Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  Richard hesitated. “Well — yes. Yes, I did think of that. Yes, I thought of it.”

  “But you didn’t do it.”

  “No. That is, I haven’t yet. You see, Corliss explained to me that — —”

  His friend interrupted him with a sour laugh. “Oh, certainly! He’s one of the greatest explainers ever welcomed to our city!”

  Richard said mildly: “And then, Ray, once I’ve gone into a thing I — I don’t like to seem suspicious.”

  “Poor old Dick!” returned Vilas compassionately. “You kind, easy, sincere men are so conscientiously untruthful with yourselves. You know in your heart that Cora would be furious with you if you seemed suspicious, and she’s been so nice to you since you put in your savings to please her, that you can’t bear to risk offending her. She’s twisted you around her little finger, and the unnamed fear that haunts you is that you won’t be allowed to stay there — even twisted!”

  “Pretty decorations, Ray,” said Richard; but he grew very red.

  “Do you know what you’ll do,” asked Ray, regarding him keenly, “if this Don Giovanni from Sunny It’ is shown up as a plain get-rich-quick swindler?”

  “I haven’t considered — —”

  “You would do precisely,” said Ray, “nothing! Cora’d see to that. You’d sigh and go to work again, beginning at the beginning where you were years ago, and doing it all over. Admirable resignation, but not for me! I’m a stockholder in his company and in shape to `take steps’! I don’t know if I’d be patient enough to make them legal — perhaps I should. He may be safe on the legal side. I’ll know more about that when I find out if there is a Prince Moliterno in Naples who owns land in Basilicata.”

  “You don’t doubt it?”

  “I doubt everything! In this particular matter I’ll have less to doubt when I get an answer from the consul-general. I’ve written, you see.”

  Lindley looked disturbed. “You have?”

  Vilas read him at a glance. “You’re afraid to find out!” he cried. Then he set his hand on the other’s shoulder. “If there ever was a God’s fool, it’s you, Dick Lindley. Really, I wonder the world hasn’t kicked you around more than it has; you’d never kick back! You’re as easy as an old shoe. Cora makes you unhappy,” he went on, and with the very mention of her name, his voice shook with passion,— “but on my soul I don’t believe you know what jealousy means: you don’t even understand hate; you don’t eat your heart — —”

  “Let’s go and eat something better,” suggested Richard, laughing. “There’s a continuous supper downstairs and I hear it’s very good.”

  Ray smiled, rescued for a second from himself. “There isn’t anything better than your heart, you old window-pane, and I’m glad you don’t eat it. And if I ever mix it up with Don Giovanni T. Corliss — `T’ stands for Toreador — I do believe it’ll be partly on your — —” He paused, leaving the sentence unfinished, as his attention was caught by the abysmal attitude of a figure in another part of the gallery: Mr. Wade Trumble, alone in a corner, sitting upon the small of his small back, munching at an unlighted cigar and otherwise manifesting a biting gloom. Ray drew Lindley’s attention to this tableau of pain. “Here’s a three of us!” he said. He turned to look down into the rhythmic kaleidoscope of dancers. “And there goes the girl we all ought to be morbid about.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Laura Madison. Why aren’t we? What a self-respecting creature she is, with that cool, sweet steadiness of hers — she’s like a mountain lake. She’s lovely and she plays like an angel, but so far as anybody’s ever thinking about her is concerned she might almost as well not exist. Yet she’s really beautiful to-night, if you can manage to think of her except as a sort of retinue for Cora.”

  “She is rather beautiful to-night. Laura’s always a very nice-looking girl,” said Richard, and with the advent of an idea, he added: “I think one reason she isn’t more conspicuous and thought about is that she is so quiet,” and, upon his companion’s greeting this inspiration with a burst of laughter, “Yes, that was a brilliant deduction,” he said; “but I do think she’s about the quietest person I ever knew. I’ve noticed there are times when she’ll scarcely speak at all for half an hour, or even more.”

  “You’re not precisely noisy yourself,” said Ray. “Have you danced with her this evening?”

  “Why, no,” returned the other, in a tone which showed this omission to be a discovery; “not yet. I must, of course.”

