Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  Noble went into the library and found the control of the lights. She came hurrying in after him.

  “It’s chilly. The furnace seems to be off,” she said. “I’ll — —” But instead of declaring her intentions, she enacted them; taking a match from a little white porcelain trough on the mantelpiece and striking it on the heel of her glittering shoe. Then she knelt before the grate and set the flame to paper beneath the kindling-wood and coal. “You mustn’t freeze,” she said, with a thoughtful kindness that killed him; and as she went out of the room he died again; — for she looked back over her shoulder.

  She had pushed up her veils and this was his first sight of that disastrous face in long empty weeks and weeks. Now he realized that all his aching reveries upon its contours had shown but pallid likenesses; for here was the worst thing about Julia’s looks; — even her most extravagant suitor, in absence, could not dream an image of her so charming as he found herself when he saw her again. Thus, seeing Julia again was always a discovery. And this glance over her shoulder as she left a room — not a honeyed glance but rather inscrutable, yet implying that she thought of the occupant, and might continue to think of him while gone from him — this was one of those ways of hers that experience could never drill out of her.

  “I’m Robinson Crusoe, Noble,” she said, when she came back. “I suppose I might as well take off my furs, though.” But first she unfastened the great bouquet she wore and tossed it upon a table. Noble was standing close to the table, and he moved away from it hurriedly — a revulsion that she failed to notice. She went on to explain, as she dropped her cloak and stole upon a chair: “Papa’s gone away for at least a week. He’s taken his ulster. It doesn’t make any difference what the weather is, but when he’s going away for a week or longer, he always takes it with him, except in summer. If he’s only going to be gone two or three days he takes his short overcoat. And unless I’m here when he leaves town he always gives the servants a holiday till he gets back; so they’ve gone and even taken Gamin with ’em, and I’m all alone in the house. I can’t get even Kitty Silver back until to-morrow, and then I’ll probably have to hunt from house to house among her relatives. Papa left yesterday, because the numbers on his desk calender are pulled off up to to-day, and that’s the first thing he does when he comes down for breakfast. So here I am, Robinson Crusoe for to-night at least.”

  “I suppose,” said Noble huskily, “I suppose you’ll go to some of your aunts or brothers or cousins or something.”

  “No,” she said. “My trunk may come up from the station almost any time, and if I close the house they’ll take it back.”

  “You needn’t bother about that, Julia. I’ll look after it.”

  “How?”

  “I could sit on the porch till it comes,” he said. “I’d tell ’em you wanted ’em to leave it.” He hesitated, painfully. “I — if you want to lock up the house I — I could wait out on the porch with your trunk, to see that it was safe, until you come back to-morrow morning.”

  She looked full at him, and he plaintively endured the examination.

  “Noble!” Undoubtedly she had a moment’s shame that any creature should come to such a pass for her sake. “What crazy nonsense!” she said; and sat upon a stool before the crackling fire. “Do sit down, Noble — unless your dinner will be waiting for you at home?”

  “No,” he murmured. “They never wait for me. Don’t you want me to look after your trunk?”

  “Not by sitting all night with it on the porch!” she said. “I’m going to stay here myself. I’m not going out; I don’t want to see any of the family to-night.”

  “I thought you said you were hungry?”

  “I am; but there’s enough in the pantry. I looked.”

  “Well, if you don’t want to see any of ’em,” he suggested, “and they know your father’s away and think the house is empty, they’re liable to notice the lights and come in, and then you’d have to see ’em.”

  “No, you can’t see the lights of this room from the street, and I lit the lamp at the other end of the hall. The light near the front door,” Julia added, “I put out.”

  “You did?”

  “I can’t see any of ’em to-night,” she said resolutely. “Besides, I want to find out what you meant by what you said in the taxicab before I do anything else.”

  “What I meant in the taxicab?” he echoed. “Oh, Julia! Julia!”

  She frowned, first at the fire, then, turning her head, at Noble. “You seem to feel reproachful about something,” she observed.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t feel reproachful, Julia. I don’t know what I feel, but I don’t feel reproachful.”

  She smiled faintly. “Don’t you? Well, there’s something perhaps you do feel, and that’s hungry. Will you stay to dinner with me — if I go and get it?”

  “What?”

  “You can have dinner with me — if you want to? You can stay till ten o’clock — if you want to? Wait!” she said, and jumped up and ran out of the room.

  Half an hour later she came back and called softly to him from the doorway; and he followed her to the dining-room.

  “It isn’t much of a dinner, Noble,” she said, a little tremulously, being for once (though strictly as a cook) genuinely apologetic; — but the scrambled eggs, cold lamb, salad, and coffee were quite as “much of a dinner” as Noble wanted. To him everything on that table was hallowed, yet excruciating.

  “Let’s eat first and talk afterward,” Julia proposed; but what she meant by “talk” evidently did not exclude interchange of information regarding weather and the health of acquaintances, for she spoke freely upon these subjects, while Noble murmured in response and swallowed a little of the sacred food, but more often swallowed nothing. Bitterest of all was his thought of what this unexampled seclusion with Julia could have meant to him, were those poisonous violets not at her waist — for she had put them on again — and were there no Crum in the South. Without these fatal obstructions, the present moment would have been to him a bit of what he often thought of as “dream life”; but all its sweetness was a hurt.

