Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “Cora knows perfectly well that something peculiar happened to you,” she advised him. “And she knows that I know what it was; and she says it isn’t very sisterly of me not to tell her. Now, Hedrick, there was no secret about it; you didn’t confide your — your trouble to me, and it would be perfectly honourable of me to tell it. I wont{sic} unless you make me, but if you can’t be polite and keep peace with Cora — at least while papa is sick I think it may be necessary. I believe,” she finished with imperfect gravity, “that it — it would keep things quieter.”

  The thoughts of a boy may be long, long thoughts, but he cannot persistently remember to fear a threatened catastrophe. Youth is too quickly intimate with peril. Hedrick had become familiar with his own, had grown so accustomed to it he was in danger of forgetting it altogether; therefore it was out of perspective. The episode of Lolita had begun to appear as a thing of the distant and clouded past: time is so long at thirteen. Added to this, his late immaculate deportment had been, as Laura suggested, a severe strain; the machinery of his nature was out of adjustment and demanded a violent reaction before it could get to running again at average speed. Also, it is evident that his destruction had been planned on high, for he was mad enough to answer flippantly:

  “Tell her! Go on and tell her — I give you leaf! that wasn’t anything anyway — just helped you get a little idiot girl home. What is there to that? I never saw her before; never saw her again; didn’t have half as much to do with her as you did yourself. She was a lot more your friend than mine; I didn’t even know her. I guess you’ll have to get something better on me than that, before you try to boss this ranch, Laura Madison!”

  That night, in bed, he wondered if he had not been perhaps a trifle rash; but the day was bright when he awoke, and no apprehension shadowed his morning face as he appeared at the breakfast table. On the contrary, a great weight had lifted from him; clearly his defiance had been the proper thing; he had shown Laura that her power over him was but imaginary. Hypnotized by his own words to her, he believed them; and his previous terrors became gossamer; nay, they were now merely laughable. His own remorse and shame were wholly blotted from memory, and he could not understand why in the world he had been so afraid, nor why he had felt it so necessary to placate Laura. She looked very meek this morning. That showed! The strong hand was the right policy in dealing with women. He was tempted to insane daring: the rash, unfortunate child waltzed on the lip of the crater.

  “Told Cora yet?” he asked, with scornful laughter.

  “Told me what?” Cora looked quickly up from her plate.

  “Oh, nothing about this Corliss,” he returned scathingly. “Don’t get excited.”

  “Hedrick!” remonstrated his mother, out of habit.

  “She never thinks of anything else these days,” he retorted. “Rides with him every evening in his pe-rin-sley hired machine, doesn’t she?”

  “Really, you should be more careful about the way you handle a spoon, Hedrick,” said Cora languidly, and with at least a foundation of fact. “It is not the proper implement for decorating the cheeks. We all need nourishment, but it is so difficult when one sees a deposit of breakfast-food in the ear of one’s vis-a-vis.”

  Hedrick too impulsively felt of his ears and was but the worse stung to find them immaculate and the latter half of the indictment unjustified.

  “Spoon!” he cried. “I wouldn’t talk about spoons if I were you, Cora-lee! After what I saw in the library the other night, believe me, you’re the one of this family that better be careful how you `handle a spoon’!”

  Cora had a moment of panic. She let the cup she was lifting drop noisily upon its saucer, and gazed whitely at the boy, her mouth opening wide.

  “Oh, no!” he went on, with a dreadful laugh. “I didn’t hear you asking this Corliss to kiss you! Oh, no!”

  At this, though her mother and Laura both started, a faint, odd relief showed itself in Cora’s expression. She recovered herself.

  “You little liar!” she flashed, and, with a single quick look at her mother, as of one too proud to appeal, left the room.

  “Hedrick, Hedrick, Hedrick!” wailed Mrs. Madison. “And she told me you drove her from the table last night too, right before Miss Peirce!” Miss Peirce was the nurse, fortunately at this moment in the sick-room.

  “I did hear her ask him that,” he insisted, sullenly. “Don’t you believe it?”

  “Certainly not!”

