procured another for herself. In her solicitude she sat close to him,
looking fondly at his face, while William, though now and then rubbing
his ankle for plausibility's sake, gazed at the platform with an
expression which Gustave Dore would gratefully have found suggestive.
William was conscious of a voice continually in action near him, but
not of what it said. Miss Boke was telling him of the dancing “up at the
lake” where she had spent the summer, and how much she had loved it, but
William missed all that. Upon the many-colored platform the ineffable
One drifted to and fro, back and forth; her little blonde head, in a
golden net, glinting here and there like a bit of tinsel blowing across
a flower-garden.
And when that dance and its encore were over she went to lean against a
tree, while Wallace Banks fanned her, but she was so busy with Wallace
that she did not notice William, though she passed near enough to waft a
breath of violet scent to his wan nose. A fragment of her silver speech
tinkled in his ear:
“Oh, Wallie Banks! Bid pid s'ant have Bruvva Josie-Joe's dance 'less Joe
say so. Lola MUS' be fair. Wallie mustn't--”
“That's that Miss Pratt,” observed Miss Boke, following William's gaze
with some interest. “You met her yet?”
“Yeh,” said William.
“She's been visiting here all summer,” Miss Boke informed him. “I was at
a little tea this afternoon, and some of the girls said this Miss Pratt
said she'd never DREAM of getting engaged to any man that didn't have
seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I don't know if it's true or
not, but I expect so. Anyway, they said they heard her say so.”
William lifted his right hand from his ankle and passed it, time after
time, across his damp forehead. He did not believe that Miss Pratt could
have expressed herself in so mercenary a manner, but if she HAD--well,
one fact in British history had so impressed him that he remembered
it even after Examination: William Pitt, the younger, had been Prime
Minister of England at twenty-one.
If an Englishman could do a thing like that, surely a bright, energetic
young American needn't feel worried about seven hundred and fifty
thousand dollars! And although William, at seventeen, had seldom
possessed more than seven hundred and fifty cents, four long years must
pass, and much could be done, before he would reach the age at which
William Pitt attained the premiership--coincidentally a good, ripe,
marriageable age. Still, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars is
a stiffish order, even allowing four long years to fill it; and
undoubtedly Miss Boke's bit of gossip added somewhat to the already
sufficient anxieties of William's evening.
“Up at the lake,” Miss Boke chattered on, “we got to use the hotel
dining-room for the hops. It's a floor a good deal like this floor is
to-night--just about oily enough and as nice a floor as ever I danced
on. We have awf'ly good times up at the lake. 'Course there aren't so
many Men up there, like there are here to-night, and I MUST say I AM
glad to get a chance to dance with a Man again! I told you you'd dance
all right, once we got started, and look at the way it's turned out:
our steps just suit exactly! If I must say it, I could scarcely think of
anybody I EVER met I'd rather dance with. When anybody's step suits in
with mine, that way, why, I LOVE to dance straight through an evening
with one person, the way we're doing.”
Dimly, yet with strong repulsion, William perceived that their
interminable companionship had begun to affect Miss Boke with a liking
for him. And as she chattered chummily on, revealing this increasing
cordiality all the while--though her more obvious topics were dancing,
dancing-floors, and “the lake”--the reciprocal sentiment roused in his
breast was that of Sindbad the Sailor for the Old Man of the Sea.
He was unable to foresee a future apart from her; and when she informed
him that she preferred his style of dancing to all other styles shown
by the Men at this party, her thus singling him out for praise only
emphasized, in his mind, that point upon which he was the most
embittered.
“Yes!” he reflected. “It had to be ME!” With all the crowd to choose
from, Mrs. Parcher had to go and pick on HIM! All, all the others went
about, free as air, flitting from girl to girl--girls that danced like
girls! All, all except William, danced with Miss PRATT! What Miss Pratt
had offered HIM was a choice between the thirty-second dance and
the twenty-first extra. THAT was what he had to look forward to: the
thirty-second reg'lar or the twenty-first extra!
Meanwhile, merely through eternity, he was sealed unto Miss Boke.
The tie that bound them oppressed him as if it had been an ill-omened
matrimony, and he sat beside her like an unwilling old husband. All the
while, Miss Boke had no appreciation whatever of her companion's real
condition, and, when little, spasmodic, sinister changes appeared in his
face (as they certainly did from time to time) she attributed them to
pains in his ankle. However, William decided to discard his ankle,
after they had “sat out” two dances on account of it. He decided that he
preferred dancing, and said he guessed he must be better.
