Mrs. Dill, Noble's mother, talked of organizing a Young Men's Mothers'
Club against Julia, nevertheless she acknowledged that in one solitary
way Noble was being improved by the experience. His two previous attacks
of love (one at twelve, and the other at eighteen) had been incomparably
lighter, and the changes in him, noted at home, merely a slight general
irritability and a lack of domestic punctuality due to too much
punctuality elsewhere. But, when his Julia Atwater trouble came, the
very first symptom he manifested was a strange new effort to become
beautiful; his mother even discovered that he sometimes worked with
pumice stone upon the cigarette stains on his fingers.
The most curious thing about his condition was that for a long time he
took it for granted that his family did not know what was the matter
with him; and this shows as nothing else could the meekness and tact of
the Dills; for, excluding bad cooks and the dangerously insane, the
persons most disturbing to the serenity of households are young lovers.
But the world has had to accommodate itself to them because young lovers
cannot possibly accommodate themselves to the world. For the young lover
there is no general life of the species; for him the universe is a
delicate blush under a single bonnet. He has but an irritated perception
of every vital thing in nature except the vital thing under this bonnet;
all else is trivial intrusion. But whatever does concern the centrifugal
bonnet, whatever concerns it in the remotest--ah, _then_ he springs to
life! So Noble Dill sat through a Sunday dinner at home, seemingly
drugged to a torpor, while the family talk went on about him; but when
his father, in the course of some remarks upon politics, happened to
mention the name of the county-treasurer, Charles J. Patterson, Noble's
startled attention to the conversation was so conspicuous as to be
disconcerting. Mrs. Dill signalled with her head that comment should be
omitted, and Mr. Dill became, for the moment, one factor in a fairly
clear example of telepathic communication, for it is impossible to
believe that his wife's almost imperceptible gesture was what caused
him to remember that Charles J. Patterson was Julia Atwater's uncle.
That name, Charles J. Patterson, coming thus upon Noble's ear, was like
an unexpected shrine on the wayside where plods the fanatic pilgrim; and
yet Mr. Patterson was the most casual of Julia's uncles-by-marriage: he
neither had nor desired any effect upon her destiny. To Noble he seemed
a being ineffably privileged and fateful, and something of the same
quality invested the wooden gateposts in front of Julia's house;
invested everything that had to do with her. What he felt about her
father, that august old danger, himself, was not only the uncalled-for
affection inevitable toward Julia's next of kin, but also a kind of
horror due to the irresponsible and awful power possessed by a sacred
girl's parent. Florence's offer of protection had not entirely reassured
the young lover, and, in sum, Noble loved Mr. Atwater, but often, in his
reveries, when he had rescued him from drowning or being burned to
death, he preferred to picture the peculiar old man's injuries as
ultimately fatal.
For the other Atwaters his feeling held less of apprehension, more of
tenderness; and whenever he saw one of them he became deferential and a
little short of breath. Thus, on a sunny afternoon, having been home to
lunch after his morning labour downtown, he paused in passing young
Herbert's place of residence and timidly began a conversation with this
glamoured nephew. It happened that during the course of the morning
Herbert had chosen a life career for himself; he had decided to become a
scientific specialist, an entomologist; and he was now on his knees
studying the manners and customs of the bug inhabitants of the lawn
before the house, employing for his purpose a large magnifying lens, or
"reading glass." (His discovery of this implement in the attic,
coincidentally with his reading a recent "Sunday Supplement" article on
bugs, had led to his sudden choice of a vocation.)
"Did somebody--ah, have any of the family lost anything, Herbert?" Noble
asked in a gentle voice, speaking across the fence.
Herbert did not look up, nor did he relax the scientific frown upon his
brow. "No," he said. "They always _are_ losin' things, espesh'ly Aunt
Julia, when she comes over here, or anywheres else; but I wouldn't waste
_my_ time lookin' for any old earrings or such. I got more important
things to do on my hands."
"_Has_ your Aunt Julia lost an earring, Herbert?"
"Her? Well, she nearly always _has_ lost somep'n or other, but that
isn't bother'n' _me_ any. I got better things to do with my time."
