________________________________________________
_ Mr. Parcher, that unhappy gentleman,
having been driven indoors from his own
porch, had attempted to read Plutarch's Lives in
the library, but, owing to the adjacency of the
porch and the summer necessity for open windows,
his escape spared only his eyes and not his
suffering ears. The house was small, being but
half of a double one, with small rooms, and the
``parlor,'' library, and dining-room all about
equally exposed to the porch which ran along the
side of the house. Mr. Parcher had no refuge
except bed or the kitchen, and as he was troubled
with chronic insomnia, and the cook had callers in
the kitchen, his case was desperate. Most
unfortunately, too, his reading-lamp, the only one in
the house, was a fixture near a window, and just
beyond that window sat Miss Pratt and William
in sweet unconsciousness, while Miss Parcher
entertained the overflow (consisting of Mr.
Johnnie Watson) at the other end of the porch.
Listening perforce to the conversation of the
former couple though ``conversation'' is far
from the expression later used by Mr. Parcher to
describe what he heard--he found it impossible
to sit still in his chair. He jerked and twitched
with continually increasing restlessness;
sometimes he gasped, and other times he moaned a
little, and there were times when he muttered
huskily.
``Oh, cute-ums!'' came the silvery voice of Miss
Pratt from the likewise silvery porch outside,
underneath the summer moon. ``Darlin' Flopit,
look! Ickle boy Baxter goin' make imitations of
darlin' Flopit again. See! Ickle boy Baxter
puts head one side, then other side, just like
darlin' Flopit. Then barks just like darlin' Flopit!
Ladies and 'entlemen, imitations of darlin' Flopit
by ickle boy Baxter.''
``Berp-werp! Berp-werp!'' came the voice of
William Sylvanus Baxter.
And in the library Plutarch's Lives moved
convulsively, while with writhing lips Mr. Parcher
muttered to himself.
``More, more!'' cried Miss Pratt, clapping her
hands. ``Do it again, ickle boy Baxter!''
``Berp-werp! Berp-werp-werp!''
``WORD!'' muttered Mr. Parcher.
Miss Pratt's voice became surcharged with
honeyed wonder. ``How did he learn such marv'lous,
MARV'LOUS imitations of darlin' Flopit? He
ought to go on the big, big stage and be a really
actor, oughtn't he, darlin' Flopit? He could
make milyums and milyums of dollardies,
couldn't he, darlin' Flopit?''
William's modest laugh disclaimed any great
ambition for himself in this line. ``Oh, I always
could think up imitations of animals; things like
that--but I hardly would care to--to adop' the
stage for a career. Would--you?'' (There was a
thrill in his voice when he pronounced the
ineffably significant word ``you.'')
Miss Pratt became intensely serious.
``It's my DREAM!'' she said.
William, seated upon a stool at her feet, gazed
up at the amber head, divinely splashed by the
rain of moonlight. The fire with which she spoke
stirred him as few things had ever stirred him.
He knew she had just revealed a side of herself
which she reserved for only the chosen few who
were capable of understanding her, and he fell into
a hushed rapture. It seemed to him that there
was a sacredness about this moment, and he sought
vaguely for something to say that would live up
to it and not be out of keeping. Then, like an
inspiration, there came into his head some words
he had read that day and thought beautiful. He
had found them beneath an illustration in a
magazine, and he spoke them almost instinctively.
``It was wonderful of you to say that to me,''
he said. ``I shall never forget it!''
``It's my DREAM!'' Miss Pratt exclaimed, again,
with the same enthusiasm. ``It's my DREAM.''
``You would make a glorious actress!'' he said.
At that her mood changed. She laughed a laugh
like a sweet little girl's laugh (not Jane's) and,
setting her rocking-chair in motion, cuddled the
fuzzy white doglet in her arms. ``Ickle boy
Baxter t'yin' flatterbox us, tunnin' Flopit! No'ty,
no'ty flatterbox!''
``No, no!'' William insisted, earnestly. ``I mean
it. But--but--''
``But whatcums?''
``What do you think about actors and actresses
making love to each other on the stage? Do you
think they have to really feel it, or do they just
pretend?''
``Well,'' said Miss Pratt, weightily, ``sometimes
one way, sometimes the other.''
William's gravity became more and more
profound. ``Yes, but how can they pretend like
that? Don't you think love is a sacred thing,
Cousin Lola?''
Fictitious sisterships, brotherships, and cousin-
ships are devices to push things along, well known
to seventeen and even more advanced ages. On
the wonderful evening of their first meeting
William and Miss Pratt had cozily arranged to
be called, respectively, ``Ickle boy Baxter'' and
``Cousin Lola.'' (Thus they had broken down
the tedious formalities of their first twenty
minutes together.)
``Don't you think love is sacred?'' he repeated
in the deepest tone of which his vocal cords were
capable.
``Ess,'' said Miss Pratt.
``_I_ do!'' William was emphatic. ``I think love
is the most sacred thing there is. I don't mean
SOME kinds of love. I mean REAL love. You take
some people, I don't believe they ever know what
real love means. They TALK about it, maybe, but
they don't understand it. Love is something
nobody can understand unless they feel it and
and if they don't understand it they don't feel
it. Don't YOU think so?''
