from ten, though, of course, to seventeen itself hardly any information
could be imagined as more interesting than that conveyed by the words
of the aged Mr. Genesis. The impression made upon William was obviously
profound and favorable.
“By George!” he cried again.
“Genesis he de youngis' one,” said the old man. “Genesis he 'uz bawn
when I 'uz sixty-one.”
William moved closer. “What became of the one that was born when you
were seventeen?” he asked.
“Well, suh,” said Mr. Genesis, “I nev' did know.”
At this, Jane's interest equaled William's. Her eyes consented to leave
the busy hands of the aged darky, and, much enlarged, rose to his face.
After a little pause of awe and sympathy she inquired:
“Was it a boy or a girl?”
The old man deliberated within himself. “Seem like it mus' been a boy.”
“Did it die?” Jane asked, softly.
“I reckon it mus' be dead by now,” he returned, musingly. “Good many of
'em dead: what I KNOWS is dead. Yes'm, I reckon so.”
“How old were you when you were married?” William asked, with a manner
of peculiar earnestness;--it was the manner of one who addresses a
colleague.
“Me? Well, suh, dat 'pen's.” He seemed to search his memory. “I
rickalect I 'uz ma'ied once in Looavle,” he said.
Jane's interest still followed the first child. “Was that where it was
born, Mr. Genesis?” she asked.
He looked puzzled, and paused in his whittling to rub his deeply
corrugated forehead. “Well, suh, mus' been some bawn in Looavle.
Genesis,” he called to his industrious son, “whaih 'uz YOU bawn?”
“Right 'n 'is town,” laughed Genesis. “You fergit a good deal, pappy,
but I notice you don' fergit come to meals!”
The old man grunted, resuming his whittling busily. “Hain' much use,”
he complained. “Cain' eat nuff'm 'lessen it all gruelly. Man cain' eat
nuff'm 'lessen he got teef. Genesis, di'n' I hyuh you tellin' dis white
gemmun take caih his teef--not bite on no i'on?”
William smiled in pity. “I don't need to bother about that, I guess,” he
said. “I can crack nuts with my teeth.”
“Yes, suh,” said the old man. “You kin now. Ev'y nut you crac' now goin'
cos' you a yell when you git 'long 'bout fawty an' fifty. You crack nuts
now an' you'll holler den!”
“Well, I guess I won't worry myself much now about what won't happen
till I'm forty or fifty,” said William. “My teeth 'll last MY time, I
guess.”
That brought a chuckle from Mr. Genesis. “Jes' listen!” he exclaimed.
“Young man think he ain' nev' goin' be ole man. Else he think, 'Dat
ole man what I'm goin' to be, dat ain' goin' be me 'tall--dat goin' be
somebody else! What I caih 'bout dat ole man? I ain't a-goin' take caih
o' no teef fer HIM!' Yes, suh, an' den when he GIT to be ole man, he
say, 'What become o' dat young man I yoosta be? Where is dat young man
agone to? He 'uz a fool, dat's what--an' _I_ ain' no fool, so he mus'
been somebody else, not me; but I do jes' wish I had him hyuh 'bout two
minutes--long enough to lam him fer not takin' caih o' my teef fer me!'
Yes, suh!”
William laughed; his good humor was restored and he found the
conversation of Mr. Genesis attractive. He seated himself upon an
upturned bucket near the wheelbarrow, and reverted to a former theme.
“Well, I HAVE heard of people getting married even younger 'n you were,”
he said. “You take India, for instance. Why, they get married in India
when they're twelve, and even seven and eight years old.”
“They do not!” said Jane, promptly. “Their mothers and fathers wouldn't
let 'em, an' they wouldn't want to, anyway.”
“I suppose you been to India and know all about it!” William retorted.
“For the matter o' that, there was a young couple got married in
Pennsylvania the other day; the girl was only fifteen, and the man was
sixteen. It was in the papers, and their parents consented, and said it
was a good thing. Then there was a case in Fall River, Massachusetts,
where a young man eighteen years old married a woman forty-one years
old; it was in the papers, too. And I heard of another case somewhere in
Iowa--a boy began shaving when he was thirteen, and shaved every day for
four years, and now he's got a full beard, and he's goin' to get married
this year--before he's eighteen years old. Joe Bullitt's got a cousin in
Iowa that knows about this case--he knows the girl this fellow with the
beard is goin' to marry, and he says he expects it 'll turn out the
best thing could have happened. They're goin' to live on a farm. There's
hunderds of cases like that, only you don't hear of more'n just a few
of 'em. People used to get married at sixteen, seventeen,
eighteen--anywhere in there--and never think anything of it at all.
