“He had to go up-stairs,” said Jane. And as the stricken listener above
smote his forehead, she added placidly, “He tore a hole in his clo'es.”
She seemed about to furnish details, her mood being communicative, but
Mrs. Baxter led the way into the “living-room”; the hall was vacated,
and only the murmur of voices and laughter reached William. What
descriptive information Jane may have added was spared his hearing,
which was a mercy.
And yet it may be that he could not have felt worse than he did; for
there IS nothing worse than to be seventeen and to hear one of the
Noblest girls in the world told by a little child that you sat on the
cakes and tore a hole in your clo'es.
William leaned upon the banister railing and thought thoughts about
Jane. For several long, seething moments he thought of her exclusively.
Then, spurred by the loud laughter of rivals and the agony of knowing
that even in his own house they were monopolizing the attention of one
of the Noblest, he hastened into his own, room and took account of his
reverses.
Standing with his back to the mirror, he obtained over his shoulder
a view of his trousers which caused him to break out in a fresh
perspiration. Again he wiped his forehead with the handkerchief, and the
result was instantly visible in the mirror.
The air thickened with sounds of frenzy, followed by a torrential roar
and great sputterings in a bath-room, which tumult subsiding, William
returned at a tragic gallop to his room and, having removed his
trousers, began a feverish examination of the garments hanging in a
clothes-closet. There were two pairs of flannel trousers which would
probably again be white and possible, when cleaned and pressed, but a
glance showed that until then they were not to be considered as even
the last resort of desperation. Beside them hung his “last year's summer
suit” of light gray.
Feverishly he brought it forth, threw off his coat, and then--deflected
by another glance at the mirror--began to change his collar again.
This was obviously necessary, and to quicken the process he decided
to straighten the bent collar-button. Using a shoe-horn as a lever,
he succeeded in bringing the little cap or head of the button into its
proper plane, but, unfortunately, his final effort dislodged the cap
from the rod between it and the base, and it flew off malignantly
into space. Here was a calamity; few things are more useless than a
decapitated collar-button, and William had no other. He had made
sure that it was his last before he put it on, that day; also he
had ascertained that there was none in, on, or about his father's
dressing-table. Finally, in the possession of neither William nor his
father was there a shirt with an indigenous collar.
For decades, collar-buttons have been on the hand-me-down shelves of
humor; it is a mistake in the catalogue. They belong to pathos. They
have done harm in the world, and there have been collar-buttons that
failed when the destinies of families hung upon them. There have
been collar-buttons that thwarted proper matings. There have been
collar-buttons that bore last hopes, and, falling to the floor,
NEVER were found! William's broken collar-button was really the only
collar-button in the house, except such as were engaged in serving his
male guests below.
At first he did not realize the extent of his misfortune. How could he?
Fate is always expected to deal its great blows in the grand manner.
But our expectations are fustian spangled with pinchbeck; we look for
tragedy to be theatrical. Meanwhile, every day before our eyes, fate
works on, employing for its instruments the infinitesimal, the ignoble
and the petty--in a word, collar-buttons.
Of course William searched his dressing-table and his father's, although
he had been thoroughly over both once before that day. Next he went
through most of his mother's and Jane's accessories to the
toilette; through trinket-boxes, glove-boxes, hairpin-boxes,
handkerchief-cases--even through sewing-baskets. Utterly he convinced
himself that ladies not only use no collar-buttons, but also never pick
them up and put them away among their own belongings. How much time he
consumed in this search is difficult to reckon;--it is almost impossible
to believe that there is absolutely no collar-button in a house.
And what William's state of mind had become is matter for exorbitant
conjecture. Jane, arriving at his locked door upon an errand, was bidden
by a thick, unnatural voice to depart.
“Mamma says, 'What in mercy's name is the matter?'” Jane called. “She
whispered to me, 'Go an' see what in mercy's name is the matter with
Willie; an' if the glass cut him, after all; an' why don't he come
down'; an' why don't you, Willie? We're all havin' the nicest time!”
“You g'way!” said the strange voice within the room. “G'way!”
“Well, did the glass cut you?”
“No! Keep quiet! G'way!”
“Well, are you EVER comin' down to your party?”
“Yes, I am! G'way!”
Jane obeyed, and William somehow completed the task upon which he was
engaged. Genius had burst forth from his despair; necessity had become
a mother again, and William's collar was in place. It was tied there.
