Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  The impression was as large as he could have desired. She remained at the opening in the canvas and watched him until he wagged his shoulders round the next corner and disappeared into a cross street. As for Eugene, he was calm with a great calm, and very red.

  He had not covered a great distance, however, before his gravity was replaced by his former smiling look of the landed gentleman amused by the innocent pastimes of the peasants, though there was no one in sight except a woman sweeping some snow from the front steps of a cottage, and she, not perceiving him, retired in-doors without knowing her loss. He had come to a thinly built part of the town, the perfect quiet of which made the sound he heard as he opened the picket gate of his own home all the more startling. It was a scream — loud, frantic, and terror-stricken.

  Eugene stopped, with the gate half open.

  Out of the winter skeleton of a grape-arbor at one side of the four-square brick house a brown-faced girl of seventeen precipitated herself through the air in the midst of a shower of torn card-board which she threw before her as she leaped. She lit upon her toes and headed for the gate at top speed, pursued by a pale young man whose thin arms strove spasmodically to reach her. Scattering snow behind them, hair flying, the pair sped on like two tattered branches before a high wind; for, as they came nearer Eugene (of whom, in the tensity of their flight, they took no note), it was to be seen that both were so shabbily dressed as to be almost ragged. There was a brown patch upon the girl’s faded skirt at the knee; the shortness of the garment indicating its age to be something over three years, as well as permitting the knowledge to become more general than befitting that her cotton stockings had been clumsily darned in several places. Her pursuer was in as evil case; his trousers displayed a tendency to fringedness at pocket and heel; his coat, blowing open as he ran, threw pennants of torn lining to the breeze, and made it too plain that there were but three buttons on his waistcoat.

  The girl ran beautifully, but a fleeter foot was behind her, and though she dodged and evaded like a creature of the woods, the reaching hand fell upon the loose sleeve of her red blouse, nor fell lightly. She gave a wrench of frenzy; the antique fabric refused the strain; parted at the shoulder seam so thoroughly that the whole sleeve came away — but not to its owner’s release, for she had been brought round by the jerk, so that, agile as she had shown herself, the pursuer threw an arm about her neck, before she could twist away, and held her.

  There was a sharp struggle, as short as it was fierce. Neither of these extraordinary wrestlers spoke. They fought. Victory hung in the balance for perhaps four seconds; then the girl was thrown heavily upon her back, in such a turmoil of snow that she seemed to be the mere nucleus of a white comet. She struggled to get up, plying knee and elbow with a very anguish of determination; but her opponent held her, pinioned both her wrists with one hand, and with the other rubbed great handfuls of snow into her face, sparing neither mouth nor eyes.

  “You will!” he cried. “You will tear up my pictures! A dirty trick, and you get washed for it!”

  Half suffocated, choking, gasping, she still fought on, squirming and kicking with such spirit that the pair of them appeared to the beholder like figures of mist writhing in a fountain of snow.

  More violence was to mar the peace of morning. Unexpectedly attacked from the rear, the conqueror was seized by the nape of the neck and one wrist, and jerked to his feet, simultaneously receiving a succession of kicks from his assailant. Prompted by an entirely natural curiosity, he essayed to turn his head to see who this might be, but a twist of his forearm and the pressure of strong fingers under his ear constrained him to remain as he was; therefore, abandoning resistance, and, oddly enough, accepting without comment the indication that his captor desired to remain for the moment incognito, he resorted calmly to explanations.

  “She tore up a picture of mine,” he said, receiving the punishment without apparent emotion. “She seemed to think because she’d drawn it herself she had a right to.”

  There was a slight whimsical droop at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, which might have been thought characteristic of him. He was an odd-looking boy, not ill-made, though very thin and not tall. His pallor was clear and even, as though constitutional; the features were delicate, almost childlike, but they were very slightly distorted, through nervous habit, to an expression at once wistful and humorous; one eyebrow was a shade higher than the other, one side of the mouth slightly drawn down; the eyelids twitched a little, habitually; the fine, blue eyes themselves were almost comically reproachful — the look of a puppy who thinks you would not have beaten him if you had known what was in his heart. All of this was in the quality of his voice, too, as he said to his invisible captor, with an air of detachment from any personal feeling:

  “What peculiar shoes you wear! I don’t think I ever felt any so pointed before.”