So they danced again--and again.
When the fourteenth dance came, about half an hour before midnight, they
were still dancing together.
It was upon the conclusion of this fourteenth dance that Mr. Parcher
mentioned to his wife a change in his feelings toward William. “I've
been watching him,” said Mr. Parcher, “and I never saw true misery show
plainer. He's having a really horrible time. By George! I hate him, but
I've begun to feel kind of sorry for him! Can't you trot up somebody
else, so he can get away from that fat girl?”
Mrs. Parcher shook her head in a discouraged way. “I've tried, and I've
tried, and I've tried!” she said.
“Well, try again.”
“I can't now.” She waved her hand toward the rear of the house. Round
the corner marched a short procession of negroes, bearing trays; and
the dancers were dispersing themselves to chairs upon the lawn “for
refreshments.”
“Well, do something,” Mr. Parcher urged. “We don't want to find him in
the cistern in the morning!”
Mrs. Parcher looked thoughtful, then brightened. “_I_ know!” she said.
“I'll make May and Lola and their partners come sit in this little
circle of chairs here, and then I'll go and bring Willie and Miss Boke
to sit with them. I'll give Willie the seat at Lola's left. You keep the
chairs.”
Straightway she sped upon her kindly errand. It proved successful, so
successful, indeed, that without the slightest effort--without even a
hint on her part--she brought not only William and his constant friend
to sit in the circle with Miss Pratt, Miss Parcher and their escorts,
but Mr. Bullitt, Mr. Watson, Mr. Banks, and three other young gentlemen
as well. Nevertheless, Mrs. Parcher managed to carry out her plan,
and after a little display of firmness, saw William satisfactorily
established in the chair at Miss Pratt's left.
At last, at last, he sat beside the fairy-like creature, and filled
his lungs with infinitesimal particles of violet scent. More: he was no
sooner seated than the little blonde head bent close to his; the golden
net brushed his cheek. She whispered:
“No'ty ickle boy Batster! Lola's last night, an' ickle boy Batster
fluttin'! Flut all night wif dray bid dirl!”
William made no reply.
There are occasions, infrequent, of course, when even a bachelor is not
flattered by being accused of flirting. William's feelings toward Miss
Boke had by this time come to such a pass that he, regarded the charge
of flirting with her as little less than an implication of grave
mental deficiency. And well he remembered how Miss Pratt, beholding his
subjugated gymnastics in the dance, had grown pink with laughter! But
still the rose-leaf lips whispered:
“Lola saw! Lola saw bad boy Batster under dray bid tree fluttin' wif
dray bid dirl. Fluttin' all night wif dray bid 'normous dirl!”
Her cruelty was all unwitting; she intended to rally him sweetly. But
seventeen is deathly serious at such junctures, and William was in a
sensitive condition. He made no reply in words. Instead, he drew himself
up (from the waist, that is, because he was sitting) with a kind of
proud dignity. And that was all.
“Oo tross?” whispered Lola.
He spake not.
“'Twasn't my fault about dancing,” she said. “Bad boy! What made you
come so late?”
He maintained his silence and the accompanying icy dignity, whereupon
she made a charming little pout.
“Oo be so tross,” she said, “Lola talk to nice Man uvver side of her!”
With that she turned her back upon him and prattled merrily to the
gentleman of sixteen upon her right.
Still and cold sat William. Let her talk to the Man at the other side
of her as she would, and never so gaily, William knew that she was
conscious every instant of the reproachful presence upon her left. And
somehow these moments of quiet and melancholy dignity became the most
satisfactory he had known that evening. For as he sat, so silent, so
austere, and not yet eating, though a plate of chicken salad had been
placed upon his lap, he began to feel that there was somewhere about
him a mysterious superiority which set him apart from other people--and
above them. This quality, indefinable and lofty, had carried him through
troubles, that very night, which would have wrecked the lives of such
simple fellows as Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson. And although Miss
Pratt continued to make merry with the Man upon her right, it seemed
to William that this was but outward show. He had a strange, subtle
impression that the mysterious superiority which set him apart from
others was becoming perceptible to her--that she was feeling it, too.
Alas! Such are the moments Fate seizes upon to play the clown!