Herbert spoke without interrupting his occupation or relaxing his
forehead. "Nacher'l history is a _little_ more important to the
inhabitants of our universe than a lot o' worthless jew'lry, I guess,"
he continued; and his pride in discovering that he could say things like
this was so great that his frown gave way temporarily to a look of
pleased surprise, then came back again to express an importance much
increased. He rose, approached the fence, and condescended to lean upon
it. "I don't guess there's one person in a thousand," he said, "that
knows what they _ought_ to know about our inseck friends."
"No," Mr. Dill agreed readily. "I guess that's so. I guess you're right
about that, Herbert. When did your Aunt Julia lose the earring,
Herbert?"
"I d' know," said Herbert. "Now, you take my own father and mother: What
do they know? Well, mighty little. They may have had to learn a little
teeny bit about insecks when they were in school, but whatever little it
was they went and forgot it proba'ly long before they were married.
Well, that's no way. F'r instance, you take a pinchin' bug: What do you
suppose my father and mother know about its position in the inseck
world?"
"Well----" said Noble uneasily. "Well----" He coughed, and hastened to
add: "But as I was saying, if she lost her earring somewhere in your
yard, or----"
The scientific boy evidently did not follow this line of thought, for he
interrupted: "Why, they wouldn't know a thing about it, and a pinchin'
bug isn't one of the highest insecks at all. Ants are way up compared to
most pinchin' bugs. Ants are way up anyway. Now, you take an ant----" He
paused. "Well, everybody ought to know a lot more'n they do about ants.
It takes time, and you got to study 'em the right way, and of course
there's lots of people wouldn't know how to do it. I'm goin' to get a
book I been readin' about. It's called 'The Ant.'"
For a moment Noble was confused; he followed his young friend's
discourse but hazily, and Herbert pronounced the word "ant" precisely as
he pronounced the word "aunt." The result was that Noble began to say
something rather dreamy concerning the book just mentioned, but,
realizing that he was being misunderstood, he changed his murmur into a
cough, and inquired:
"When was she over here, Herbert?"
"Who?"
"Your Aunt Julia."
"Yesterday evening," said Herbert. "Now, f'r instance, you take a common
lightning-bug----"
"Did she lose it, then?"
"Lose what?"
"Her earring."
"I d' know," said Herbert. "You take the common lightning-bug or, as
it's called in some countries, the firefly----"
He continued, quoting and misquoting the entomological authority of the
recent "Sunday Supplement"; but his friend on the other side of the
fence was inattentive to the lecture. Noble's mind was occupied with a
wonder; he had realized, though dimly, that here was he, trying to make
starry Julia the subject of a conversation with a person who had the
dear privilege of being closely related to her--and preferred to talk
about bugs.
Herbert talked at considerable length about lightning-bugs, but as his
voice happened rather precociously to be already in a state of
adolescent change, the sound was not soothing; yet Noble lingered.
Nephews were queer, but this one was Julia's, and he finally mentioned
her again, as incidental to lightning-bugs; whereupon the mere hearer of
sounds became instantly a listener to words.
"Well, and then I says," Herbert continued;--"I says: 'It's phosphorus,
Aunt Julia.' I guess there's hardly anybody in the world doesn't know
more than Aunt Julia, except about dresses and parasols and every other
useless thing under the sun. She says: 'My! I always thought it was
sulphur!' Said nobody ever _told_ her it wasn't sulphur! I asked her: I
said: 'You mean to sit there and tell me you don't know the difference?'
And she says: 'I don't care one way or the other,' she says. She said
she just as soon a lightning-bug made his light with sulphur as with
phosphorus; it didn't make any difference to her, she says, and they
could go ahead and make their light any way they wanted, _she_ wouldn't
interfere! I had a whole hatful of 'em, and she told me not to take 'em
into their house, because grandpa hates insecks as much as he does
animals and violets, and she said they never owned a microscope or a
magnifying-glass in their lives, and wouldn't let me hunt for one. All
in the world she knows is how to sit on the front porch and say: 'Oh
you don't mean _that!_' to somebody like Newland Sanders or that ole
widower!"
