Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “`The Funeral March of a Marionette!’”

  “I suppose you mean that for a cheerful way of announcing that you are a fatalist.”

  “Fatalism? That is only a word,” declared Mr. Vilas gravely. “If I am not a puppet then I am a god. Somehow, I do not seem to be a god. If a god is a god, one thinks he would know it himself. I now yield the floor. Thanking you cordially, I believe there is a lady walking yonder who commands salutation.”

  He rose to his feet, bowing profoundly. Cora Madison was passing, strolling rather briskly down the street, not in the direction of her home. She waved her parasol with careless gayety to the trio under the trees, and, going on, was lost to their sight.

  “Hello!” exclaimed Corliss, looking at his watch with a start of surprise. “I have two letters to write for the evening mail. I must be off.”

  At this, Ray Vilas’s eyes — still fixed upon him, as they had been throughout the visit — opened to their fullest capacity, in a gaze of only partially alcoholic wildness.

  Entirely aware of this singular glare, but not in the least disconcerted by it, the recipient proffered his easy farewells. “I had no idea it was so late. Good afternoon. Mr. Vilas, I have been delighted with your diagnosis. Lindley, I’m at your disposal when you’ve looked over my data. My very warm thanks for your patience, and — addio!”

  Lindley looked after him as he strode quickly away across the green lawn, turning, at the street, in the direction Cora had taken; and the troubled Richard felt his heart sink with vague but miserable apprehension. There was a gasp of desperation beside him, and the sound of Ray Vilas’s lips parting and closing with little noises of pain.

  “So he knows her,” said the boy, his thin body shaking. “Look at him, damn him! See his deep chest, that conqueror’s walk, the easy, confident, male pride of him: a true-born, natural rake — the Toreador all over!”

  His agitation passed suddenly; he broke into a loud laugh, and flung a reckless hand to his companion’s shoulder.

  “You good old fool,” he cried. “You’ll never play Don Jose!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HEDRICK MADISON, LIKE too many other people, had never thought seriously about the moon; nor ever had he encouraged it to become his familiar; and he underwent his first experience of its incomparable betrayals one brilliant night during the last week of that hot month. The preface to this romantic evening was substantial and prosaic: four times during dinner was he copiously replenished with hash, which occasioned so rich a surfeit within him that, upon the conclusion of the meal, he found himself in no condition to retort appropriately to a solicitous warning from Cora to keep away from the cat. Indeed, it was half an hour later, and he was sitting — to his own consciousness too heavily — upon the back fence, when belated inspiration arrived. But there is no sound where there is no ear to hear, and no repartee, alas! when the wretch who said the first part has gone, so that Cora remained unscathed as from his alley solitude Hedrick hurled in the teeth of the rising moon these bitter words:

  “Oh, no; our cat only eats soft meat!”

  He renewed a morbid silence, and the moon, with its customary deliberation, swung clear of a sweeping branch of the big elm in the front yard and shone full upon him. Nothing warned the fated youth not to sit there; no shadow of imminent catastrophe tinted that brightness: no angel whisper came to him, bidding him begone — and to go in a hurry and as far as possible. No; he sat upon the fence an inoffensive lad, and — except for still feeling his hash somewhat, and a gradually dispersing rancour concerning the cat — at peace. It is for such lulled mortals that the ever-lurking Furies save their most hideous surprises.

  Chin on palms, he looked idly at the moon, and the moon inscrutably returned his stare. Plausible, bright, bland, it gave no sign that it was at its awful work. For the bride of night is like a card-dealer whose fingers move so swiftly through the pack the trickery goes unseen.

  This moon upon which he was placidly gazing, because he had nothing else to do, betokened nought to Hedrick: to him it was the moon of any other night, the old moon; certainly no moon of his delight. Withal, it may never be gazed upon so fixedly and so protractedly — no matter how languidly — with entire impunity. That light breeds a bug in the brain. Who can deny how the moon wrought this thing under the hair of unconscious Hedrick, or doubt its responsibility for the thing that happened?

  “Little boy!”