  “Now we’ll talk!” said Julia, when she had brought him back to the library fire again, and they were seated before it. “Don’t you want to smoke?” He shook his head dismally, having no heart for what she proposed. “Well, then,” she said briskly, but a little ruefully, “let’s get to the bottom of things. Just what did you mean you had ‘in black and white’ in your pocket?”

  Slowly Noble drew forth the historic copy of The North End Daily Oriole; and with face averted, placed it in her extended hand.

  “What in the world!” she exclaimed, unfolding it; and then as its title and statement of ownership came into view, “Oh, yes! I see. Aunt Carrie wrote me that Uncle Joseph had given Herbert a printing-press. I suppose Herbert’s the editor?”

  “And that Rooter boy,” Noble said sadly. “I think maybe your little niece Florence has something to do with it, too.”

  “‘Something’ to do with it? She usually has all to do with anything she gets hold of! But what’s it got to do with me?”

  “You’ll see!” he prophesied accurately.

  She began to read, laughing at some of the items as she went along; then suddenly she became rigid, holding the small journal before her in a transfixed hand.

  “Oh!” she cried. “Oh!”

  “That’s — that’s what — I meant,” Noble explained.

  Julia’s eyes grew dangerous. “The little fiends!” she cried. “Oh, really, this is a long-suffering family, but it’s time these outrages were stopped!”

  She jumped up. “Isn’t it frightful?” she demanded of Noble.

  “Yes, it is,” he said, with a dismal fervour. “Nobody knows that better than I do, Julia!”

  “I mean this!” she cried, extending the Oriole toward him with a vigorous gesture. “I mean this dreadful story about poor Mr. Crum!”

  “But it’s true,” he said.

  “
Noble Dill!”

  “Julia?”

  “Do you dare to say you believed it?”

  He sprang up. “It isn’t true?”

  “Not one word of it! I told you Mr. Crum is only twenty-six. He hasn’t been out of college more than three or four years, and it’s the most terrible slander to say he’s ever been married at all!”

  Noble dropped back into his chair of misery. “I thought you meant it wasn’t true.”

  “I’ve just told you there isn’t one word of tr — —”

  “But you’re — engaged,” Noble gulped. “You’re engaged to him, Julia!”

  She appeared not to hear this. “I suppose it can be lived down,” she said. “To think of Uncle Joseph putting such a thing into the hands of those awful children!”

  “But, Julia, you’re eng — —”

  “Noble!” she said sharply.

  “Well, you are eng — —”

  Julia drew herself up. “Different people mean different things by that word,” she said with severity, like an annoyed school-teacher. “There are any number of shades of meaning to words; and if I used the word you mention, in writing home to the family, I may have used a certain shade and they may have thought I intended another.”

  “But, Julia — —”

  “Mr. Crum is a charming young man,” she continued with the same primness. “I liked him very much indeed. I liked him very, very much. I liked him very, very — —”

  “I understand,” he interrupted. “Don’t say it any more, Julia.”

  “No; you don’t understand! At first I liked him very much — in fact, I still do, of course — I’m sure he’s one of the best and most attractive young men in the world. I think he’s a man any girl ought to be happy with, if he were only to be considered by himself. I don’t deny that. I liked him very much indeed, and I don’t deny that for several days after he — after he proposed to me — I don’t deny I thought something serious might come of it. But at that time, Noble, I hadn’t — hadn’t really thought of what it meant to give up living here at home, with all the family and everything — and friends — friends like you, Noble. I hadn’t thought what it would mean to me to give all this up. And besides, there was something very important. At the time I wrote that letter mentioning poor Mr. Crum to the family, Noble, I hadn’t — I hadn’t — —” She paused, visibly in some distress. “I hadn’t — —”

  “You hadn’t what?” he cried.

  “I hadn’t met his mother!”

  Noble leaped to his feet. “Julia! You aren’t — you aren’t engaged?”

  “I am not,” she answered decisively. “If I ever was — in the slightest — I certainly am not now.”

  Poor Noble was transfigured. He struggled; making half-formed gestures, speaking half-made words. A rapture glowed upon him.

  “Julia — Julia — —” He choked. “Julia, promise me something. Will you promise me something? Julia, promise to promise me something.”

  “I will,” she said quickly. “What do you want me to do?”

  Then he saw that it was his time to speak; that this was the moment for him to dare everything and ask for the utmost he could hope from her.

  “Give me your word!” he said, still radiantly struggling. “Give me your word — your word — your word and your sacred promise, Julia — that you’ll never be engaged to anybody at all!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  AT SIX MINUTES after four o’clock on the second afternoon following Julia’s return, Noble Dill closed his own gate behind him and set forth upon the four-minute walk that would bring him to Julia’s. He wore a bit of scarlet geranium in the buttonhole of his new light overcoat; he flourished a new walking-stick and new grey gloves. As for his expression, he might have been a bridegroom.

