________________________________________________
_ 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.
THE END.
Seventeen, by Booth Tarkington. _
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