  It was a very soft, small voice, silky and queer; and at first Hedrick had little suspicion that it could be addressing him: the most rigid self-analysis could have revealed to him no possibility of his fitting so ignominious a description.

  “Oh, little boy!”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw, standing in the alley behind him, a girl of about his own age. She was daintily dressed and had beautiful hair which was all shining in pale gold.

  “Little boy!”

  She was smiling up at him, and once more she used that wantonly inaccurate vocative:

  “Little boy!”

  Hedrick grunted unencouragingly. “Who you callin’ `little boy’?”

  For reply she began to climb the fence. It was high, but the young lady was astonishingly agile, and not even to be deterred by several faint wails from tearing and ripping fabrics — casualties which appeared to be entirely beneath her notice. Arriving at the top rather dishevelled, and with irregular pennons here and there flung to the breeze from her attire, she seated herself cosily beside the dumbfounded Hedrick.

  She turned her face to him and smiled — and there was something about her smile which Hedrick did not like. It discomforted him; nothing more. In sunlight he would have had the better chance to comprehend; but, unhappily, this was moonshine.

  “Kiss me, little boy!” she said.

  “I won’t!” exclaimed the shocked and indignant Hedrick, edging uneasily away from her.

  “Let’s play,” she said cheerfully.

  “Play what?”

  “I like chickens. Did you know I like chickens?”

  The rather singular lack of connection in her remarks struck him as a misplaced effort at humour.

  “You’re having lots of fun with me, aren’t you?” he growled.

  She instantly moved close to him and lifted her face to his.

  “Kiss me, darling little boy!” she said.

  There was something more than uncommonly queer about this stranger, an unearthliness of which he was confusedly perceptive, but she was not without a curious kind of prettiness, and her pale gold hair was beautiful. The doomed lad saw the moon shining through it.

  “Kiss me, darling little boy!” she repeated.

  His head whirled; for the moment she seemed divine.

  George Washington used profanity at the Battle of Monmouth. Hedrick kissed her.

  He instantly pushed her away with strong distaste. “There!” he said angrily. “I hope that’ll satisfy you!” He belonged to his sex.

  “Kiss me some more, darling little boy!” she cried, and flung her arms about him.

  With a smothered shout of dismay he tried to push her off, and they fell from the fence together, into the yard, at the cost of further and almost fatal injuries to the lady’s apparel.

  Hedrick was first upon his feet. “Haven’t you got any sense?” he demanded.

  She smiled unwaveringly, rose (without assistance) and repeated: “Kiss me some more, darling little boy!”

  “No, I won’t! I wouldn’t for a thousand dollars!”

  Apparently, she did not consider this discouraging. She began to advance endearingly, while he retreated backward. “Kiss me some — —”

  “I won’t, I tell you!” Hedrick kept stepping away, moving in a desperate circle. He resorted to a brutal formula: “You make me sick!”

  “Kiss me some more, darling lit — —”

  “I won’t!” he bellowed. “And if you say that again I’ll — —”

  “Kiss me some more, darling little boy!” She flung hers
elf at him, and with a yell of terror he turned and ran at top-speed.

  She pursued, laughing sweetly, and calling loudly as she ran, “Kiss me some more, darling little boy! Kiss me some more, darling little boy!”

  The stricken Hedrick knew not whither to direct his flight: he dared not dash for the street with this imminent tattered incubus — she was almost upon him — and he frantically made for the kitchen door, only to swerve with a gasp of despair as his foot touched the step, for she was at his heels, and he was sickeningly assured she would cheerfully follow him through the house, shouting that damning refrain for all ears. A strangling fear took him by the throat — if Cora should come to be a spectator of this unspeakable flight, if Cora should hear that horrid plea for love! Then farewell peace; indeed, farewell all joy in life forever!

  Panting sobbingly, he ducked under the amorous vampire’s arm and fled on. He zigzagged desperately to and fro across the broad, empty backyard, a small hand ever and anon managing to clutch his shoulder, the awful petition in his ears:

  “Kiss me some more, darling little boy!”

  “Hedrick!”

