Mrs. Baxter sighed, and went to a window in her own room, and looked out.
William was already more than half-way to the next corner, where there was a car-line that ran to the station; but the distance was not too great for Mrs. Baxter to comprehend the nature of the symmetrical white parcel now carried in his right hand. Her face became pensive as she gazed after the flying slender figure: — there came to her mind the recollection of a seventeen-year-old boy who had brought a box of candy (a small one, like William’s) to the station, once, long ago, when she had been visiting in another town. For just a moment she thought of that boy she had known, so many years ago, and a smile came vaguely upon her lips. She wondered what kind of a woman he had married, and how many children he had — and whether he was a widower ——
The fleeting recollection passed; she turned from the window and shook her head, puzzled.
“Now where on earth could Jane and that little Kirsted girl have gone?” she murmured.
... At the station, William, descending from the street-car, found that he had six minutes to spare. Reassured of so much by the great clock in the station tower, he entered the building, and, with calm and dignified steps, crossed the large waiting-room. Those calm and dignified steps were taken by feet which little betrayed the tremulousness of the knees above them. Moreover, though William’s face was red, his expression — cold, and concentrated upon high matters — scorned the stranger, and warned the lower classes that the mission of this bit of gentry was not to them.
With but one sweeping and repellent glance over the canaille present, he made sure that the person he sought was not in the waiting-room. Therefore, he turned to the doors which gave admission to the tracks, but before he went out he paused for an instant of displeasure. Hard by the doors stood a telephone-booth, and from inside this booth a little girl of nine or ten was peering eagerly out at William, her eyes just above the lower level of the glass window in the door.
Even a prospect thus curtailed revealed her as a smudged and dusty little girl; and, evidently, her mother must have been preoccupied with some important affair that day; but to William she suggested nothing familiar. As his glance happened to encounter hers, the peering eyes grew instantly brighter with excitement; — she exposed her whole countenance at the window, and impulsively made a face at him.
William had not the slightest recollection of ever having seen her before.
He gave her one stern look and went on; though he felt that something ought to be done. The affair was not a personal one — patently, this was a child who played about the station and amused herself by making faces at everybody who passed the telephone-booth — still, the authorities ought not to allow it. People did not come to the station to be insulted.
Three seconds later the dusty-faced little girl and her moue were sped utterly from William’s mind. For, as the doors swung together behind him, he saw Miss Pratt. There were no gates nor iron barriers to obscure the view; there was no train-shed to darken the air. She was at some distance, perhaps two hundred feet, along the tracks, where the sleeping-cars of the long train would stop. But there she stood, mistakable for no other on this wide earth!
There she stood — a glowing little figure in the hazy September sunlight, her hair an amber mist under the adorable little hat; a small bunch of violets at her waist; a larger bunch of fragrant but less expensive sweet peas in her right hand; half a dozen pink roses in her left; her little dog Flopit in the crook of one arm; and a one-pound box of candy in the crook of the other — ineffable, radiant, starry, there she stood!
Near her also stood her young hostess, and Wallace Banks, Johnnie Watson, and Joe Bullitt — three young gentlemen in a condition of solemn tensity. Miss Parcher saw William as he emerged from the station building, and she waved her parasol in greeting, attracting the attention of the others to him, so that they: all turned and stared.
Seventeen sometimes finds it embarrassing (even in a state of deep emotion) to walk two hundred feet, or thereabout, toward a group of people who steadfastly watch the long approach. And when the watching group contains the lady of all the world before whom one wishes to appear most debonair, and contains not only her, but several rivals, who, though FAIRLY good-hearted, might hardly be trusted to neglect such an opportunity to murmur something jocular about one — No, it cannot be said that William appeared to be wholly without self-consciousness.
In fancy he had prophesied for this moment something utterly different. He had seen himself parting from her, the two alone as within a cloud. He had seen himself gently placing his box of candy in her hands, some of his fingers just touching some of hers and remaining thus lightly in contact to the very last. He had seen himself bending toward the sweet blonde head to murmur the few last words of simple eloquence, while her eyes lifted in mysterious appeal to his — and he had put no other figures, not even Miss Parcher’s, into this picture.
Parting is the most dramatic moment in young love, and if there is one time when the lover wishes to present a lofty but graceful appearance it is at the last. To leave with the loved one, for recollection, a final picture of manly dignity in sorrow — that, above all things, is the lover’s desire. And yet, even at the beginning of William’s two-hundred-foot advance (later so much discussed) he felt the heat surging over his ears, and, as he took off his hat, thinking to wave it jauntily in reply to Miss Parcher, he made but an uncertain gesture of it, so that he wished he had not tried it. Moreover, he had covered less than a third of the distance, when he became aware that all of the group were staring at him with unaccountable eagerness, and had begun to laugh.
William felt certain that his attire was in no way disordered, nor in 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 re
turned, 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.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 228