Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  The wrath of Judge Martin Pike was august — there was a kind of sublimity in its immenseness — on a day when it befell that the shyster stood betwixt him and money.

  That was a monstrous task — to stand between these two and separate them, to hold back the hand of Martin Pike from what it had reached out to grasp. It was in the matter of some tax-titles which the magnate had acquired, and, in court, Joe treated the case with such horrifying simplicity that it seemed almost credible that the great man had counted upon the ignorance and besottedness of Joe’s client — a hard-drinking, disreputable old farmer — to get his land away from him without paying for it. Now, as every one knew such a thing to be ludicrously impossible, it was at once noised abroad in Canaan that Joe had helped to swindle Judge Pike out of a large sum of money — it was notorious that the shyster could bamboozle court and jury with his tricks; and it was felt that Joe Louden was getting into very deep waters indeed. THIS was serious: if the young man did not LOOK OUT, he might find himself in the penitentiary.

  The Tocsin paragraphed him with a fine regularity after this, usually opening with a Walrus-and-the-Carpenter gravity: “The time has come when we must speak of a certain matter frankly,” or, “At last the time has arrived when the demoralization of the bar caused by a certain criminal lawyer must be dealt with as it is and without gloves.” Once when Joe had saved a half-witted negro from “the extreme penalty” for murder, the Tocsin had declared, with great originality: “This is just the kind of thing that causes mobs and justifies them. If we are to continue to permit the worst class of malefactors to escape the consequences of their crimes through the unwholesome dexterities and the shifty manipulations and technicalities of a certain criminal lawyer, the time will come when an outraged citizenry may take the enforcement of the law in its own hands. Let us call a spade a spade. If Canaan’s streets ever echo with the tread of a mob, the fault lies upon the head of Joseph Louden, who has once more brought about a miscarriage of justice....”

  Joe did not move into a larger office; he remained in the little room with its one window and its fine view of the jail; his clients were nearly all poor, and many of his fees quite literally nominal. Tatters and rags came up the narrow stairway to his door — tatters and rags and pitiful fineries: the bleared, the sodden, the flaunting and rouged, the furtive and wary, some in rags, some in tags, and some — the sorriest — in velvet gowns. With these, the distressed, the wrong-doers, the drunken, the dirty, and the very poor, his work lay and his days and nights were spent.

  Ariel had told Roger Tabor that in time Joe might come to be what the town thought him, if it gave him no other chance. Only its dinginess and evil surrounded him; no respectable house was open to him; the barrooms — except that of the “National House” — welcomed him gratefully and admiringly. Once he went to church, on a pleasant morning when nice girls wear pretty spring dresses; it gave him a thrill of delight to see them, to be near clean, good people once more. Inadvertently, he took a seat by his step-mother, who rose with a slight rustle of silk and moved to another pew; and it happened, additionally, that this was the morning that the minister, fired by the Tocsin’s warnings, had chosen to preach on the subject of Joe himself.

  The outcast returned to his own kind. No lady spoke to him upon the street. Mamie Pike had passed him with averted eyes since her first meeting with him, but the shunning and snubbing of a young man by a pretty girl have never yet, if done in a certain way, prevented him from continuing to be in love with her. Mamie did it in the certain way. Joe did not wince, therefore it hurt all the more, for blows from which one cringes lose much of their force.

  The town dog had been given a bad name, painted solid black from head to heel. He was a storm centre of scandal; the entrance to his dingy stairway was in square view of the “National House,” and the result is imaginable. How many of Joe’s clients, especially those sorriest of the velvet gowns, were conjectured to ascend his stairs for reasons more convivial than legal! Yes, he lived with his own kind, and, so far as the rest of Canaan was concerned, might as well have worn the scarlet letter on his breast or branded on his forehead.

