itself a cause for laughter;--all of these people had often seen him
dressed as he was to-day, and had preserved their gravity. But, in spite
of himself, he took off his hat again, and looked to see if anything
about it might explain this mirth, which, at his action, increased. Nay,
the laughter began to be shared by strangers; and some set down their
hand-luggage for greater pleasure in what they saw.
William's inward state became chaotic.
He tried to smile carelessly, to prove his composure, but he found that
he had lost almost all control over his features. He had no knowledge
of his actual expression except that it hurt him. In desperation he fell
back upon hauteur; he managed to frown, and walked proudly. At that
they laughed the more, Wallace Banks rudely pointing again and again at
William; and not till the oncoming sufferer reached a spot within
twenty feet of these delighted people did he grasp the significance of
Wallace's repeated gesture of pointing. Even then he understood only
when the gesture was supplemented by half-articulate shouts:
“Behind you! Look BEHIND you!”
The stung youth turned.
There, directly behind him, he beheld an exclusive little procession
consisting of two damsels in single file, the first soiled with
house-moving, the second with apple sauce.
For greater caution they had removed their shoes; and each damsel,
as she paraded, dangled from each far-extended hand a shoe. And both
damsels, whether beneath apple sauce or dust smudge, were suffused with
the rapture of a great mockery.
They were walking with their stummicks out o' joint.
At sight of William's face they squealed. They turned and ran. They got
themselves out of sight.
Simultaneously, the air filled with solid thunder and the pompous train
shook the ground. Ah, woe's the word! This was the thing that meant to
bear away the golden girl and honeysuckle of the world--meant to, and
would, not abating one iron second!
Now a porter had her hand-bag.
Dear Heaven! to be a porter--yes, a colored one! What of that, NOW? Just
to be a simple porter, and journey with her to the far, strange pearl
among cities whence she had come!
The gentle porter bowed her toward the steps of his car; but first she
gave Flopit into the hands of May Parcher, for a moment, and whispered
a word to Wallace Banks; then to Joe Bullitt; then to Johnnie
Watson;--then she ran to William.
She took his hand.
“Don't forget!” she whispered. “Don't forget Lola!”
He stood stock-still. His face was blank, his hand limp. He said
nothing.
She enfolded May Parcher, kissed her devotedly; then, with Flopit once
more under her arm, she ran and jumped upon the steps just as the train
began to move. She stood there, on the lowest step, slowly gliding away
from them, and in her eyes there was a sparkle of tears, left, it may
be, from her laughter at poor William's pageant with Jane and Rannie
Kirsted--or, it may be, not.
She could not wave to her friends, in answer to their gestures of
farewell, for her arms were too full of Flopit and roses and candy and
sweet peas; but she kept nodding to them in a way that showed them how
much she thanked them for being sorry she was going--and made it clear
that she was sorry, too, and loved them all.
“Good-by!” she meant.
Faster she glided; the engine passed from sight round a curve beyond a
culvert, but for a moment longer they could see the little figure upon
the steps--and, to the very last glimpse they had of her, the small,
golden head was still nodding “Good-by!” Then those steps whereon she
stood passed in their turn beneath the culvert, and they saw her no
more.
Lola Pratt was gone!
Wet-eyed, her young hostess of the long summer turned away, and stumbled
against William. “Why, Willie Baxter!” she cried, blinking at him.
The last car of the train had rounded the curve and disappeared, but
William was still waving farewell--not with his handkerchief, but with
a symmetrical, one-pound parcel, wrapped in white tissue-paper, girdled
with blue ribbon.
“Never mind!” said May Parcher. “Let's all walk Up-town together, and
talk about her on the way, and we'll go by the express-office, and you
can send your candy to her by express, Willie.”
XXX
THE BRIDE-TO-BE
In the smallish house which all summer long, from morning until late
at night, had resounded with the voices of young people, echoing their
songs, murmurous with their theories of love, or vibrating with their
glee, sometimes shaking all over during their more boisterous moods--in
that house, now comparatively so vacant, the proprietor stood and
breathed deep breaths.
“Hah!” he said, inhaling and exhaling the air profoundly.
His wife was upon the porch, outside, sewing. The silence was deep.
He seemed to listen to it--to listen with gusto; his face slowly
broadening, a pinkish tint overspreading it. His flaccid cheeks appeared
to fill, to grow firm again, a smile finally widening them.
“HAH!” he breathed, sonorously. He gave himself several resounding slaps
upon the chest, then went out to the porch and sat in a rocking-chair
near his wife. He spread himself out expansively. “My Glory!” he said.
“I believe I'll take off my coat! I haven't had my coat off, outside of
my own room, all summer. I believe I'll take a vacation! By George, I
believe I'll stay home this afternoon!”
“That's nice,” said Mrs. Parcher.
“Hah!” he said. “My Glory! I believe I'll take off my shoes!”
And, meeting no objection, he proceeded to carry out this plan.