  The rescuing knight took no thought of offering to help the persecuted damsel to arise; instead, he tightened his grip upon the prisoner’s neck until, perforce, water — not tears — started from the latter’s eyes.

  “You miserable little muff,” said the conqueror, “what the devil do you mean, making this scene on our front lawn?”

  “Why, it’s Eugene!” exclaimed the helpless one. “They didn’t expect you till to-night. When did you get in?”

  “Just in time to give you a lesson, my buck,” replied Bantry, grimly. “In GOOD time for that, my playful step-brother.”

  He began to twist the other’s wrist — a treatment of bone and ligament in the application of which school-boys and even freshmen are often adept. Eugene made the torture acute, and was apparently enjoying the work, when suddenly — without any manner of warning — he received an astounding blow upon the left ear, which half stunned him for the moment, and sent his hat flying and himself reeling, so great was the surprise and shock of it. It was not a slap, not an open-handed push, nothing like it, but a fierce, well-delivered blow from a clinched fist with the shoulder behind it, and it was the girl who had given it.

  “Don’t you dare to touch Joe!” she cried, passionately. “Don’t you lay a finger on him.”

  Furious and red, he staggered round to look at her.

  “You wretched little wild-cat, what do you mean by that?” he broke out.

  “Don’t you touch Joe!” she panted. “Don’t you—” Her breath caught and there was a break in her voice as she faced him. She could not finish the repetition of that cry, “Don’t you touch Joe!”

  But there was no break in the spirit, that passion of protection which had dealt the blow. Both boys looked at her, something aghast.

  She stood before them, trembling with rage and shivering with cold in the sudden wind which had come up. Her hair had fallen and blew across her streaming face in brown witch-wisps; one of the ill-darned stockings had come down and hung about her shoe in folds full of snow; the arm which had lost its sleeve was bare and wet; thin as the arm of a growing boy, it shook convulsively, and was red from shoulder to clinched fist. She was covered with snow. Mists of white drift blew across her, mercifully half veiling her.

  Eugene recovered himself. He swung round upon his heel, restored his hat to his head with precision, picked up his stick and touched his banjo-case with it.

  “Carry that into the house,” he said, indifferently, to his step-brother.

  “Don’t you do it!” said the girl, hotly, between her chattering teeth.

  Eugene turned towards her, wearing the sharp edge of a smile. Not removing his eyes from her face, he produced with deliberation a flat silver box from a pocket, took therefrom a cigarette, replaced the box, extracted a smaller silver box from another pocket, shook out of it a fusee, slowly lit the cigarette — this in a splendid silence, which he finally broke to say, languidly, but with particular distinctness:

  “Ariel Tabor, go home!”

  The girl’s teeth stopped chattering, her lips remaining parted; she shook the hair out of her eyes and stared at him as if s
he did not understand, but Joe Louden, who had picked up the banjo-case obediently, burst into cheerful laughter.

  “That’s it, ‘Gene,” he cried, gayly. “That’s the way to talk to her!”

  “Stow it, you young cub,” replied Eugene, not turning to him. “Do you think I’m trying to be amusing?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘stow it,’” Joe began, “but if—”

  “I mean,” interrupted the other, not relaxing his faintly smiling stare at the girl— “I mean that Ariel Tabor is to go home. Really, we can’t have this kind of thing occurring upon our front lawn!”

  The flush upon her wet cheeks deepened and became dark; even her arm grew redder as she gazed back at him. In his eyes was patent his complete realization of the figure she cut, of this bare arm, of the strewn hair, of the fallen stocking, of the ragged shoulder of her blouse, of her patched short skirt, of the whole dishevelled little figure. He was the master of the house, and he was sending her home as ill-behaved children are sent home by neighbors.