Right up to about a hunderd years ago there were more people married at
those ages than there were along about twenty-four and twenty-five, the
way they are now. For instance, you take Shakespeare--”
William paused.
Mr. Genesis was scraping the hull of the miniature boat with a piece of
broken glass, in lieu of sandpaper, but he seemed to be following his
young friend's remarks with attention. William had mentioned Shakespeare
impulsively, in the ardor of demonstrating his point; however, upon
second thought he decided to withdraw the name.
“I mean, you take the olden times,” he went on; “hardly anybody got
married after they were nineteen or twenty years old, unless they were
widowers, because they were all married by that time. And right here in
our own county, there were eleven couples married in the last six months
under twenty-one years of age. I've got a friend named Johnnie Watson;
his uncle works down at the court-house and told him about it, so it
can't be denied. Then there was a case I heard of over in--”
Mr. Genesis uttered a loud chuckle. “My goo'ness!” he exclaimed. “How
you c'leck all' dem fac's? Lan' name! What puzzlin' ME is how you
'member 'em after you done c'leck 'em. Ef it uz me I couldn't c'leck 'em
in de firs' place, an' ef I could, dey wouldn' be no use to me, 'cause I
couldn't rickalect 'em!”
“Well, it isn't so hard,” said William, “if you kind of get the hang
of it.” Obviously pleased, he plucked a spear of grass and placed it
between his teeth, adding, “I always did have a pretty good memory.”
“Mamma says you're the most forgetful boy she ever heard of,” said Jane,
calmly. “She says you can't remember anything two minutes.”
William's brow darkened. “Now look here--” he began, with severity.
But the old darky intervened. “Some folks got good rickaleckshum
an' some folks got bad,” he said, pacifically. “Young white germmun
rickalect mo' in two minute dan what I kin in two years!”
Jane appeared to accept this as settlement of the point at issue, while
William bestowed upon Mr. Genesis a glance of increased favor. William's
expression was pleasant to see; in fact, it was the pleasantest
expression Jane had seen him wearing for several days. Almost always,
lately, he was profoundly preoccupied, and so easily annoyed that
there was no need to be careful of his feelings, because--as his mother
observed--he was “certain to break out about every so often, no matter
what happened!”
“I remember pretty much everything,” he said, as if in modest
explanation of the performance which had excited the aged man's
admiration. “I can remember things that happened when I was four years
old.”
“So can I,” said Jane. “I can remember when I was two. I had a kitten
fell down the cistern and papa said it hurt the water.”
“My goo'ness!” Mr. Genesis exclaimed. “An' you 'uz on'y two year ole,
honey! Bes' _I_ kin do is rickalect when I 'uz 'bout fifty.”
“Oh no!” Jane protested. “You said you remembered havin' a baby when you
were seventeen, Mr. Genesis.”
“Yes'm,” he admitted. “I mean rickalect good like you do 'bout yo' li'l'
cat an' all how yo' pappy tuck on 'bout it. I kin rickalect SOME, but I
cain' rickalect GOOD.”
William coughed with a certain importance. “Do you remember,” he asked,
“when you were married, how did you feel about it? Were you kind of
nervous, or anything like that, beforehand?”
Mr. Genesis again passed a wavering hand across his troubled brow.
“I mean,” said William, observing his perplexity, “were you sort of
shaky--f'rinstance, as if you were taking an important step in life?”
“Lemme see.” The old man pondered for a moment. “I felt mighty shaky
once, I rickalect; dat time yalla m'latta man shootin' at me f 'um
behime a snake-fence.”
“Shootin' at you!” Jane cried, stirred from her accustomed placidity.
“Mr. Genesis! What DID he do that for?”
“Nuff'm!” replied Mr. Genesis, with feeling. “Nuff'm in de wide worl'!
He boun' to shoot SOMEbody, an' pick on me 'cause I 'uz de handies'.”
He closed his knife, gave the little boat a final scrape with the broken
glass, and then a soothing rub with the palm of his hand. “Dah, honey,”
he said--and simultaneously factory whistles began to blow. “Dah
yo' li'l' steamboat good as I kin git her widout no b'iler ner no
smokestack. I reckon yo' pappy 'll buy 'em fer you.”
Jane was grateful. “It's a beautiful boat, Mr. Genesis. I do thank you!”
Genesis, the son, laid aside his tools and approached. “Pappy finish
whittlin' spang on 'em noon whistles,” he chuckled. “Come 'long, pappy.