“Hah-AH!” he said, and placed his stockinged feet upon the railing,
where a number of vines, running upon strings, made a screen between the
porch and the street. He lit a large cigar. “Well, well!” he said. “That
tastes good! If this keeps on, I'll be in as good shape as I was last
spring before you know it!” Leaning far back in the rocking-chair, his
hands behind his head, he smoked with fervor; but suddenly he jumped in
a way which showed that his nerves were far from normal. His feet came
to the floor with a thump, he jerked the cigar out of his mouth, and
turned a face of consternation upon his wife.
“What's the matter?”
“Suppose,” said Mr. Patcher, huskily--“suppose she missed her train.”
Mrs. Parcher shook her head.
“Think not?” he said, brightening. “I ordered the livery-stable to have
a carriage here in lots of time.”
“They did,” said Mrs. Parcher, severely. “About five dollars' worth.”
“Well, I don't mind that,” he returned, putting his feet up again.
“After all, she was a mighty fine little girl in her way. The only
trouble with me was that crowd of boys;--having to listen to them
certainly liked to killed me, and I believe if she'd stayed just one
more day I'd been a goner! Of all the dam boys I ever--” He paused,
listening.
“Mr. Parcher!” a youthful voice repeated.
He rose, and, separating two of the vines which screened the end of the
porch from the street, looked out. Two small maidens had paused upon the
sidewalk, and were peering over the picket fence.
“Mr. Parcher,” said Jane, as soon as his head appeared between the
vines--“Mr. Parcher, Miss Pratt's gone. She's gone away on the cars.”
“You think so?” he asked, gravely.
“We saw her,” said Jane. “Rannie an' I were there. Willie was goin' to
chase us, I guess, but we went in the baggage-room behind trunks, an'
we saw her go. She got on the cars, an' it went with her in it. Honest,
she's gone away, Mr. Parcher.”
Before speaking, Mr. Parcher took a long look at this telepathic child.
In his fond eyes she was a marvel and a darling.
“Well--THANK you, Jane!” he said.
Jane, however, had turned her head and was staring at the corner, which
was out of his sight.
“Oo-oo-ooh!” she murmured.
“What's the trouble, Jane?”
“Willie!” she said. “It's Willie an' that Joe Bullitt, an' Johnnie
Watson, an' Mr. Wallace Banks. They're with Miss May Parcher. They're
comin' right here!”
Mr. Parcher gave forth a low moan, and turned pathetically to his wife,
but she cheered him with a laugh.
“They've only walked up from the station with May,” she said. “They
won't come in. You'll see!”
Relieved, Mr. Parcher turned again to speak to Jane--but she was not
there. He caught but a glimpse of her, running up the street as fast as
she could, hand in hand with her companion.
“Run, Rannie, run!” panted Jane. “I got to get home an' tell mamma about
it before Willie. I bet I ketch Hail Columbia, anyway, when he does get
there!”
And in this she was not mistaken: she caught Hail Columbia. It lasted
all afternoon.
It was still continuing after dinner. Thatt evening, when an
oft-repeated yodel, followed by a shrill-wailed, “Jane-ee! Oh,
Jane-NEE-ee!” brought her to an open window down-stairs. In the early
dusk she looked out upon the washed face of Rannie Kirsted, who stood on
the lawn below.
“Come on out, Janie. Mamma says I can stay outdoors an' play till half
past eight.”
Jane shook her head. “I can't. I can't go outside the house till
to-morrow. It's because we walked after Willie with our stummicks out o'
joint.”
“Pshaw!” Rannie cried, lightly. “My mother didn't do anything to me for
that.”
“Well, nobody told her on you,” said Jane, reasonably.
“Can't you come out at all?” Rannie urged. “Go ask your mother. Tell
her--”
“How can I,” Jane inquired, with a little heat, “when she isn't here to
ask? She's gone out to play cards--she and papa.”
Rannie swung her foot. “Well,” she said, “I guess I haf to find SOMEp'n
to do! G' night!”
With head bowed in thought she moved away, disappearing into the gray
dusk, while Jane, on her part, left the window and went to the open
front door. Conscientiously, she did not cross the threshold, but
restrained herself to looking out. On the steps of the porch sat
William, alone, his back toward the house.
“Willie?” said Jane, softly; and, as he made no response, she lifted her
voice a little. “Will-ee!”
“Whatchwant!” he grunted, not moving.
“Willie, I told mamma I was sorry I made you feel so bad.”
“All right!” he returned, curtly.
“Well, when I haf to go to bed, Willie,” she said, “mamma told me
because I made you feel bad I haf to go up-stairs by myself, to-night.”
She paused, seeming to hope that he would say something, but he spake
not.
“Willie, I don't haf to go for a while yet, but when I do--maybe in
about a half an hour--I wish you'd come stand at the foot of the stairs
till I get up there. The light's lit up-stairs, but down around here
it's kind of dark.”
He did not answer.
“Will you, Willie?”
“Oh, all RIGHT!” he said.