  “Yes, she’s really `rather’ beautiful. Also, she dances `rather’ better than any other girl in town. Go and perform your painful duty.”

  “Perhaps I’d better,” said Richard thoughtfully, not perceiving the satire. “At any rate, I’ll ask her for the next.”

  He found it unengaged. There came to Laura’s face an April change as he approached, and she saw he meant to ask her to dance. And, as they swam out into the maelstrom, he noticed it, and remarked that it was rather warm, to which she replied by a cheerful nod. Presently there came into Richard’s mind the thought that he was really an excellent dancer; but he did not recall that he had always formed the same pleasing estimate of himself when he danced with Laura, nor realize that other young men enjoyed similar self-help when dancing with her. And yet he repeated to her what Ray had said of her dancing, and when she laughed as in appreciation of a thing intended humorously, he laughed, too, but insisted that she did dance “very well indeed.” She laughed again at that, and they danced on, not talking. He had no sense of “guiding” her; there was no feeling of effort whatever; she seemed to move spontaneously with his wish, not to his touch; indeed, he was not sensible of touching her at all.

  “Why, Laura,” he exclaimed suddenly, “you dance beautifully!”

  She stumbled and almost fell; saved herself by clutching at his arm; he caught her; and the pair stopped where they were, in the middle of the floor. A flash of dazed incredulity from her dark eyes swept him; there was something in it of the child dodging an unexpected blow.

  “Did I trip you?” he asked anxiously.

  “No,” she laughed, quickly, and her cheeks grew even redder. “I tripped myself. Wasn’t that too bad — just when you were thinking that I danced well! Let’s sit down. May we?”

  They went to some chairs against a wall. There, as they sat, Cora swung by them, dancing again with her lieutenant, and looking up trancedly into the gallant eyes of the triumphant and intoxicated young man. Visibly, she was a woman with a suitor’s embracing arm about her. Richard’s eyes followed them.

  “Ah, don’t!” said Laura in a low voice.

  He turned to her. “Don’t what?”

  “I didn’t mean to speak out loud,” she said tremulously. “But I meant: don’t look so troubled. It doesn’t mean anything at all — her coquetting with that bird of passage. He’s going away in the morning.”

  “I don’t think I was troubling about that.”

  “Well, whatever it was” — she paused, and laughed with a plaintive timidity— “why, just don’t trouble about it!”

  “Do I look very much troubled?” he asked seriously.

  “Yes. And you don’t look very gay when you’re not!” She laughed with more assurance now. “I think you’re always the wistfulest looking man I ever saw.”

  “Everybody laughs at me, I believe,” he said, with continued seriousness. “Even Ray Vilas thinks I’m an utter fool. Am I, do you think?”

  He turned as he spoke and glanced inquiringly into her eyes. What he saw surprised and dismayed him.

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t cry!” he whispered hurriedly.

  She bent her head, turning her face from him.

  “I’ve been very hopeful lately,” he said. “Cora has been so kind to me since I did what she wanted me to, that I — —” He gave a deep sigh. “But if you’re that sorry for me, my chances with her must be pretty desperate.”

  She did not alter her attitude, but with her down-bent face still away fro
m him, said huskily: “It isn’t you I’m sorry for. You mustn’t ever give up; you must keep on trying and trying. If you give up, I don’t know what will become of her!”

  A moment later she rose suddenly to her feet. “Let’s finish our dance,” she said, giving him her hand. “I’m sure I won’t stumble again.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE TWO GIRLS let themselves into the house noiselessly, and, turning out the hall-light, left for them by their mother, crept upstairs on tiptoe; and went through the upper hall directly to Laura’s room — Cora’s being nearer the sick-room. At their age it is proper that a gayety be used three times: in anticipation, and actually, and in after-rehearsal. The last was of course now in order: they went to Laura’s room to “talk it over.” There was no gas-fixture in this small chamber; but they found Laura’s oil-lamp burning brightly upon her writing-table.

  “How queer!” said Laura with some surprise, as she closed the door. “Mother never leaves the lamp lit for me; she’s always so afraid of lamps exploding.”