  The immobile, amused superiority of this proprietor of silver boxes, this wearer of strange and brilliant garments, became slightly intensified as he pointed to the fallen sleeve, a rag of red and snow, lying near her feet.

  “You might take that with you?” he said, interrogatively.

  Her gaze had not wavered in meeting his, but at this her eyelashes began to wink uncontrollably, her chin to tremble. She bent over the sleeve and picked it up, before Joe Louden, who had started towards her, could do it for her. Then turning, her head still bent so that her face was hidden from both of them, she ran out of the gate.

  “DO go!” Joe called after her, vehemently. “Go! Just to show what a fool you are to think ‘Gene’s in earnest.”

  He would have followed, but his step-brother caught him by the arm. “Don’t stop her,” said Eugene. “Can’t you tell when I AM in earnest, you bally muff!”

  “I know you are,” returned the other, in a low voice. “I didn’t want her to think so for your sake.”

  “Thousands of thanks,” said Eugene, airily. “You are a wise young judge. She couldn’t stay — in THAT state, could she? I sent her for her own good.”

  “She could have gone in the house and your mother might have loaned her a jacket,” returned Joe, swallowing. “You had no business to make her go out in the street like that.”

  Eugene laughed. “There isn’t a soul in sight — and there, she’s all right now. She’s home.”

  Ariel had run along the fence until she came to the next gate, which opened upon a walk leading to a shabby, meandering old house of one story, with a very long, low porch, once painted white, running the full length of the front. Ariel sprang upon the porch and disappeared within the house.

  Joe stood looking after her, his eyelashes winking as had hers. “You oughtn’t to have treated her that way,” he said, huskily.

  Eugene laughed again. “How were YOU treating her when I came up? You bully her all you want to yourself, but nobody else must say even a fatherly word to her!”

  “That wasn’t bullying,” explained Joe. “We fight all the time.”

  “Mais oui!” assented Eugene. “I fancy!”

  “What?” said the other, blankly.

  “Pick up that banjo-case again and come on,” commanded Mr. Bantry, tartly. “Where’s the mater?”

  Joe stared at him. “Where’s what?”

  “The mater!” was the frowning reply.

  “Oh yes, I know!” said Joe, looking at his step-brother curiously. “I’ve seen it in stories. She’s up-stairs. You’ll be a surprise. You’re wearing lots of clothes, ‘Gene.”

  “I suppose it will seem so to Canaan,” returned the other, weariedly. “Governor feeling fit?”

  “I never saw him,” Joe replied; then caught himself. “Oh, I see what you mean! Yes, he’s all right.”

  They had come into the hall, and Eugene was removing the long coat, while his step-brother looked at him thoughtfully.

  “‘Gene,” asked the latter, in a softened voice, “have you seen Mamie Pike yet?”

  “You will find, my young friend,” responded Mr. Bantry, “if you ever go about much outside of Canaan, that ladies’ names are not supposed to be mentioned indiscriminately.”

  “It’s only,” said Joe, “that I wanted to say that there’s a dance at their house to-night. I suppose you’ll be going?”

  “Certainly. Are you?”

  Both knew that the question was needless; but Joe answered, gently:

  “Oh no, of course not.” He leaned over and fumbled with one foot as if to fasten a loose shoe-string. “She wouldn’t be very likely to ask me.”

  “Well, what about it?”

  “Only that — that Arie Tabor’s going.”

  “Indeed!” Eugene paused on the stairs, which he had begun to ascend. “Very interesting.”

  “I thought,” continued Joe, hopefully, straightening up to look at him, “that maybe you’d dance with her. I don’t believe many will ask her — I’m afraid they won’t — and if you would, even only once, it would kind of make up for” — he faltered— “for out there,” he finished, nodding his head in the direction of the gate.