  When he went about the streets he was made to feel his condition by the elaborate avoidance, yet furtive attention, of every respectable person he met; and when he came home to his small rooms and shut the door behind him, he was as one who has been hissed and shamed in public and runs to bury his hot face in his pillow. He petted his mongrel extravagantly (well he might!), and would sit with him in his rooms at night, holding long converse with him, the two alone together. The dog was not his only confidant. There came to be another, a more and more frequent partner to their conversations, at last a familiar spirit. This third came from a brown jug which Joe kept on a shelf in his bedroom, a vessel too frequently replenished. When the day’s work was done he shut himself up, drank alone and drank hard. Sometimes when the jug ran low and the night was late he would go out for a walk with his dog, and would awake in his room the next morning not remembering where he had gone or how he had come home. Once, after such a lapse of memory, he woke amazed to find himself at Beaver Beach, whither, he learned from the red-bearded man, Happy Fear had brought him, having found him wandering dazedly in a field near by. These lapses grew more frequent, until there occurred that which was one of the strange things of his life.

  It was a June night, a little more than two years after his return to Canaan, and the Tocsin had that day announced the approaching marriage of Eugene Bantry and his employer’s daughter. Joe ate nothing during the day, and went through his work clumsily, visiting the bedroom shelf at intervals. At ten in the evening he went out to have the jug refilled, but from the moment he left his door and the fresh air struck his face, he had no clear knowledge of what he did or of what went on about him until he woke in his bed the next morning.

  And yet, whatever little part of the soul of him remained, that night, still undulled, not numbed, but alive, was in some strange manner lifted out of its pain towards a strange delight. His body was an automaton, his mind in bondage, yet there was a still, small consciousness in him which knew that in his wandering something incredible and unexpected was happening. What this was he did not know, could not see, though his eyes were open, could not have told himself any more than a baby could tell why it laughs, but it seemed something so beautiful and wonderful that the night became a night of perfume, its breezes bearing the music of harps and violins, while nightingales sang from the maples that bordered the streets of Canaan.

  X. THE TRYST

  HE WOKE TO the light of morning amazed and full of a strange wonder because he did not know what had amazed him. For a little while after his eyes opened, he lay quite motionless; then he lifted his head slightly and shook it with some caution. This had come to be custom. The operation assured him of the worst; the room swam round him, and, with a faint groan, he let his head fall back upon the pillow. But he could not sleep again; pain stung its way through his heart as memory began to come back to him, not of the preceding night — that was all blank, — but realization that the girl of whom he had dreamed so long was to be married. That his dreams had been quite hopeless was no balm to his hurt.

  A chime of bells sounded from a church steeple across the Square, ringing out in assured righteousness, summoning the good people who maintained them to come and sit beneath them or be taken to task; and they fell so dismally upon Joe’s ear that he bestirred himself and rose, to the delight of his mongrel, who leaped upon him joyfully. An hour later, or thereabout, the pair emerged from the narrow stairway and stood for a moment, blinking in the fair sunshine, apparently undecided which way to go. The church bells were silent; there was no breeze; the air trembled a little with the deep pipings of the organ across the Square, and, save for that, the town was very quiet. The paths which crossed the Court-house yard were flecked with steady shadow, the strong young foliage of the maples not moving, having the air of observing the Sabbath with propriety. There were benches h
ere and there along the walks, and to one of these Joe crossed, and sat down. The mongrel, at his master’s feet, rolled on his back in morning ecstasy, ceased abruptly to roll and began to scratch his ear with a hind foot intently. A tiny hand stretched to pat his head, and the dog licked it appreciatively. It belonged to a hard-washed young lady of six (in starchy, white frills and new, pink ribbons), who had run ahead of her mother, a belated church-goer; and the mongrel charmed her.

  “Will you give me this dog?” she asked, without any tedious formalities.

  Involuntarily, she departed before receiving a reply. The mother, a red-faced matron whom Joe recognized as a sister of Mrs. Louden’s, consequently his step-aunt, swooped at the child with a rush and rustle of silk, and bore her on violently to her duty. When they had gone a little way the matron’s voice was heard in sharp reproof; the child, held by one wrist and hurried along on tiptoe, staring back over one shoulder at Joe, her eyes wide, and her mouth the shape of the “O” she was ejaculating.