  Burning with outrage, he also left his meal unfinished and departed in high dignity. He passed through the kitchen, however, on his way out of the house; but, finding an unusual politeness to the cook nothing except its own reward, went on his way with a bitter perception of the emptiness of the world and other places.

  “Your father managed to talk more last night,” said Mrs. Madison pathetically to Laura. “He made me understand that he was fretting about how little we’d been able to give our children; so few advantages; it’s always troubled him terribly. But sometimes I wonder if we’ve done right: we’ve neither of us ever exercised any discipline. We just couldn’t bear to. You see, not having any money, or the things money could buy, to give, I think we’ve instinctively tried to make up for it by indulgence in other ways, and perhaps it’s been a bad thing. Not,” she added hastily, “not that you aren’t all three the best children any mother and father ever had! He said so. He said the only trouble was that our children were too good for us.” She shook her head remorsefully throughout Laura’s natural reply to this; was silent a while; then, as she rose, she said timidly, not looking at her daughter: “Of course Hedrick didn’t mean to tell an outright lie. They were just talking, and perhaps he — perhaps he heard something that made him think what he did. People are so often mistaken in what they hear, even when they’re talking right to each other, and — —”

  “Isn’t it more likely,” said Laura, gravely, “that Cora was telling some story or incident, and that Hedrick overheard that part of it, and thought she was speaking directly to Mr. Corliss?”

  “Of course!” cried the mother with instant and buoyant relief; and when the three ladies convened, a little later, Cora (unquestioned) not only confirmed this explanation, but repeated in detail the story she had related to Mr. Corliss. Laura had been quick.

  Hedrick passed a variegated morning among comrades. He obtained prestige as having a father like-to-die, but another boy turned up who had learned to chew tobacco. Then Hedrick was pronounced inferior to others in turning “cartwheels,” but succeeded in a wrestling match for an apple, which he needed. Later, he was chased empty-handed from the rear of an ice-wagon, but greatly admired for his retorts to the vociferous chaser: the other boys rightly considered that what he said to the ice-man was much more horrible than what the ice-man said to him. The ice-man had a fair vocabulary, but it lacked pliancy; seemed stiff and fastidious compared with the flexible Saxon in which Hedrick sketched a family tree lacking, perhaps, some plausibility as having produced even an ice-man, but curiously interesting zoologically.

  He came home at noon with the flush of this victory new upon his brow. He felt equal to anything, and upon Cora’s appearing at lunch with a blithe, bright air and a new arrangement of her hair, he opened a fresh campaign with ill-omened bravado.

  “Ear-muffs in style for September, are they?” he inquired in allusion to a symmetrical and becoming undulation upon each side of her head. “Too bad Ray Vilas can’t come any more; he’d like those, I know he would.”

  Cora, who was talking jauntily to her mother, went on without heeding. She affected her enunciation at times with a slight lisp; spoke preciously and over-exquisitely, purposely mincing the letter R, at the same time assuming a manner of artificial distinction and conscious elegance which never failed to produce in her brother the last stage of exasperation. She did this now. Charming woman, that dear Mrs. Villard, she prattled. “I met her downtown this morning. Dear mamma, you should but have seen her delight when she saw me. She was but just r
eturned from Bar Harbor — —”

  “`Baw-hawbaw’!” Poor Hedrick was successfully infuriated immediately. “What in thunder is `Baw-hawbaw’? Mrs. Villawd! Baw-hawbaw! Oh, maw!”

  “She had no idea she should find me in town, she said,” Cora ran on, happily. “She came back early on account of the children having to be sent to school. She has such adorable children — beautiful, dimpled babes — —”

  “SLUSH! SLUSH! LUV-A-LY SLUSH!”

  “ — And her dear son, Egerton Villard, he’s grown to be such a comely lad, and he has the most charming courtly manners: he helped his mother out of her carriage with all the air of a man of the world, and bowed to me as to a duchess. I think he might be a great influence for good if the dear Villards would but sometimes let him associate a little with our unfortunate Hedrick. Egerton Villard is really distingue; he has a beautiful head; and if he could be induced but to let Hedrick follow him about but a little — —”

  “I’ll beat his beautiful head off for him if he but butts in on me but a little!” Hedrick promised earnestly. “Idiot!”