``Ess.''
``Love,'' William continued, his voice lifting
and thrilling to the great theme--``love is something
nobody can ever have but one time in their
lives, and if they don't have it then, why prob'ly
they never will. Now, if a man REALLY loves a girl,
why he'd do anything in the world she wanted
him to. Don't YOU think so?''
``Ess, 'deedums!'' said the silvery voice.
``But if he didn't, then he wouldn't,'' said
William vehemently. ``But when a man really
loves a girl he will. Now, you take a man like
that and he can generally do just about anything
the girl he loves wants him to. Say, f'rinstance,
she wants him to love her even more than he does
already--or almost anything like that--and supposin'
she asks him to. Well, he would go ahead
and do it. If they really loved each other he
would!''
He paused a moment, then in a lowered tone
he said, ``I think REAL love is sacred, don't you?''
``Ess.''
``Don't you think love is the most sacred thing
there is--that is, if it's REAL love?''
``Ess.''
``_I_ do,'' said William, warmly. ``I--I'm glad
you feel like that, because I think real love is the
kind nobody could have but just once in their
lives, but if it isn't REAL love, why--why most
people never have it at all, because--'' He
paused, seeming to seek for the exact phrase
which would express his meaning. ``--Because
the REAL love a man feels for a girl and a girl for a
man, if they REALLY love each other, and, you look
at a case like that, of course they would BOTH love
each other, or it wouldn't be real love well, what
_I_ say is, if it's REAL love, well, it's--it's sacred,
because I think that kind of love is always sacred.
Don't you think love is sacred if it's the real thing?''
``Ess,'' said Miss Pratt. ``Do Flopit again.
Be Flopit!''
``Berp-werp! Berp-werp-werp.''
And within the library an agonized man
writhed and muttered:
``WORD! WORD! WORD--''
This hoarse repetition had become almost
continuous.
. . . But out on the porch, that little, jasmine-
scented bower in Arcady where youth cried to
youth and golden heads were haloed in the moonshine,
there fell a silence. Not utter silence, for
out there an ethereal music sounded constantly,
unheard and forgotten by older ears. Time was
when the sly playwrights used ``incidental music''
in their dramas; they knew that an audience
would be moved so long as the music played;
credulous while that crafty enchantment lasted.
And when the galled Mr. Parcher wondered how
those young people out on the porch could listen
to each other and not die, it was because he did
not hear and had forgotten the music that throbs
in the veins of youth. Nevertheless, it may not
be denied that despite his poor memory this man
of fifty was deserving of a little sympathy.
It was William who broke the silence. ``How--''
he began, and his voice trembled a little. ``How
--how do you--how do you think of me when I'm
not with you?''
``Think nice-cums,'' Miss Pratt responded.
``Flopit an' me think nice-cums.''
``No,'' said William; ``I mean what name do
you have for me when you're when you're
thinking about me?''
Miss Pratt seemed to be puzzled, perhaps
justifiably, and she made a cooing sound of
interrogation.
``I mean like this,'' William explained.
``F'rinstance, when you first came, I always
thought of you as `Milady'--when I wrote that
poem, you know.''
``Ess. Boo'fums.''
``But now I don't,'' he said. ``Now I think
of you by another name when I'm alone. It--it
just sort of came to me. I was kind of just
sitting around this afternoon, and I didn't know
I was thinking about anything at all very much,
and then all of a sudden I said it to myself out
loud. It was about as strange a thing as I ever
knew of. Don't YOU think so?''
``Ess. It uz dest WEIRD!'' she answered.
``What ARE dat pitty names?''
``I called you,'' said William, huskily and
reverently, ``I called you `My Baby-Talk Lady.' ''
BANG!
They were startled by a crash from within the
library; a heavy weight seemed to have fallen
(or to have been hurled) a considerable distance.
Stepping to the window, William beheld a large
volume lying in a distorted attitude at the foot
of the wall opposite to that in which the reading-
lamp was a fixture. But of all human life the
room was empty; for Mr. Parcher had given up,
and was now hastening to his bed in the last faint
hope of saving his reason.
His symptoms, however, all pointed to its
having fled; and his wife, looking up from some
computations in laundry charges, had but a
vision of windmill gestures as he passed the door
of her room. Then, not only for her, but for the
inoffensive people who lived in the other half of
the house, the closing of his own door took place
in a really memorable manner.
William, gazing upon the fallen Plutarch, had
just offered the explanation, ``Somebody must 'a'
thrown it at a bug or something, I guess,'' when
the second explosion sent its reverberations
through the house.
``My doodness!'' Miss Pratt exclaimed, jumping up.
William laughed reassuringly, remaining calm.
``It's only a door blew shut up-stairs,'' he said
``Let's sit down again--just the way we were?''
