Tommy’s face was scarlet, as if he had been struck. He went across the
room, as far as he could get from the telephone, sat down, tried to
smoke a cigarette, and tried to smile carelessly. He had to give it up.
He hid his hot face in his arms, and sat there, amazed, confounded,
utterly overwhelmed, at his own deed and at the awful consequences of
it.
His uncle’s voice he recognized as the voice of the world in general.
That was how he was to be regarded in the future--a cad, a cur, hanging
too good for him. A pariah--he who so valued the good opinion of others!
It was the sort of thing one couldn’t live down, ever. His life was
blasted at its very beginning.
He knew that he could never justify himself. There were the facts in the
newspapers, and he couldn’t deny any of them. How explain, even try to
explain, what lay behind them? He himself didn’t comprehend it. He was
more surprised, more shocked, than any one else could possibly have
been.
He looked at his wrist watch, which lay on the table because it couldn’t
be put on over his bandaged wrist, and saw with dismay that it was only
ten o’clock in the morning. The thought of the hours he would have to
pass, shut up there alone, overwhelmed him. He was ashamed to go out,
even into the corridor. He had already had to face a doctor and the
waiter who had brought up his breakfast, and his raw sensibilities had
made each of these encounters an ordeal.
He imagined a quite preposterous hostility. He was already an outcast,
he was deserted, no one would come or telephone; he had nothing whatever
to do now, or in the future. He looked around the ugly little hotel
bedroom, and he felt that he was in prison, judged and convicted by his
fellow men, and already banished from them.
Nothing to do, but plenty to think of, to recollect, and to examine. He
leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, and tried his honest
best to retrace all the steps of the affair and to discover the true
measure of his guilt.
He remembered every minute detail. He saw himself getting on the train
at the Grand Central, saw himself in the train reading magazines, hoping
that the other passengers admired his clothes and his luggage, and
fearing that they didn’t. He remembered the dust and the heat and the
tedium.
It was late afternoon when he reached Millersburg, and he was gratified
to see from the window that a fair proportion of the population was
assembled to see the New York train arrive. He was confident that he was
causing more or less of a sensation as he descended, with his
irreproachable tweed suit, his imposing eyeglass, and the latest thing
in traveling bags.
He walked leisurely over to a solitary old carriage, climbed in, and
directed the driver to take him to Mr. Van Brink’s. Then he leaned back
carelessly, prepared to review the landscape, when the jolting old
vehicle stopped. They were not yet out of sight of the station, from
whence the natives were still watching his progress.
“Well, what’s wrong?” he asked the old driver. “Horse given out
already?”
“Here ye be!” the driver answered dryly. “Here’s Van Brink’s!”
Tommy knew very well that he was being laughed at by the loungers at the
station, as well as by the old driver, and he liked it no better than
any one else would have liked it; but he was a genuinely good-natured
sort of devil, and he grinned, in spite of a very real chagrin at so
unimposing an arrival.
Having paid the driver lavishly, he walked along the little garden path
before him, and up some steps to a little veranda. The door opened at
once, and a hand reached for his bag.
“Come right in!” entreated a gentle young voice. “This way, please!”
The little house was cool and very dark, every shade pulled down, every
shutter closed. Tommy followed the white dress that was ascending the
stairs, and was presently led into a dim, breezy room, smelling of
verbena.
The white dress flitted over to the window and threw open the shutters.
“There!” she said, looking back over her shoulder and smiling.
That smile! Tommy looked at her, enchanted.
You could see that she was very young, although her figure was almost
matronly--short, full, agreeably rounded. She had calm, clear gray eyes,
fair hair neatly arranged, a rather pale, chubby face with blunt
features, pretty enough; but what was she but a nice, ordinary little
country girl in a calico dress? What was there, or could there be, in
such a young person to arouse the faintest interest in a man of the
world like Tommy?
Ah, it was something to which far more sophisticated souls than his must
have succumbed--a lure so flamboyant, a charm so candidly voluptuous!
She was serenely aware of her carnal fascinations. She was ignorant, but
not without a certain experience, and she had a fatal sort of instinct.
She knew her power, and knew how to employ it.
She looked at Tommy with complete self-possession. She was not in any
way awed by his clothes, his eyeglass, or his magnificent air. Indeed,
it was he who grew red and confused before the calm gaze of the girl in
the calico dress.
“Is there anything you’d like to have, Mr. Ellinger?” she asked
politely. “There’s towels--”
“No, not at all!” protested Tommy, in his best manner. “Thanks awfully,
but there’s nothing.”
The little thing in the white dress went out.
Tommy unpacked his bag, and then, restless and hungry, wandered about
the room, looked out of the window, yawned, whistled, brushed his hair
again, wondered what was expected of him. At last a knock at the door,
and the gentle young voice said:
“Supper’s ready, Mr. Ellinger!”
She was waiting to show him the way to the dining room. She behaved, in
fact, like a very nice little hostess, properly concerned with his
comfort. He liked that, of course, and he liked the supper, too. It was
a novel sort of meal to Tommy--cold meat, fried potatoes, little glass
dishes of preserves and pickles, cakes, pies, strawberries, and coffee,
all on the table together.
