Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “Well, then, what is there to be afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid,” said Ludlum. “It’s dark in there.”

  “It won’t be dark if you turn on the light, will it?”

  “Mamma—”

  “Now, that’s enough!” the father interrupted testily. “It’s after eight. You go on up to bed.” Ludlum’s tone began to indicate a mental strain. “I don’t want to go to bed without my bow-an’- arry!”

  “What do you want your bow and arrow when you’re in bed for?”

  “I got to have it!”

  “See here!” said Mr. Thomas. “You march up to bed and quit talking about your bow and arrow. You can take them with you if you go in there right quick and get them; but whether you do that or not you’ll march to bed inside of one minute from now!”

  “I got to have my bow-an’-arry. I got to, to go upstairs with?”

  “You don’t want your bow and arrow in bed with you, do you?”

  “Mamma!” Thus Ludlum persisted in his urgent appeal to that court in whose clemency he trusted. “Mamma, will you ‘please come get my bow-an’—”

  “No, she won’t.”

  “Then will you come upstairs with me, mamma?”

  “No, she won’t! You’ll go by yourself, like a man.”

  “Mamma—”

  Mrs. Thomas intervened cheerily. “Don’t be afraid, dearie,” she said. “Your papa thinks you ought to begin to learn how to be manly; but the lights are lit all the way, and I told Annie to turn on the one in your room. You just go ahead like a good boy, and when you’re all undressed and ready to jump in bed, then you just whistle for me—”

  “I don’t want to whistle,” said Ludlum irritably. “I want my bow-an’-arry!”

  “Look here!” cried his father. “You start for—”

  “I got to have my bow-an’—”

  “You mean to disobey me?”

  “I got to have my—”

  Mr. Thomas rose; his look became ominous. “We’ll see about that!” he said; and he approached his son, whose apprehensions were expressed in a loud cry.

  “Mamma!”

  “Don’t hurt his feel — —” Mrs. Thomas began.

  “Something’s got to be done,” her husband said grimly, and his hand fell upon Ludlum’s shoulder. “You march!”

  Ludlum muttered vaguely.

  “You march!”

  “I got to have my bow-an’-arry! I can’t go to bed ‘less mamma comes with me! She’s got to come with me!”

  Suddenly he made a scene. Having started it, he went in for all he was worth and made it a big one. He shrieked, writhed away from his father’s hand, darted to his mother, and clung to her with spasmodic violence throughout the protracted efforts of the sterner parent to detach him.

  When these efforts were finally successful, Ludlum plunged upon the floor, and fastened himself to the leg of a heavy table. Here, for a considerable time, he proved the superiority of an earnest boy’s wind and agility over those of a man: as soon as one part of him was separated from the leg of the table another part of him became attached to it; and all the while he was vehemently eloquent, though unrhetorical.

  The pain he thus so powerfully expressed was undeniable; and nowadays few adults are capable of resisting such determined agony. The end of it was, that when Ludlum retired he was accompanied by both parents, his father carrying him, and Mrs. Thomas following close behind with the bow-an’- arry.

  They were thoughtful when they returned to the library.

  “I would like to know what got him into such a state,” said the father, groaning, as he picked up his book from the floor. “He used to march upstairs like a little man, and he wasn’t afraid of the dark, or of anything else; but he’s beginning to be afraid of his own shadow. What’s the matter with him?”

  Mrs. Thomas shook her head. “I think it’s his constitution,” she said. “I don’t believe he’s as strong as we thought he was.”

  “‘Strong!’” her husband repeated incredulously. “Have I been dreaming, or were you looking on when I was trying to pry him loose from that table-leg?”

  “I mean nervously,” she said. “I don’t think his nerves are what they ought to be at all.”

  “His nerve isn’t!” he returned. “That’s what I’m talking about! Why was he afraid to step into our dining-room — not thirty feet from where we were sitting?”

  “Because it was dark in there. Poor child, he did want his bow and arrow!”

  “Well, he got ’em! What did he want ’em for?”

  “To protect himself on the way to bed.”

  “To keep off burglars on our lighted stairway?”

  “I suppose so,” said Mrs. Thomas. “Burglars or something.”

  “Well, where’d he get such ideas from?”

  “I don’t know. Nearly all children do get them.”