Over the chatter and laughter of the guests rose a too familiar voice.
“Lemme he'p you to nice tongue samwich, lady. No'm? Nice green lettuce
samwich, lady?”
Genesis!
“Nice tongue samwich, suh? Nice lettuce samwich, lady?” he could be
heard vociferating--perhaps a little too much as if he had sandwiches
for sale. “Lemme jes' lay this nice green lettuce samwich on you' plate
fer you.”
His wide-spread hand bore the tray of sandwiches high overhead, for his
style in waiting was florid, though polished. He walked with a faint,
shuffling suggestion of a prance, a lissome pomposity adopted in
obedience to the art-sense within him which bade him harmonize himself
with occasions of state and fashion. His manner was the super-supreme
expression of graciousness, but the graciousness was innocent, being but
an affectation and nothing inward--for inwardly Genesis was humble. He
was only pretending to be the kind of waiter he would like to be.
And because he was a new waiter he strongly wished to show familiarity
with his duties--familiarity, in fact, with everything and everybody.
This yearning, born of self-doubt, and intensified by a slight touch of
gin, was beyond question the inspiration of his painful behavior when
he came near the circle of chairs where sat Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, Miss
Parcher, Miss Pratt, Miss Boke, Mr. Watson, Mr. Bullitt, others--and
William.
“Nice tongue samwich, lady!” he announced, semi-cake-walking beneath his
high-borne tray.
“Nice green lettuce sam--” He came suddenly to a dramatic dead-stop as he
beheld William sitting before him, wearing that strange new dignity and
Mr. Baxter's evening clothes. “Name o' goo'ness!” Genesis exclaimed, so
loudly that every one looked up. “How in the livin' worl' you evuh come
to git here? You' daddy sut'ny mus' 'a' weakened 'way down 'fo' he let
you wear his low-cut ves' an' pants an' long-tail coat! I bet any man
fifty cents you gone an' stole 'em out aftuh he done went to bed!”
And he burst into a wild, free African laugh.
At seventeen such things are not embarrassing; they are catastrophical.
But, mercifully, catastrophes often produce a numbness in the victims.
More as in a trance than actually William heard the outbreak of his
young companions; and, during the quarter of an hour subsequent to
Genesis's performance, the oft-renewed explosions of their mirth made
but a kind of horrid buzzing in his ears. Like sounds borne from far
away were the gaspings of Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, striving with all their
strength to obtain mastery of themselves once more.
... A flourish of music challenged the dancers. Couples appeared upon
the platform.
The dreadful supper was over.
The ineffable One, supremely pink, rose from her seat at William's
side and moved toward the platform with the glowing Joe Bullitt. Then
William, roused to action by this sight, sprang to his feet and took a
step toward them. But it was only one weak step.
A warm and ample hand placed itself firmly inside the crook of his
elbow. “Let's get started for this one before the floor gets all crowded
up,” said Miss Boke.
Miss Boke danced and danced with him; she danced him on--and on--and
on----
At half past one the orchestra played “Home, Sweet Home.” As the last
bars sounded, a group of earnest young men who had surrounded the lovely
guest of honor, talking vehemently, broke into loud shouts, embraced one
another and capered variously over the lawn. Mr. Parcher beheld from a
distance these manifestations, and then, with an astonishment even more
profound, took note of the tragic William, who was running toward him,
radiant--Miss Boke hovering futilely in the far background.
“What's all the hullabaloo?” Mr. Parcher inquired.
“Miss Pratt!” gasped William. “Miss Pratt!”
“Well, what about her?”
And upon receiving William's reply, Mr. Parcher might well have
discerned behind it the invisible hand of an ironic but recompensing
Providence making things even--taking from the one to give to the other.
“She's going to stay!” shouted the happy William. “She's promised to
stay another week!”
And then, mingling with the sounds of rejoicing, there ascended to
heaven the stricken cry of an elderly man plunging blindly into the
house in search of his wife.
XXVIII
RANNIE KIRSTED
Observing the monotonously proper behavior of the sun, man had an absurd
idea and invented Time. Becoming still more absurd, man said, “So much
shall be a day; such and such shall be a week. All weeks shall be the
same length.” Yet every baby knows better! How long for Johnnie Watson,
for Joe Bullitt, for Wallace Banks--how long for William Sylvanus Baxter
was the last week of Miss Pratt? No one can answer. How long was that
week for Mr. Parcher? Again the mind is staggered.