"When?" Noble asked impulsively. "When did she say that?"
"Oh, I d' know," said Herbert. "I expect she proba'ly says it to
somebody or other about every evening there is."
"She does?"
"Florence says so," Herbert informed him carelessly. "Florence goes over
to grandpa's after dark and sits on the ground up against the porch and
listens."
Noble first looked startled then uneasily reminiscent. "I don't believe
Florence ought to do that," he said gravely.
"_I_ wouldn't do it!" Herbert was emphatic.
"That's right, Herbert. I'm glad you wouldn't."
"No, sir," the manly boy declared. "You wouldn't never catch _me_ takin'
my death o' cold sittin' on the damp grass in the night air just to
listen to a lot o' tooty-tooty about 'I've named a star for you,' and
all such. You wouldn't catch me----"
Noble partly concealed a sudden anguish. "Who?" he interrupted. "Who did
she say _that_ to?"
"She didn't. They say it to her, and she says? 'Oh, you don't mean
that!' and of course then they haf to go on and say some more. Florence
says----" He checked himself. "Oh, I forgot! I promised Florence I
wouldn't tell anything about all this."
"It's safe," Noble assured him quickly. "I'm quite a friend of
Florence's and it's absolutely safe with me. I won't speak of it to
anybody, Herbert. Who was it told her he'd named a star for her?"
"It was the way some ole poem began. Newland Sanders wrote it. Florence
found it under Aunt Julia's sofa-cushions and read it all through, but
_I_ wouldn't wade through all that tooty-tooty for a million dollars,
and I told her to put it back before Aunt Julia noticed. Well, about
every day he writes her a fresh one, and then in the evening he stays
later than the rest, and reads 'em to her--and you ought to hear grandpa
when _he_ gets to talkin' about it!"
"He's perfectly right," said Noble. "Perfectly! What does he say when he
talks about it, Herbert?"
"Oh, he says all this and that; and then he kind of mutters around, and
you can't tell just what all the words are exactly, so't he can deny it
if any o' the family accuses him of swearing or anything." And Herbert
added casually: "He was kind of goin' on like that about you, night
before last."
"About _me_! Why, what could he say about _me_?"
"Oh, all this and that."
"But what did he find to say?"
"Well, he heard her tellin' you how you oughtn't to smoke so many
cigarettes and all about how it was killin' you, and you sayin' you
guessed it wouldn't matter if you _did_ die, and Aunt Julia sayin' 'Oh,
you don't mean that,' and all this and such and so on, you know. He can
hear anything on the porch pretty good from the lib'ary; and Florence
told me about that, besides, because she was sittin' in the grass and
all. She told Great-Uncle Joe and Aunt Hattie about it, too."
"My heavens!" Noble gasped, as for the first time he realized to what
trumpeting publicity that seemingly hushed and moonlit bower, sacred to
Julia, had been given over. He gulped, flushed, repeated "My heavens!"
and then was able to add, with a feeble suggestion of lightness: "I
suppose your grandfather understood it was just a sort of joke, didn't
he?"
"No," said Herbert, and continued in a friendly way, for he was
flattered by Noble's interest in his remarks, and began to feel a
liking for him. "No. He said Aunt Julia only talked like that because
she couldn't think of anything else to say, and it was wearin' him out.
He said all the good it did was to make you smoke more to make her think
how reckless you were; but the worst part of it was, he'd be the only
one to suffer, because it blows all through the house and he's got to
sit in it. He said he just could stand the smell of _some_ cigarettes,
but if you burned any more o' yours on his porch he was goin' to ask
your father to raise your salary for collectin' real-estate rents, so't
you'd feel able to buy some real tobacco. He----"
But the flushed listener felt that he had heard as much as he was called
upon to bear; and he interrupted, in a voice almost out of control, to
say that he must be "getting on downtown." His young friend, diverted
from bugs, showed the greatest willingness to continue the narrative
indefinitely, evidently being in possession of copious material; but
Noble turned to depart. An afterthought detained him. "Where was it she
lost her earring?"
"Who?"
"Your Aunt Julia."
"Why, _I_ didn't say she lost any earring," Herbert returned. "I said
she always _was_ losin' 'em: I didn't say she did."
