Loneliness wages a Fabian warfare. It is likewise a craven. At the
slightest opposition it turns tail and flees, frequently to steal back
furtively and lurk slinking in the vicinity, clouding it. Only on rare
occasions does it boldly come out and proclaim itself.
Another week had passed. Joe was finding leisure. And in leisure there
are echoes, as in all vast vaulted spaces, where slight sounds linger
reverberating and faint shadows stretch away to void. There was time
to see the drabness of his boarding place, so he changed it. The
change cost him more money and left him more leisure. He took his
meals wherever he happened to be. The town was full of people, kindly
enough, but each with his own circle of interests. To some of these he
sold motor cars. There would be a short period of contact, then that
would pass and the customer would slip into the whirlpool of casuality
and be swept away. None of the relationships seemed to last. Each one
left him more alone than ever.
He ran across Mrs. LeMasters. Mrs. LeMasters was an ancient lady with
a penchant for lavender. The day he called on her she was wearing a
flowered dress with a sash, with bits of lace about the neck and
cuffs. She put on a bonnet of lavender straw before the glass in her
front hall and bound it to her by yards of voluminous cream tulle,
wrapped under her chin and about her neck with trembling fingers.
"Does it blow much in your car?" she called to him in a quavery voice.
He assured her that it was quite desirably calm.
"The Stokes car is most delightful," she said. "Just like sitting in
my own room. Not the sign of a bump--and I could not realize we had
been going twenty-five miles an hour."
He smiled politely. "We'll see what this one will do."
"I've been struggling to keep off this evil hour for, oh, so long,"
she explained as she followed him timidly down the walk to the curb.
"It was a terrible thing when the world went mad for haste and now has
to be jerked around from place to place without ever drawing a sane
breath. I've two horses and three carriages, one a Victoria that I
bought in Paris. What am I going lo do with these if I buy your car,
Mr. Hooper? Oh, what a pretty car!"
She narrowed her sharp little eyes--she was quite near sighted--and
stepped out into the street and around the rear of the automobile,
caught sight of her image in the back panel, came around and felt of
the leather in the seat, rubbed the polished surface of the bow
socket as though she had bought motors for years. Then she turned to
Joe: "And the engine? Is it a good engine?"
"It is guaranteed to be the best." And then he went on quietly to tell
her a few of the more spectacular things about it. He did not overdo
it.
As he was speaking she was watching his face with a dreamy, vague
expression on her wrinkled features. When he had finished, she
brightened and laid her hand on his arm. "And now let's go for a nice
ride." She was as enthusiastic as a girl. "I'm sure this is a nice
car."
They went out in the country a short distance, out on the Bloomfield
pike. She found he was from Bloomfield and trilled away in a high,
shrill cackle that she loved every stick and stone in that adorable
country. And when she found that he was the nephew of Mrs. Mosby, or,
rather, Loraine Fawcette, that was, her ecstasy knew no bounds.
"Why, I took Tom LeMasters away from her," she giggled, and leaned
over with her wrinkled and scented face close to his, grasping him by
the arm.
After that they were bosom friends. He told her about Bloomfield as it
came back to him, rhapsodized over its meadows and woods and "purling
streams," and felt a rising desire to taste its joys again. And all
the while his voice would fall on deaf ears and her eyes would take on
a misty look as though peering down dark, dusty corridors; and
interrupting him, she would recall the circumstances of some famous
party, summoning forth the creaking images of old men and women,
yellow and withering, some of them long dead.
The afternoon passed swiftly away. They found themselves in a bit of
lane that dipped down into a little grove of trees, just as the sun
was gathering his cohorts for departure. A breath of fragrant breeze,
heavy laden with clover and sweet with the stretch of cool, moist
shade through which it had passed, came sweeping across the road, and
the sounds of a farm hand whetting his scythe. Through a rift in the
trees appeared a patch of delicate blue sky and the edge of a rosy
cloud. Mrs. LeMasters came to the wistful end of an alluring and musty
reminiscence and gazed regretfully at the tawdry beauties of the
present. Then she turned her eyes upon Joe, and with a sigh that was
sodden with romance: "How could you ever bear to leave that adorable
spot?"
Joe smiled in mellow acquiescence and almost agreed with her.
Of course, the Stokes car never had a chance. Before he took his leave
of her he had her signed order for a "Sedan" for immediate delivery.