Under his necktie was a piece of string.
He had lost count of time, but he was frantically aware of its passage;
agony was in the thought of so many rich moments frittered away;
up-stairs, while Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson made hay below. And
there was another spur to haste in his fear that the behavior of Mrs.
Baxter might not be all that the guest of honor would naturally expect
of William's mother. As for Jane, his mind filled with dread; shivers
passed over him at intervals.
It was a dismal thing to appear at a “party” (and that his own) in “last
summer's suit,” but when he had hastily put it on and faced the mirror,
he felt a little better--for three or four seconds. Then he turned to
see how the back of it looked.
And collapsed in a chair, moaning.
XIV
TIME DOES FLY
He remembered now what he had been too hurried to remember earlier. He
had worn these clothes on the previous Saturday, and, returning from a
glorified walk with Miss Pratt, he had demonstrated a fact to which his
near-demolition of the wafers, this afternoon, was additional testimony.
This fact, roughly stated, is that a person of seventeen, in love, is
liable to sit down anywhere. William had dreamily seated himself upon
a tabouret in the library, without noticing that Jane had left her open
paint-box there. Jane had just been painting sunsets; naturally all the
little blocks of color were wet, and the effect upon William's pale-gray
trousers was marvelous--far beyond the capacity of his coat to conceal.
Collar-buttons and children's paint-boxes--those are the trolls that lie
in wait!
The gray clothes and the flannel trousers had been destined for the
professional cleaner, and William, rousing himself from a brief stupor,
made a piteous effort to substitute himself for that expert so far
as the gray trousers were concerned. He divested himself of them and
brought water, towels, bath-soap, and a rubber bath-sponge to the bright
light of his window; and; there, with touching courage and persistence,
he tried to scrub the paint out of the cloth. He obtained cloud studies
and marines which would have interested a Post-Impressionist, but upon
trousers they seemed out of place.
There came one seeking and calling him again; raps sounded upon the
door, which he had not forgotten to lock.
“Willie,” said a serious voice, “mamma wants to know what in mercy's
name is the matter! She wants to know if you know for mercy's name what
time it is! She wants to know what in mercy's name you think they're all
goin' to think! She says--”
“G'WAY!”
“Well, she said I had to find out what in mercy's name you're doin',
Willie.”
“You tell her,” he shouted, hoarsely--“tell her I'm playin' dominoes!
What's she THINK I'm doin'?”
“I guess”--Jane paused, evidently to complete the swallowing of
something--“I guess she thinks you're goin' crazy. I don't like Miss
Pratt, but she lets me play with that little dog. It's name's Flopit!”
“You go 'way from that door and stop bothering me,” said William. “I got
enough on my mind!”
“Mamma looks at Miss Pratt,” Jane remarked. “Miss Pratt puts cakes in
that Mr. Bullitt's mouth and Johnnie Watson's mouth, too. She's awful.”
William made it plain that these bulletins from the party found no favor
with him. He bellowed, “If you don't get away from that DOOR--”
Jane was interested in the conversation, but felt that it would be
better to return to the refreshment-table. There she made use of her own
conception of a whisper to place before her mother a report which was
considered interesting and even curious by every one present; though,
such was the courtesy of the little assembly, there was a general
pretense of not hearing.
“I told him,” thus whispered Jane, “an' he said, 'You g'way from that
door or I'll do somep'm'--he didn't say what, mamma. He said, 'What you
think I'm doin'? I'm playin' dominoes.' He didn't mean he WAS playin'
dominoes, mamma. He just said he was. I think maybe he was just lookin'
in the lookin'-glass some more.”
Mrs. Baxter was becoming embarrassed. She resolved to go to William's
room herself at the first opportunity; but for some time her
conscientiousness as a hostess continued to occupy her at the table,
and then, when she would have gone, Miss Pratt detained her by a roguish
appeal to make Mr. Bullitt and Mr. Watson behave. Both refused all
nourishment except such as was placed in their mouths by the delicate
hand of one of the Noblest, and the latter said that really she wanted
to eat a little tweetie now and then herself, and not to spend her whole
time feeding the Men. For Miss Pratt had the same playfulness with older
people that she had with those of her own age; and she elaborated her
pretended quarrel with the two young gentlemen, taking others of the
dazzled company into her confidence about it, and insisting upon “Mamma
Batster's” acting formally as judge to settle the difficulty. However,
having thus arranged matters, Miss Pratt did not resign the center of
interest, but herself proposed a compromise: she would continue to feed
Mr. Bullitt and Mr. Watson “every other tweetie”--that is, each must
agree to eat a cake “all by him own self,” after every cake fed to him.