  “I know one thing,” Mr. Thomas asserted, “I certainly never was afraid like that, and none of my brothers was, either. Do you suppose the children Ludlum plays with tell him things that make him afraid of the dark?”

  “I don’t think so, because he plays with the same children now that he played with before he got so much this way. Of course he’s always been a little timid.”

  “Well, I’d like to know what’s at the root of it. Something’s got into his head. That’s certain, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Thomas said musingly. “I believe fear of the dark is a sort of instinct, don’t you?”

  “Then why does he keep having it more and more? Instinct? No, sir! I don’t know where he gets this silly scaredness from, nor what makes it, but I know that it won’t do to humour him in it. We’ve got to be firmer with him after this than we were to-night. I’m not going to have a son of mine grow up to be afraid!”

  “Yes; I suppose we ought to be a little firmer with him,” she said dreamily.

  However, for several days and nights there was no occasion to exercise this new policy of firmness with Ludlum, one reason being that he was careful not to leave his trusty bow and arrow in an unlighted room after dark. Three successive evenings, weapon in hand, he “marched” sturdily to bed; but on the fourth he was reluctant, even though equipped as usual.

  “Is Annie upstairs?” he inquired querulously, when informed that his hour had struck “I’m not sure, dearie,” said his mother. “I think so. It’s her evening out, but I don’t think she’s gone.”

  Standing in the library doorway, Ludlum sent upward a series of piercing cries: “Annie! Ann fie! Ann-ee! Oh, Ann-nee-ee!”

  “Stop it!” Mr. Thomas commanded fiercely. “You want to break your mother’s ear-drums?”

  “Ann-nee-eeee!”

  “Stop that noise!”

  “Ann—”

  “Stop it!” Mr. Thomas made the gesture of rising, and Ludlum, interrupting himself abruptly, was silent until he perceived that his father’s threat to rise was only a gesture, whereupon he decided that his vocalizations might safely be renewed.

  “Ann-nee-ee!”

  “What is the matter with him?”

  “Ludlum, dear,” said Mrs. Thomas, “what is it you want Annie for?”

  “I want to know if she’s upstairs.”

  “But what for?”

  Ludlum’s expression became one of determination. “Well, I want to know,” he replied. “I got to know if Annie’s upstairs.”

  “By George!” Mr. Thomas exclaimed suddenly. “I believe now he’s afraid to go upstairs unless he knows the housemaid’s up there!”

  “Martha’s probably upstairs if Annie isn’t,” Mrs. Thomas hurriedly intervened. “You needn’t worry about whether Annie’s up there, Luddie, if Martha is. Martha wouldn’t let anything hurt you any more than Annie would, dear.”

  “Great heavens!” her husband cried. “There’s nothing up there that’s going to hurt him whether a hundred cooks and housemaids are upstairs or downstairs, or in the house or out of it! That’s no way to talk to
him, Jennie! Ludlum, you march straight—”

  “Ann-nee-ee!”

  “But, dearie,” said Mrs. Thomas, “I told you that Martha wouldn’t let anything hurt—”

  “She isn’t there,” Ludlum declared. “I can hear her chinkin’ tin and dishes around in the kitchen.” And, again exerting all his vocal powers of penetration, “Oh, Ann-ee-ee!” he bawled.

  “By George!” Mr. Thomas exclaimed. “This is awful! It’s just awful!”

  “Don’t call any more, darling,” the mother gently urged. “It disturbs your papa.”

  “But, Jennie, that isn’t the reason he oughtn’t to call. It does disturb me, but the real reason he oughtn’t to do it is because he oughtn’t to be afraid to —— — —”

  “Ann-ee-EE!”

  Mr. Thomas uttered a loud cry of his own, and, dismissing gestures, rose from his chair prepared to act. But his son briskly disappeared from the doorway; he had been reassured from the top of the stairs. Annie had responded, and Ludlum sped upward cheerfully. The episode was closed — except in meditation.

  There was another one during the night, however. At least, Mr. Thomas thought so, for at the breakfast table he inquired:— “Was any one out of bed about half-past two? Something half woke me, and I thought it sounded like somebody knocking on a door, and then whispering.”