  The dog looked up with wistful inquiry at his master, who cocked an eyebrow at him in return, wearing much the same expression. The mother and child disappeared within the church doors and left the Square to the two. Even the hotel showed no signs of life, for the wise men were not allowed to foregather on Sundays. The organ had ceased to stir the air and all was in quiet, yet a quiet which, for Louden, was not peace. He looked at his watch and, without intending it, spoke the hour aloud: “A quarter past eleven.” The sound of his own voice gave him a little shock; he rose without knowing why, and, as he did so, it seemed to him that he heard close to his ear another voice, a woman’s, troubled and insistent, but clear and sweet, saying:

  “REMEMBER! ACROSS MAIN STREET BRIDGE AT NOON!”

  It was so distinct that he started and looked round. Then he laughed. “I’ll be seeing circus parades next!” His laughter fled, for, louder than the ringing in his ears, unmistakably came the strains of a far-away brass band which had no existence on land or sea or in the waters under the earth.

  “Here!” he said to the mongrel. “We need a walk, I think. Let’s you and me move on before the camels turn the corner!”

  The music followed him to the street, where he turned westward toward the river, and presently, as he walked on, fanning himself with his straw hat, it faded and was gone. But the voice he had heard returned.

  “REMEMBER! ACROSS MAIN STREET BRIDGE AT NOON!” it said again, close to his ear.

  This time he did not start. “All right,” he answered, wiping his forehead; “if you’ll let me alone, I’ll be there.”

  At a dingy saloon corner, near the river, a shabby little man greeted him heartily and petted the mongrel. “I’m mighty glad you didn’t go, after all, Joe,” he added, with a brightening face.

  “Go where, Happy?”

  Mr. Fear looked grave. “Don’t you rec’lect meetin’ me last night?”

  Louden shook his head. “No. Did I?”

  The other’s jaw fell and his brow corrugated with self-reproach. “Well, if that don’t show what a thick-head I am! I thought ye was all right er I’d gone on with ye. Nobody c’d ‘a’ walked straighter ner talked straighter. Said ye was goin’ to leave Canaan fer good and didn’t want nobody to know it. Said ye was goin’ to take the ‘leven-o’clock through train fer the West, and told me I couldn’t come to the deepo with ye. Said ye’d had enough o’ Canaan, and of everything! I follered ye part way to the deepo, but ye turned and made a motion fer me to go back, and I done it, because ye seemed to be kind of in trouble, and I thought ye’d ruther be by yerself. Well, sir, it’s one on me!”

  “Not at all,” said Joe. “I was all right.”

  “Was ye?” returned the other. “DO remember, do ye?”

  “Almost,” Joe smiled, faintly.

  “ALMOST,” echoed Happy, shaking his head seriously. “I tell ye, Joe, ef I was YOU—” he began slowly, then paused and shook his head again. He seemed on the point of delivering some advice, but evidently perceiving the snobbishness of such a proceeding, or else convinced by his own experience of the futility of it, he swerved to cheerfulness:

  “I hear the boys is all goin’ to work hard fer the primaries. Mike says ye got some chances ye don’t know about; HE swears ye’ll be the next Mayor of Canaan.”

  “Nonsense! Folly and nonsense, Happy! That’s the kind of thing I used to think when I was a boy. But now — pshaw!” Joe broke off with a tired laugh. “Tell them not to waste their time. Are you going out to the Beach this afternoon?”

  The little man lowered his eyes moodily. “I’ll be near there,” he said, scraping his patched shoe up and down the curbstone. “That feller’s in town agin.”

  “What fellow?”

  “‘Nashville’ they call him; Ed’s the name he give the hospital: Cory — him that I soaked the night you come back to Canaan. He’s after Claudine to git his evens with me. He’s made a raise somewheres, and plays the spender. And her — well, I reckon she’s tired waitin’ table at the National House; tired o’ me, too. I got a hint that they’re goin’ out to the Beach together this afternoon.”

  Joe passed his hand wearily over his aching forehead. “I understand,” he said, “and you’d better try to. Cory’s laying for you, of course. You say he’s after your wife? He must have set about it pretty openly if they’re going to the Beach to-day, for there is always a crowd there on Sundays. Is it hard for you to see why he’s doing it? It’s because he wants to make you jealous. What for? So that you’ll tackle him again. And why does he want that? Because he’s ready for you!”

