their two views, though again founded upon one thought, had no real
congeniality. The preoccupying subject was the imminence of Miss Pratt's
departure;--neither Mr. Parcher nor William forgot it for an instant. No
matter what else played upon the surface of their attention, each kept
saying to himself, underneath: “This is the last night--the last night!
Miss Pratt is going away--going away to-morrow!”
Mr. Parcher's expression was peaceful. It was more peaceful than it had
been for a long time. In fact, he wore the look of a man who had been
through the mill but now contemplated a restful and health-restoring
vacation. For there are people in this world who have no respect for the
memory of Ponce de Leon, and Mr. Parcher had come to be of their number.
The elimination of William from his evenings had lightened the burden;
nevertheless, Mr. Parcher would have stated freely and openly to any
responsible party that a yearning for the renewal of his youth had not
been intensified by his daughter's having as a visitor, all summer long,
a howling belle of eighteen who talked baby-talk even at breakfast and
spread her suitors all over the small house--and its one veranda--from
eight in the morning until hours of the night long after their mothers
(in Mr. Parcher's opinion) should have sent their fathers to march them
home. Upon Mr. Parcher's optimism the effect of so much unavoidable
observation of young love had been fatal; he declared repeatedly that
his faith in the human race was about gone. Furthermore, his physical
constitution had proved pathetically vulnerable to nightly quartets,
quintets, and even octets, on the porch below his bedchamber window, so
that he was wont to tell his wife that never, never could he expect to
be again the man he had been in the spring before Miss Pratt came to
visit May. And, referring to conversations which he almost continuously
overheard, perforce, Mr. Parcher said that if this was the way HE talked
at that age, he would far prefer to drown in an ordinary fountain, and
be dead and done with it, than to bathe in Ponce de Leon's.
Altogether, the summer had been a severe one; he doubted that he could
have survived much more of it. And now that it was virtually over,
at last, he was so resigned to the departure of his daughter's lovely
little friend that he felt no regret for the splurge with which her
visit was closing. Nay, to speed the parting guest--such was his lavish
mood--twice and thrice over would he have paid for the lights, the
flowers, the music, the sandwiches, the coffee, the chicken salad, the
cake, the lemonade-punch, and the ice-cream.
Thus did the one thought divide itself between William and Mr. Parcher,
keeping itself deep and pure under all their other thoughts. “Miss Pratt
is going away!” thought William and Mr. Parcher. “Miss PRATT is going
away--to-morrow!”
The unuttered words advanced tragically toward the gate in the head of
William at the same time that they moved contentedly away in the head
of Mr. Parcher; for Mr. Parcher caught sight of his wife just then, and
went to join her as she sank wearily upon the front steps.
“Taking a rest for a minute?” he inquired. “By George! we're both
entitled to a good LONG rest, after to-night! If we could afford it,
we'd go away to a quiet little sanitarium in the hills, somewhere,
and--” He ceased to speak and there was the renewal of an old bitterness
in his expression as his staring eyes followed the movements of a
stately young form entering the gateway. “Look at it!” said Mr. Parcher
in a whisper. “Just look at it!”
“Look at what?” asked his wife.
“That Baxter boy!” said Mr. Parcher, as William passed on toward the
dancers. “What's he think he's imitating--Henry Irving? Look at his
walk!”
“He walks that way a good deal, lately, I've noticed,” said Mrs. Parcher
in a tired voice. “So do Joe Bullitt and--”
“He didn't even come to say good evening to you,” Mr. Parcher
interrupted. “Talk about MANNERS, nowadays! These young--”
“He didn't see us.”
“Well, we're used to that,” said Mr. Parcher. “None of 'em see us.
They've worn holes in all the cane-seated chairs, they've scuffed up the
whole house, and I haven't been able to sit down anywhere down-stairs
for three months without sitting on some dam boy; but they don't even
know we're alive! Well, thank the Lord, it's over--after to-night!” His
voice became reflective. “That Baxter boy was the worst, until he took
to coming in the daytime when I was down-town. I COULDN'T have stood it
if he'd kept on coming in the evening. If I'd had to listen to any more
of his talking or singing, either the embalmer or the lunatic-asylum
would have had me, sure! I see he's got hold of his daddy's dress-suit
again for to-night.”
“Is it Mr. Baxter's dress-suit?” Mrs. Parcher inquired. “How do you
know?”
