 27 Marooned At every possible opportunity, William hailed other girls with a hasty, maved the next with you, but he was indeed unfortunate to have arrived so late. The best he got was a promise of the 19th, if there is any. After each dance, Miss Boat conducted him back to the maple tree, aloof from the general throng, and William found the intermissions almost equal to his martyrdoms upon the platform. But as there was a barely perceptible balance in their favor, he collected some fragments of his broken spirit when Miss Boat would have borne him to the platform for the sixth time and he begged to sit this one out, alleging that he had kind of turned his ankle or something he believed. The cordial girl at once placed him upon the chair and gallantly procured another for herself. In her solicitude, she sat close to him, looking fondly at his face, while William, though now and then rubbing his ankle for plausibility's sake, gazed at the platform with an expression which Gustav Dorr would gratefully have found suggestive. William was conscious of a voice continually in action near him, but not of what it said. Miss Boat was telling him of the dancing up at the lake, where she had spent the summer, and how much she had loved it. But William missed all that. Upon the many-colored platform, the ineffable one drifted to and fro, back and forth, her little blonde head in a golden net, glinting here and there like a bit of tinsel blowing across a flower garden. And when that dance and its encore were over, she went to lean against a tree, while Wallace Banks fanned her. But she was so busy with Wallace that she did not notice William, though she passed near enough to waft a breath of violence sent to his one nose. A fragment of her silver speech tinkled in his ear. Oh, Wally Banks! Bid piddsent have brava Josie Joe's dance-less Joe say so. Lola must be fair. Wally mustn't. That's Miss Pratt, observed Miss Boat, following William's gaze with some interest. You met her yet? Yeah, said William. She's been visiting here all summer, Miss Boat informed him. I was at a little tea this afternoon, and some of the girls said this Miss Pratt said she'd never dream of getting engaged to any man that didn't have seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I don't know if it's true or not, but I expect so. Anyway, they heard her say so. William lifted his right hand from his ankle and passed it, time after time, across his damp forehead. He did not believe that Miss Pratt could have expressed herself in so mercenary a manner. But if she had, well, one fact in British history had so impressed him that he remembered it even after examination. William Pitt the Younger had been Prime Minister of England at twenty-one. If an Englishman could do a thing like that, surely a bright energetic young American needn't feel worried about seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. And although William, at seventeen, had seldom possessed more than seven hundred and fifty cents, four long years must pass, and much could be done before he would reach the age at which William Pitt attained the premiership, coincidentally a good, ripe, marriageable age. Still, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a stiffish order, even allowing four years to fill it, and undoubtedly Miss Boat's bit of gossip added somewhat to the already sufficient anxieties of William's evening. With the lake Miss Boat chatted on, we got to use the hotel dining room for the hops. It's a floor a good deal like this floor is tonight, just about oily enough and as nice a floor as I've ever danced on. We have awfully good times up at the lake. Of course, there aren't so many men up there, like there are here tonight, and I must say I am glad to get a chance to dance with a man again. I told you you'd dance all right once we got started, and look at the way it's turned out. Our steps just suit exactly. If I must say it, I could scarcely think of anybody I ever met I'd rather dance with. When anybody stepsuits in with mine that way, why I love to dance straight through an evening with one person the way we're doing. Dimly, yet with strong repulsion, William perceived that their interminable companionship had begun to affect Miss Boat with a liking for him. And as she chattered Chameleon, revealing this increasing cordiality all the while, though her more obvious topics were dancing, dancing floors and the lake, the reciprocal sentiment roused in his breast was that of Sinbad the sailor for the old man of the sea. He was unable to foresee a future apart from her, and when she informed him that she preferred his style of dancing to all other styles shown by the men at this party, her thus singling him out for praise only emphasized in his mind that point upon which he was the most embittered. Yes, he reflected, it had to be me. With all the crowd to choose from, Mrs. Parture had to go and pick on him. All, all the others went about, free his air, flitting from girl to girl, girls that danced like girls. All, all except William, danced with Miss Pratt. What Miss Pratt had offered him was the choice between the thirty-second dance and the twenty-first extra. That was what he had to look forward to, the thirty-second regular or the twenty-first extra. Meanwhile, merely through eternity, he was sealed unto Miss Boke. The tie that bound them oppressed him as if it had been an ill-ohmen matrimony, and he sat beside her like an unwilling old husband. All the while, Miss Boke had no appreciation whatever of her companion's real condition, and when little spasmodic sinister changes appeared in his face, as they certainly did from time to time, she attributed them to pains in his ankle. However, William decided to discard his ankle after they had sat out two dances on account of it. He decided that he preferred dancing and said he guessed he must be better. So they danced again, and again. When the fourteenth dance came about half an hour before midnight, they were still dancing together. It was upon the conclusion of this fourteenth dance that Mr. Parcher mentioned to his wife a change in his feelings toward William. I've been watching him, said Mr. Parcher, and I never saw true misery show-planer. He's having a really horrible time. Why, George, I hate him, but I've begun to feel kind of sorry for him. Can't you trot up somebody else so he can get away from that fat girl? Mrs. Parcher shook her head in a discouraged way. I've tried, and I've tried, and I've tried, she said. Well, try again. I