And she grasped his hand and held it, leaning coyly close. "We're
going to have some wonderful times this fall. We'll drive to
Bloomfield, just you and I. And what am I going to do about a
chauffeur? What will I ever do with a strange creature who cares for
nothing but speed? Why don't you stay with me and drive for me? We'll
just not stay home a minute."
He temporized, laughing, and finally tore himself away. And when he
stepped from the car outside of Blake's Restaurant and was met by a
blast of hot air, laden with the breath of fried onions, he felt
himself very much alone. He ate his supper dreamily and
retrospectively. The vacant chair across the little table added to the
plaintiveness. He had liver and onions and a chocolate eclair and felt
that he needed a woman to look after him.
He got in the car and drove slowly south. When he came to Lytle Street
he turned off to the right. It was not quite dark and people passing
on the pavement seemed to him to peer out at him. He felt
self-conscious and slowed down the car still more till he barely crept
along, with headlights blazing two bright paths before him. Myrtle
Macomber had told him he might come and he did not wish to seem to be
too eager. But as he sought his bearings, watching the unfamiliar
fronts of houses and clumps of shade, he suffered little tremblings of
expectancy in spite of his restraint.
Directly the house appeared; he had no difficulty in recognizing it.
It stood out bleakly against the evening sky, with its pointed cupola
thrust upward like a warning finger, with its wooden fence and gate.
It bad no modest shrouding of trees and bushes in the shadow of which
one might veil one's entrance. For a moment he was afraid lest he be
too early, so he alighted, switched off the lamps, and proceeded
across the pavement to the gate very slowly. Then from the shelter of
the vines on the side porch he heard the hum of voices and a laugh.
Grasping his dignity firmly like a walking stick, he stalked up the
pavement to the house.
Myrtle came to meet him. The dim outline of her in her filmy dress and
the elusive scent of her presence stirred him again. Her voice was
gentle as she laughed a greeting and she gave his hand an
imperceptible squeeze as he came up the steps. His stiffness vanished,
but the sound of voices from back in the shadow disturbed him. An
absurd personality crowded to his lips as she led him forward, but he
repressed it.
He was introduced. There was quite a crowd assembled and in the dark
he was conscious of only a blob of faces and the grip of one hand that
was quite too hot. Even in the dark he felt embarrassed, as the
conscious caller exposed nakedly to the world. What had she done this
for? It was not too considerate of her. Perhaps it was purely
accidental. He began to speculate on how soon the crowd might break
up, and found himself dangling uncomfortably on the porch railing
close beside the chair of a shadowy girl who was buried in its depths.
He could look down into the place where he imagined her face might
be. He was quite close to her and in the jabber of voices she was
silent. No one seemed to pay him the slightest attention, and his
interest mounted in a growing intimacy of silence with this girl in
the chair. A door opened and he saw Myrtle's figure pass across the
room within and busy herself with something on the table. In the faint
light that now pervaded the porch he again peered down at the figure
beside him. Instantly the glamour vanished. The face he saw was thin
and sharp, with hair slicked back from the forehead and narrow,
slanting sharp eyes. He caught a glimpse of neck and shoulders above a
brazen filmy waist, and in the splash of light and shadow there was no
softness of contour, but cruel bones and hollows.
"Think you'll know me next time?" came a harsh voice and a laugh, and
he straightened up and murmured an apology. He felt very much
embarrassed and disturbed. His mellow complacence had fled
precipitately. In his ears sounded the rattle of personalities. It was
as harsh and as constant and as senseless as machine-gun fire. At
least he could make an early "get-away."
Myrtle came and stood beside him from somewhere in the darkness. The
tip of her little finger barely touched his hand as she stood there,
leaning against the railing and firing back some "chaff" into the
darkness. There came a lull in the chatter and Joe was feeling a bit
mollified. Suddenly, before he realized it, the crowd was leaving,
and one by one they filed past him, each bidding good-night. There was
the thin girl in the chair, then two boys who were entirely
nondescript, with noisy throats cut out of the same copper plate, a
soft billowy shadow of a woman under a floppy hat and exuding a
ghastly sweet, cloying perfume. Her bare arm was as soft and flabby as
jelly as she stretched it out to Myrtle. After her came another man,
rather hesitantly, and keeping in the shadow. His voice was good,
rather deep, rather strong. As he passed, he called Joe by name.
