Seventeen. Booth Tarkington

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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