For decades, collar-buttons have been on the hand-me-down shelves of humor; it is a mistake in the catalogue. They belong to pathos. They have done harm in the world, and there have been collar-buttons that failed when the destinies of families hung upon them. There have been collar-buttons that thwarted proper matings. There have been collar-buttons that bore last hopes, and, falling to the floor, NEVER were found! William’s broken collar-button was really the only collar-button in the house, except such as were engaged in serving his male guests below.
At first he did not realize the extent of his misfortune. How could he? Fate is always expected to deal its great blows in the grand manner. But our expectations are fustian spangled with pinchbeck; we look for tragedy to be theatrical. Meanwhile, every day before our eyes, fate works on, employing for its instruments the infinitesimal, the ignoble and the petty — in a word, collar-buttons.
Of course William searched his dressing-table and his father’s, although he had been thoroughly over both once before that day. Next he went through most of his mother’s and Jane’s accessories to the toilette; through trinket-boxes, glove-boxes, hairpin-boxes, handkerchief-cases — even through sewing-baskets. Utterly he convinced himself that ladies not only use no collar-buttons, but also never pick them up and put them away among their own belongings. How much time he consumed in this search is difficult to reckon; — it is almost impossible to believe that there is absolutely no collar-button in a house.
And what William’s state of mind had become is matter for exorbitant conjecture. Jane, arriving at his locked door upon an errand, was bidden by a thick, unnatural voice to depart.
“Mamma says, ‘What in mercy’s name is the matter?’” Jane called. “She whispered to me, ‘Go an’ see what in mercy’s name is the matter with Willie; an’ if the glass cut him, after all; an’ why don’t he come down’; an’ why don’t you, Willie? We’re all havin’ the nicest time!”
“You g’way!” said the strange voice within the room. “G’way!”
“Well, did the glass cut you?”
“No! Keep quiet! G’way!”
“Well, are you EVER comin’ down to your party?”
“Yes, I am! G’way!”
Jane obeyed, and William somehow completed the task upon which he was engaged. Genius had burst forth from his despair; necessity had become a mother again, and William’s collar was in place. It was tied there. Under his necktie was a piece of string.
He had lost count of time, but he was frantically aware of its passage; agony was in the thought of so many rich moments frittered away; up-stairs, while Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson made hay below. And there was another spur to haste in his fear that the behavior of Mrs. Baxter might not be all that the guest of honor would naturally expect of William’s mother. As for Jane, his mind filled with dread; shivers passed over him at intervals.
It was a dismal thing to appear at a “party” (and that his own) in “last summer’s suit,” but when he had hastily put it on and faced the mirror, he felt a little better — for three or four seconds. Then he turned to see how the back of it looked.
And collapsed in a chair, moaning.
XIV. TIME DOES FLY
HE REMEMBERED NOW what he had been too hurried to remember earlier. He had worn these clothes on the previous Saturday, and, returning from a glorified walk with Miss Pratt, he had demonstrated a fact to which his near-demolition of the wafers, this afternoon, was additional testimony. This fact, roughly stated, is that a person of seventeen, in love, is liable to sit down anywhere. William had dreamily seated himself upon a tabouret in the library, without noticing that Jane had left her open paint-box there. Jane had just been painting sunsets; naturally all the little blocks of color were wet, and the effect upon William’s pale-gray trousers was marvelous — far beyond the capacity of his coat to conceal. Collar-buttons and children’s paint-boxes — those are the trolls that lie in wait!
The gray clothes and the flannel trousers had been destined for the professional cleaner, and William, rousing himself from a brief stupor, made a piteous effort to substitute himself for that expert so far as the gray trousers were concerned. He divested himself of them and brought water, towels, bath-soap, and a rubber bath-sponge to the bright light of his window; and; there, with touching courage and persistence, he tried to scrub the paint out of the cloth. He obtained cloud studies and marines which would have interested a Post-Impressionist, but upon trousers they seemed out of place.
There came one seeking and calling him again; raps sounded upon the door, which he had not forgotten to lock.