Mr. Parcher smiled. “How I happen to know is a secret,” he said. “I
forgot about that. His little sister, Jane, told me that Mrs. Baxter had
hidden it, or something, so that Willie couldn't wear it, but I guess
Jane wouldn't mind my telling YOU that she told me especially as they're
letting him use it again to-night. I suppose he feels grander 'n the
King o' Siam!”
“No,” Mrs. Parcher returned, thoughtfully. “I don't think he does, just
now.” Her gaze was fixed upon the dancing-platform, which most of
the dancers were abandoning as the music fell away to an interval
of silence. In the center of the platform there remained one group,
consisting of Miss Pratt and five orators, and of the orators the most
impassioned and gesticulative was William.
“They all seem to want to dance with her all the time,” said Mrs.
Parcher. “I heard her telling one of the boys, half an hour ago, that
all she could give him was either the twenty-eighth regular dance or the
sixteenth 'extra.'”
“The what?” Mr. Parcher demanded, whirling to face her. “Do they think
this party's going to keep running till day after to-morrow?” And then,
as his eyes returned to the group on the platform, “That boy seems to
have quite a touch of emotional insanity,” he remarked, referring to
William. “What IS the matter with him?”
“Oh, nothing,” his wife returned. “Only trying to arrange a dance with
her. He seems to be in difficulties.”
XXVI
MISS BOKE
Nothing could have been more evident than William's difficulties. They
continued to exist, with equal obviousness, when the group broke up in
some confusion, after a few minutes of animated discussion; Mr. Wallace
Banks, that busy and executive youth, bearing Miss Pratt triumphantly
off to the lemonade-punch-bowl, while William pursued Johnnie Watson
and Joe Bullitt. He sought to detain them near the edge of the platform,
though they appeared far from anxious to linger in his company; and he
was able to arrest their attention only by clutching an arm of each. In
fact, the good feeling which had latterly prevailed among these three
appeared to be in danger of disintegrating. The occasion was too
vital; and the watchword for “Miss Pratt's last night” was
Devil-Take-the-Hindmost!
“Now you look here, Johnnie,” William said, vehemently, “and you listen,
too, Joe! You both got seven dances apiece with her, anyway, all on
account of my not getting here early enough, and you got to--”
“It wasn't because of any such reason,” young Mr. Watson protested. “I
asked her for mine two days ago.”
“Well, THAT wasn't fair, was it?” William cried. “Just because I never
thought of sneaking in ahead like that, you go and--”
“Well, you ought to thought of it,” Johnnie retorted, jerking his arm
free of William's grasp. “I can't stand here GABBIN' all night!” And he
hurried away.
“Joe,” William began, fastening more securely upon Mr. Bullitt--“Joe,
I've done a good many favors for you, and--”
“I've got to see a man,” Mr. Bullitt interrupted. “Lemme go, Silly Bill.
There's some body I got to see right away before the next dance begins.
I GOT to! Honest I have!”
William seized him passionately by the lapels of his coat. “Listen, Joe.
For goodness' sake can't you listen a MINUTE? You GOT to give me--”
“Honest, Bill,” his friend expostulated, backing away as forcefully as
possible, “I got to find a fellow that's here to-night and ask him about
something important before--”
“Ye gods! Can't you wait a MINUTE?” William cried, keeping his grip upon
Joe's lapels. “You GOT to give me anyway TWO out of all your dances with
her! You heard her tell me, yourself, that she'd be willing if you or
Johnnie or--”
“Well, I only got five or six with her, and a couple extras. Johnnie's
got seven. Whyn't you go after Johnnie? I bet he'd help you out, all
right, if you kept after him. What you want to pester ME for, Bill?”
The brutal selfishness of this speech, as well as its cold-blooded
insincerity, produced in William the impulse to smite. Fortunately, his
only hope lay in persuasion, and after a momentary struggle with his own
features he was able to conceal what he desired to do to Joe's.
He swallowed, and, increasing the affectionate desperation of his clutch
upon Mr. Bullitt's lapels, “Joe,” he began, huskily--“Joe, if _I_'d got
six reg'lar and two extras with Miss Pratt her last night here, and you
got here late, and it wasn't your fault--I couldn't help being late,
could I? It wasn't my fault I was late, I guess, was it? Well, if I
was in YOUR place I wouldn't act the way you and Johnnie do--not in a
thousand years I wouldn't! I'd say, 'You want a couple o' my dances with
Miss Pratt, ole man? Why, CERTAINLY--'”
“Yes, you would!” was the cynical comment of Mr. Bullitt, whose averted
face and reluctant shoulders indicated a strong desire to conclude the
interview. “To-night, especially!” he added.
