OF TIME AND THE RIVER. Thomas Wolfe

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СКАЧАТЬ laugh again. “I don’t see how you can! . . . You’d better come on with me. . . . What ever got into your head to do a thing like that?” he said in a challenging tone. “Why do you want to go to a place like that?”

      “Hah? What say?” The mother who had been looking from one to the other of the two boys with the quick and startled attentiveness of an animal, now broke in:

      “You know each other. . . . Hah? . . . You’re taking this train, too, you say?” she said sharply.

      “Ah-hah-hah!” the young man laughed abruptly, nervously; grinned, made a quick stiff little bow, and said with nervous engaging respectfulness: “Yes, Ma’am! . . . Ah-hah-hah! . . . How d’ye do? . . . How d’ye do, Mrs. Gant?” He shook hands with her quickly, still laughing his broken and nervous “ah-hah-hah”—“How d’ye do?” he said, grinning nervously at the younger woman and at Barton. “Ah-hah-hah. How d’ye do?”

      The older woman still holding his hand in her rough worn clasp looked up at him a moment calmly, her lips puckered in tranquil meditation:

      “Now,” she said quietly, in the tone of a person who refuses to admit failure, “I know you. I know your face. Just give me a moment and I’ll call you by your name.”

      The young man grinned quickly, nervously, and then said respectfully in his staccato speech:

      “Yes, Ma’am. . . . Ah-hah-hah. . . . Robert Weaver.”

      “AH-H, that’s SO!” she cried, and shook his hands with sudden warmth. “You’re Robert Weaver’s boy, of course.”

      “Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert, with his quick nervous laugh. “Yes, Ma’am. . . . That’s right. . . . Ah-hah-hah. . . . Gene and I went to school together. We were in the same class at the University.”

      “Why, of course!” she cried in a tone of complete enlightenment, and then went on in a rather vexed manner, “I’ll VOW! I knew you all along! I knew that I’d seen you just as soon as I saw your face! Your name just slipped my mind a moment — and then, of course, it all flashed over me. . . . You’re Robert Weaver’s boy! . . . And you ARE,” she still held his hand in her strong, motherly and friendly clasp, and looking at him with a little sly smile hovering about the corners of her mouth, she was silent a moment, regarding him quizzically —“now, boy,” she said quietly, “you may think I’ve got a pretty poor memory for names and faces — but I want to tell you something that may surprise you. . . . I know more about you than you think I do. Now,” she said, “I’m going to tell you something and you can tell me if I’m right.”

      “Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert respectfully. “Yes, Ma’am.”

      “You were born,” she went on slowly and deliberately, “on September 2nd, 1898, and you are just two years and one month and one day older than this boy here —” she nodded to her own son. “Now you can tell me if I’m right or wrong.”

      “Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert. “Yes, Ma’am. . . . That’s right. . . . You’re absolutely right,” he cried, and then in an astounded and admiring tone, he said: “Well, I’ll declare. . . . If that don’t beat all! . . . How on earth did you ever remember it!” he cried in an astonished tone that obviously was very gratifying to her vanity.

      “Well, now, I’ll tell you,” she said with a little complacent smile —“I’ll tell you how I KNOW. . . . I remember the day you were born, boy — because it was on that very day that one of my own children — my son, Luke — was allowed to get up out of bed after havin’ typhoid fever. . . . That very day, sir, when Mr. Gant came home to dinner, he said —‘Well, I was just talking to Robert Weaver on the street and everything’s all right. His wife gave birth to a baby boy this morning and he says she’s out of danger.’ And I know I said to him, ‘Well, then, it’s been a lucky day for both of us. McGuire was here this morning and he said Luke is now well enough to be up and about. He’s out of danger.’— And I reckon,” she went on quietly, “that’s why the date made such an impression on me — of course, Luke had been awfully sick,” she said gravely, and shook her head, “we thought he was goin’ to die more than once — so when the doctor came and told me he was out of danger — well, it was a day of rejoicin’ for me, sure enough. But that’s how I know — September 2nd, 1898 — that’s when it was, all right, the very day when you were born.”

      “Ah-hah-hah!” said Robert. “That is certainly right. . . . Well, if that don’t beat all!” he cried with his astounded and engaging air of surprise. “The most remarkable thing I ever heard of!” he said solemnly.

      “So the next time you see your father,” the woman said, with the tranquil satisfaction of omniscience, “you tell him that you met Eliza Pentland — he’ll know who I am, boy — I can assure you — for we were born and brought up within five miles from each other and you can tell him that she knew you right away, and even told you to the hour and minute the day when you were born! . . . You tell him that,” she said.

      “Yes, Ma’am!” said Robert respectfully, “I certainly will! . . . I’ll tell him! . . . That is certainly a remarkable thing. . . . Ah-hah-hah! . . . Beats all I ever heard of! . . . Ah-hah-hah,” he kept bowing and smiling to the young woman and her husband, and muttering “ah-hah-hah! . . . Pleased to have met you. . . . Got to go now: some one over here I’ve got to see . . . but I’ll certainly tell him . . . ah-hah-hah. . . . Gene, I’ll see you on the train. . . . Good-bye. . . . Good-bye. . . . Glad to have met you all. . . . Ah-hah-hah. . . . Certainly a remarkable thing. . . . Good-bye!” and turning abruptly, he left them, walking rapidly along at his stiff, prim, curiously lunging stride.

      The younger woman looked after the boy’s tall form as he departed, stroking her chin in a reflective and abstracted manner:

      “So that’s Judge Robert Weaver’s son, is it? . . . Well,” she went on, nodding her head vigorously in a movement of affirmation. “He’s all right. . . . He’s got good manners. . . . He looks and acts like a gentleman. . . . You can see he’s had a good bringing up. . . . I like him!” she declared positively again.

      “Why, yes,” said the mother, who had been following the tall retreating form with a reflective look, her hands loose-folded at her waist —“Why, yes,” she continued, nodding her head in a thoughtful and conceding manner that was a little comical in its implications —“He’s a good-looking all-right sort of a boy. . . . And he certainly seems to be intelligent enough.” She was silent for a moment, pursing her lips thoughtfully and then concluded with a little nod —“Well, now, the boy may be all right. . . . I’m not saying that he isn’t. . . . He may turn out all right, after all.”

      “All right?” her daughter said, frowning a little and showing a little annoyance, but with a faint lewd grin around the corners of her mouth —“what do you mean by all right, Mama? Why, of course he’s all right. . . . What makes you think he’s not?”

      The other woman was silent for another moment: when she spoke again, her manner was tinged with portent, and she turned and looked at her daughter a moment in a sudden, straight and deadly fashion before she spoke:

      “Now, child,” she said, “I’m going to tell you: perhaps everything will turn out all right for that boy — I hope it does — but —”

      “Oh, my God!” the younger woman laughed hoarsely but with a shade of anger, and turning, prodded her brother stiffly in the ribs. “Now we’ll get it!” she sniggered, prodding him, “k-k-k-k-k! What do you call it?” she said with a lewd frowning grin that was indescribably comic in its evocations of coarse СКАЧАТЬ