can't now. She waved her hand toward the rear of the house. Round the corner marched a short procession of negroes bearing trays, and the dancers were dispersing themselves to chairs upon the lawn for refreshments. Well, do something, Mr. Parcher urged. We don't want to find him in the cistern in the morning. Mrs. Parcher looked thoughtful, then brightened. I know, she said. I'll make May and Lola and their partners come sit in this little circle of chairs here, and then I'll go and bring Willie and Miss Boak to sit with them. I'll give Willie the seat at Lola's left. You keep the chairs. Straightway she sped upon her kindly errand. It proved successful. So successful indeed that without the slightest effort, without even a hint on her part, she brought not only William and his constant friend to sit in the circle with Miss Pratt, Miss Parcher and their escorts, but Mr. Bullitt, Mr. Watson, Mr. Banks, and three other young gentlemen as well. Nevertheless, Mrs. Parcher managed to carry out her plan, and after a little display of firmness, saw William satisfactorily established in the chair at Miss Pratt's left. At last, at last, he sat beside the fairy-like creature, and filled his lungs with infinitesimal particles of violet scent. More, he was no sooner seated than the little blonde head bent close to his, the golden net brushed his cheek. She whispered, Naughty Ikelboy Batster, Lola's last night and Ikelboy Batster fluttered, fluttered all night with dreary, big durel. William made no reply. There are occasions, infrequent, of course, when even a bachelor is not flattered by being accused of flirting. William's feeling toward Miss Boke had, by this time, come to such a pass that he regarded the charge of flirting with her as little less than an implication of grave mental deficiency. And while he remembered how Miss Pratt, beholding his subjugated gymnastics in the dance, had grown pink with laughter, but still the rose-leaf lips whispered, Lola saw, Lola saw Batboy Batster under dreary, big tree, fluttered with dreary, big durel, fluttered all night with dreary, big, enormous durel. Her cruelty was all unwitting. She intended to rally him sweetly, but seventeen is deathly serious at such junctures, and William was in a sensitive condition. He made no reply in words. Instead, he drew himself up, from the waist, that is, because he was sitting, with a kind of proud dignity, and that was all. Who trusts? whispered Lola. He spake not. It wasn't my fault about dancing, she said. Batboy, what made you come so late? He maintained his silence and the accompanying icy dignity, whereupon she made a charming little pout. Who be so trust, she said, Lola talked to nice men of her side of her. With that she turned her back upon him, and prattled merrily to the gentleman of sixteen upon her right. Still and cold sat William. Let her talk to the man at the other side of her as she would, and never so gaily, William knew that she was conscious every instant of the reproachful presence upon her left. And somehow, these moments of quiet and melancholy dignity became the most satisfactory he had known that evening. For as he sat, so silent, so austere, and not yet eating, though a pellet of chicken and salad had been placed upon his lap, he began to feel that there was somewhere about him a mysterious superiority which set him apart from other people, and above them. This quality, indefinable and lofty, had carried him through troubles that very night which would have wrecked the lives of such simple fellows as Joe Bullitt and Johnny Watson. And although Miss Pratt continued to make merrily with the man upon her right, it seemed to William that this was but outward show. He had a strange, subtle impression that the mysterious superiority which set him apart from others was becoming perceptible to her, that she was feeling it too. Alas, such a moment fate seizes upon to play the clown. Over the chatter and laughter of the guests rose a too familiar voice. Let me help you to a nice tongue sandwich lady? No? Nice green lettuce sandwich lady? Genesis. Nice tongue sandwich, sir? Nice lettuce sandwich lady? He could be heard vociferating. Perhaps a little too much as if he had sandwiches for sale. Let me just lay this nice green lettuce sandwich on your plate for you. His widespread hand bore the tray of sandwiches high overhead, for his style in waiting was florid, though polished. He walked with a faint, shuffling suggestion of a prance, a lissom pomposity adopted in obedience to the art sense within him which made him harmonize himself with occasions of state and fashion. His manner was the super supreme expression of graciousness, but the graciousness was innocent, being but an affectation and nothing inward, for inwardly Genesis was humble. He was only pretending to be the kind of waiter he would like to be. And because he was a new waiter, he strongly wished to show familiarity with his duties. Familiarity, in fact, with everything and everybody. This yearning, born of self-doubt and intensified by a slight touch of gin, was beyond question the inspiration of his painful behavior when he came near the circle of chairs where sat Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, Ms. Parcher, Ms. Pratt, Ms. Boak, Mr. Watson, Mr. Bullitt, others, and William. Nice tongue sandwich, lady, he announced, semi-cake walking beneath his high-born tray. Nice green lettuce, Sam. He came suddenly to a dramatic dead stop as he beheld William sitting before him, wearing that strange new dignity in Mr. Baxter's evening clothes. Name a goodness, Genesis exclaimed, so loudly that everyone looked up. How in the living world you ever come to get here? Your daddy certainly must a week in way down, for he let you wear his low-cut vests and pants and long tailcoat. I bet any man fifty cents you gone and stole him out after he done went to bed. And he burst into a wild, free, African laugh. At seventeen, such things are not embarrassing. They are catastrophical, but mercifully, catastrophes often produce a numbness in the victims. More as in a trance than actually, William heard the outbreak of his young companions, and during the quarter of an hour subsequent to Genesis' performance, the oft-renewed explosions of their mirth made but a kind of horrid buzzing in his ears. Like sounds born from far away were the gaspings of Mr. and Mrs. Parcher, striving with all their strength to obtain mastery of themselves once more. A flourish of music challenged the dancers. Couples appeared upon