  Emerging from the kitchen door, Laura stood and gazed in wonder as the two eerie figures sped by her, circled, ducked, dodged, flew madly on. This commonplace purlieu was become the scene of a witch-chase; the moonlight fell upon the ghastly flitting face of the pursued, uplifted in agony, white, wet, with fay eyes; also it illumined the unreal elf following close, a breeze-blown fantasy in rags.

  “Kiss me some more, darling little boy!”

  Laura uttered a sharp exclamation. “Stand still, Hedrick!” she called. “You must!”

  Hedrick made a piteous effort to increase his speed.

  “It’s Lolita Martin,” called Laura. “She must have her way or nothing can be done with her. Stand still!”

  Hedrick had never heard of Lolita Martin, but the added information concerning her was not ineffective: it operated as a spur; and Laura joined the hunt.

  “Stand still!” she cried to the wretched quarry. “She’s run away. She must be taken home. Stop, Hedrick! You must stop!”

  Hedrick had no intention of stopping, but Laura was a runner, and, as he dodged the other, caught and held him fast. The next instant, Lolita, laughing happily, flung her arms round his neck from behind.

  “Lemme go!” shuddered Hedrick. “Lemme go!”

  “Kiss me again, darl — —”

  “I — woof!” He became inarticulate.

  “She isn’t quite right,” his sister whispered hurriedly in his ear. “She has spells when she’s weak mentally. You must be kind to her. She only wants you to — —”

  “`Only’!” he echoed hoarsely. “I won’t ki — —” He was unable to finish the word.

  “We must get her home,” said Laura anxiously. “Will you come with me, Lolita, dear?”

  Apparently Lolita had no consciousness whatever of Laura’s presence. Instead of replying, she tightened her grasp upon Hedrick and warmly reiterated her request.

  “Shut up, you parrot!” hissed the goaded boy.

  “Perhaps she’ll go if you let her walk with her arms round your neck,” suggested Laura.

  “If I what?”

  “Let’s try it. We’ve got to get her home; her mother must be frantic about her. Come, let’s see if she’ll go with us that way.”

  With convincing earnestness, Hedrick refused to make the experiment until Laura suggested that he remain with Lolita while she summoned assistance; then, as no alternative appeared, his spirit broke utterly, and he consented to the trial, stipulating with a last burst of vehemence that the progress of the unthinkable pageant should be through the alley.

  “Come, Lolita,” said Laura coaxingly. “We’re going for a nice walk.” At the adjective, Hedrick’s burdened shoulders were racked with a brief spasm, which recurred as his sister added: “Your darling little boy will let you keep hold of him.”

  Lolita seemed content. Laughing gayly, she offered no opposition, but, maintaining her embrace with both arms and walking somewhat sidewise, went willingly enough; and the three slowly crossed the yard, passed through the empty stable and out into the alley. When they reached the cross-street at the alley’s upper end, Hedrick balked flatly.

  Laura expostulated, then entreated. Hedrick refused with sincere loathing to be seen upon the street occupying his present position in the group. Laura assured him that there was no one to see; he replied that the moon was bright and the evening early; he would die, and readily, but he would not set foot in the street. Unfortunately, he had selected an unfavourable spot for argument: they were already within a yard or two of the street; and a strange boy, passing, stopped and observed, and whistled discourteously.

  “Ain’t he the spooner!” remarked this unknown with hideous admiration.

  “I’ll thank you,” returned Hedrick haughtily, “to go on about your own business.”

  “Kiss me some more, darling little boy!” said Lolita.

  The strange boy squawked, wailed, screamed with laughter, howled the loving petition in a dozen keys of mockery, while Hedrick writhed and Lolita clung. Enriched by a new and great experience, the torturer trotted on, leaving viperish cachinnations in his wake.

  But the martyrdom was at an end. A woman, hurrying past, bareheaded, was greeted by a cry of delight from Lolita, who released Hedrick and ran to her with outstretched arms.

  “We were bringing her home, Mrs. Martin,” said Laura, reassuringly. “She’s all right; nothing’s the matter except that her dress got torn. We found her playing in our yard.”