I bet you walk fas' 'nuff goin' todes dinnuh. I hear fry-cakes ploppin'
in skillet!”
Mr. Genesis laughed loudly, his son's words evidently painting a merry
and alluring picture; and the two, followed by Clematis, moved away
in the direction of the alley gate. William and Jane watched the brisk
departure of the antique with sincere esteem and liking.
“He must have been sixteen,” said William, musingly.
“When?” Jane asked.
William, in deep thought, was still looking after Mr. Genesis; he
was almost unconscious that he had spoken aloud and he replied,
automatically:
“When he was married.”
Then, with a start, he realized into how great a condescension he had
been betrayed, and hastily added, with pronounced hauteur, “Things you
don't understand. You run in the house.”
Jane went into the house, but she did not carry her obedience to the
point of running. She walked slowly, and in that state of profound
reverie which was characteristic of her when she was immersed in the
serious study of William's affairs.
XVI
THE SHOWER
She continued to be thoughtful until after lunch, when, upon the
sun's disappearance behind a fat cloud, Jane and the heavens exchanged
dispositions for the time--the heavens darkened and Jane brightened. She
was in the front hall, when the sunshine departed rather abruptly, and
she jumped for joy, pointing to the open door. “Look! Looky there!” she
called to her brother. Richly ornamented, he was descending the front
stairs, his embellishments including freshly pressed white trousers, a
new straw hat, unusual shoes, and a blasphemous tie. “I'm goin' to get
to sail my boat,” Jane shouted. “It's goin' to rain.”
“It is not,” said William, irritated. “It's not going to anything like
rain. I s'pose you think it ought to rain just to let you sail that
chunk of wood!”
“It's goin' to rain--it's goin' to rain!” (Jane made a little singsong
chant of it.) “It's goin' to rain--it gives Willie a pain--it's goin' to
rain--it gives Willie a pain--it's goin' to--”
He interrupted her sternly. “Look here! You're old enough to know
better. I s'pose you think there isn't anything as important in the
world as your gettin' the chance to sail that little boat! I s'pose
you think business and everything else has got to stop and get ruined,
maybe, just to please you!” As he spoke he walked to an umbrella-stand
in the hall and deliberately took therefrom a bamboo walking-stick of
his father's. Indeed, his denunciation of Jane's selfishness about
the weather was made partly to reassure himself and settle his nerves,
strained by the unusual procedure he contemplated, and partly to divert
Jane's attention. In the latter effort he was unsuccessful; her eyes
became strange and unbearable.
She uttered a shriek:
“Willie's goin' to carry a CANE!”
“You hush up!” he said, fiercely, and hurried out through the front
door. She followed him to the edge of the porch; she stood there while
he made his way to the gate, and she continued to stand there as he
went down the street, trying to swing the cane in an accustomed and
unembarrassed manner.
Jane made this difficult.
“Willie's got a CANE!” she screamed. “He's got papa's CANE!”
Then, resuming her little chant, she began to sing: “It's goin' to
rain--Willie's got papa's cane--it's goin' to rain--Willie's got papa's
cane!” She put all of her voice into a final effort. “MISS PRATT'LL GET
WET IF YOU DON'T TAKE AN UMBERELLER-R-R!”
The attention of several chance pedestrians had been attracted, and the
burning William, breaking into an agonized half-trot, disappeared round
the corner. Then Jane retired within the house, feeling that she had
done her duty. It would be his own fault if he got wet.
Rain was coming. Rain was in the feel of the air--and in Jane's hope.
She was not disappointed. Mr. Genesis, so secure of fair weather in the
morning, was proved by the afternoon to be a bad prophet. The fat cloud
was succeeded by others, fatter; a corpulent army assailed the vault
of heaven, heavy outriders before a giant of evil complexion and
devastating temper.
An hour after William had left the house, the dust in the streets and
all loose paper and rubbish outdoors rose suddenly to a considerable
height and started for somewhere else. The trees had colic; everything
became as dark as winter twilight; streaks of wildfire ran miles in a
second, and somebody seemed to be ripping up sheets of copper and tin
the size of farms. The rain came with a swish, then with a rattle, and
then with a roar, while people listened at their garret doorways and
marveled. Window-panes turned to running water;--it poured.
Then it relented, dribbled, shook down a few last drops; and passed on
to the countryside. Windows went up; eaves and full gutters plashed and
gurgled; clearer light fell; then, in a moment, sunshine rushed upon
shining green trees and green grass; doors opened--and out came the
children!