So the comedietta went on, to the running accompaniment of laughter,
with Mr. Bullitt and Mr. Watson swept by such gusts of adoration they
were like to perish where they sat. But Mrs. Baxter's smiling approval
was beginning to be painful to the muscles of her face, for it was
hypocritical. And if William had known her thoughts about one of the
Noblest, he could only have attributed them to that demon of groundless
prejudice which besets all females, but most particularly and
outrageously the mothers and sisters of Men.
A colored serving-maid entered with a laden tray, and, having disposed
of its freight of bon-bons among the guests, spoke to Mrs. Baxter in a
low voice.
“Could you manage step in the back hall a minute, please, ma'am?”
Mrs. Baxter managed and, having closed the door upon the laughing
voices, asked, quickly--“What is it, Adelia? Have you seen Mr. William?
Do you know why he doesn't come down?”
“Yes'm,” said Adelia. “He gone mighty near out his head, Miz Baxter.”
“What!”
“Yes'm. He come floppin' down the back stairs in his baf-robe li'l'
while ago. He jes' gone up again. He 'ain't got no britches, Miz
Baxter.”
“No WHAT?”
“No'm,” said Adelia. “He 'ain't got no britches at all.”
A statement of this kind is startling under Almost any circumstances,
and it is unusually so when made in reference to a person for whom a
party is being given. Therefore it was not unreasonable of Mrs. Baxter
to lose her breath.
“But--it can't BE!” she gasped. “He has! He has plenty!”
“No'm, he 'ain't,” Adelia assured her. “An' he's carryin' on so I don't
scarcely think he knows much what he's doin', Miz Baxter. He brung down
some gray britches to the kitchen to see if I couldn' press an' clean
'em right quick: they was the ones Miss Jane, when she's paintin' all
them sunsets, lef' her paint-box open, an' one them sunsets got on these
here gray britches, Miz Baxter; an' hones'ly, Miz Baxter, he's fixed 'em
in a condishum, tryin' to git that paint out, I don't believe it 'll be
no use sendin' 'em to the cleaner. 'Clean 'em an' press 'em QUICK?' I
says. 'I couldn' clean 'em by Resurreckshum, let alone pressin' 'em!'
No'm! Well, he had his blue britches, too, but they's so ripped an' tore
an' kind o' shredded away in one place, the cook she jes' hollered when
he spread 'em out, an' he didn' even ast me could I mend 'em. An' he had
two pairs o' them white flannen britches, but hones'ly, Miz Baxter,
I don't scarcely think Genesis would wear 'em, the way they is now!
'Well,' I says, 'ain't but one thing lef' to do _I_ can see,' I says.
'Why don't you go put on that nice black suit you had las' winter?'”
“Of course!” Mrs. Baxter cried. “I'll go and--”
“No'm,” said Adelia. “You don' need to. He's up in the attic now,
r'arin' roun' 'mongs' them trunks, but seem to me like I remember you
put that suit away under the heavy blankets in that big cedar ches' with
the padlock. If you jes' tell me where is the key, I take it up to him.”
“Under the bureau in the spare room,” said Mrs. Baxter. “HURRY!”
Adelia hurried; and, fifteen minutes later, William, for the last time
that afternoon, surveyed himself in his mirror. His face showed the
strain that had been upon him and under which he still labored; the
black suit was a map of creases, and William was perspiring more freely
than ever under the heavy garments. But at least he was clothed.
He emptied his pockets, disgorging upon the floor a multitude of small
white spheres, like marbles. Then, as he stepped out into the hall, he
discovered that their odor still remained about him; so he stopped
and carefully turned his pockets inside out, one after the other, but
finding that he still smelled vehemently of the “moth-balls,” though not
one remained upon him, he went to his mother's room and sprinkled violet
toilet-water upon his chest and shoulders. He disliked such odors, but
that left by the moth-balls was intolerable, and, laying hands upon a
canister labeled “Hyacinth,” he contrived to pour a quantity of scented
powder inside his collar, thence to be distributed by the force of
gravity so far as his dampness permitted.
Lo, William was now ready to go to his party! Moist, wilted, smelling
indeed strangely, he was ready.