the platform. The dreadful supper was over. The ineffable one, supremely pink, rose from her seat at William's side, and moved toward the platform with the glowing Joe Bullitt. Then William roused to action by this sight, sprang to his feet, and took a step toward them. But it was only one weak step. A warm and ample hand placed itself firmly inside the crook of his elbow. Let's get started for this one before the floor gets all crowded up, said Miss Boke. Miss Boke danced and danced with him. She danced him on, and on, and on. At half past one, the orchestra played Home Sweet Home. As the last bar sounded, a group of earnest young men who had surrounded the lovely guest of honor, talking vehemently, broken to loud shouts, embraced one another, and capered variously over the lawn. Mr. Parcher beheld from a distance these manifestations, and then, with an astonishment even more profound, took note of the tragic William, who was running toward him, radiant, Miss Boke hovering futilely in the far background. What's all the hullabaloo, Mr. Parcher inquired? Miss Pratt, gasped William. Miss Pratt! Well, what about her? And upon receiving William's reply, Mr. Parcher might well have discerned behind it the invisible hand of an ironic but recompensing providence making things even, taking from the one to give to the other. She's going to stay, shouted the happy William. She's promised to stay another week. And then, mingling with the sounds of rejoicing, there ascended to heaven the stricken cry of an elderly man plunging blindly into the house in search of his wife. and invented time. Becoming still more absurd, man said, so much shall be a day, such and such shall be a week. All week shall be the same length. Yet every baby knows better. How long for Johnny Watson, for Joe Bullitt, for Wallace Banks? How long for William Sylvanus Baxter was the last week of Miss Pratt? No one can answer. How long was that week for Mr. Parcher? Again, the mind is staggered. Many people, of course, considered it to be a week of average size. Among these was Jane. Throughout seven days which brought some tense moments to the Baxter household, Jane remained calm, and she was still calm upon the eighth morning as she stood in the front yard of her own place of residence, gazing steadily across the street. The object of her grave attention was an ample brick house, newly painted white after repairs and enlargement so inspiring to Jane's faculty for suggesting better ways of doing things that the workmen had learned to address her with a slight bitterness as Madam President. Throughout the process of repair and until the very last of the painting, Jane had considered this house to be as much her property as anybody's. For children, regard as ownerless, all vacant houses, and all houses in course of construction or radical alteration. Nothing short of furniture, intimate furniture in considerable quantity, hence that the public is not expected. However, such a hint or warning was conveyed to Jane this morning, for two express wagons were standing at the curb with their backs impolitely toward the brick house, and powerful voiced men went surging to and fro under fat armchairs, mahogany tables, disarticulated bedsteads, and baskets of china and glassware, while a harassed lady appeared in the outer doorway from time to time with gestures of lamentation and entreaty. Upon the sidewalk between the wagons of the gate was a broad wet spot vaguely circular with a partial circumference of broken glass and extinct goldfish. Jane was forced to conclude that the brick house did belong to somebody after all, wherefore she remained in her own yard, a steadfast spectator, taking nourishment into her system at regular intervals. This was beautifully automatic. In each hand, she held a slice of bread, freely plastered over with butter, applesauce, and powdered sugar, and when she had taken somewhat from the right hand, that hand slowly descended with its burden, while simultaneously the left began to rise, reaching the level of her mouth precisely at the moment when a little wave passed down her neck, indicating that the route was clear. Then, having made delivery, the left hand sank, while the right hand began to rise again. And so well had custom-trained Jane's members, never once did she glance toward either of these faithful hands or the food that it supported. Her gaze was all the while free to remain upon the house across the way, and the great doings before it. After a while, something made her wide eyes grow wider almost to their utmost. Nay, the event was of that importance her mechanical hand ceased to move and stopped stock still, the right halfway up, the left halfway down, as if because of sudden motor trouble within Jane, her mouth was equally affected, remaining open at a visible crisis in the performance of its duty. These were the tokens of her agitation upon beholding the removal of a doll's house from one of the wagons. This doll's house was at least five feet high, of proportionate breadth, and depths the customary absence of a facade disclosing an interior of four luxurious floors with stairways, fireplaces, and wallpaper. Here was a mansion wherein doll duchesses no less must dwell. Straightway, a little girl ran out of the open doorway of the brick house, and with the self-importance concentrated to the point of surerishness, began to give orders concerning the disposal of her personal property, which included, as she made clear, not only the doll's mansion, but also three doll's trunks and a packing case of fair size. She was a thin little girl, perhaps half a year younger than Jane, and she was as soiled, particularly in respect to hands, brow and chin, and the knees of white stockings, as could be expected of any busy body-ish person of nine or ten whose mother is house-moving. But she was gifted. If we choose to put the matter in the hopeful, sweeter way, she was gifted with an unusually loud and shrill voice, and she made herself heard over the strong voice-men to such emphatic effect that one of the latter, with the doll's mansion upon his back, paused in the gateway to appoint her with his opinion that of all the bossy little girls he had ever seen or heard of, she was the bossiest. The worst, he added, the little girl across the street was of course instantly aware of Jane, though she pretended not to be, and from the first her self-importance was in large part assumed for the benefit of the observer. After a momentary silence, due to her failure to think of