  Cora turned toward him innocently. “What did you say, Hedrick?”

  “I said `Idiot’!”

  “You mean Egerton Villard?”

  “Both of you!”

  “You think I’m an idiot, Hedrick?” Her tone was calm, merely inquisitive.

  “Yes, I do!”

  “Oh, no,” she said pleasantly. “Don’t you think if I were really an idiot I’d be even fonder of you than I am?”

  It took his breath. In a panic he sat waiting he knew not what; but Cora blandly resumed her interrupted remarks to her mother, beginning a description of Mrs. Villard’s dress; Laura was talking unconcernedly to Miss Peirce; no one appeared to be aware that anything unusual had been said. His breath came back, and, summoning his presence of mind, he found himself able to consider his position with some degree of assurance. Perhaps, after all, Cora’s retort had been merely a coincidence. He went over and over it in his mind, making a pretence, meanwhile, to be busy with his plate. “If I were really an idiot.” . . . It was the “really” that troubled him. But for that one word, he could have decided that her remark was a coincidence; but “really” was ominous; had a sinister ring. “If I were really an idiot!” Suddenly the pleasant clouds that had obscured his memory of the fatal evening were swept away as by a monstrous Hand: it all came back to him with sickening clearness. So is it always with the sinner with his sin and its threatened discovery. Again, in his miserable mind, he sat beside Lolita on the fence, with the moon shining through her hair; and he knew — for he had often read it — that a man could be punished his whole life through for a single moment’s weakness. A man might become rich, great, honoured, and have a large family, but his one soft sin would follow him, hunt him out and pull him down at last. “Really an idiot!” Did that relentless Comanche, Cora, know this Thing? He shuddered. Then he fell back upon his faith in Providence. It could not be that she knew! Ah, no! Heaven would not let the world be so bad as that! And yet it did sometimes become negligent — he remembered the case of a baby-girl cousin who fell into the bath-tub and was drowned. Providence had allowed that: What assurance had he that it would not go a step farther?

  “Why, Hedrick,” said Cora, turning toward him cheerfully, “you’re not really eating anything; you’re only pretending to.” His heart sank with apprehension. Was it coming? “You really must eat,” she went on. “School begins so soon, you must be strong, you know. How we shall miss you here at home during your hours of work!”

  With that, the burden fell from his shoulders, his increasing terrors took wing. If Laura had told his ghastly secret to Cora, the latter would not have had recourse to such weak satire as this. Cora was not the kind of person to try a popgun on an enemy when she had a thirteen-inch gun at her disposal; so he reasoned; and in the gush of his relief and happiness, responded:

  “You’re a little too cocky lately, Cora-lee: I wish you were my daughter — just about five minutes!”

  Cora looked upon him fondly. “What would you do to me,” she inquired with a terrible sweetness— “darling little boy?”

  Hedrick’s head swam. The blow was square in the face; it jarred every bone; the world seemed to topple. His mother, rising from her chair, choked slightly, and hurried to join the nurse, who was already on her way upstairs. Cora sent an affectionate laugh across the table to her stunned antagonist.

  “You wouldn’t beat me, would you, dear?” she murmured. “I’m almost sure you wouldn’t; not if I asked you to kiss me some more.”

  All doubt was gone, the last hope fled! The worst had arrived. A vision of the awful future flamed across his staggered mind. The doors to the arena were flung open: the wild beasts howled for hunger of him; the spectators waited.

  Cora began lightly to sing:

  . . . “Dear,

  Would thou wert near

  To hear me tell how fair thou art!

  Since thou art gone I mourn all alone,

  Oh, my Lolita — —”

  She broke off to explain: “It’s one of those passionate little Spanish serenades, Hedrick. I’ll sing it for your boy-friends next time they come to play in the yard. I think they’d like it. When they know why you like it so much, I’m sure they will. Of course you do like it — you roguish little lover!” A spasm rewarded this demoniacal phrase. “Darling little boy, the serenade goes on like this:

  Oh, my Lolita, come to my heart:

  Oh, come beloved, love let me press thee,

  While I caress thee

  In one long kiss, Lolita!