“Look here, Joe,” said William, desperately, “don't you realize that
this is the very last night Miss Pratt's going to be in this town?”
“You bet I do!” These words, though vehement, were inaudible; being
formed in the mind of Mr. Bullitt, but, for diplomatic reasons, not
projected upon the air by his vocal organs.
William continued: “Joe, you and I have been friends ever since you and
I were boys.” He spoke with emotion, but Joe had no appearance of being
favorably impressed. “And when I look back,” said William, “I expect
I've done more favors for you than I ever have for any oth--”
But Mr. Bullitt briskly interrupted this appealing reminiscence.
“Listen here, Silly Bill,” he said, becoming all at once friendly and
encouraging--“Bill, there's other girls here you can get dances with.
There's one or two of 'em sittin' around in the yard. You can have a
bully time, even if you did come late.” And, with the air of discharging
happily all the obligations of which William had reminded him, he added,
“I'll tell you THAT much, Bill!”
“Joe, you got to give me anyway ONE da--”
“Look!” said Mr. Bullitt, eagerly. “Look sittin' yonder, over under
that tree all by herself! That's a visiting girl named Miss Boke; she's
visiting some old uncle or something she's got livin' here, and I bet
you could--”
“Joe, you GOT to--”
“I bet that Miss Boke's a good dancer, Bill,” Joe continued, warmly.
“May Parcher says so. She was tryin' to get me to dance with her myself,
but I couldn't, or I would of. Honest, Bill, I would of! Bill, if I was
you I'd sail right in there before anybody else got a start, and I'd--”
“Ole man,” said William, gently, “you remember the time Miss Pratt and I
had an engagement to go walkin', and you wouldn't of seen her for a week
on account of your aunt dyin' in Kansas City, if I hadn't let you go
along with us? Ole man, if you--”
But the music sounded for the next dance, and Joe felt that it was
indeed time to end this uncomfortable conversation. “I got to go, Bill,”
he said. “I GOT to!”
“Wait just one minute,” William implored. “I want to say just this:
if--”
“Here!” exclaimed Mr. Bullitt. “I got to GO!”
“I know it. That's why--”
Heedless of remonstrance, Joe wrenched himself free, for it would have
taken a powerful and ruthless man to detain him longer. “What you take
me for?” he demanded, indignantly. “I got this with Miss PRATT!”
And evading a hand which still sought to clutch him, he departed hotly.
... Mr. Parcher's voice expressed wonder, a little later, as he
recommended his wife to turn her gaze in the direction of “that Baxter
boy” again. “Just look at him!” said Mr. Parcher. “His face has got more
genuine idiocy in it than I've seen around here yet, and God knows I've
been seeing some miracles in that line this summer!”
“He's looking at Lola Pratt,” said Mrs. Parcher.
“Don't you suppose I can see that?” Mr. Parcher returned, with some
irritation. “That's what's the trouble with him. Why don't he QUIT
looking at her?”
“I think probably he feels badly because she's dancing with one of the
other boys,” said his wife, mildly.
“Then why can't he dance with somebody else himself?” Mr. Parcher
inquired, testily. “Instead of standing around like a calf looking out
of the butcher's wagon! By George! he looks as if he was just going to
MOO!”
“Of course he ought to be dancing with somebody,” Mrs. Parcher remarked,
thoughtfully. “There are one or two more girls than boys here, and
he's the only boy not dancing. I believe I'll--” And, not stopping to
complete the sentence, she rose and walked across the interval of grass
to William. “Good evening, William,” she said, pleasantly. “Don't you
want to dance?”
“Ma'am?” said William, blankly, and the eyes he turned upon here were
glassy with anxiety. He was still determined to dance on and on and on
with Miss Pratt, but he realized that there were great obstacles to be
overcome before he could begin the process. He was feverishly awaiting
the next interregnum between dances--then he would show Joe Bullitt and
Johnnie Watson and Wallace Banks, and some others who had set themselves
in his way, that he was “abs'lutely not goin' to stand it!”
He couldn't stand it, he told himself, even if he wanted to--not
to-night! He had “been through enough” in order to get to the party, he
thought, thus defining sufferings connected with his costume, and now
that he was here he WOULD dance and dance, on and on, with Miss Pratt.