Old Van Brink and his wife made no impression on him at all. They were
what he had expected--what they ought to be. He talked to them in his
best manner, genial, very much at ease. He was ingenuously sure that
they were kind and honest people, and that they admired him. All his
interest centered on the calm little thing across the table.
Supper over, Van Brink retired to a rocking-chair with the newspaper,
and his wife began to carry the dishes into the kitchen. The little
thing looked at Tommy.
“Would you like to take a little walk?” she asked. “‘Most every one
does--down to the village.”
“Charmed!” he assured her, with his inane magnificence. “Will you wait
till I get my stick?”
So they set off together down the dark, tree-bordered street. It was
cool and very quiet, with a wistful little breeze stirring in the
leaves.
“Peaceful, isn’t it?” said Tommy contentedly.
“Oh, yes! I hope it will do you good,” the little thing answered
benevolently.
Thanks, said Tommy, there wasn’t much wrong with him--he needed a rest,
that was all.
“Well, you’ll get it, here!” said she, with a deep sigh.
“Why? Not much excitement?”
“Oh, you can’t imagine! Year after year!”
He was sorry for her.
“But you’ll be getting married one of these days,” he assured her
gallantly.
“There’s no one here to marry,” she said.
They had come into the brightly lighted Main Street, and Tommy became
somewhat distrait. He was wondering what sort of impression he was
producing on the natives. They were observing him. He saw girls turn to
stare after him, and a group of youths on a corner snickered as he
passed.
All this pleased him. He swung his stick and strolled on with exquisite
indifference. The little thing, he fancied, must be admiring him
tremendously.
But she wasn’t. He was undoubtedly causing a sensation, this lofty
stranger from the city with his remarkable clothes; but his smooth face
was too innocent, his manner, for all its swagger, too ridiculously
boyish. He was more or less stupid to this maiden accustomed to the
loutish gallantries of the corner loafer, to facile caresses and furtive
advances. He was insipid--“slow,” she called him to herself; but of
course he could be taught.
Coming to Egbert’s Drug Store, they went in, at Tommy’s suggestion, and
each of them had a glass of soda. She did feel a certain triumph then,
at his manners and his handful of change.
It was dark when they returned to the house.
“Would you like to sit on the porch?” she asked. “All right! Let’s bring
the hammock around.”
So they brought the hammock from the little back garden and slung it on
the veranda. They were hidden from the street by a tangle of
honeysuckle. The window behind them was unlighted, and there wasn’t a
sound from the house. They might have been alone in the universe. No one
disturbed them, no one came into sight. There they sat, in the
sweet-scented dark, Tommy on the railing, the little white figure
swaying in the hammock.
“Don’t you want to smoke?” she asked.
“Thanks!” he answered. “Yes, I will, if you don’t mind.”
“If it’s cigarettes, I’d like to have one, please.”
He was surprised and rather offended, because this wasn’t according to
his idea of her.
“Sure it won’t make you sick?” he asked.
“Oh, no!” she answered pleasantly. “We used to smoke at boarding school,
you know.”
He proffered a lighted match, and in its glare he caught a glimpse of
her face, quietly smiling. Again he was fascinated, suddenly,
unexpectedly.
They smoked for some time in silence. Tommy could see her curled up in
the hammock, swinging just a little. All of a sudden she sighed.
“Oh, dear!”
“What is it?”
“Nothing much. For goodness’ sake, Mr. Ellinger, how old are you?”
He tried to laugh in an amused way, but he was chagrined and puzzled by
her tone.
“Why do you want to know?” he inquired.
“Never mind, if you’d rather not say.”
“I’ve no objection to telling you, my--my dear young lady,” he answered,
nettled. “I’m--eighteen.”
“Are you? I’m only sixteen. We’re only kids, aren’t we?”
He didn’t like that. Moreover, he perceived something sinister beneath
the words.
“I suppose so,” he assented, in a tone of paternal indulgence.
“Call me ‘Esther,’” said she. “Don’t let’s be silly! What’s _your_
name?”
He hesitated, and finally decided upon “Tom”; but she, like every one
else, saw the inevitability of “Tommy.”
There was a long silence. Then out of the dark came her calm little
voice.
“Tommy,” she said, “you’re a funny boy!”
“Am I?” he said, with an uneasy laugh.
The situation was quite out of hand now. He didn’t know what was
expected of him as a man of the world. He did know, though, that he was
failing.
“Tommy,” said she, again, “come and sit here, beside me.”
With a quite artificial alacrity he jumped up, went over to her, and sat
down in the hammock, close to her. He called himself a fool, an
imbecile, a contemptible ass.
“I ought to kiss her,” he said to himself, “or put my arm around her, or
at least hold her hand!”
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even talk to her. He wanted, above
everything else in the world, to run away. He was not flattered or in
any way stirred or excited--only miserably ill at ease and instinctively
alarmed. He dared not move, even to turn his head.
At last Esther got up with a sigh.
“Good night, Tommy,” she said. “I hope you’ll sleep well!”
“Thanks,” he answered, feeling utterly foolish and miserable.