Many people, of course, considered it to be a week of average size.
Among these was Jane.
Throughout seven days which brought some tense moments to the Baxter
household, Jane remained calm; and she was still calm upon the eighth
morning as she stood in the front yard of her own place of residence,
gazing steadily across the street. The object of her grave attention was
an ample brick house, newly painted white after repairs and enlargements
so inspiring to Jane's faculty for suggesting better ways of doing
things, that the workmen had learned to address her, with a slight
bitterness, as “Madam President.”
Throughout the process of repair, and until the very last of the
painting, Jane had considered this house to be as much her property as
anybody's; for children regard as ownerless all vacant houses and all
houses in course of construction or radical alteration. Nothing short of
furniture--intimate furniture in considerable quantity--hints that the
public is not expected. However, such a hint, or warning, was conveyed
to Jane this morning, for two “express wagons” were standing at the curb
with their backs impolitely toward the brick house; and powerful-voiced
men went surging to and fro under fat arm-chairs, mahogany tables,
disarticulated bedsteads, and baskets of china and glassware; while a
harassed lady appeared in the outer doorway, from time to time, with
gestures of lamentation and entreaty. Upon the sidewalk, between the
wagons and the gate, was a broad wet spot, vaguely circular, with a
partial circumference of broken glass and extinct goldfish.
Jane was forced to conclude that the brick house did belong to somebody,
after all. Wherefore, she remained in her own yard, a steadfast
spectator, taking nourishment into her system at regular intervals.
This was beautifully automatic: in each hand she held a slice of bread,
freely plastered over with butter, apple sauce, and powdered sugar;
and when she had taken somewhat from the right hand, that hand slowly
descended with its burden, while, simultaneously, the left began to
rise, reaching the level of her mouth precisely at the moment when a
little wave passed down her neck, indicating that the route was clear.
Then, having made delivery, the left hand sank, while the right began to
rise again. And, so well had custom trained Jane's members, never once
did she glance toward either of these faithful hands or the food that
it supported; her gaze was all the while free to remain upon the house
across the way and the great doings before it.
After a while, something made her wide eyes grow wider almost to their
utmost. Nay, the event was of that importance her mechanical hands
ceased to move and stopped stock-still, the right half-way up, the left
half-way down, as if because of sudden motor trouble within Jane. Her
mouth was equally affected, remaining open at a visible crisis in the
performance of its duty. These were the tokens of her agitation upon
beholding the removal of a dolls' house from one of the wagons. This
dolls' house was at least five feet high, of proportionate breadth and
depths the customary absence of a facade disclosing an interior of four
luxurious floors, with stairways, fireplaces, and wall-paper. Here was a
mansion wherein doll-duchesses, no less, must dwell.
Straightway, a little girl ran out of the open doorway of the brick
house and, with a self-importance concentrated to the point of
shrewishness, began to give orders concerning the disposal of her
personal property, which included (as she made clear) not only the
dolls' mansion, but also three dolls' trunks and a packing-case of fair
size. She was a thin little girl, perhaps half a year younger than Jane;
and she was as soiled, particularly in respect to hands, brow, chin, and
the knees of white stockings, as could be expected of any busybodyish
person of nine or ten whose mother is house-moving. But she was
gifted--if we choose to put the matter in the hopeful, sweeter way--she
was gifted with an unusually loud and shrill voice, and she made herself
heard over the strong-voiced men to such emphatic effect that one of the
latter, with the dolls' mansion upon his back, paused in the gateway to
acquaint her with his opinion that of all the bossy little girls he had
ever seen, heard, or heard of, she was the bossiest.
“THE worst!” he added.
The little girl across the street was of course instantly aware of Jane,
though she pretended not to be; and from the first her self-importance
was in large part assumed for the benefit of the observer. After a
momentary silence, due to her failure to think of any proper response to
the workman who so pointedly criticized her, she resumed the peremptory
direction of her affairs. She ran in and out of the house, her brow dark
with frowns, her shoulders elevated; and by every means at her disposal
she urged her audience to behold the frightful responsibilities of one
who must keep a thousand things in her head at once, and yet be ready
for decisive action at any instant.