  Passing the mouth of an alley, as he swung along the street, he was aware of a commotion, of missiles hurled and voices clashed. In this alley there was a discord: passion and mockery were here inimically intermingled.

  Casting a glance that way, Noble could see but one person; a boy of fourteen who looked through a crack in a board fence, steadfastly keeping an eye to this aperture and as continuously calling through it, holding his head to a level for this purpose, but at the same time dancing — and dancing tauntingly, it was conveyed — with the other parts of his body. His voice was now sweet, now piercing, and again far too dulcet with the overkindness of burlesque; and if, as it seemed, he was unburdening his spleen, his spleen was a powerful one and gorged. He appeared to be in a torment of tormenting; and his success was proved by the pounding of bricks, parts of bricks and rocks of size upon the other side of the fence, as close to the crack as might be.

  “Oh, dolling!” he wailed, his tone poisonously amorous. “Oh, dolling Henery! Oo’s dot de mos’ booful eyes in a dray bid nasty world. Henery! Oh, has I dot booful eyes, dolling Pattywatty? Yes, I has! I has dot pretty eyes!” His voice rose unbearably. “Oh, what prettiest eyes I dot! Me and Herbie Atwater! Oh, my booful eyes! Oh, my booful — —”

  But even as he reached this apex, the head, shoulders, and arms of Herbert Atwater rose momentarily above the fence across the alley, behind the tormentor. Herbert’s expression was implacably resentful, and so was the gesture with which he hurled an object at the comedian preoccupied with the opposite fence. This object, upon reaching its goal, as it did more with a splash than a thud, was revealed as a tomato, presumably in a useless state. The taunter screamed in astonishment, and after looking vainly for an assailant, began necessarily to remove his coat.

  Noble, passing on, thought he recognized the boy as one of the Torbin family, but he was not sure, and he had no idea that the episode was in any possible manner to be connected with his own recent history. How blindly we walk our ways! As Noble flourished down the street, there appeared a wan face at a prison window; and the large eyes looked out upon him wistfully. But Noble went on, as unwitting that he had to do with this prison as that he had to do with Master Torbin’s tomato.

  The face at the window was not like Charlotte Corday’s, nor was the window barred, though the prisoner knew a little solace in wondering if she did not suggest that famous picture. For all purposes, except during school hours, the room was certainly a cell; and the term of imprisonment was set at three days. Uncle Joseph had been unable to remain at the movies forever: people do have to go home eventually, especially when accompanied by thirteen-year-old great-nieces. Florence had finally to face the question awaiting her; and it would have been better for her had she used less imagination in her replies.

  Yet she was not wholly despondent as her eyes followed the disappearing figure of Noble Dill. His wholesome sprightliness was visible at any distance; and who would not take a little pride in having been even the mistaken instrument of saving so gay a young man from the loss of his reason? No; Florence was not cast down. Day-after-to-morrow she would taste Freedom again, and her profoundest regret was that after all her Aunt Julia was not to be married. Florence had made definite plans for the wedding, especially for the principal figure at the ceremony. This figure, as Florence saw things, would have been that of the “Flower Girl,” naturally a niece of the bride; but she was able to dismiss the bright dream with some philosophy. And to console her for everything, had she not a star in her soul? Had she not discovered that she could write poetry whenever she felt like it?

  Noble passed from her sight, but nevertheless continued his radiant progress down Julia’s Street. Life stretched before him, serene, ineffably fragrant, unending. He saw it as a flower-strewn sequence of calls upon Julia, walks with Julia, talks with Julia by the library fire. Old Mr. Atwater was to be away four days longer, and Julia, that great-hearted bride-not-to-be, had given him her promise.

  Blushing, indeed divinely, she had promised him upon her sacred word, never so long as she lived, to be engaged to anybody at all.

  THE END

  The Midlander

  Initially released in the USA in 1924 by Doubleday, P
age & Co, The Midlander was the third novel in Tarkington’s Growth trilogy and it was, as most of his works had been, a bestseller. The author’s fame and success brought him not only Pulitzer Prizes, but also honorary degrees from multiple universities, including Columbia, Princeton and Purdue; he had attended the latter two as a student. He was very well liked at Princeton and joined an assortment of clubs, but was not a particularly diligent student and he ultimately failed to graduate as he was busy with extracurricular activities and did not complete his degree. It was during his time at Princeton that he met and became friends with the future President of the United States of America, Woodrow Wilson.

  The Midlander is set in a fictional Midwestern town and centres on the Oliphant family, in particular, the two young sons, Dan and Harlan. The boys are wildly different and have not only clashing personalities, but opposing visions of the future. While in New York, Dan meets a beautiful, but ultimately unhappy young woman, Lena, whom he marries. They move back to Dan’s hometown and he enthusiastically begins to try to secure money to invest in his building project. However, he faces rejection after rejection despite his unwavering belief in his enterprise. Dan is representative of the type of capitalist that became dominant during the changing socio-economic landscape at the end of the nineteenth century and he encounters resistance from an increasingly precarious aristocratic order whose wealth and power has been undermined and diminished by this rise of industrial capitalism.

  Title page of the first edition of the novel

  CONTENTS

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII