Seventeen. Booth Tarkington

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III

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THE PAINFUL AGE

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      “OH WILL—EE!”

      Thus a shrill voice, to his ears hideously different from that other, interrupted and dispersed his visions. Little Jane, his ten-year-old sister, stood upon the front porch, the door open behind her, and in her hand she held a large slab of bread-and-butter covered with apple sauce and powdered sugar. Evidence that she had sampled this compound was upon her cheeks, and to her brother she was a repulsive sight.

      “Will-ee!” she shrilled. “Look! GOOD!” And to emphasize the adjective she indelicately patted the region of her body in which she believed her stomach to be located. “There's a slice for you on the dining-room table,” she informed him, joyously.

      Outraged, he entered the house without a word to her, and, proceeding to the dining-room, laid hands upon the slice she had mentioned, but declined to eat it in Jane's company. He was in an exalted mood, and though in no condition of mind or body would he refuse food of almost any kind, Jane was an intrusion he could not suffer at this time.

      He carried the refection to his own room and, locking the door, sat down to eat, while, even as he ate, the spell that was upon him deepened in intensity.

      “Oh, eyes!” he whispered, softly, in that cool privacy and shelter from the world. “Oh, eyes of blue!”

      The mirror of a dressing-table sent him the reflection of his own eyes, which also were blue; and he gazed upon them and upon the rest of his image the while he ate his bread-and-butter and apple sauce and sugar. Thus, watching himself eat, he continued to stare dreamily at the mirror until the bread-and-butter and apple sauce and sugar had disappeared, whereupon he rose and approached the dressing-table to study himself at greater advantage.

      He assumed as repulsive an expression as he could command, at the same time making the kingly gesture of one who repels unwelcome attentions; and it is beyond doubt that he was thus acting a little scene of indifference. Other symbolic dramas followed, though an invisible observer might have been puzzled for a key to some of them. One, however, would have proved easily intelligible: his expression having altered to a look of pity and contrition, he turned from the mirror, and, walking slowly to a chair across the room, used his right hand in a peculiar manner, seeming to stroke the air at a point about ten inches above the back of the chair. “There, there, little girl,” he said in a low, gentle voice. “I didn't know you cared!”

      Then, with a rather abrupt dismissal of this theme, he returned to the mirror and, after a questioning scrutiny, nodded solemnly, forming with his lips the words, “The real thing—the real thing at last!” He meant that, after many imitations had imposed upon him, Love—the real thing—had come to him in the end. And as he turned away he murmured, “And even her name—unknown!”

      This evidently was a thought that continued to occupy him, for he walked up and down the room, frowning; but suddenly his brow cleared and his eye lit with purpose. Seating himself at a small writing-table by the window, he proceeded to express his personality—though with considerable labor—in something which he did not doubt to be a poem.

      Three-quarters of an hour having sufficed for its completion, including “rewriting and polish,” he solemnly signed it, and then read it several times in a state of hushed astonishment. He had never dreamed that he could do anything like this.

      MILADY

       I do not know her name

       Though it would be the same

       Where roses bloom at twilight

       And the lark takes his flight

       It would be the same anywhere

       Where music sounds in air

       I was never introduced to the lady

       So I could not call her Lass or Sadie

       So I will call her Milady

       By the sands of the sea

       She always will be

       Just M'lady to me.

      —WILLIAM SYLVANUS BAXTER, Esq., July 14

      It is impossible to say how many times he might have read the poem over, always with increasing amazement at his new-found powers, had he not been interrupted by the odious voice of Jane.

      “Will—ee!”

      To William, in his high and lonely mood, this piercing summons brought an actual shudder, and the very thought of Jane (with tokens of apple sauce and sugar still upon her cheek, probably) seemed a kind of sacrilege. He fiercely swore his favorite oath, acquired from the hero of a work of fiction he admired, “Ye gods!” and concealed his poem in the drawer of the writing-table, for Jane's footsteps were approaching his door.

      “Will—ee! Mamma wants you.” She tried the handle of the door.

      “G'way!” he said.

      “Will—ee!” Jane hammered upon the door with her fist. “Will—ee!”

      “What you want?” he shouted.

      Jane explained, certain pauses indicating that her attention was partially diverted to another slice of bread-and-butter and apple sauce and sugar. “Will—ee, mamma wants you—wants you to go help Genesis bring some wash-tubs home and a tin clo'es-boiler—from the second-hand man's store.”

      “WHAT!”

      Jane repeated the outrageous message, adding, “She wants you to hurry—and I got some more bread-and-butter and apple sauce and sugar for comin' to tell you.”

      William left no doubt in Jane's mind about his attitude in reference to the whole matter. His refusal was direct and infuriated, but, in the midst of a multitude of plain statements which he was making, there was a decisive tapping upon the door at a point higher than Jane could reach, and his mother's voice interrupted:

      “Hush, Willie! Open the door, please.”

      He obeyed furiously, and Mrs. Baxter walked in with a deprecating air, while Jane followed, so profoundly interested that, until almost the close of the interview, she held her bread-and-butter and apple sauce and sugar at a sort of way-station on its journey to her mouth.

      “That's a nice thing to ask me to do!” stormed the unfortunate William. “Ye gods! Do you think Joe Bullitt's mother would dare to—”

      “Wait, dearie!” Mrs. Baxter begged, pacifically. “I just want to explain—”

      “'Explain'! Ye gods!”

      “Now, now, just a minute, Willie!” СКАЧАТЬ