There may have been one weakness in this strong performance: the
artistic sincerity of it was a little discredited by the increasing
frequency with which the artist took note of her effect. During each
of her most impressive moments, she flashed, from the far corner of her
eye, two questions at Jane: “How about THAT one? Are you still watching
Me?”
Then, apparently in the very midst of her cares, she suddenly and
without warning ceased to boss, walked out into the street, halted, and
stared frankly at Jane.
Jane had begun her automatic feeding again. She continued it, meanwhile
seriously returning the stare of the new neighbor. For several minutes
this mutual calm and inoffensive gaze was protracted; then Jane, after
swallowing the last morsel of her supplies, turned her head away and
looked at a tree. The little girl, into whose eyes some wistfulness had
crept, also turned her head and looked at a tree. After a while, she
advanced to the curb on Jane's side of the street, and, swinging her
right foot, allowed it to kick the curbstone repeatedly.
Jane came out to the sidewalk and began to kick one of the
fence-pickets.
“You see that ole fatty?” asked the little girl, pointing to one of the
workmen, thus sufficiently identified.
“Yes.”
“That's the one broke the goldfish,” said the little girl. There was a
pause during which she continued to scuff the curbstone with her shoe,
Jane likewise scuffing the fence-picket. “I'm goin' to have papa get him
arrested,” added the stranger.
“My papa got two men arrested once,” Jane said, calmly. “Two or three.”
The little girl's eyes, wandering upward, took note of Jane's papa's
house, and of a fierce young gentleman framed in an open window
up-stairs. He was seated, wore ink upon his forehead, and tapped his
teeth with a red penholder.
“Who is that?” she asked.
“It's Willie.”
“Is it your papa?”
“NO-O-O-O!” Jane exclaimed. “It's WILLIE!”
“Oh,” said the little girl, apparently satisfied.
Each now scuffed less energetically with her shoe; feet slowed down;
so did conversation, and, for a time, Jane and the stranger wrapped
themselves in stillness, though there may have been some silent
communing between them. Then the new neighbor placed her feet far apart
and leaned backward upon nothing, curving her front outward and her
remarkably flexible spine inward until a profile view of her was grandly
semicircular.
Jane watched her attentively, but without comment. However, no one
could have doubted that the processes of acquaintance were progressing
favorably.
“Let's go in our yard,” said Jane.
The little girl straightened herself with a slight gasp, and accepted
the invitation. Side by side, the two passed through the open gate,
walked gravely forth upon the lawn, and halted, as by common consent.
Jane thereupon placed her feet wide apart and leaned backward upon
nothing, attempting the feat in contortion just performed by the
stranger.
“Look,” she said. “Look at ME!”
But she lacked the other's genius, lost her balance, and fell. Born
persistent, she immediately got to her feet and made fresh efforts.
“No! Look at ME!” the little girl cried, becoming semicircular again.
“This is the way. I call it 'puttin' your stummick out o' joint.' You
haven't got yours out far enough.”
“Yes, I have,” said Jane, gasping.
“Well, to do it right, you must WALK that way. As soon as you get your
stummick out o' joint, you must begin an' walk. Look! Like this.” And
the little girl, having achieved a state of such convexity that her
braided hair almost touched the ground behind her, walked successfully
in that singular attitude.
“I'm walkin',” Jane protested, her face not quite upside down. “Look!
I'M walkin' that way, too. My stummick--”
There came an outraged shout from above, and a fierce countenance,
stained with ink, protruded from the window.
“Jane!”
“What?”
“Stop that! Stop putting your stomach out in front of you like that!
It's disgraceful!”
Both young ladies, looking rather oppressed, resumed the perpendicular.
“Why doesn't he like it?” the stranger asked in a tone of pure wonder.
“I don't know,” said Jane. “He doesn't like much of anything. He's
seventeen years old.”
After that, the two stared moodily at the ground for a little while,
chastened by the severe presence above; then Jane brightened.
“_I_ know!” she exclaimed, cozily. “Let's play callers. Right here by
this bush 'll be my house. You come to call on me, an' we'll talk
about our chuldren. You be Mrs. Smith an' I'm Mrs. Jones.” And in the
character of a hospitable matron she advanced graciously toward the new
neighbor. “Why, my dear Mrs. SMITH, come right IN! I THOUGHT you'd call
this morning. I want to tell you about my lovely little daughter. She's
only ten years old, an' says the brightest THINGS! You really must--”