any proper response to the workmen who so pointedly criticized her, she resumed the peremptory direction of her affairs. She ran in and out of the house, her dark brow with frowns, her shoulders elevated, and by every means at her disposal she urged her audience to behold the frightful responsibilities of one who must keep a thousand things in her head at once, and yet be ready for decisive action at any instant. There may have been one weakness in this strong performance. The artistic sincerity of it was a little discredited by the increasing frequency with which the artist took note of her effect. During each of her most impressive moments, she flashed from the corner of her eye two questions at Jane. How about that one? Are you still watching me? Then, apparently in the very midst of her cares, she suddenly, and without warning, ceased to boss, walked out into the street, halted, and stared frankly at Jane. Jane had begun her automatic feeding again. She continued it, meanwhile seriously returning the stare of the new neighbor. For several minutes this mutual calm and inoffensive gaze was protracted. Then Jane, after swallowing the last morsel of her supplies, turned her head away and looked at a tree. The little girl, into whose eye some whistfulness had crept, also turned her head and looked at a tree. After a while, she advanced to the curb on Jane's side of the street, and swinging her right foot, allowed it to kick the curb stone repeatedly. Jane came out to the sidewalk and began to kick one of the fence pickets. You see that old fatty? asked the little girl, pointing to one of the workmen thus sufficiently identified. Yes, that's the one broke the goldfish, said the little girl. There was a pause during which she continued to scuff the curb stone with her shoe. Jane likewise scuffing the fence picket. I'm going to have Papa get him arrested, added the stranger. My Papa got two men arrested once, Jane said calmly, two or three. The little girl's eyes, wandering upward, took note of Jane's Papa's house, and of a fierce young gentleman framed in an open window upstairs. He was seated, wore ink upon his forehead, and tapped his teeth with a red pen holder. Who is that? she asked. It's Willie. Is it your Papa? No, Jane exclaimed. It's Willie. Oh, said the little girl, apparently satisfied. Each now scuffed less energetically with her shoe. Feet slowed down, so did conversation, and for a time Jane and the stranger wrapped themselves in stillness, though there may have been some silent communing between them. Then the new neighbor placed her feet far apart and leaned backward upon nothing, curving her front outward and her remarkably flexible spine inward until a profile view of her was grandly semicircular. Jane watched her attentively, but without comment. However, no one could have doubted that the process of acquaintance was progressing favorably. Let's go in our yard, said Jane. The little girl straightened herself with a slight gasp, and accepted the invitation. Side by side, the two passed through the open gate, walked gravely forth upon the lawn, and halted as by common's consent. Jane thereupon placed her feet wide apart and leaned backward upon nothing, attempting the feet in contortion just performed by the stranger. Looked, she said. Look at me. But she lacked the other's genius, lost her balance, and fell. Born persistent, she immediately got to her feet and made fresh efforts. No, look at me, the little girl cried, becoming semicircular again. This is the way. I call it putting your stomach out of joint. You haven't got yours out far enough. Yes I have, said Jane, gasping. Well, to do it right, you must walk that way. As soon as you get your stomach out of joint, you must begin and walk. Look, like this. And the little girl, having achieved a state of such convexity, that her braided hair almost touched the ground behind her, walked successfully in that singular attitude. I'm walking, Jane protested, her face not quite upside down. Look, I'm walking that way, too. My stomach— There came an outraged shout from above, and a fierce countenant, stained with ink, protruded from the window. Jane, what? Stop that. Stop putting your stomach out in front of you like that. It's disgraceful. Both young ladies, looking rather oppressed, resumed the perpendicular. Why doesn't he like it? The stranger asked in a tone of pure wonder. I don't know, said Jane. He doesn't like much of anything. He's 17 years old. After that, the two stared mootily at the ground for a little while, chasing by the severe presence above. Then Jane brightened. I know, she exclaimed causally. Let's play callers. Right here by the bush will be my house. You can come to call on us, and we'll talk about our children. You'll be Mrs. Smith and I'm Mrs. Jones. And in the character of a hospitable matron, she advanced graciously toward the new neighbor. Why, my dear Mrs. Smith, come right in. I thought you'd call this morning. I want to tell you about my lovely little daughter. She's only 10 years old and says the brightest things. You really must. But here, Jane interrupted herself abruptly, and hopping behind the residential bush peeped over it. Not at Mrs. Smith, but at a boy of 10 or 11 who was passing along the sidewalk. Her expression was gravely interested, somewhat complacent, and Mrs. Smith was not so lacking in perception that she failed to understand how completely, for the time being at least, calling was suspended. The boy whistled briskly, my country tisably, and though his knowledge of the air failed him when he finished the second line, he was not disheartened, but began at the beginning again, continuing repeatedly after this fashion to offset monotony by patriotism. He whistled loudly. He walked with ostentatious intent to be at some heavy affair in the distance. His ears were red. He looked neither to the right nor to the left. That is, he looked neither to the right nor to the left until he had passed the Baxter's fence. But when he had gone as far as the upper corner of the fence beyond, he turned his head and looked back, without any expression, except that of a whistler at Jane, and thus still whistling my country tisably, and with blank pink face over his shoulder, he proceeded until he was out of sight. Who was that boy, the new neighbor then inquired? It's Freddy, said Jane placidly. He's in our Sunday school. He's in love of me. Jane! Again, the outraged and ink-stained countenance glared down from the window. What you want, Jane asked. What you