Twisting around in the light, Joe saw that it was Hawkins, one of the
owners of the "Kum-quik Tire Company," a rather taciturn, solemn sort
of man to do business with. Joe was surprised.
In a moment they were all gone and the porch was dark and still. Their
passage was as inexplicable as their presence had been. A dim band of
light lay across the floor of the porch and Myrtle stood before him,
facing him. He could not see her face.
"Well?" she said, as though she had known him for years.
"Well?" he echoed uncertainly. Her tone had implied a question or
perhaps it was a suggestion. She stood quite motionless; he could have
reached out his hand and put it on her shoulder, "Suppose we go for a
ride," he suggested lamely, not feeling quite sure of himself, feeling
that perhaps it was not just the thing to propose on his first call.
For a moment she made no answer, but stood there looking at him. He
could feel rather than see the fixity of her gaze. Suddenly she
tripped away from him and ran into the house, calling back over her
shoulder, "Have to get a wrap. Be back in a minute."
After they had started he regretted the suggestion. It had shut off
the prospect of a languorous evening. It was not in harmony with his
mood; he had much rather loll back on a bench and steep himself in
musings.
Accordingly, he turned away from town, keeping on quiet back streets.
He did not even ask her where she wanted to go. The night was soft and
dark with a sky that hung low like black velvet in which was sprinkled
a soft studding of stars. The air wrapped about them, lazy and warm;
it was not like night air at all. There was a peculiar exotic feel to
it which kept the senses in a state of semi-coma yet alive to the
slightest change. Joe half closed his eyes and leaned back against the
cushion like an old cat getting her back scratched. The soft perfume
of the girl's hair, the delicious mystery of the impenetrable sky
above them, the caress of the air, all seemed to have been provided
for his own especial enjoyment. He was suddenly exultant that he had
escaped the house, that he was out and beneath the sky, and above all,
that he had someone with him. The feeling of unfulfillment that had
wracked him constantly was giving way. He imagined a sort of
proprietary right to the conditions about him. Luxury, ease, pleasure,
all that rolling along underneath those stars with an exquisite,
beautiful thing beside him was symbolical of, seemed justly to have
fallen to his lot. The dull, unfathomable ache of suppressed desire
had vanished and he was complacent.
"Well," a voice startled him. "Aren't you ever coming back to earth?"
He was suddenly confused.
"I don't think it's a bit nice, carrying me off and then thinking
about some other girl. Aren't you ever going to say a word?"
He recovered and found that they had travelled about two blocks. The
spell faded. He regained mastery of himself. "I've been waitin' for
permission to speak. Yon only said I might take you for a ride." He
turned and gave her a personal look.
"Where are you taking me then?" Her liveliness seemed to be returning.
"Do you have to have permission for everything you do?"
"I'm not sure," said Joe. "We're goin' to take a look at the river.
That's my own idea."
"How'd you know I wanted to? Perhaps I had rather do something else."
He looked at her suddenly, but before he could speak, she leaned
toward him impulsively and laid her hand on his shoulder. "There, I
was just kidding. There's nothing in the world I'd rather do. It's a
heavenly night. And I like you for your silence. It takes a real
person to be still at the right time. Go ahead and dream all you want.
It's heavenly."
She removed her hand, but in some way she seemed to remain nearer to
him than she had been. A little, delightful shudder of appreciation
ran through him. He no longer felt isolated. The proprietary sense was
growing stronger.
They wound in and out in a devious path, for the streets in the
eastern part of the city were laid out in accordance with whim and not
by plan. And the rows of cottages lining the streets had acquired
something of mystery from the canopy of night, and even the squalid
sheds that appeared on the edge of the city's virility were wrapped in
a shadow that loaned them charm. There came a short stretch of
hedge-encompassed road and a damp musty smell of water, beyond, in the
blackness on both sides. Then they rolled out upon a clattering
bridge, turned a corner, and before them lay the river.