  Mrs. Thomas laughed. “It was only Luddie,” she explained. “He had bad dreams, and came to my door, so I took him in with me for the rest of the night. He’s all right, now, aren’t you, Luddie? Mamma didn’t let the bad dream hurt her little boy, did she?”

  “It wasn’t dreams,” said Ludlum. “I was awake.

  I thought there was somep’m in my room. I bet there was somep’m in there, las’ night!”

  “Oh, murder!” his father lamented. “Boy nine years old got to go and wake up his mamma in the middle of the night, because he’s scared to sleep in his own bed with a hall-light shining through the transom! What on earth were you afraid of?” Ludlum’s eyes clung to the consoling face of his mother. “I never said I was afraid. I woke up, an’ I thought I saw somep’m in there.”

  “What kind of a ‘something’?”

  Ludlum looked resentful. “Well, I guess I know what I’m talkin’ about,” he said importantly. “I bet there was somep’m, too!”

  “I declare I’m ashamed,” Mr. Thomas groaned. “Here’s the boy’s godfather coming to visit us, and how’s he going to help find out we’re raising a coward?”

  “John!” his wife exclaimed. “The idea of speaking like that just because Luddie can’t help being a little imaginative!”

  “Well, it’s true,” he said. “I’m ashamed for Lucius to find it out.”

  Mrs. Thomas laughed, and then, finding the large eyes of Ludlum fixed upon her hopefully, she shook her head. “Don’t you worry, darling,” she reassured him. “You needn’t be afraid of what Uncle Lucius will think of his dear little Luddie.”

  “I’m not,” Ludlum returned complacently. “He gave me a dollar las’ time he was here.”

  “Well, he won’t this time,” his father declared crossly. “Not after the way you’ve been behaving lately. I’ll see to that!”, Ludlum’s lower lip moved pathetically and his eyes became softly brilliant — manifestations that increased the remarkable beauty he inherited from his mother.

  “John!” cried Mrs. Thomas indignantly.

  Ludlum wept at once, and between his gulpings implored his mother to prevent his father from influencing Uncle Lucius against the giving of dollars. “Don’t let him, mamma!” he quavered. “An” fif Uncle Lucius wuw-wants to give me a dollar, he’s got a right to, hasn’t he, mamma? Hasn’t he got a right to, mamma?”

  “There, dearie! Of course!” she comforted him. “Papa won’t tell Uncle Lucius. Papa is sorry, and only wants you to be happy and not cry any more.” Papa’s manner indicated somewhat less sympathy than she implied; nevertheless, he presently left the house in a condition vaguely remorseful, which still prevailed, to the extent of a slight preoccupation, when he met Uncle Lucius at the train at noon.

  Uncle Lucius — Lucius Brutus Allen, attorney-at-law of Marlow, Illinois, population more than three thousand, if you believed him — this Uncle Lucius was a reassuring sight, even to the eyes of a remorseful father who had been persecuting the beautiful child of a lovely mother.

  Mr. Allen was no legal uncle to Ludlum: he was really Mrs. Thomas’s second cousin, and, ever since she was eighteen and he twenty-four, had been her favoured squire. In fact, during her young womanhood, Mrs. Thomas and others had taken it as a matter of course that Lucius was in love with her; certainly that appeared to be his condition.

  However, with the advent of Mr. John Thomas, Lucius Brutus Allen gave ground without resistance, and even assisted matters in a way which might have suggested to an outsider that he was something of a matchmaker as well as something of a lover. With a bravery that touched both the bride and bridegroom, he had stood up to the functions of Best Man without a quaver — and, of course, since the day of Ludlum’s arrival in the visible world, had been “Uncle Lucius.”

  He was thirty-five; of a stoutish, stocky figure; large-headed and thin-haired; pinkish and cheerful and warm. His warmth was due partly to the weather, and led to a continuous expectancy on the part of Ludlum, for it was the habit of Uncle Lucius to keep his handkerchief in a pocket of his trousers. From the hour of his arrival, every time that Uncle Lucius put his hand in Ins pocket and drew forth a handkerchief to dry his dewy brow, Ludlum suffered a disappointment.

  In fact, the air was so sticky that these disappointments were almost continuous, with the natural result that Ludlum became peevish; for nobody can be distinctly disappointed a dozen or so times an hour, during the greater part of an afternoon, and remain buoyantly amiable.