mean talking about such things, William demanded? In all my life I never heard anything as disgusting. Shame on you! The little girl from across the street looked upward thoughtfully. He's mad, she remarked, and regardless of Jane's previous information, it is your papa, isn't it? she assisted. No, said Jane tisably. I told you five times it's my brother Willie. Oh, said the little girl, and grasping the fact that William's position was indignancy and authority negligible compared with that which she had persisted in imagining, she felt it safe to tint her upward gaze with disfavor. He acts kind of crazy, she murmured. He's in love of Miss Pratt, said Jane. She's going away today. She said she'd go before, but today she is. Mr. Parcher, where she visits, he's almost dead, she's stayed so long. She's awful, I think. William, to whom all was audible, shouted hoarsely. I'll see to you! And disappeared from the window. Will he come down here? The little girl asked, taking a step toward the gate. No, he's just gone to call Mama. All she'll do will be to tell us to go play somewhere else. Then we can go talk to Genesis. Who? Genesis. He's put in a load of coal in the cellar window with a shovel. He's nice. What's he put coal in the window for? He's a colored man, said Jane. Shall we go talk to him now? No, said Jane thoughtfully. Let's be playing callers when Mama comes to tell us to go away. What was your name? Ranny. No, it wasn't. It is too, Ranny, the little girl insisted. My whole name's Mary Randolph-Cursed. My short name's Ranny. Jane laughed. What a funny name, she said. I didn't mean your real name. I meant your caller's name. One of us was Mrs. Jones. And one was, I want to be Mrs. Jones, said Ranny. Oh, my dear Mrs. Jones. Jane began at once. I want to tell you about my lovely children. I have two. One only seven years old. And the other, Jane, called Mrs. Baxter from Williams' window. Yes, some. You must go somewhere else to play. Willie's trying to work at his studies up here. And he says you've disturbed him very much. Yes, some. The obedient Jane and her friend turned to go. And as they went, Miss Mary Randolph-Cursed allowed her uplifted eyes to linger with increased disfavor upon William, who appeared beside Mrs. Baxter at the window. I tell you what let's do, Ranny suggested in a lowered voice. He got so fresh with us, and made your mother come and all. That's, that's, she hesitated. That's what Jane urged her in an eager whisper. Let's think up something he won't like and do it. They disappeared around a corner of the house, their heads close together. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 of 17 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, August 2009. Seventeen by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 29. Don't forget! Upstairs, Mrs. Baxter moved to the door of her son's room, pretending to be unconscious of the gaze he maintained upon her. Muster encouraged to hum a little tune and effecting inconsequence, she had nearly crossed the threshold when he said, sternly, And this is all you intend to say to that child. Why, yes, Willie. And yet I told you what she said, he cried. I told you I heard her stand there and tell that dirty-faced little girl how that idiot boy that's always walking past here four and five times a day, whistling and looking back, was in love of her. Ye gods, what kind of person will she grow up into if you don't punish her for having ideas like that at her age? Mrs. Baxter regarded him mildly, not replying, and he went on with loud indignation. I never heard of such a thing. That worm walking past here four or five times a day just to look at Jane, and her standing there calmly telling that sooty-faced little girl, he's in love of me. Why, it's enough to sicken a man. Honestly, if I had my way, I'd see that both she and that little Freddy Banks got a first-class whipping. Don't you think, Willie, said Mrs. Baxter? Don't you think that considering the rather non-committal method of Freddy's courtship, you were suggesting extreme measures? Well, she certainly ought to be punished, he insisted, and then with a reversal to agony, he shuddered. And that's the least of it, he cried. It's the insulting things you always allow her to say of one of the noblest girls in the United States. That's what counts. On the very last day, yes, almost the last hour that Miss Pratt's in this town, you let your only daughter stand there and speak disrespectfully of her. And then all you do is tell her to go and play somewhere else. I don't understand your way of bringing up a child, he declared passionately. I do not. There there, Willie, Mrs. Baxter said. You're all wrought up. I am not wrought up, shouted Williams. Why should I be charged with? Now, now, she said, you'll feel better tomorrow. What do you mean by that, he demanded, breathing deeply? For reply, she only shook her head in an odd little way, and in her parting look at him there was something at once compassionate, amused, and reassuring. You'll be all right, Willie, she said softly, and closed the door. Alone, William lifted clenched hands in a series of tumultuous gestures at the ceiling, then he moaned and sank into a chair at his writing table. Presently, a comparative calm was restored to him, and with reverent fingers he took from a drawer a one pound box of candy, covered with white tissue paper, girded with blue ribbon. He set the box gently beside him upon the table, then from beneath a large green blotter drew forth some scribbled sheets. These he placed before him, and taking infinite pains with his handwriting slowly copied. Dear Lola, I presume when you are reading these lines, it will be this afternoon, and you will be on the train, and will be rapidly away from this old place here, farther and farther from it all. As I sit here at my old desk, and look back upon it all while I am writing this farewell letter, I hope when you are reading it, you will also look back upon it all, and think of one you called, alias, little boy Baxter. As I sit here this morning, and you were going away, at last I look back, and I cannot remember any summer in my whole life which has been like this summer, because a great change has come over me this summer. If you would like to know what this means, it was something like I said when John Watson got there yesterday afternoon, and interrupted what I said. May you enjoy this canyon, and think of the giver. I will put something in this letter. It is something maybe you would like to have in