Unfortunately for him, Mr. Joe Bullitt now
made his appearance at the other end of the
porch. Mr. Bullitt, though almost a year younger
than either William or Johnnie Watson, was of a
turbulent and masterful disposition. Moreover,
in regard to Miss Pratt, his affections were in as
ardent a state as those of his rivals, and he lacked
Johnnie's meekness. He firmly declined to be
shunted by Miss Parcher, who was trying to favor
William's cause, according to a promise he had
won of her by strong pleading. Regardless of her
efforts, Mr. Bullitt descended upon William and
his Baby-Talk-Lady, and received from the latter
a honeyed greeting, somewhat to the former's
astonishment and not at all to his pleasure.
``Oh, goody-cute!'' cried Miss Pratt. ``Here's
big Bruvva Josie-Joe!'' And she lifted her little
dog close to Mr. Bullitt's face, guiding one of
Flopit's paws with her fingers. ``Stroke big
Bruvva Josie-Joe's pint teeks, darlin' Flopit.''
(Josie-Joe's pink cheeks were indicated by the
expression ``pint teeks,'' evidently, for her
accompanying action was to pass Flopit's paw lightly
over those glowing surfaces.) `` 'At's nice!'' she
remarked. ``Stroke him gently, p'eshus Flopit,
an' nen we'll coax him to make pitty singin' for
us, like us did yestiday.''
She turned to William.
``COAX him to make pitty singin'? I LOVE his
voice--I'm dest CRAZY over it. Isn't oo?''
William's passion for Mr. Bullitt's voice
appeared to be under control. He laughed coldly,
almost harshly. ``Him sing?'' he said. ``Has he
been tryin' to sing around HERE? I wonder the
family didn't call for the police!''
It was to be seen that Mr. Bullitt did not relish
the sally. ``Well, they will,'' he retorted, ``if you
ever spring one o' your solos on 'em!'' And
turning to Miss Pratt, he laughed loudly and
bitterly. ``You ought to hear Silly Bill sing--
some time when you don't mind goin' to bed sick
for a couple o' days!''
Symptoms of truculence at once became alarmingly
pronounced on both sides. William was
naturally incensed, and as for Mr. Bullitt, he
had endured a great deal from William every
evening since Miss Pratt's arrival. William's
evening clothes were hard enough for both Mr.
Watson and Mr. Bullitt to bear, without any
additional insolence on the part of the wearer.
Big Bruvva Josie-Joe took a step toward his
enemy and breathed audibly.
``Let's ALL sing,'' the tactful Miss Pratt proposed,
hastily. ``Come on, May and Cousin Johnnie-
Jump-Up,'' she called to Miss Parcher and Mr.
Watson. ``Singin'-school, dirls an' boys! Singin'-
school! Ding, ding! Singin'-school bell's a-wingin'!''
The diversion was successful. Miss Parcher
and Mr. Watson joined the other group with alacrity,
and the five young people were presently
seated close together upon the steps of the porch,
sending their voices out upon the air and up to
Mr. Parcher's window in the song they found
loveliest that summer.
Miss Pratt carried the air. William also carried
it part of the time and hunted for it the rest of
the time, though never in silence. Miss Parcher
``sang alto,'' Mr. Bullitt ``sang bass,'' and Mr.
Watson ``sang tenor''--that is, he sang as high
as possible, often making the top sound of a chord
and always repeating the last phrase of each line
before the others finished it. The melody was a
little too sweet, possibly; while the singers
thought so highly of the words that Mr. Parcher
missed not one, especially as the vocal rivalry
between Josie-Joe and Ickle Boy Baxter incited
each of them to prevent Miss Pratt from hearing
the other.
William sang loudest of all; Mr. Parcher had
at no time any difficulty in recognizing his voice.
``Oh, I love my love in the morning
And I love my love at night,
I love my love in the dawning,
And when the stars are bright.
Some may love the sunshine,
Others may love the dew.
Some may love the raindrops,
But I love only you-OO-oo!
By the stars up above
It is you I luh-HUV!
Yes, _I_ love own-LAY you!''
They sang it four times; then Mr. Bullitt
sang his solo, ``Tell her, O Golden Moon, how I
Adore her,'' William following with ``The violate
loves the cowslip, but _I_ love YEW,'' and after that
they all sang, ``Oh, I love my love in the morning,''
again.
All this while that they sang of love, Mr.
Parcher was moving to and fro upon his bed, not
more than eighteen feet in an oblique upward-
slanting line from the heads of the serenaders.
Long, long he tossed, listening to the young
voices singing of love; long, long he thought of
love, and many, many times he spoke of it aloud,
though he was alone in the room. And in thus
speaking of it, he would give utterance to phrases
and words probably never before used in
connection with love since the world began.
His thoughts, and, at intervals, his mutterings,
continued to be active far into the night, long
after the callers had gone, and though his household
and the neighborhood were at rest, with
never a katydid outside to rail at the waning
moon. And by a coincidence not more singular
than most coincidences, it happened that at just
about the time he finally fell asleep, a young lady
at no great distance from him awoke to find her
self thinking of him. _
Read next: CHAPTER XI. BEGINNING A TRUE FRIENDSHIP
Read previous: CHAPTER IX. LITTLE SISTERS HAVE BIG EARS
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