“Willie,” said a serious voice, “mamma wants to know what in mercy’s name is the matter! She wants to know if you know for mercy’s name what time it is! She wants to know what in mercy’s name you think they’re all goin’ to think! She says—”
“G’WAY!”
“Well, she said I had to find out what in mercy’s name you’re doin’, Willie.”
“You tell her,” he shouted, hoarsely— “tell her I’m playin’ dominoes! What’s she THINK I’m doin’?”
“I guess” — Jane paused, evidently to complete the swallowing of something— “I guess she thinks you’re goin’ crazy. I don’t like Miss Pratt, but she lets me play with that little dog. It’s name’s Flopit!”
“You go ‘way from that door and stop bothering me,” said William. “I got enough on my mind!”
“Mamma looks at Miss Pratt,” Jane remarked. “Miss Pratt puts cakes in that Mr. Bullitt’s mouth and Johnnie Watson’s mouth, too. She’s awful.”
William made it plain that these bulletins from the party found no favor with him. He bellowed, “If you don’t get away from that DOOR—”
Jane was interested in the conversation, but felt that it would be better to return to the refreshment-table. There she made use of her own conception of a whisper to place before her mother a report which was considered interesting and even curious by every one present; though, such was the courtesy of the little assembly, there was a general pretense of not hearing.
“I told him,” thus whispered Jane, “an’ he said, ‘You g’way from that door or I’ll do somep’m’ — he didn’t say what, mamma. He said, ‘What you think I’m doin’? I’m playin’ dominoes.’ He didn’t mean he WAS playin’ dominoes, mamma. He just said he was. I think maybe he was just lookin’ in the lookin’-glass some more.”
Mrs. Baxter was becoming embarrassed. She resolved to go to William’s room herself at the first opportunity; but for some time her conscientiousness as a hostess continued to occupy her at the table, and then, when she would have gone, Miss Pratt detained her by a roguish appeal to make Mr. Bullitt and Mr. Watson behave. Both refused all nourishment except such as was placed in their mouths by the delicate hand of one of the Noblest, and the latter said that really she wanted to eat a little tweetie now and then herself, and not to spend her whole time feeding the Men. For Miss Pratt had the same playfulness with older people that she had with those of her own age; and she elaborated her pretended quarrel with the two young gentlemen, taking others of the dazzled company into her confidence about it, and insisting upon “Mamma Batster’s” acting formally as judge to settle the difficulty. However, having thus arranged matters, Miss Pratt did not resign the center of interest, but herself proposed a compromise: she would continue to feed Mr. Bullitt and Mr. Watson “every other tweetie” — that is, each must agree to eat a cake “all by him own self,” after every cake fed to him. So the comedietta went on, to the running accompaniment of laughter, with Mr. Bullitt and Mr. Watson swept by such gusts of adoration they were like to perish where they sat. But Mrs. Baxter’s smiling approval was beginning to be painful to the muscles of her face, for it was hypocritical. And if William had known her thoughts about one of the Noblest, he could only have attributed them to that demon of groundless prejudice which besets all females, but most particularly and outrageously the mothers and sisters of Men.
A colored servin
g-maid entered with a laden tray, and, having disposed of its freight of bon-bons among the guests, spoke to Mrs. Baxter in a low voice.
“Could you manage step in the back hall a minute, please, ma’am?”
Mrs. Baxter managed and, having closed the door upon the laughing voices, asked, quickly— “What is it, Adelia? Have you seen Mr. William? Do you know why he doesn’t come down?”
“Yes’m,” said Adelia. “He gone mighty near out his head, Miz Baxter.”
“What!”
“Yes’m. He come floppin’ down the back stairs in his baf-robe li’l’ while ago. He jes’ gone up again. He ‘ain’t got no britches, Miz Baxter.”
“No WHAT?”
“No’m,” said Adelia. “He ‘ain’t got no britches at all.”
