"Who?"
"Why, the fellow I'm telling you about--the roughneck."
"Roughneck," said Judith dreamily. The word had a fine, strong sound.
Willard was holding her hand again, and she felt too comfortable and
content to stop him.
The orchestra down the street was playing the number that usually ended
its programs, a medley of plantation melodies. They were never such a
strain on the resources of a hard-working but only five-piece orchestra
as the ambitious, martial selections, and here, heard across the dark,
they were beautiful: plaintive and thrillingly sweet. "Old Kentucky
Home," was the sweetest of all, lonely and sad as youth, and insistent
as youth, claiming its own against an alien world.
"Oh, Willard!" breathed Judith. Then, in quite another tone, "Oh,
Willard!"
Encouraged by her silence, he was reaching for her other hand, and
slipping an arm round her waist.
"You feel so soft," objected Judith frankly, getting up. "I do hope I'll
never fall in love with a fat man. Come on, let's go!"
She waited for him politely on the sidewalk, and permitted her arm to
be duly grasped. Willard, sulky and silent, but preserving appearances,
piloted her dutifully down the street. Willard's silences were rare, and
Judith usually made the most of them, but she did not permit this one to
last. She did not want any one, even Willard, to be unhappy to-night.
"Willard."
"What?"
"Don't take such long steps, or I can't keep up with you. You're so
tall."
"Do you want to be late?"
"Oh, no! Are we?"
"No."
"But there's only one couple behind us, and the music's stopped."
"It takes half an hour to get the chairs moved out."
"Willard."
"Well?"
"Is the first dance a grand march and circle?"
"No, that's gone out. They have contras instead, but the first is a
waltz."
"Willard, mother said I mustn't dance contras, but I shall--with you."
"Well!"
"Don't you want me to?"
"Yes."
"Willard, are you cross with me?"
"No." They were in front of the Odd Fellows' Building now. The door was
open. The pair behind them crowded past and clattered hurriedly up the
bare, polished stairs. The orchestra could be heard tuning industriously
above. They were almost late, but Willard drew her into a corner of the
entrance hall, and pressed her hand ardently.
"Judy, I couldn't be cross with you."
"Don't be too sure!" Judith laughed, and ran upstairs ahead of him.
"There's the ladies' dressing-room. I'll get the dance orders and meet
you outside."
There was a whispering, giggling crowd in the dressing-room, mostly
seniors, girls she did not know, but they seemed to know her, and she
was conscious of curious looks at her hair and dress. It was the
simplest dress in the room, and her mother would not have approved of
the other dresses, but Judith did. There was something festive about the
bright colours, too bright most of them: sharp pinks, and cold, hard
blues. There was a yellow dress on a brunette, who was cheapened by the
crude colour, and a scarlet dress too bright for any one to wear
successfully on a big, pretty blond girl, who almost could. Judith
smelled three distinct kinds of cheap talcum powder, and preferred them
all to her own unscented French variety. She had a moment of sudden
loneliness. Was she so glad to be here, after all?
It was only a moment. The tuning of instruments outside broke off, and
the first bars of a waltz droned invitingly out: "If you really love
me," the song that had been in her ears all the evening, a flimsy ballad
of the year, hauntingly sweet, as only such short-lived songs can be.
Moving to the tune of it, Judith crowded with the other girls out of the
dressing-room.
The hall was transformed. It was not the room she had dreamed of, a
great room, dimly lit, peopled with low-talking dancers, circling
through the dimness. The place looked smaller decorated, and the
decorations themselves seemed to have shrunk since she saw them. The
lanterns had been hung only where nails were already driven, and under
the supervision of the janitor, who would not permit them to be lighted.
The cheesecloth was conspicuous nowhere except around the little stage,
which it draped in tight, mathematically measured festoons. Beneath,
under the misleading legend, "G. H. S.," painted in yellow on a
suspended football, Dugan's orchestra performed its duties faithfully,
with handkerchiefs guarding wilted collars.
The goldenrod, tortured and wired into a screen to hide the footlights,
was drooping away already and showing the supporting wires. The benches
were stacked against the wall, all but an ill-omened row designed for
wall-flowers, and the floor was cleared and waxed. But little patches of
wax that were not rubbed in lurked for unwary feet, and there were
clouds of dust in the air. In one corner of the hall most of the
prominent guests of the evening were attempting to obtain dance orders
at once, or to push their way back with them to the young ladies they
were escorting.
These ladies, and other ladies without escorts, were crowding each other
against the stacked benches and maneuvering for positions where their
dance orders would fill promptly. The atmosphere was one of strife and
stress. But Judith found no fault with it. She was not aware of it.
In a corner near the stage, by the closed door of the refreshment-room,
a boy was standing alone. He was tearing up his dance order. It was
empty, and he was making no further attempts to fill it. He tore it
quite unostentatiously so that no young lady disposed to be amused by
his defeat could see anything worth staring at in his performance, and
he was forgotten in his corner. But Judith stared.
She had remembered him tall, but he was only a little taller than
herself. His black suit was shiny, and a size too small for him, but it
was carefully brushed, and he wore it with an air. His hair was darker
than she remembered, a pale, soft brown. It was too long, and it curled
at the temples. He stood squarely, facing the room, as if he did not
care what anybody did to him, but there was a look about his mouth as if
he cared. He raised his eyes. They were darker than she remembered,
darker and stranger than any eyes in the world. They looked hurt, but
there was a laugh in them, too, and across the hall they were looking
straight at Judith.
"Here you are. I've got myself down for all your contras. Just in time."
Willard, mopping his brow, slipping on a patch of wax, and saving
himself with a skating motion, brought up triumphantly beside her,
waving two dance orders. Judith pushed them away, and said
something--she hardly knew what.
"What, Judy? What's that? You're engaged for this? You can't dance it
with me?"
"No. No, I can't."
Judith slipped past him, and started across the floor. The music was
louder now, as if you were really meant to dance, and dance with the
person you wanted to most. The floor was filling now with dancers
stepping forward awkwardly, but turning into different creatures when
they danced, caught by the light, sure swing of the music, whirling and
gliding. The words sang themselves to Judith, the silly, beautiful
words:
Please don't keep me waiting.
Won't you let me know
That you really love me?
Tell--me--so.
A girl in red was dancing in a quick, darting sort of way, in and out,
among the others, and her dress was beautiful, too, like a flower. The
boy in the corner was watching it. He did not see Judith come.
"I thought you couldn't be real. When I never saw you again I thought I
had dreamed you."
Judith said it softly and breathlessly, and he did not hear. She put her
hand on his arm, and he turned and looked at her.
"Don't you remember me?" Judith was too happy to be hurt even by this.
The light, sweet music called to her. "Don't you remember? Never mind!
Come and dance with me."