Shouting, they ran to the flooded gutters. Here were rivers, lakes, and
oceans for navigation; easy pilotage, for the steersman had but to wade
beside his craft and guide it with a twig. Jane's timely boat was one of
the first to reach the water.
Her mother had been kind, and Jane, with shoes and stockings left behind
her on the porch, was a happy sailor as she waded knee-deep along the
brimming curbstones. At the corner below the house of the Baxters, the
street was flooded clear across, and Jane's boat, following the current,
proceeded gallantly onward here, sailed down the next block, and was
thoughtlessly entering a sewer when she snatched it out of the water.
Looking about her, she perceived a gutter which seemed even lovelier
than the one she had followed. It was deeper and broader and perhaps a
little browner, wherefore she launched her ship upon its dimpled bosom
and explored it as far as the next sewer-hole or portage. Thus the
voyage continued for several blocks with only one accident--which might
have happened to anybody. It was an accident in the nature of a fall,
caused by the sliding of Jane's left foot on some slippery mud.
This treacherous substance, covered with water, could not have been
anticipated; consequently Jane's emotions were those of indignation
rather than of culpability. Upon rising, she debated whether or not
she should return to her dwelling, inclining to the opinion that the
authorities there would have taken the affirmative; but as she was
wet not much above the waist, and the guilt lay all upon the mud,
she decided that such an interruption of her journey would be a gross
injustice to herself. Navigation was reopened.
Presently the boat wandered into a miniature whirlpool, grooved in a
spiral and pleasant to see. Slowly the water went round and round, and
so did the boat without any assistance from Jane. Watching this movement
thoughtfully, she brought forth from her drenched pocket some sodden
whitish disks, recognizable as having been crackers, and began to eat
them. Thus absorbed, she failed at first to notice the approach of two
young people along the sidewalk.
They were the entranced William and Miss Pratt; and their appearance
offered a suggestive contrast in relative humidity. In charming and
tender-colored fabrics, fluffy and cool and summery, she was specklessly
dry; not a drop had touched even the little pink parasol over her
shoulder, not one had fallen upon the tiny white doglet drowsing upon
her arm. But William was wet--he was still more than merely damp, though
they had evidently walked some distance since the rain had ceased to
fall. His new hat was a mucilaginous ruin; his dank coat sagged; his
shapeless trousers flopped heavily, and his shoes gave forth marshy
sounds as he walked.
No brilliant analyst was needed to diagnose this case. Surely any
observer must have said: “Here is a dry young lady, and at her side
walks a wet young gentleman who carries an umbrella in one hand and a
walking-stick in the other. Obviously the young lady and gentleman
were out for a stroll for which the stick was sufficient, and they were
caught by the rain. Before any fell, however, he found her a place of
shelter--such as a corner drug-store and then himself gallantly went
forth into the storm for an umbrella. He went to the young lady's house,
or to the house where she may be visiting, for, if he had gone to his
own he would have left his stick. It may be, too, that at his own, his
mother would have detained him, since he is still at the age when it
is just possible sometimes for mothers to get their sons into the house
when it rains. He returned with the umbrella to the corner drug-store
at probably about the time when the rain ceased to fall, because his
extreme moistness makes necessary the deduction that he was out in all
the rain that rained. But he does not seem to care.”
The fact was that William did not even know that he was wet. With his
head sidewise and his entranced eyes continuously upon the pretty face
so near, his state was almost somnambulistic. Not conscious of his
soggy garments or of the deluged streets, he floated upon a rosy cloud,
incense about him, far-away music enchanting his ears.
If Jane had not recognized the modeling of his features she might not
have known them to be William's, for they had altered their grouping
to produce an expression with which she was totally unfamiliar. To be
explicit, she was unfamiliar with this expression in that place--that is
to say, upon William, though she had seen something like it upon other
people, once or twice, in church.
William's thoughts might have seemed to her as queer as his expression,
could she have known them. They were not very definite, however, taking
the form of sweet, vague pictures of the future. These pictures were of
married life; that is, married life as William conceived it for himself
and Miss Pratt--something strikingly different from that he had observed
as led by his mother and father, or their friends and relatives. In his
rapt mind he beheld Miss Pratt walking beside him “through life,” with
her little parasol and her little dog--her exquisite face always lifted
playfully toward his own (with admiration underneath the playfulness),
and he heard her voice of silver always rippling “baby-talk” throughout
all the years to come. He saw her applauding his triumphs--though these
remained indefinite in his mind, and he was unable to foreshadow the
business or profession which was to provide the amazing mansion (mainly
conservatory) which he pictured as their home. Surrounded by flowers,
and maintaining a private orchestra, he saw Miss Pratt and himself
growing old together, attaining to such ages as thirty and even
thirty-five, still in perfect harmony, and always either dancing in
the evenings or strolling hand in hand in the moonlight. Sometimes they
would visit the nursery, where curly-headed, rosy cherubs played upon a
white-bear rug in the firelight. These were all boys and ready-made, the
youngest being three years old and without a past.