  Finally he could bear it no longer. He had followed his parents and Uncle Lucius out to the comfortable porch, which gave them ampler air and the pretty sight of Mrs. Thomas’s garden, but no greater coolness; and here Uncle Lucius, instead of bringing forth from his pocket a dollar, produced, out of that storage, a fresh handkerchief.

  “Goodness me, but you got to wipe your ole face a lot!” said Ludlum in a voice of pure spitefulness.

  “I guess why you’re so hot mus’ be you stuff yourself at meals, an’ got all fat the way you are!” Wherewith, he emitted a shrill and bitter laugh of self-applause for wit, while his parents turned to gaze upon him — Mrs. Thomas with surprise, and Mr. Thomas with dismay. To both of them his rudeness crackled out of a clear sky; they saw it as an effect detached from cause; therefore inexplicable. “Ludlum!” said the father sharply.

  “Dearie!” said the mother.

  But the visitor looked closely at the vexed face. “What is it you’ve decided you don’t like about me, Luddie?” he asked.

  “You’re too fat!” said Ludlum.

  Both parents uttered exclamations of remonstrance, but Mr. Allen intervened. “I’m not so very fat,” he said. “I’ve just realized what the trouble between us is, Luddie. I overlooked something entirely, but I’ll fix it all right when we’re alone together. Now that I’ve explained about it, you won’t mind how often I take my handkerchief out of my pocket, will you?”

  “What in the world!” Mrs. Thomas exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s all right,” said Lucius.

  Ludlum laughed; his face was restored to its serene beauty. Obviously, he again loved his Uncle Lucius, and a perfect understanding, mysterious to the parents, now existed between godfather and godson. In celebration, Ludlum shouted and ran to caper in the garden.

  “By George!” said John Thomas. “You seem to understand him! I don’t. I don’t know what the dickens is in his mind, half the time.”

  Mrs. Thomas laughed condescendingly. “No wonder!” she said. “You’re down-town all the daytime and never see him except at breakfast and in the evenings.”

  “There’s one thing puzzles me about it,” sa
id John. “If you understand him so well, why don’t you ever tell me how to? What made him so smart-alecky to Lucius just now?”

  Again she laughed with condescension. “Why, Luddie didn’t mean to be fresh at all. He just spoke without thinking.”

  But upon hearing this interpretation, Mr. Allen cast a rueful glance at his lovely cousin. “Quite so!” he said. “Children can’t tell their reasons, but they’ve always got ’em!”

  “Oh, no, they haven’t,” she laughed. And then she jumped, for there came a heavy booming of thunder from that part of the sky which the roof of the porch concealed from them. The sunshine over the pink-speckled garden vanished; all the blossoms lost colour and grew wan, fluttering in an ominous breeze; at once a high wind whipped round the house and the row of straight poplars beyond the garden showed silver sides.

  “Luddie!” shrieked Mrs. Thomas; and he shrieked in answer; came running; just ahead of the rain. She seized his hand, and fled with him into the house.

  “You remember how afraid they are of lightning,” said John apologetically. “Lightning and thunder. I never could understand it, but I suppose it’s genuine and painful.”

  “It’s both,” the visitor remarked. “You wouldn’t think I’m that way, too, would you?”

  “You are?”

  “Makes me nervous as a cat.”

  “Did you inherit it?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Lucius; and he waved his host’s silent offer of a cigar. “No, thanks. Never want to smoke in a thunderstorm. I — Whoo!” he interrupted himself, as a flare of light and a catastrophe of sound came simultaneously. “Let’s go in,” he said mildly.

  “Not I. I love to watch it.”

  “Well—” Lucius paused, but at a renewal of the catastrophe, “Excuse me!” he said, and tarried no longer.

  He found Mrs. Thomas and Ludlum in the centre of the darkened drawing-room. She was sitting in a gilt chair with her feet off the floor and upon a rung of the chair; and four heavy, flat-bottomed drinking-glasses were upon the floor, each of them containing the foot of a leg of the gilt chair. Ludlum was upon her lap.

  “Don’t you believe in insulation, Lucius?” she asked anxiously. “As long as we sit like this, we can’t be struck, can we?”