an exchange. I would give all I possess for one of you if you had sent it to me when you get home. Please do this, for now my heart is breaking. Yours is Silvio, William S. Baxter, alias, little boy Baxter. William opened the box of candy, and placed the letter upon the top layer of chocolates. Upon the letter he placed a small photograph wrapped in tissue paper of himself. Then with a pair of scissors he trimmed an oblong of white cardboard to fit into the box. Upon this piece of cardboard he laboriously wrote, copying from a tortured inky sheet before him. In Dream by William S. Baxter The sunset light fades into night, but never will I forget the smile that haunts me yet. Through the future four long years I hope you will remember with tears what air my rancor station whilst receiving my education. Though far away you seem, I will see thee in dream. He placed his poem between the photograph and the letter, closed the box, and tied the tissue paper about it again with the blue ribbon. Throughout these rites, they were rites both in spirit and in manner, he was subject to little catchings of the breath, half gulp, half sigh. But the Dolores tokens passed, and he sat with elbows upon the table, his chin upon his hands, reverie in his eyes. Tragedy had given way to gentler pathos. Beyond question, something had measurably soothed him. Possibly even in this hour preceding the hour of parting, he knew a little of that proud amazement which any poet is entitled to feel over each new lyric miracle just wrought. Perhaps he was helped too, by wondering what Miss Pratt would think of him when she read In Dream on the train that afternoon. For reasons purely intuitive, and decidedly without foundation in fact, he was satisfied that no rival farewell poem would be offered her, and so it may be that he thought In Dream might show her at last, in one blaze of light, what her eyes had sometimes fleetedly intimated she did perceive in part, the difference between William and such every day, rather well-meaning, fairly good-hearted people as Joe Bullitt, Wallace Banks, Johnny Watson, and others. Yes, when she came to read In Dream, and to look back upon it all, she would surely know at last. And then, when the future four long years, while receiving his education, had passed, he would go to her. He would go to her, and she would take him by the hand, and lead him to her father, and say, Father, this is William. But William would turn to her, and with the old dancing light in his eyes, no Lola he would say, not William, but Ikelboy Baxter. Always and always, just that for you, oh my dear. And then, as in story and film and farce, and the pleasanter kinds of drama, her father would say, with kindly railery, well, when you too young people get through, you'll find me in the library, where I have a pretty good business proposition to lay before you, young man. And when the white waist-coated, white sideburned old man had, chuckling, left the room, William would slowly lift his arms, but Lola would move back from him a step, only a step. And after laying a finger archly upon her lips to check him, wait, sir, she would say, I have a question to ask you, sir. What question, Lola? This question, sir, she would reply. In all that summer, sir, so long ago, why did you never tell me what you were, until I had gone away, and it was too late to show you what I felt? Ah, Ikelboy Baxter, I never understood, until I looked back upon it all, after I had read in dream on the train that day. Then I knew. And now, Lola, William would say, do you understand me now? Shiley, she would advance the one short step that she had put between them, while he with lifted yearning arms, this time destined to no disappointment. At so vital a moment did Mrs. Baxter knock at his door, and consoling reverie ceased to minister unto William. Out of the rosy sky he dropped, falling miles in an instant, landing with a bump. He started, placed the sacred box out of sight, and spoke gruffly. What you want? I'm not coming in, Willie, said his mother. I just wanted to know. I thought maybe you were looking out of the window and noticed where those children went. What children? Jane and that little girl from across the street. Cursed her name must be. No, I did not. I just wondered, Mrs. Baxter said timidly, Genesis thinks he heard the little cursed girl telling Jane she had plenty of money for car fare. He thinks they went somewhere on a street car. I thought maybe you noticed, whether I told you I did not. All right, she said placatively, I didn't mean to bother you, dear. Following this there was a silence, but no sound of receding footsteps indicated Mrs. Baxter's departure from the other side of the closed door. Well, what you want? William shouted. Nothing, nothing at all, said the compassionate voice. I just thought I'd have lunch a little later than usual, not till half past one. That is if, well, I thought probably you meant to go to the station to see Miss Pradoff on the one o'clock train. Even so friendly an interest as this must have appeared to the quivering William as an intrusion in his affairs. For he demanded sharply, how'd you find out she's going at one o'clock? Why, why Jane mentioned it, Mrs. Baxter replied with obvious timidity. Jane said she was interrupted by the loud desperate sound of William's fist smiting his writing table. So sensitive was his condition. This is just unbearable, he cried. Nobody's business is safe from that child. Why, Willie, I don't see how it matters if he uttered a cry. No, nothing matters, nothing matters at all. Do you suppose I want that child with her insults discussing when Miss Prat is or is not going away? Don't you know there are some things that have no business to be talked about by every Tom, Dick, and Harry? Yes, dear, she said. I understand, of course. Jane only told me she met Mr. Parcher on the street, and he mentioned that Miss Prat was going to one o'clock today. That's all, you say you understand, he wailed, shaking his head drearly at the closed door, and yet even on such a day as this you keep talking. Can't you see sometimes there's times when a person can't stand to? Yes, Willie, Mrs. Baxter, interposed hurriedly. Of course, I'm going now. I have to go hunt up those children anyway. You try to be back for lunch at half past one, and don't worry, dear, you really will be all right. She departed, aside from the abyss following her as she went down the hall. Her comforting words meant nothing pleasant to her son, who felt that her optimism