But when he reached the foot of the stairs he discovered that there was
one thing more to be done. Indignation seized him, and also a creeping
fear chilled his spine, as he beheld a lurking shape upon the porch,
stealthily moving toward the open door. It was the lowly Clematis, dog
unto Genesis.
William instantly divined the purpose of Clematis. It was debatable
whether Clematis had remained upon the premises after the departure of
Genesis, or had lately returned thither upon some errand of his own,
but one thing was certain, and the manner of Clematis--his attitude,
his every look, his every gesture--made it as clear as day. Clematis
had discovered, by one means or another, the presence of Flopit in the
house, and had determined to see him personally.
Clematis wore his most misleading expression; a stranger would have
thought him shy and easily turned from his purpose--but William was not
deceived. He knew that if Clematis meant to see Flopit, a strong will,
a ready brain, and stern action were needed to thwart him; but at all
costs that meeting must be prevented. Things had been awful enough,
without that!
He was well aware that Clematis could not be driven away, except
temporarily, for nothing was further fixed upon Clematis than his habit
of retiring under pressure, only to return and return again. True, the
door could have been shut in the intruder's face, but he would have
sought other entrance with possible success, or, failing that, would
have awaited in the front yard the dispersal of the guests and Flopit's
consequent emerging. This was a contretemps not to be endured.
The door of the living-room was closed, muffling festal noises and
permitting safe passage through the hall. William cast a hunted look
over his shoulder; then he approached Clematis.
“Good ole doggie,” he said, huskily. “Hyuh, Clem! Hyuh, Clem!”
Clematis moved sidelong, retreating with his head low and his tail
denoting anxious thoughts.
“Hyuh, Clem!” said William, trying, with only fair success, to keep his
voice from sounding venomous. “Hyuh, Clem!”
Clematis continued his deprecatory retreat.
Thereupon William essayed a ruse--he pretended to nibble at something,
and then extended his hand as if it held forth a gift of food. “Look,
Clem,” he said. “Yum-yum! Meat, Clem! Good meat!”
For once Clematis was half credulous. He did not advance, but he
elongated himself to investigate the extended hand, and the next instant
found himself seized viciously by the scruff of the neck. He submitted
to capture in absolute silence. Only the slightest change of countenance
betrayed his mortification at having been found so easy a gull; this
passed, and a look of resolute stoicism took its place.
He refused to walk, but offered merely nominal resistance, as a formal
protest which he wished to be of record, though perfectly understanding
that it availed nothing at present. William dragged him through the long
hall and down a short passageway to the cellar door. This he opened,
thrust Clematis upon the other side of it, closed and bolted it.
Immediately a stentorian howl raised blood-curdling echoes and resounded
horribly through the house. It was obvious that Clematis intended to
make a scene, whether he was present at it or not. He lifted his voice
in sonorous dolor, stating that he did not like the cellar and would
continue thus to protest as long as he was left in it alone. He added
that he was anxious to see Flopit and considered it an unexampled
outrage that he was withheld from the opportunity.
Smitten with horror, William reopened the door and charged down the
cellar stairs after Clematis, who closed his caitiff mouth and gave way
precipitately. He fled from one end of the cellar to the other and back,
while William pursued; choking, and calling in low, ferocious tones:
“Good doggie! Good ole doggie! Hyuh, Clem! Meat, Clem, meat--”
There was dodging through coal-bins; there was squirming between
barrels; there was high jumping and broad jumping, and there was a final
aspiring but baffled dash for the top of the cellar stairs, where the
door, forgotten by William, stood open. But it was here that Clematis,
after a long and admirable exhibition of ingenuity, no less than
agility, submitted to capture. That is to say, finding himself
hopelessly pinioned, he resumed the stoic.
Grimly the panting and dripping William dragged him through the kitchen,
where the cook cried out unintelligibly, seeming to summon Adelia, who
was not present. Through the back yard went captor and prisoner, the
latter now maintaining a seated posture--his pathetic conception of
dignity under duress. Finally, into a small shed or tool-house, behind
Mrs. Baxter's flower-beds, went Clematis in a hurried and spasmodic
manner. The instant the door slammed he lifted his voice--and was bidden
to use it now as much as he liked.
Adelia, with a tray of used plates, encountered the son of the house as
he passed through the kitchen on his return, and her eyes were those of
one who looks upon miracles.
William halted fiercely.
“What's the matter?” he demanded. “Is my face dirty?”