A statement of this kind is startling under Almost any circumstances, and it is unusually so when made in reference to a person for whom a party is being given. Therefore it was not unreasonable of Mrs. Baxter to lose her breath.
“But — it can’t BE!” she gasped. “He has! He has plenty!”
“No’m, he ‘ain’t,” Adelia assured her. “An’ he’s carryin’ on so I don’t scarcely think he knows much what he’s doin’, Miz Baxter. He brung down some gray britches to the kitchen to see if I couldn’ press an’ clean ’em right quick: they was the ones Miss Jane, when she’s paintin’ all them sunsets, lef’ her paint-box open, an’ one them sunsets got on these here gray britches, Miz Baxter; an’ hones’ly, Miz Baxter, he’s fixed ’em in a condishum, tryin’ to git that paint out, I don’t believe it ‘ll be no use sendin’ ’em to the cleaner. ‘Clean ’em an’ press ’em QUICK?’ I says. ‘I couldn’ clean ’em by Resurreckshum, let alone pressin’ ’em!’ No’m! Well, he had his blue britches, too, but they’s so ripped an’ tore an’ kind o’ shredded away in one place, the cook she jes’ hollered when he spread ’em out, an’ he didn’ even ast me could I mend ’em. An’ he had two pairs o’ them white flannen britches, but hones’ly, Miz Baxter, I don’t scarcely think Genesis would wear ’em, the way they is now! ‘Well,’ I says, ‘ain’t but one thing lef’ to do I can see,’ I says. ‘Why don’t you go put on that nice black suit you had las’ winter?’”
“Of course!” Mrs. Baxter cried. “I’ll go and—”
“No’m,” said Adelia. “You don’ need to. He’s up in the attic now, r’arin’ roun’ ‘mongs’ them trunks, but seem to me like I remember you put that suit away under the heavy blankets in that big cedar ches’ with the padlock. If you jes’ tell me where is the key, I take it up to him.”
“Under the bureau in the spare room,” said Mrs. Baxter. “HURRY!”
Adelia hurried; and, fifteen minutes later, William, for the last time that afternoon, surveyed himself in his mirror. His face showed the strain that had been upon him and under which he still labored; the black suit was a map of creases, and William was perspiring more freely than ever under the heavy garments. But at least he was clothed.
He emptied his pockets, disgorging upon the floor a multitude of small white spheres, like marbles. Then, as he stepped out into the hall, he discovered that their odor still remained about him; so he stopped and carefully turned his pockets inside out, one after the other, but finding that he still smelled vehemently of the “moth-balls,” though not one remained upon him, he went to his mother’s room and sprinkled violet toilet-water upon his chest and shoulders. He disliked such odors, but that left by the moth-balls was intolerable, and, laying hands upon a canister labeled “Hyacinth,” he contrived to pour a quantity of scented powder inside his collar, thence to be distributed by the force of gravity so far as his dampness permitted.
Lo, William was now ready to go to his party! Moist, wilted, smelling indeed strangely, he was ready.
But when he reached the foot of the stairs he discovered that there was one thing more to be done. Indignation seized him, and also a creeping fear chilled his spine, as he beheld a lurking shape upon the porch, stealthily moving toward the open door. It was the lowly Clematis, dog unto Genesis.
William instantly divined the purpose of Clematis. It was debatable whether Clematis had remained upon the premises after the departure of Genesis, or had lately returned thither upon some errand of his own, but one thing was certain, and the manner of Clematis — his attitude, his every look, his every gesture — made it as clear as day. Clematis had discovered, by one means or another, the presence of Flopit in the house, and had determined to see him personally.
Clematis wore his most misleading expression; a stranger would have thought him shy and easily turned from his purpose — but William was not deceived. He knew that if Clematis meant to see Flopit, a strong will, a ready brain, and stern action were needed to thwart him; but at all costs that meeting must be prevented. Things had been awful enough, without that!