This contented her, and she seated herself so quietly upon the floor,
just inside the door, that he ceased to be aware of her, thinking she
had gone away. He sat staring vacantly into the darkness, which had come
on with that abruptness which begins to be noticeable in September.
His elbows were on his knees, and his body was sunk far forward in an
attitude of desolation.
The small noises of the town--that town so empty to-night--fell upon his
ears mockingly. It seemed to him incredible that so hollow a town could
go about its nightly affairs just as usual. A man and a woman, going
by, laughed loudly at something the man had said: the sound of their
laughter was horrid to William. And from a great distance from far out
in the country--there came the faint, long-drawn whistle of an engine.
That was the sorrowfulest sound of all to William. His lonely mind's
eye sought the vasty spaces to the east; crossed prairie, and river, and
hill, to where a long train whizzed onward through the dark--farther
and farther and farther away. William uttered a sigh, so hoarse, so deep
from the tombs, so prolonged, that Jane, who had been relaxing herself
at full length upon the floor, sat up straight with a jerk.
But she was wise enough not to speak.
Now the full moon came masquerading among the branches of the
shade-trees; it came in the likeness of an enormous football, gloriously
orange. Gorgeously it rose higher, cleared the trees, and resumed its
wonted impersonation of a silver disk. Here was another mockery: What
was the use of a moon NOW?
Its use appeared straightway.
In direct coincidence with that rising moon, there came from a little
distance down the street the sound of a young male voice, singing.
It was not a musical voice, yet sufficiently loud; and it knew only a
portion of the words and air it sought to render, but, upon completing
the portion it did know, it instantly began again, and sang that portion
over and over with brightest patience. So the voice approached the
residence of the Baxter family, singing what the shades of night gave
courage to sing--instead of whistle, as in the abashing sunlight.
Thus:
“My countree, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, 'tis
of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, 'tis of thee, Sweet land
of liber-tee, My countree, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My
countree, 'tis--”
Jane spoke unconsciously. “It's Freddie,” she said.
William leaped to his feet; this was something he could NOT bear! He
made a bloodthirsty dash toward the gate, which the singer was just in
the act of passing.
“You GET OUT O' HERE!” William roared.
The song stopped. Freddie Banks fled like a rag on the wind.
... Now here is a strange matter.
The antique prophets prophesied successfully; they practised with some
ease that art since lost but partly rediscovered by M. Maeterlinck, who
proves to us that the future already exists, simultaneously with the
present. Well, if his proofs be true, then at this very moment when
William thought menacingly of Freddie Banks, the bright air of a happy
June evening--an evening ordinarily reckoned ten years, nine months and
twenty-one days in advance of this present sorrowful evening--the bright
air of that happy June evening, so far in the future, was actually
already trembling to a wedding-march played upon a church organ; and
this selfsame Freddie, with a white flower in his buttonhole, and in
every detail accoutred as a wedding usher, was an usher for this very
William who now (as we ordinarily count time) threatened his person.
But for more miracles:
As William turned again to resume his meditations upon the steps, his
incredulous eyes fell upon a performance amazingly beyond fantasy, and
without parallel as a means to make scorn of him. Not ten feet from the
porch--and in the white moonlight that made brilliant the path to the
gate--Miss Mary Randolph Kirsted was walking. She was walking with
insulting pomposity in her most pronounced semicircular manner.
“YOU GET OUT O' HERE!” she said, in a voice as deep and hoarse as she
could make it. “YOU GET OUT O' HERE!”
Her intention was as plain as the moon. She was presenting in her own
person a sketch of William, by this means expressing her opinion of him
and avenging Jane.
“YOU GET OUT O' HERE!” she croaked.
The shocking audacity took William's breath. He gasped; he sought for
words.
“Why, you--you--” he cried. “You--you sooty-faced little girl!”
In this fashion he directly addressed Miss Mary Randolph Kirsted for the
first time in his life.
And that was the strangest thing of this strange evening. Strangest
because, as with life itself, there was nothing remarkable upon the
surface of it. But if M. Maeterlinck has the right of the matter, and
if the bright air of that June evening, almost eleven years in the
so-called future, was indeed already trembling to “Lohengrin,” then
William stood with Johnnie Watson against a great bank of flowers at the
foot of a church aisle; that aisle was roped with white-satin ribbons;
and William and Johnnie were waiting for something important to happen.
And then, to the strains of “Here Comes the Bride,” it did--a stately,
solemn, roseate, gentle young thing with bright eyes seeking through a
veil for William's eyes.
Yes, if great M. Maeterlinck is right, it seems that William ought to
have caught at least some eerie echo of that wedding-march, however
faint--some bars or strains adrift before their time upon the moonlight
of this September night in his eighteenth year.
For there, beyond the possibility of any fate to intervene, or of any
later vague, fragmentary memory of even Miss Pratt to impair, there in
that moonlight was his future before him.
He started forward furiously. “You--you--you little--”
But he paused, not wasting his breath upon the empty air.
His bride-to-be was gone.