“You mean, are it too dirty to go in yonduh to the party?” Adelia asked,
slowly. “No, suh; you look all right to go in there. You lookin' jes'
fine to go in there now, Mist' Willie!”
Something in her tone struck him as peculiar, even as ominous, but his
blood was up--he would not turn back now. He strode into the hall and
opened the door of the “living-room.”
Jane was sitting on the floor, busily painting sunsets in a large
blank-book which she had obtained for that exclusive purpose.
She looked up brightly as William appeared in the doorway, and in answer
to his wild gaze she said:
“I got a little bit sick, so mamma told me to keep quiet a while. She's
lookin' for you all over the house. She told papa she don't know what in
mercy's name people are goin' to think about you, Willie.”
The distraught youth strode to her. “The party--” he choked. “WHERE--”
“They all stayed pretty long,” said Jane, “but the last ones said they
had to go home to their dinners when papa came, a little while ago.
Johnnie Watson was carryin' Flopit for that Miss Pratt.”
William dropped into the chair beside which Jane had established herself
upon the floor. Then he uttered a terrible cry and rose.
Again Jane had painted a sunset she had not intended.
XV
ROMANCE OF STATISTICS
On a warm morning, ten days later, William stood pensively among his
mother's flowerbeds behind the house, his attitude denoting a low state
of vitality. Not far away, an aged negro sat upon a wheelbarrow in the
hot sun, tremulously yet skilfully whittling a piece of wood into the
shape of a boat, labor more to his taste, evidently, than that which he
had abandoned at the request of Jane. Allusion to this preference for
a lighter task was made by Genesis, who was erecting a trellis on the
border of the little garden.
“Pappy whittle all day,” he chuckled. “Whittle all night, too! Pappy, I
thought you 'uz goin' to git 'at long bed all spade' up fer me by noon.
Ain't 'at what you tole me?”
“You let him alone, Genesis,” said Jane, who sat by the old man's side,
deeply fascinated. “There's goin' to be a great deal of rain in the next
few days maybe, an' I haf to have this boat ready.”
The aged darky lifted his streaky and diminished eyes to the burnished
sky, and laughed. “Rain come some day, anyways,” he said. “We git de
boat ready 'fo' she fall, dat sho.” His glance wandered to William and
rested upon him with feeble curiosity. “Dat ain' yo' pappy, is it?” he
asked Jane.
“I should say it isn't!” she exclaimed. “It's Willie. He was only
seventeen about two or three months ago, Mr. Genesis.” This was not the
old man's name, but Jane had evolved it, inspired by respect for one so
aged and so kind about whittling. He was the father of Genesis, and the
latter, neither to her knowledge nor to her imagination, possessed a
surname.
“I got cat'rack in my lef' eye,” said Mr. Genesis, “an' de right one,
she kine o' tricksy, too. Tell black man f'um white man, little f'um
big.”
“I'd hate it if he was papa,” said Jane, confidentially. “He's always
cross about somep'm, because he's in love.” She approached her mouth to
her whittling friend's ear and continued in a whisper: “He's in love of
Miss Pratt. She's out walkin' with Joe Bullitt. I was in the front yard
with Willie, an' we saw 'em go by. He's mad.”
William did not hear her. Moodily, he had discovered that there was
something amiss with the buckle of his belt, and, having ungirded
himself, he was biting the metal tongue of the buckle in order
to straighten it. This fell under the observation of Genesis, who
remonstrated.
“You break you' teef on 'at buckle,” he said.
“No, I won't, either,” William returned, crossly.
“Ain' my teef,” said Genesis. “Break 'em, you want to!”
The attention of Mr. Genesis did not seem to be attracted to the
speakers; he continued his whittling in a craftsman-like manner, which
brought praise from Jane.
“You can see to whittle, Mr. Genesis,” she said. “You whittle better
than anybody in the world.”
“I speck so, mebbe,” Mr. Genesis returned, with a little complacency.
“How ole yo' pappy?”
“Oh, he's OLD!” Jane explained.
William deigned to correct her. “He's not old, he's middle-aged.”
“Well, suh,” said Mr. Genesis, “I had three chillum 'fo' I 'uz twenty. I
had two when I 'uz eighteem.”
William showed sudden interest. “You did!” he exclaimed. “How old were
you when you had the first one?”
“I 'uz jes' yo' age,” said the old man. “I 'uz seventeem.”
“By George!” cried William.