He was well aware that Clematis could not be driven away, except temporarily, for nothing was further fixed upon Clematis than his habit of retiring under pressure, only to return and return again. True, the door could have been shut in the intruder’s face, but he would have sought other entrance with possible success, or, failing that, would have awaited in the front yard the dispersal of the guests and Flopit’s consequent emerging. This was a contretemps not to be endured.
The door of the living-room was closed, muffling festal noises and permitting safe passage through the hall. William cast a hunted look over his shoulder; then he approached Clematis.
“Good ole doggie,” he said, huskily. “Hyuh, Clem! Hyuh, Clem!”
Clematis moved sidelong, retreating with his head low and his tail denoting anxious thoughts.
“Hyuh, Clem!” said William, trying, with only fair success, to keep his voice from sounding venomous. “Hyuh, Clem!”
Clematis continued his deprecatory retreat.
Thereupon William essayed a ruse — he pretended to nibble at something, and then extended his hand as if it held forth a gift of food. “Look, Clem,” he said. “Yum-yum! Meat, Clem! Good meat!”
For once Clematis was half credulous. He did not advance, but he elongated himself to investigate the extended hand, and the next instant found himself seized viciously by the scruff of the neck. He submitted to capture in absolute silence. Only the slightest change of countenance betrayed his mortification at having been found so easy a gull; this passed, and a look of resolute stoicism took its place.
He refused to walk, but offered merely nominal resistance, as a formal protest which he wished to be of record, though perfectly understanding that it availed nothing at present. William dragged him through the long hall and down a short passageway to the cellar door. This he opened, thrust Clematis upon the other side of it, closed and bolted it.
Immediately a stentorian howl raised blood-curdling echoes and resounded horribly through the house. It was obvious that Clematis intended to make a scene, whether he was present at it or not. He lifted his voice in sonorous dolor, stating that he did not like the cellar and would continue thus to protest as long as he was left in it alone. He added that he was anxious to see Flopit and considered it an unexampled outrage that he was withheld from the opportunity.
Smitten with horror, William reopened the door and charged down the cellar stairs after Clematis, who closed his caitiff mouth and gave way precipitately. He fled from one end of the cellar to the other and back, while William pursued; choking, and calling in low, ferocious tones: “Good doggie! Good ole doggie! Hyuh, Clem! Meat, Clem, meat—”
There was dodging through coal-bins; there was squirming between barrels; there was high jumping and broad jumping, and there was a final aspiring but baffled dash for the top of the cellar stairs, where the door, forgotten by William, stood open. But it was here that Clematis, after a long and admirable exhibition of ingenuity, no less than agility, submitted to capture. That is to say, finding himself hopelessly pinioned, he resumed the stoic.
Grimly the panting and dripping William dragged him through the kitchen, where the cook
cried out unintelligibly, seeming to summon Adelia, who was not present. Through the back yard went captor and prisoner, the latter now maintaining a seated posture — his pathetic conception of dignity under duress. Finally, into a small shed or tool-house, behind Mrs. Baxter’s flower-beds, went Clematis in a hurried and spasmodic manner. The instant the door slammed he lifted his voice — and was bidden to use it now as much as he liked.
Adelia, with a tray of used plates, encountered the son of the house as he passed through the kitchen on his return, and her eyes were those of one who looks upon miracles.
William halted fiercely.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded. “Is my face dirty?”
“You mean, are it too dirty to go in yonduh to the party?” Adelia asked, slowly. “No, suh; you look all right to go in there. You lookin’ jes’ fine to go in there now, Mist’ Willie!”
Something in her tone struck him as peculiar, even as ominous, but his blood was up — he would not turn back now. He strode into the hall and opened the door of the “living-room.”
Jane was sitting on the floor, busily painting sunsets in a large blank-book which she had obtained for that exclusive purpose.
She looked up brightly as William appeared in the doorway, and in answer to his wild gaze she said:
“I got a little bit sick, so mamma told me to keep quiet a while. She’s lookin’ for you all over the house. She told papa she don’t know what in mercy’s name people are goin’ to think about you, Willie.”
The distraught youth strode to her. “The party—” he choked. “WHERE—”
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 215