Anything else was unthinkable.
He HAD to!
“Don't you want to dance?” Mrs. Parcher repeated. “Have you looked
around for a girl without a partner?”
He continued to stare at her, plainly having no comprehension of her
meaning.
“Girl?” he echoed, in a tone of feeble inquiry.
She smiled and nodded, taking his arm. “You come with me,” she said.
“I'LL fix you up!”
William suffered her to conduct him across the yard. Intensely
preoccupied with what he meant to do as soon as the music paused, he
was somewhat hazy, but when he perceived that he was being led in the
direction of a girl, sitting solitary under one of the maple-trees, the
sudden shock of fear aroused his faculties.
“What--where--” he stammered, halting and seeking to detach himself from
his hostess.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I got--I got to--” William began, uneasily. “I got to--”
His purpose was to excuse himself on the ground that he had to find a
man and tell him something important before the next dance, for in the
confusion of the moment his powers refused him greater originality.
But the vital part of his intended excuse remained unspoken, being
disregarded and cut short, as millions of other masculine diplomacies
have been, throughout the centuries, by the decisive action of ladies.
Miss Boke had been sitting under the mapletree for a long time--so long,
indeed, that she was acquiring a profound distaste for forestry and even
for maple syrup. In fact, her state of mind was as desperate, in its
way, as William's; and when a hostess leads a youth (in almost perfectly
fitting conventional black) toward a girl who has been sitting alone
through dance after dance, that girl knows what that youth is going to
have to do.
It must be confessed for Miss Boke that her eyes had been upon William
from the moment Mrs. Parcher addressed him. Nevertheless, as the pair
came toward her she looked casually away in an indifferent manner. And
yet this may have been but a seeming unconsciousness, for upon the very
instant of William's halting, and before he had managed to stammer “I
got to--” for the fourth time, Miss Boke sprang to her feet and met Mrs.
Parcher more than halfway.
“Oh, Mrs. Parcher!” she called, coming forward.
“I got--” the panic-stricken William again hastily began. “I got to--”
“Oh, Mrs. Parcher,” cried Miss Boke, “I've been SO worried! There's a
candle in that Japanese lantern just over your head, and I think it's
going out.”
“I'll run and get a fresh one in a minute,” said Mrs. Parcher, smiling
benevolently and retaining William's arm with a little difficulty. “We
were just coming to find you. I've brought--”
“I got to--I got to find a m--” William made a last, stricken effort.
“Miss Boke, this is Mr. Baxter,” said Mrs. Parcher, and she added, with
what seemed to William hideous garrulity, “He and you both came late,
dear, and he hasn't any dances engaged, either. So run and dance, and
have a nice time together.”
Thereupon this disastrous woman returned to her husband. Her look was
conscientious; she thought she had done something pleasant!
The full horror of his position was revealed to William in the relieved,
confident, proprietor's smile of Miss Boke. For William lived by a code
from which no previous experience had taught him any means of escape.
Mrs. Parcher had made the statement--so needless and so ruinous--that
he had no engagements; and in his dismay he had been unable to deny this
fatal truth; he had been obliged to let it stand. Henceforth, he was
committed absolutely to Miss Boke until either some one else asked her
to dance, or (while yet in her close company) William could obtain an
engagement with another girl. The latter alternative presented certain
grave difficulties, also contracting William to dance with the other
girl before once more obtaining his freedom, but undeniably he regarded
it from the first as the more hopeful.
He had to give form to the fatal invitation. “M'av this dance 'thyou?”
he muttered, doggedly.
“Vurry pleased to!” Miss Boke responded, whereupon they walked in
silence to the platform, stepped upon its surface, and embraced.
They made a false start.
They made another.
They stood swaying to catch the time; then made another. After that they
tried again, and were saved from a fall only by spasmodic and noticeable
contortions.
Miss Boke laughed tolerantly, as if forgiving William for his
awkwardness, and his hot heart grew hotter with that injustice. She was
a large, ample girl, weighing more than William (this must be definitely
claimed in his behalf), and she had been spending the summer at a
lakeside hotel where she had constantly danced “man's part.” To paint
William's predicament at a stroke, his partner was a determined rather
than a graceful dancer--and their efforts to attune themselves to each
other and to the music were in a fair way to attract general attention.
A coarse chuckle, a half-suppressed snort, assailed William's scarlet
ear, and from the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Joe Bullitt
gliding by, suffused; while over Joe's detested shoulder could be seen
the adorable and piquant face of the One girl--also suffused.