  The other’s eyes suddenly became bloodshot, his nostrils expanding incredibly. “READY, is he? He BETTER be ready. I—”

  “That’s enough!” Joe interrupted, swiftly. “We’ll have no talk like that. I’ll settle this for you, myself. You send word to Claudine that I want to see her at my office to-morrow morning, and you — you stay away from the Beach to-day. Give me your word.”

  Mr. Fear’s expression softened. “All right, Joe,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to. Any of us ‘ll do that; we sure know who’s our friend.”

  “Keep out of trouble, Happy.” Joe turned to go and they shook hands. “Good day, and — keep out of trouble!”

  When he had gone, Mr. Fear’s countenance again gloomed ominously, and, shaking his head, he ruminatively entered an adjacent bar through the alley door.

  The Main Street bridge was an old-fashioned, wooden, covered one, dust-colored and very narrow, squarely framing the fair, open country beyond; for the town had never crossed the river. Joe found the cool shadow in the bridge gracious to his hot brow, and through the slender chinks of the worn flooring he caught bright glimpses of running water. When he came out of the other end he felt enough refreshed to light a cigar.

  “Well, here I am,” he said. “Across Main Street bridge — and it must be getting on toward noon!” He spoke almost with the aspect of daring, and immediately stood still, listening. “‘REMEMBER,”’ he ventured to repeat, again daring, “‘REMEMBER! ACROSS MAIN STREET BRIDGE AT NOON!’” And again he listened. Then he chuckled faintly with relief, for the voice did not return. “Thank God, I’ve got rid of that!” he whispered. “And of the circus band too!”

  A dust road turned to the right, following the river and shaded by big sycamores on the bank; the mongrel, intensely preoccupied with this road, scampered away, his nose to the ground. “Good enough,” said the master. “Lead on and I’ll come after you.”

  But he had not far to follow. The chase led him to a half-hollow log which lay on a low, grass-grown levee above the stream, where the dog’s interest in the pursuit became vivid; temporarily, however, for after a few minutes of agitated investigation, he was seized with indifference to the whole world; panted briefly; slept. Joe sat upon the log, which was in the shade, and smoked.

  “‘REMEMBER!’” He tried it once more. “‘ACROSS MAIN STREET BRIDGE AT NOON!’” Safety still; the voice came not. But the sou
nd of his own repetition of the words brought him an eerie tremor; for the mist of a memory came with it; nothing tangible, nothing definite, but something very far away and shadowy, yet just poignant enough to give him a queer feeling that he was really keeping an appointment here. Was it with some water-sprite that would rise from the river? Was it with a dryad of the sycamores? He knew too well that he might expect strange fancies to get hold of him this morning, and, as this one grew uncannily stronger, he moved his head briskly as if to shake it off. The result surprised him; the fancy remained, but his headache and dizziness had left him.

  A breeze wandered up the river and touched the leaves and grass to life. Sparrows hopped and chirped in the branches, absurdly surprised; without doubt having concluded in the Sunday stillness that the world would drowse forever; and the mongrel lifted his head, blinked at them, hopelessly wishing they would alight near him, scratched his ear with the manner of one who has neglected such matters overlong; reversed his position; slept again. The young corn, deep green in the bottomland, moved with a staccato flurry, and the dust ghost of a mad whirling dervish sped up the main road to vanish at the bridge in a climax of lunacy. The stirring air brought a smell of blossoms; the distance took on faint lavender hazes which blended the outlines of the fields, lying like square coverlets upon the long slope of rising ground beyond the bottom-land, and empurpled the blue woodland shadows of the groves.

  For the first time, it struck Joe that it was a beautiful day, and it came to him that a beautiful day was a thing which nothing except death, sickness, or imprisonment could take from him — not even the ban of Canaan! Unforewarned, music sounded in his ears again; but he did not shrink from it now; this was not the circus band he had heard as he left the Square, but a melody like a far-away serenade at night, as of “the horns of elf-land faintly blowing”; and he closed his eyes with the sweetness of it.