  “Perhaps Miss Peirce came in here to read, and forgot to turn it out,” suggested Cora, seating herself on the edge of the bed and letting her silk wrap fall from her shoulders. “Oh, Laura, wasn’t he gorgeous. . . .”

  She referred to the gallant defender of our seas, it appeared, and while Laura undressed and got into a wrapper, Cora recounted in detail the history of the impetuous sailor’s enthrallment; — a resume predicted three hours earlier by a gleeful whisper hissed across the maritime shoulder as the sisters swung near each other during a waltz: “proposed!”

  “I’ve always heard they’re horribly inconstant,” she said, regretfully. “But, oh, Laura, wasn’t he beautiful to look at! Do you think he’s more beautiful than Val? No — don’t tell me if you do. I don’t want to hear it! Val was so provoking: he didn’t seem to mind it at all. He’s nothing but a big brute sometimes: he wouldn’t even admit that he minded, when I asked him. I was idiot enough to ask; I couldn’t help it; he was so tantalizing and exasperating — laughing at me. I never knew anybody like him; he’s so sure of himself and he can be so cold. Sometimes I wonder if he really cares about anything, deep down in his heart — anything except himself. He seems so selfish: there are times when he almost makes me hate him; but just when I get to thinking I do, I find I don’t — he’s so deliciously strong, and there’s such a big luxury in being understood: I always feel he knows me clear to the bone, somehow! But, oh,” she sighed regretfully, “doesn’t a uniform become a man? They ought to all wear ’em. It would look silly on such a little goat as that Wade Trumble, though: nothing could make him look like a whole man. Did you see him glaring at me? Beast! I was going to be so nice and kittenish and do all my prettiest tricks for him, to help Val with his oil company. Val thinks Wade would come in yet, if I’D only get him in the mood to have another talk with Val about it; but the spiteful little rat wouldn’t come near me. I believe that was one of the reasons Val laughed at me and pretended not to mind my getting proposed to. He must have minded; he couldn’t have helped minding it, really. That’s his way; he’s so mean — he won’t show things. He knows me. I can’t keep anything from him; he reads me like a signboard; and then about himself he keeps me guessing, and I can’t tell when I’ve guessed right. Ray Vilas behaved disgustingly, of course; he was horrid and awful. I might have expected it. I suppose Richard was wailing his tiresome sorrows on your poor shoulder — —”

  “No,” said Laura. “He was very cheerful. He seemed glad you were having a good time.”

  “He didn’t look particularly cheerful at me. I never saw so slow a man: I wonder when he’s going to find out about that pendant. Val would have seen it the instant I put it on. And, oh, Laura! isn’t George Wattling funny? He’s just soft! He’s good-looking though,” she continued pensively, adding, “I promised to motor out to the Country Club with him to-morrow for tea.”

  “Oh, Cora,” protested Laura, “no! Please don’t!”

  “I’ve promised; so I’ll have to, now.” Cora laughed. “It’ll do Mary Kane good. Oh, I’m not going to bother much with him — he makes me tired. I never saw anything so complacent as that girl when she came in to-night, as if her little Georgie was the greatest capture the world had ever seen. . . .”

  She chattered on. Laura, passive, listened with a thoughtful expression, somewhat preoccupied. The talker yawned at last.

  “It must be after three,” she said, listlessly, having gone over her evening so often that the colours were beginning to fade. She yawned again. “Laura,” she remarked absently, “I don’t see how you can sleep in this bed; it sags so.”

  “I’ve never noticed it,” said her sister. “It’s a very comfortable old bed.”

  Cora went to her to be unfastened, reverting to the lieutenant during the operation, and kissing the tire-woman warmly at its conclusion. “You’re always so sweet to me, Laura,” she said affectionately. “I don’t know how you manage it. You’re so good” — she laughed— “sometimes I wonder how you stand me. If I were you, I’m positive I couldn’t stand me at all!” Another kiss and a hearty embrace, and she picked up her wrap and skurried silently through the hall to her own room.

  It was very late, but Laura wrote for almost an hour in her book (which was undisturbed) before she felt drowsy. Then she extinguished the lamp, put the book away and got into bed.