“Doggone it!” William panted.
“Oh, you mustn't be discouraged with yourself,” said Miss Boke,
genially. “I've met lots of Men that had trouble to get started and
turned out to be right good dancers, after all. It seems to me we're
kind of workin' against each other. I'll tell you--you kind of let me
do the guiding and I'll get you going fine. Now! ONE, two, ONE, two!
There!”
William ceased to struggle for dominance, and their efforts to “get
started” were at once successful. With a muscular power that was
surprising, Miss Boke bore him out into the circling current, swung
him round and round, walked him backward half across the platform, then
swung him round and round and round again. For a girl, she “guided”
remarkably well; nevertheless, a series of collisions, varying in
intensity, marked the path of the pair upon the rather crowded platform.
In such emergencies Miss Boke proved herself deft in swinging William
to act as a buffer, and he several times found himself heavily stricken
from the rear; anon his face would be pressed suffocatingly into Miss
Boke's hair, without the slightest wish on his part for such intimacy.
He had a helpless feeling, fully warranted by the circumstances. Also,
he soon became aware that Miss Boke's powerful “guiding” was observed
by the public; for, after one collision, more severe than others, a low
voice hissed in his ear:
“SHE WON'T HURT YOU MUCH, SILLY BILL. SHE'S ONLY IN FUN!”
This voice belonged to the dancer with whom he had just been in painful
contact, Johnnie Watson. However, Johnnie had whirled far upon another
orbit before William found a retort, and then it was a feeble one.
“I wish YOU'D try a few dances with her!” he whispered, inaudibly, but
with unprecedented bitterness, as the masterly arm of his partner just
saved him from going over the edge of the platform. “I bet she'd kill
you!”
More than once he tried to assert himself and resume his natural place
as guide, but each time he did so he immediately got out of step with
his partner, their knees collided embarrassingly, they staggered and
walked upon each other's insteps--and William was forced to abandon the
unequal contest.
“I just love dancing,” said Miss Boke, serenely. “Don't you, Mr.
Baxter?”
“What?” he gulped. “Yeh.”
“It's a beautiful floor for dancing, isn't it?”
“Yeh.”
“I just love dancing,” Miss Boke thought proper to declare again. “Don't
you love it, Mr. Baxter?”
This time he considered his enthusiasm to be sufficiently indicated by a
nod. He needed all his breath.
“It's lovely,” she murmured. “I hope they don't play 'Home, Sweet
Home' very early at parties in this town. I could keep on like this all
night!”
To the gasping William it seemed that she already had kept on like this
all night, and he expressed himself in one great, frank, agonized moan
of relief when the music stopped. “I sh' think those musicians 'd be
dead!” he said, as he wiped his brow. And then discovering that May
Parcher stood at his elbow, he spoke hastily to her. “M'av the next
'thyou?”
But Miss Parcher had begun to applaud the musicians for an encore. She
shook her head. “Next's the third extra,” she said. “And, anyhow, this
one's going to be encored now. You can have the twenty-second--if there
IS any!” William threw a wild glance about him, looking for other girls,
but the tireless orchestra began to play the encore, and Miss Boke, who
had been applauding, instantly cast herself upon his bosom. “Come on!”
she cried. “Don't let's miss a second of it; It's just glorious!”
When the encore was finished she seized William's arm, and, mentioning
that she'd left her fan upon the chair under the maple-tree, added,
“Come on! Let's go get it QUICK!”
Under the maple-tree she fanned herself and talked of her love for
dancing until the music sounded again. “Come on!” she cried, then.
“Don't let's miss a second of it! It's just glorious!”
And grasping his arm, she propelled him toward the platform with a merry
little rush.
So passed five dances. Long, long dances.
Likewise five encores. Long encores.
XXVII
MAROONED
At every possible opportunity William hailed other girls with a hasty
“M'av the next 'thyou?” but he was indeed unfortunate to have arrived so
late.
The best he got was a promise of “the nineteenth--if there IS any!”
After each dance Miss Boke conducted him back to the maple-tree, aloof
from the general throng, and William found the intermissions almost
equal to his martyrdoms upon the platform. But, as there was a barely
perceptible balance in their favor, he collected some fragments of his
broken spirit, when Miss Boke would have borne him to the platform for
the sixth time, and begged to “sit this one out,” alleging that he had
“kind of turned his ankle, or something,” he believed.