was out of place and tactless. He had no intention to be all right, and he desired nobody to interfere with his misery. He went to his mirror, and gazing long, long and piercingly, at the William Laird-Lymd, enacted almost unconsciously a little scene of parting. The look of suffering upon the mirrored face slowly altered. In its place came one still sorrowful, but tempered with sweet indulgence. He stretched out his hand, as if he meant to set it upon a head at about the height of his shoulder. Yes, it may mean, it may mean forever, he said in a low, tremulous voice. Little girl, we must be brave. And the while his eyes gazed into the mirror, they became expressive of a momentary, please surprise, as if, even in the arts of sorrow, he found himself doing better than he knew. But his sorrow was nonetheless genuine because of that. Then he noticed the ink upon his forehead, and went away to wash. When he returned, he did an unusual thing. He brushed his coat thoroughly, removing it for this special purpose. After that, he earnestly combed and brushed his hair, and retied his tie. Next, he took from a drawer two clean handkerchiefs. He placed one in his breast pocket, part of the colored border of the handkerchief being left on exhibition, and with the other he carefully wiped his shoes. Finally, he sawed it back and forth across them, and with a sigh, languidly dropped it upon the floor, where it remained. Returning to the mirror, he again brushed his hair. He went so far this time as to brush his eyebrows, which seemed not much altered by the operation. Suddenly, he was deeply affected by something seen in the glass. By George, he exclaimed aloud. Seizing a small hand mirror, he placed it in juxtaposition to his right eye, and closely studied his left profile as exhibited in the larger mirror. Then he examined his right profile, subjecting it to a like scrutiny, emotional, get attentive, and prolonged. By George, he exclaimed again. By George, he had made a discovery. There was a downy shadow upon his upper lip. What he had just found out was that this down could be seen projecting beyond the line of his lip, like a tiny nimbus. It could be seen in profile. By George, William exclaimed. He was still occupied with the two mirrors when his mother again tapped softly upon his door. Rousing him as from a dream, brief but engaging, to the heavy realities of that day. What you want now? I won't come in, said Mrs. Baxter. I just came to see. See what? I wondered, I thought perhaps you needed something. I knew your watch was out of order. For heaven's sake, what if it is? She offered a murmur of placative laughter as her apology and said, Well, I just thought I'd tell you, because if you did intend going to the station, I thought you probably wouldn't want to miss it and get there too late. I've got your hat here all nicely brushed for you. It's nearly twenty minutes of one, Willie. What? Yes, it is. She had no further speech with him. Breathless, William flung open his door, seized the hat, racketed down the stairs and out through the front door, which he left open behind him. Eight seconds later, he returned at a gallop, hurdled up the stairs and into his room, emerging instantly with something concealed under his coat. Replying incoherently to his mother's inquiries, he fell down the stairs as far as the landing, used the impetus thus given as a help to greater speed for the rest of the descent and passed out of hearing. Mrs. Baxter sighed and went to a window in her own room and looked out. William was already more than halfway 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 17-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 cursed girl have gone? She murmured. At the station, William, descending from the streetcar, found that he had six minutes to spare. Reassured of so much by the great clock on 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 feats 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 can I 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 in 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 muay 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 200 feet along the tracks, or 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 and 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 flopped 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, Johnny Watson, and Joe Bullitt. Three young gentlemen in a condition of solemn density. Miss Parter 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 200 feet, or thereabout, toward a group of people who steadfastly watched 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 murder something jocular about one, no, it cannot be said that William appeared to be holy 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 this box of candy in her hands, some of his fingers just touching one of hers, and remaining thus slightly 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 mispartners, 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 and sorrow. That, above all things, is the lover's desire. And yet, even at the beginning of William's 200 foot advance, later so much disgust, he felt the heat surging over his ears, and as he took off his hat, thinking to wave it jauntily and reply to mispartner, 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 today, 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 the hot chair. He managed to frown and walk 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 20 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 applesauce. 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 applesauce or dust smudge, were suffused with a rapture of a great mockery. They were walking with their stomachs out of 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 woes 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 handbag. 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 when she had come. The gentle porter bowed her toward the steps of his car, but first she gave Floppet into the hands of Mae Partcher for a moment, and whispered a word to Wallace Banks, then to Joe Bullitt, then to Johnny 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 Mae Partcher, kissed her devotedly, then with Floppet 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 Ranny cursed it. 