  Lolita come! Let me — —”

  Hedrick sprang to his feet with a yell of agony. “Laura Madison, you tattle-tale,” he bellowed, “I’ll never forgive you as long as I live! I’ll get even with you if it takes a thousand years!”

  With that, and pausing merely to kick a rung out of a chair which happened to be in his way, he rushed from the room.

  His sisters had risen to go, and Cora flung her arms round Laura in ecstacy. “You mean old viper!” she cried. “You could have told me days ago! It’s almost too good to be true: it’s the first time in my whole life I’ve felt safe from the Pest for a moment!”

  Laura shook her head. “My conscience troubles me; it did seem as if I ought to tell you — and mamma thought so, too; and I gave him warning, but now that I have done it, it seems rather mean and — —”

  “No!” exclaimed Cora. “You just gave me a chance to protect myself for once, thank heaven!” And she picked up her skirts and danced her way into the front hall.

  “I’m afraid,” said Laura, following, “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Oh, Laura,” cried the younger girl, “I am having the best time, these days! This just caps it.” She lowered her voice, but her eyes grew even brighter. “I think I’ve shown a certain gentleman a few things he didn’t understand!”

  “Who, dear?”

  “Val,” returned Cora lightly; “Valentine Corliss. I think he knows a little more about women than he did when he first came here.”

  “You’ve had a difference with him?” asked Laura with eager hopefulness. “You’ve broken with him?”

  “Oh, Lord, no! Nothing like that.” Cora leaned to her confidentially. “He told me, once, he’d be at the feet of any woman that could help put through an affair like his oil scheme, and I decided I’d just show him what I could do. He’d talk about it to me; then he’d laugh at me. That very Sunday when I got papa to go in — —”

  “But he didn’t,” said Laura helplessly. “He only said he’d try to —— when he gets well.”

  “It’s all the same — and it’ll be a great thing for him, too,” said Cora, gayly. “Well, that very afternoon before Val left, he practically told me I was no good. Of course he didn’t use just those words — that isn’t his way — but he laughed at me. And haven’t I shown him! I sent Richard a note that very night saying papa had consented to be secretar
y of the company, and Richard had said he’d go in if papa did that, and he couldn’t break his word — —”

  “I know,” said Laura, sighing. “I know.”

  “Laura” — Cora spoke with sudden gravity— “did you ever know anybody like me? I’m almost getting superstitious about it, because it seems to me I always get just what I set out to get. I believe I could have anything in the world if I tried for it.”

  “I hope so, if you tried for something good for you,” said Laura sadly. “Cora, dear, you will — you will be a little easy on Hedrick, won’t you?”

  Cora leaned against the newel and laughed till she was exhausted.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MR. TRUMBLE’S OFFICES were heralded by a neat blazon upon the principal door, “Wade J. Trumble, Mortgages and Loans”; and the gentleman thus comfortably, proclaimed, emerging from that door upon a September noontide, burlesqued a start of surprise at sight of a figure unlocking an opposite door which exhibited the name, “Ray Vilas,” and below it, the cryptic phrase, “Probate Law.”

  “Water!” murmured Mr. Trumble, affecting to faint. “You ain’t going in there, are you, Ray?” He followed the other into the office, and stood leaning against a bookcase, with his hands in his pockets, while Vilas raised the two windows, which were obscured by a film of smoke-deposit: there was a thin coat of fine sifted dust over everything. “Better not sit down, Ray,” continued Trumble, warningly. “You’ll spoil your clothes and you might get a client. That word `Probate’ on the door ain’t going to keep ’em out forever. You recognize the old place, I s’pose? You must have been here at least twice since you moved in. What’s the matter? Dick Lindley hasn’t missionaried you into any idea of working, has he? Oh, no, I see: the Richfield Hotel bar has closed — you’ve managed to drink it all at last!”