"Then you didn't mean----"
"No," said Herbert, "_I_ haven't heard of her losin' anything at all,
lately." Here he added: "Well, grandpa kept goin' on about you, and he
told her----Well, so long!" And gazed after the departing Mr. Dill in
some surprise at the abruptness of the latter's leave-taking. Then,
wondering how the back of Noble's neck could have got itself so fiery
sunburnt, Herbert returned to his researches in the grass.
* * * * *
The peaceful street, shady and fragrant with summer, was so quiet that
the footfalls of the striding Noble were like an interruption of
coughing in a silent church. As he seethed adown the warm sidewalk the
soles of his shoes smote the pavement, for mentally he was walking not
upon cement but upon Mr. Atwater.
Unconsciously his pace presently became slower for a more concentrated
brooding upon this slanderous old man who took advantage of his position
to poison his daughter's mind against the only one of her suitors who
cared in the highest way. And upon this there came an infinitesimal
consolation in the midst of anguish, for he thought of what Herbert had
told him about Mr. Newland Sanders's poems to Julia, and he had a strong
conviction that one time or another Mr. Atwater must have spoken even
more disparagingly of these poems and their author than he had of Orduma
cigarettes and their smoker. Perhaps the old man was not altogether
vile.
This charitable moment passed. He recalled the little moonlit drama on
the embowered veranda, when Julia, in her voice of plucked harp strings,
told him that he smoked too much, and he had said it didn't matter;
nobody would care much if he died--and Julia said gently that his mother
would, and other people, too; he mustn't talk so recklessly. Out of this
the old eavesdropper had viciously represented him to be a poser, not
really reckless at all; had insulted his cigarettes and his salary.
Well, Noble would show him! He had doubts about being able to show Mr.
Atwater anything important connected with the cigarettes or the salary,
but he _could_ prove how reckless he was. With that, a vision formed
before him: he saw Julia and her father standing spellbound at a
crossing while a smiling youth stood directly between the rails in the
middle of the street and let a charging trolley-car destroy him--not
instantly, for he would live long enough to whisper, as the stricken
pair bent over him: "Now, Julia, which do you believe: your father, or
me?" And then with a slight, dying sneer: "Well, Mr. Atwater, is _this_
reckless enough to suit you?"
* * * * *
Town squirrels flitted along their high paths in the shade-tree branches
above the embittered young lover, and he noticed them not at all, which
was but little less than he noticed the elderly human couple who
observed him from a side-yard as he passed by. Mr. and Mrs. Burgess had
been happily married for fifty-three years and four months. Mr. Burgess
lay in a hammock between two maple trees, and was soothingly swung by
means of a string connecting the hammock and the rocking-chair in which
sat Mrs Burgess, acting as a mild motor for both the chair and the
hammock. "That's Noble Dill walking along the sidewalk," Mrs. Burgess
said, interpreting for her husband's failing eyes. "I bowed to him, but
he hardly seemed to see us and just barely lifted his hat. He needn't be
cross with _us_ because some other young man's probably taking Julia
Atwater out driving!"
"Yes, he need!" Mr. Burgess declared. "A boy in his condition needs to
be cross with everything. Sometimes they get so cross they go and drink
liquor. Don't you remember?"
She laughed. "I remember once!" she assented, and laughed again.
"Why, it's a terrible time of life," her husband went on. "Poets and
suchlike always take on about young love as if it were a charming and
romantic experience, but really it's just a series of mortifications.
The young lover is always wanting to do something dashing and romantic
and Sir Walter Raleigh-like, but in ordinary times about the wildest
thing he can do, if he can afford it, is to learn to run a Ford. And he
can't stand a word of criticism; he can't stand being made the least
little bit of fun of; and yet all the while his state of mind lays him
particularly open to all the things he can't stand. He can't stand
anything, and he has to stand everything. Why, it's a _horrible_ time of
life, mamma!"
"Yes, it is," she assented placidly. "I'm glad we don't have to go
through it again, Freddie; though you're only eighty-two, and with a
girl like Julia Atwater around nobody ought to be sure."