Joe slowed down the car. A tiny light flashed and then lay stretching
its rays in a yellow ripple out into a blue-black immensity. A shadow,
beyond it and entirely detached, appeared drifting slowly, and passed
them, an empty "plop-plop" following vaguely in its wake. The road
turned again, a little to the left this time, and swishing branches
brushed the car, and then almost at their feet stretched away to the
left a broad, black, moving shadow, matching the sky and studded
likewise by tiny pin-pricks of light. Ahead, unwound the road, a
straight ghostly ribbon fading away into a giant's mouth, and softly
swept down upon them the river wind, almost imperceptible in its
rustling and a little chill. Joe felt a quiver of happiness.
"You're the noisiest man I ever knew," interrupted Myrtle plaintively.
"Ooh! This place gives me the creeps."
He could feel the warmth of her and he laughed. "Swampy here a bit
from the creek bottom. Up ahead it is higher and better. That crowd
all come to see you? You shouldn't have run them away."
"Oh, it was time they were going. They knew I wanted to see you." He
could almost feel her eyes and felt that she was making a play for
him. It was a new and pleasing experience.
"So you really did, did you? I'm flattered."
There was a coaxing, cloying note in her voice when she spoke
directly, that in some way coincided with the breath of the night and
the feel of that velvet sky. He got her to talk just to hear the sound
of her voice and she chattered on for a while about airy nothings that
vibrated pleasantly in his ear: told him about a trip she had just had
up to the Indiana lakes, regretted the ruining of a summer frock on a
boating party, asked him his opinion of the necessity of chaperones
on picnics. There was a suggestion of deference in her manner as well
as lightness, a quality that stirred him a little more pleasantly even
than the other qualities. She was different from others he knew.
They mounted a slight rise in the road and then dipped into a cool
hollow fringed about by the shadows of willows. She paused suddenly in
her recital and gave a little ecstatic cry. Seizing his arm she
pointed. Over beyond, through a gap in the willows, lay a stretch of
shadowy river meadow reaching back for a great distance to the second
rise and fringed about its edge by even blacker shadows. And above it
danced a million fire-flies weaving ceaselessly to and fro, waving
their soft lanterns. They hung, a cloud of twinkling radiance, upon a
soft black curtain.
"Oh, stop the car," cried Myrtle. "The lovely things! Let's watch 'em
from here."
For some moments neither spoke. They were drawn up to one side of the
road partly in the shelter of the willows that lined it and it was
snug and pleasant and warm. The light breeze could not reach them. Joe
felt exalted. In this communion of spirit he was experiencing
something entirely new. It was as though he had known her always. He
could feel sure about her. She liked the things he liked. She was
alive and she was not aloof. There was a joy in living; she felt it
and he felt it. And she was sitting very close. With an easy
stretching of cramped muscles he slid his arm along the back of the
seat and let it slip carelessly about her shoulder. There was a moment
of delicious freedom and relaxation, of kindliness and friendliness
and a thousand other little sensations, to say nothing of a spark of a
thrill--when she moved easily forward, contracting her shoulders.
"Let's go," she said dully.
Instantly the illusion vanished. Back into his self-belittling he
slipped and was silent. Away fled the ease and complacency, and the
wind came up from the river and chilled his ankles.
A moment later she asked him quite brightly, "_What_ do you do?"
He had been thinking upon his sin and was startled at the casualness
of the question. He laughed, a bit nervous. "Why, didn't you know?
What'd you imagine?"
"Of course I don't know. Run some sort of plant, I would guess."
"Nope," he replied, and his voice had not the low, ringing assurance
he might have wished, but was a little too loud, a little too high.
"Nothing but this car."
"I don't understand," she replied. "How do you mean?"
"I'm selling 'em. This is a demonstrator, and I am responsible for
it."
"Oh, I see--well--isn't that nice!"
And somehow from that time on the evening grew chilly and less
pleasant and clouds came up and obscured the soft velvet sky. In a
very few minutes they turned about and went home.
She bid him a casual good-night.
When he climbed the stairs to his room about thirty minutes later,
they seemed endless. His breath was coming short as he gained the top
and a vast, sudden, sickening weariness swooped down upon his body and
consumed it. As he passed the open window in the hall the night breeze
made him shiver and he went chattering to bed. He pulled the covers up
beneath his chin and realized that he had made a fool of himself,
which somehow didn't matter much; realized that he was alone--just as
much alone as ever--which mattered quite a lot. All this and the chill
shivering and the vast, aching weariness. He fell asleep and dreamed
of desolate wastes and wanderings and parching heat.