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 Floppet and roses and candy and sweet peas, but she kept nodding to them in a way that showed them all how much she thanked them for being sorry she was going, and made it clear that she was sorry too, and loved them all. Goodbye, she meant. Faster she glided, the engine passed from site 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. Goodbye, 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, plinking 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 Mae 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. 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. Ha, he said, inhaling and exhaling the air profoundly. His wife was upon the porch outside, sowing. The silence was deep. He seemed to listen to it, to listen with gusto. His face slowly broadening, a pinkish tint over spreading it. His flaccid cheeks appeared to fill, to grow firm again, a smile finally widening them. Ha, 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. Ha, he said. My glory, I believe I'll take off my shoes. And, meeting no objection, he proceeded to carry out this plan. Ha, he said. And placed his stalking 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. Parcher 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 like to kill me. And I believe if she'd stayed just one more day, I'd been a goner. Of all the damn 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 said gravely. We saw her, said Jane. Ranny and I were there. Willie was going to chase us, I guess, but we went in the baggage room behind Trunks and we saw her go. She got on the cars and 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 sight. She murmured, What's the trouble, Jane? Willie, she said. It's Willie and that Joe Bullitt and Johnny Watson and Mr. Wallace Banks. They're with Miss May Parcher. They're coming 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, Ranny, run, panted Jane. I got to get home and tell Mama about it before Willie. I bet I catch Hale Columbia anyway when he does get there. And in this, she was not mistaken. She caught Hale Columbia. It lasted all afternoon. It was still continuing after dinner. That evening, when an off-repeated yodel, followed by a shrill, wailed, Janey, oh Janey! Brought her to an open window downstairs. In the early dusk, she looked out upon the washed face of Ranny Kersted. Who stood on the lawn below. Come on out, Janey. Mama says I can stay outdoors and play till half past eight. Jane shook her head. I can't. I can't go outside the house till tomorrow. It's because we walked after Willie with our stomachs out of joint. Ranny 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? Ranny 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. Ranny swung her foot. Well, she said. I guess I have to find something to do. Good night. With her 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. Willie! What you want? He grunted, not moving. Willie, I told Mama I was sorry I made you feel so bad. All right, he returned curtly. Well, when I have to go to bed, Willie, she said, Mama told me because I made you feel bad I have to go upstairs by myself tonight. She paused, seeming to hope that he would say something, but he spake not. Willie, I don't have 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 lights lit upstairs, 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 stopped staring vaguely 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 tonight, 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 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, cross 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 wanted impersonation of a silver disc. Here was another mockery. What was the use of a moon now? Its use appeared straight away. 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 the 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 the brightest patience. So the voice approached the residents of the Baxter family, singing what the shade trees and what the shades of night gave courage to sing, instead of a whistle, as in the abashing sunlight. Thus, My country, Tis of the sweet land of liberty. My country, Tis of the sweet land of liberty. My country, Tis of the sweet land of liberty. My country, Tis of the sweet land of liberty. My country, Tis. Jane spoke unconsciously. It's Freddy, 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 of here, William Roard. The song stopped. Freddy Banks fled like a rag on the wind. Now here is a strange matter. The antique profits prophesied successfully. They practiced with some ease that art since lost, but partially rediscovered by M. Materlink, 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 Freddy Banks, the bright air of a happy June evening, an evening ordinarily reckoned 10 years, 9 months, and 21 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 self-same Freddy, with a white flower in his buttonhole, and in every detail accouted 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 10 feet from the porch, and in the white moonlight that made brilliant the path to the gate, Miss Mary Randolph-Cursed was walking. She was walking with insulting pomposity in her most pronounced semi-circular manner. You get out of here, she said, in a voice as deep and hoarse as she could make it. You get out of 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 of here, she croaked. The shocking audacity took William's breath. He gasped. He sought for words. Why, you, you, he cried. You sooty-faced little girl. In this fashion, he directly addressed Miss Mary Randolph-Cursed 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. Materlink has the right of the matter, and if the bright air of that June evening, almost 11 years in the so-called future, was indeed already trembling to lo and grin, then William stood with Johnny Watson against a great bank of flowers at the foot of a church isle. That isle was roped with white satin ribbons, and William and Johnny were waiting for something important to happen. And then, to the strains of Here Comes the Bride, it did, a stately, solemn, erosiate, gentle young thing with bright eyes seeking through a veil for William's eyes. Yes, if great M. Materlink 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 misprat to impair, there in that moonlight was his future before him. He started forward furiously. You, you little… But he paused, not wasting his breath upon the empty air. His bride-to-be was gone. End of Chapter 30 And End Of Seventeen A Tale of Youth and Summertime and the Baxter Family, especially William, by Booth Tarkington. Read by Jonathan Birchard Jonathan'sGolfShop.blogspot.com August 2009 Perth, Western Australia This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org.