month, clear
profit, to a bank in San Antonio.[)]
Bud twisted around in his chair and bent the rim of his hat, from
which he could never be persuaded to separate. He did not know
whether she wanted what she said she wanted or what she knew she
deserved. Many a wiser man has hesitated at deciding. Bud decided.
"Why--ah, Miss Ileen, beauty, as you might say, ain't everything. Not
sayin' that you haven't your share of good looks, I always admired
more than anything else about you the nice, kind way you treat your ma
and pa. Any one what's good to their parents and is a kind of home-
body don't specially need to be too pretty."
Ileen gave him one of her sweetest smiles. "Thank you, Mr.
Cunningham," she said. "I consider that one of the finest compliments
I've had in a long time. I'd so much rather hear you say that than to
hear you talk about my eyes and hair. I'm glad you believe me when I
say I don't like flattery."
Our cue was there for us. Bud had made a good guess. You couldn't
lose Jacks. He chimed in next.
"Sure thing, Miss Ileen," he said; "the good-lookers don't always win
out. Now, you ain't bad looking, of course-but that's nix-cum-rous.
I knew a girl once in Dubuque with a face like a cocoanut, who could
skin the cat twice on a horizontal bar without changing hands. Now, a
girl might have the California peach crop mashed to a marmalade and
not be able to do that. I've seen--er--worse lookers than you, Miss
Ileen; but what I like about you is the business way you've got of
doing things. Cool and wise--that's the winning way for a girl. Mr.
Hinkle told me the other day you'd never taken in a lead silver dollar
or a plugged one since you've been on the job. Now, that's the stuff
for a girl--that's what catches me."
Jacks got his smile, too.
"Thank you, Mr. Jacks," said Ileen. "If you only knew how I
appreciate any one's being candid and not a flatterer! I get so tired
of people telling me I'm pretty. I think it is the loveliest thing to
have friends who tell you the truth."
Then I thought I saw an expectant look on Ileen's face as she glanced
toward me. I had a wild, sudden impulse to dare fate, and tell her of
all the beautiful handiwork of the Great Artificer she was the most
exquisite--that she was a flawless pearl gleaming pure and serene in a
setting of black mud and emerald prairies--that she was--a--a corker;
and as for mine, I cared not if she were as crtiel as a serpent's
tooth to her fond parents, or if she couldn't tell a plugged dollar
from a bridle buckle, if I might sing, chant, praise, glorify, and
worship her peerless and wonderful beauty.
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