  It was almost as if she had attempted to lie upon the empty air: the mattress sagged under her weight as if it had been a hammock; and something tore with a ripping sound. There was a crash, and a choked yell from a muffled voice somewhere, as the bed gave way. For an instant, Laura fought wildly in an entanglement of what she insufficiently perceived to be springs, slats and bedclothes with something alive squirming underneath. She cleared herself and sprang free, screaming, but even in her fright she remembered her father and clapped her hand over her mouth that she might keep from screaming again. She dove at the door, opened it, and fled through the hall to Cora’s room, still holding her hand over her mouth.

  “Cora! Oh, Cora!” she panted, and flung herself upon her sister’s bed.

  Cora was up instantly; and had lit the gas in a trice. “There’s a burglar!” Laura contrived to gasp. “In my room! Under the bed!”

  “What!”

  “I fell on him! Something’s the matter with the bed. It broke. I fell on him!”

  Cora stared at her wide-eyed. “Why, it can’t be. Think how long I was in there. Your bed broke, and you just thought there was some one there. You imagined it.”

  “No, no, no!” wailed Laura. “I heard him: he gave a kind of dreadful grunt.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure? He wriggled — oh! I could feel him!”

  Cora seized a box of matches again. “I’m going to find out.” “Oh, no, no!” protested Laura, cowering.

  “Yes, I am. If there’s a burglar in the house I’m going to find him!”

  “We mustn’t wake papa.”

  “No, nor mamma either. You stay here if you want to — —”

  “Let’s call Hedrick,” suggested the pallid Laura; “or put our heads out of the window and scream for — —”

  Cora laughed; she was not in the least frightened. “That wouldn’t wake papa, of course! If we had a telephone I’d send for the police; but we haven’t. I’m going to see if there’s any one there. A burglar’s a man, I guess, and I can’t imagine myself being afraid of any man!”

  Laura clung to her, but Cora shook her off and went through the hall undaunted, Laura faltering behind her. Cora lighted matches with a perfectly steady hand; she hesitated on the threshold of Laura’s room no more than a moment, then lit the lamp.

  Laura stifled a shriek at sight of the bed. “Look, look!” she gasped.

  “There’s no one under it now, that’s certain,” said Cora, and boldly lifted a corner of it. “Why, it’s been cut all to pieces from underneath! You’re right; there was some one here. It’s practically dismemb
ered. Don’t you remember my telling you how it sagged? And I was only sitting on the edge of it! The slats have all been moved out of place, and as for the mattress, it’s just a mess of springs and that stuffing stuff. He must have thought the silver was hidden there.”

  “Oh, oh, oh!” moaned Laura. “He wriggled —— ugh!”

  Cora picked up the lamp. “Well, we’ve got to go over the house — —”

  “No, no!”

  “Hush! I’ll go alone then.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I will, though!”

  The two girls had changed places in this emergency. In her fright Laura was dependent, clinging: actual contact with the intruder had unnerved her. It took all her will to accompany her sister upon the tour of inspection, and throughout she cowered behind the dauntless Cora. It was the first time in their lives that their positions had been reversed. From the days of Cora’s babyhood, Laura had formed the habit of petting and shielding the little sister, but now that the possibility became imminent of confronting an unknown and dangerous man, Laura was so shaken that, overcome by fear, she let Cora go first. Cora had not boasted in vain of her bravery; in truth, she was not afraid of any man.

  They found the fastenings of the doors secure and likewise those of all the windows, until they came to the kitchen. There, the cook had left a window up, which plausibly explained the marauder’s mode of ingress. Then, at Cora’s insistence, and to Laura’s shivering horror, they searched both cellar and garret, and concluded that he had escaped by the same means. Except Laura’s bed, nothing in the house had been disturbed; but this eccentricity on the part of a burglar, though it indeed struck the two girls as peculiar, was not so pointedly mysterious to them as it might have been had they possessed a somewhat greater familiarity with the habits of criminals whose crimes are professional.

  They finally retired, Laura sleeping with her sister, and Cora had begun to talk of the lieutenant again, instead of the burglar, before Laura fell asleep.