  “I thank you a thousand times, Miss Madison,” cried Lolita’s mother, and flutteringly plunged into a description of her anxiety, her search for Lolita, and concluded with renewed expressions of gratitude for the child’s safe return, an outpouring of thankfulness and joy wholly incomprehensible to Hedrick.

  “Not at all,” said Laura cheerfully. “Come, Hedrick. We’ll go home by the street, I think.” She touched his shoulder, and he went with her in stunned obedience. He was not able to face the incredible thing that had happened to him: he walked in a trance of horror.

  “Poor little girl!” said Laura gently, with what seemed to her brother an indefensibly misplaced compassion. “Usually they have her live in an institution for people afflicted as she is, but they brought her home for a visit last week, I believe. Of course you didn’t understand, but I think you should have been more thoughtful. Really, you shouldn’t have flirted with her.”

  Hedrick stopped short.

  “`Flirted’!” His voice was beginning to show symptoms of changing, this year; it rose to a falsetto wail, flickered and went out.

  With the departure of Lolita in safety, what had seemed bizarre and piteous became obscured, and another aspect of the adventure was presented to Laura. The sufferings of the arrogant are not wholly depressing to the spectator; and of arrogance Hedrick had ever been a master. She began to shake; a convulsion took her, and suddenly she sat upon the curbstone without dignity, and laughed as he had never seen her.

  A horrid distrust of her rose within him: he began to realize in what plight he stood, what terrors o’erhung.

  “Look here,” he said miserably, “are you — you aren’t — you don’t have to go and — and talk about this, do you?”

  “No, Hedrick,” she responded, rising and controlling herself somewhat. “Not so long as you’re good.”

  This was no reassuring answer.

  “And politer to Cora,” she added.

  Seemingly he heard the lash of a slave-whip crack in the air. The future grew dark.

  “I know you’ll try” — she said; and the unhappy lad felt that her assurance was justified; but she had not concluded the sentence— “darling little boy,” she capped it, choking slightly.

  “No other little girl ever fell in love with you, did there, Hedrick?” she asked, and, receiving an incoherent but furious reply, she was again overcome, so that she must lean agains
t the fence to recover. “It seems — so — so curious,” she explained, gasping, “that the first one — the — the only one — should be an — a — an — —” She was unable to continue.

  Hedrick’s distrust became painfully increased: he began to feel that he disliked Laura.

  She was still wiping her eyes and subject to recurrent outbursts when they reached their own abode; and as he bitterly flung himself into a chair upon the vacant front porch, he heard her stifling an attack as she mounted the stairs to her own room. He swung the chair about, with its back to the street, and sat facing the wall. He saw nothing. There are profundities in the abyss which reveal no glimpse of the sky.

  Presently he heard his father coughing near by; and the sound was hateful, because it seemed secure and unshamed. It was a cough of moral superiority; and just then the son would have liked to believe that his parent’s boyhood had been one of degradation as complete as his own; but no one with this comfortable cough could ever have plumbed such depths: his imagination refused the picture he was bitterly certain that Mr. Madison had never kissed an idiot.

  Hedrick had a dread that his father might speak to him; he was in no condition for light conversation. But Mr. Madison was unaware of his son’s near presence, and continued upon his purposeless way. He was smoking his one nightly cigar and enjoying the moonlight. He drifted out toward the sidewalk and was accosted by a passing acquaintance, a comfortable burgess of sixty, leading a child of six or seven, by the hand.

  “Out taking the air, are you, Mr. Madison?” said the pedestrian, pausing.

  “Yes; just trying to cool off,” returned the other. “How are you, Pryor, anyway? I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

  “Not since last summer,” said Pryor. “I only get here once or twice a year, to see my married daughter. I always try to spend August with her if I can. She’s still living in that little house, over on the next street, I bought for her through your real-estate company. I suppose you’re still in the same business?”

  “Yes. Pretty slack, these days.”

  “I suppose so, I suppose so,” responded Mr. Pryor, nodding. “Summer, I suppose it usually is. Well, I don’t know when I’ll be going out on the road again myself. Business is pretty slack all over the country this year.”