They would be beautiful children, happy with their luxurious toys on the
bear rug, and they would NEVER be seen in any part of the house except
the nursery. Their deportment would be flawless, and--
“WILL-EE!”
The aviator struck a hole in the air; his heart misgave him. Then he
came to earth--a sickening drop, and instantaneous.
“WILL-EE!”
There was Jane, a figurine in a plastic state and altogether
disgraceful;--she came up out of the waters and stood before them with
feet of clay, indeed; pedestaled upon the curbstone.
“Who IS that CURIOUS child?” said Miss Pratt, stopping.
William shuddered.
“Was she calling YOU?” Miss Pratt asked, incredulously.
“Willie, I told you you better take an umbereller,” said Jane, “instead
of papa's cane.” And she added, triumphantly, “Now you see!”
Moving forward, she seemed to have in mind a dreadful purpose; there
was something about her that made William think she intended casually to
accompany him and Miss Pratt.
“You go home!” he commanded, hoarsely.
Miss Pratt uttered a little scream of surprise and recognition. “It's
your little sister!” she exclaimed, and then, reverting to her favorite
playfulness of enunciation, “'Oor ickle sissa!” she added, gaily, as
a translation. Jane misunderstood it; she thought Miss Pratt meant “OUR
little sister.”
“Go home!” said William.
“No'ty, no'ty!” said Miss Pratt, shaking her head. “Me 'fraid oo's a
no'ty, no'ty ickle dirl! All datie!”
Jane advanced. “I wish you'd let me carry Flopit for you,” she said.
Giving forth another gentle scream, Miss Pratt hopped prettily backward
from Jane's extended hands. “Oo-oo!” she cried, chidingly. “Mustn't
touch! P'eshus Flopit all soap-water-wash clean. Ickle dirly all
muddy-nassy! Ickle dirly must doe home, det all soap-water-wash clean
like NICE ickle sissa. Evabody will love 'oor ickle sissa den,” she
concluded, turning to William. “Tell 'oor ickle sissa MUS' doe home det
soap-water-wash!”
Jane stared at Miss Pratt with fixed solemnity during the delivery of
these admonitions, and it was to be seen that they made an impression
upon her. Her mouth slowly opened, but she spake not. An extraordinary
idea had just begun to make itself at home in her mind. It was an idea
which had been hovering in the neighborhood of that domain ever since
William's comments upon the conversation of Mr. Genesis, in the morning.
“Go home!” repeated William, and then, as Jane stood motionless and
inarticulate, transfixed by her idea, he said, almost brokenly, to his
dainty companion, “I DON'T know what you'll think of my mother! To let
this child--”
Miss Pratt laughed comfortingly as they started on again. “Isn't mamma's
fault, foolish boy Baxter. Ickle dirlies will det datie!”
The profoundly mortified William glanced back over his shoulder,
bestowing upon Jane a look in which bitterness was mingled with
apprehension. But she remained where she was, and did not follow.
That was a little to be thankful for, and he found some additional
consolation in believing that Miss Pratt had not caught the frightful
words, “papa's cane,” at the beginning of the interview. He was
encouraged to this belief by her presently taking from his hand the
decoration in question and examining it with tokens of pleasure. “'Oor
pitty walk'-'tick,” she called it, with a tact he failed to suspect. And
so he began to float upward again; glamors enveloped him and the earth
fell away.
He was alone in space with Miss Pratt once more.
XVII
JANE'S THEORY
The pale end of sunset was framed in the dining-room windows, and Mr.
and Mrs. Baxter and the rehabilitated Jane were at the table, when
William made his belated return from the afternoon's excursion. Seating
himself, he waived his mother's references to the rain, his clothes, and
probable colds, and after one laden glance at Jane denoting a grievance
so elaborate that he despaired of setting it forth in a formal complaint
to the Powers--he fell into a state of trance. He took nourishment
automatically, and roused himself but once during the meal, a pathetic
encounter with his father resulting from this awakening.