  If Eugene vouchsafed any reply, it was lost in a loud, shrill cry from above, as a small, intensely nervous-looking woman in blue silk ran half-way down the stairs to meet him and caught him tearfully in her arms.

  “Dear old mater!” said Eugene.

  Joe went out of the front-door quickly.

  III. OLD HOPES

  THE DOOR WHICH Ariel had entered opened upon a narrow hall, and down this she ran to her own room, passing, with face averted, the entrance to the broad, low-ceilinged chamber that had served Roger Tabor as a studio for almost fifty years. He was sitting there now, in a hopeless and disconsolate attitude, with his back towards the double doors, which were open, and had been open since their hinges had begun to give way, when Ariel was a child. Hearing her step, he called her name, but did not turn; and, receiving no answer, sighed faintly as he heard her own door close upon her.

  Then, as his eyes wandered about the many canvases which leaned against the dingy walls, he sighed again. Usually they showed their brown backs, but to-day he had turned them all to face outward. Twilight, sunset, moonlight (the Court-house in moonlight), dawn, morning, noon (Main Street at noon), high summer, first spring, red autumn, midwinter, all were there — illimitably detailed, worked to a smoothness like a glaze, and all lovingly done with unthinkable labor.

  And there were “Italian Flower-Sellers,” damsels with careful hair, two figures together, one blonde, the other as brunette as lampblack, the blonde — in pink satin and blue slippers — leaning against a pillar and smiling over the golden coins for which she had exchanged her posies; the brunette seated at her feet, weeping upon an unsold bouquet. There were red-sashed “Fisher Lads” wading with butterfly-nets on their shoulders; there was a “Tying the Ribbon on Pussy’s Neck”; there were portraits in oil and petrifactions in crayon, as hard and tight as the purses of those who had refused to accept them, leaving them upon their maker’s hands because the likeness had failed.

  After a time the old man got up, went to his easel near a window, and, sighing again, began patiently to work upon one of these failures — a portrait, in oil, of a savage old lady, which he was doing from a photograph. The expression of the mouth and the shape of the nose had not pleased her descendants and the beneficiaries under the will, and it was upon the images of these features that Roger labored. He leaned far forward, with his face close to the canvas, holding his brushes after the Spencerian fashion, working steadily through the afternoon, and, when the light grew dimmer, leaning closer to his canvas to see. When it had become almost dark in the room, he lit a student-lamp with a green-glass shade, and, placing it upon a table beside him, continued to paint. Ariel’s voice interrupted him at last.

  “It’s quitting-time, grandfather,” she called, gently, from the doorway
behind him.

  He sank back in his chair, conscious, for the first time, of how tired he had grown. “I suppose so,” he said, “though it seemed to me that I was just getting my hand in.” His eyes brightened for a moment. “I declare, I believe I’ve caught it a great deal better. Come and look, Ariel. Doesn’t it seem to you that I’m getting it? Those pearly shadows in the flesh—”

  “I’m sure of it. Those people ought to be very proud to have it.” She came to him quietly, took the palette and brushes from his hands and began to clean them, standing in the shadow behind him. “It’s too good for them.”

  “I wonder if it is,” he said, slowly, leaning forward and curving his hands about his eyes so as to shut off everything from his view except the canvas. “I wonder if it is!” he repeated. Then his hands dropped sadly in his lap, and he sank back again with a patient kind of revulsion. “No, no, it isn’t! I always think they’re good when I’ve just finished them. I’ve been fooled that way all my life. They don’t look the same afterwards.”

  “They’re always beautiful,” she said, softly.

  “Ah, ah!” he sighed.

  “Now, Roger!” she cried, with cheerful sharpness, continuing her work.

  “I know,” he said, with a plaintive laugh,— “I know. Sometimes I think that all my reward has been in the few minutes I’ve had just after finishing them. During those few minutes I seem to see in them all that I wanted to put in them; I see it because what I’ve been trying to express is still so warm in my own eyes that I seem to have got it on the canvas where I wanted it.”