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Seventeen
CHAPTER XXX.THE BRIDE-TO-BE
Booth Tarkington
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       _ In the smallish house which all summer long,
       from morning until late at night, had
       resounded with the voices of young people, echoing
       their songs, murmurous with their theories of
       love, or vibrating with their glee, sometimes
       shaking all over during their more boisterous
       moods--in that house, now comparatively so
       vacant, the proprietor stood and breathed deep
       breaths.
       ``Hah!'' he said, inhaling and exhaling the air
       profoundly.
       His wife was upon the porch, outside, sewing.
       The silence was deep. He seemed to listen to it
       --to listen with gusto; his face slowly broadening,
       a pinkish tint overspreading it. His flaccid
       cheeks appeared to fill, to grow firm again, a
       smile finally widening them.
       ``HAH!'' he breathed, sonorously. He gave
       himself several resounding slaps upon the chest,
       then went out to the porch and sat in a rocking-
       chair near his wife. He spread himself out
       expansively. ``My Glory!'' he said. ``I believe
       I'll take off my coat! I haven't had my coat off,
       outside of my own room, all summer. I believe
       I'll take a vacation! By George, I believe I'll
       stay home this afternoon!''
       ``That's nice,'' said Mrs. Parcher.
       ``Hah!'' he said. ``My Glory! I believe I'll
       take off my shoes!''
       And, meeting no objection, he proceeded to
       carry out this plan.
       ``Hah-AH!'' he said, and placed his stockinged
       feet upon the railing, where a number of vines,
       running upon strings, made a screen between
       the porch and the street. He lit a large cigar.
       ``Well, well!'' he said. ``That tastes good!
       If this keeps on, I'll be in as good shape as I
       was last spring before you know it!'' Leaning
       far back in the rocking-chair, his hands
       behind his head, he smoked with fervor; but
       suddenly he jumped in a way which showed that his
       nerves were far from normal. His feet came to
       the floor with a thump, he jerked the cigar out of
       his mouth, and turned a face of consternation
       upon his wife.
       ``What's the matter?''
       ``Suppose,'' said Mr. Patcher, huskily--
       ``suppose she missed her train.''
       Mrs. Parcher shook her head.
       ``Think not?'' he said, brightening. ``I ordered
       the livery-stable to have a carriage here in
       lots of time.''
       ``They did,'' said Mrs. Parcher, severely.
       ``About five dollars' worth.''
       ``Well, I don't mind that,'' he returned,
       putting his feet up again. ``After all, she was a
       mighty fine little girl in her way. The only
       trouble with me was that crowd of boys;--having
       to listen to them certainly liked to killed me, and
       I believe if she'd stayed just one more day I'd
       been a goner! Of all the dam boys I ever--''
       He paused, listening.
       ``Mr. Parcher!'' a youthful voice repeated.
       He rose, and, separating two of the vines which
       screened the end of the porch from the street,
       looked out. Two small maidens had paused upon
       the sidewalk, and were peering over the
       picket fence.
       ``Mr. Parcher,'' said Jane, as soon as his head
       appeared between the vines--``Mr. Parcher, Miss
       Pratt's gone. She's gone away on the cars.''
       ``You think so?'' he asked, gravely.
       ``We saw her,'' said Jane. ``Rannie an' I
       were there. Willie was goin' to chase us, I guess,
       but we went in the baggage-room behind trunks,
       an' we saw her go. She got on the cars, an' it
       went with her in it. Honest, she's gone away,
       Mr. Parcher.''
       Before speaking, Mr. Parcher took a long look
       at this telepathic child. In his fond eyes she was
       a marvel and a darling.
       ``Well--THANK you, Jane!'' he said.
       Jane, however, had turned her head and was
       staring at the corner, which was out of his sight.
       ``Oo-oo-ooh!'' she murmured.
       ``What's the trouble, Jane?''
       ``Willie!'' she said. ``It's Willie an' that Joe
       Bullitt, an' Johnnie Watson, an' Mr. Wallace
       Banks. They're with Miss May Parcher. They're
       comin' right here!''
       Mr. Parcher gave forth a low moan, and turned
       pathetically to his wife, but she cheered him
       with a laugh.
       ``They've only walked up from the station
       with May,'' she said. ``They won't come in.
       You'll see!''
       Relieved, Mr. Parcher turned again to speak
       to Jane--but she was not there. He caught
       but a glimpse of her, running up the street as
       fast as she could, hand in hand with her companion.
       ``Run, Rannie, run!'' panted Jane. ``I got
       to get home an' tell mamma about it before
       Willie. I bet I ketch Hail Columbia, anyway,
       when he does get there!''
       And in this she was not mistaken: she caught
       Hail Columbia. It lasted all afternoon.
       It was still continuing after dinner. Thatt
       evening, when an oft-repeated yodel, followed by
       a shrill-wailed, ``Jane-ee! Oh, Jane-NEE-ee!''
       brought her to an open window down-stairs. In
       the early dusk she looked out upon the washed face
       of Rannie Kirsted, who stood on the lawn below.
       ``Come on out, Janie. Mamma says I can
       stay outdoors an' play till half past eight.''
       Jane shook her head. ``I can't. I can't go
       outside the house till to-morrow. It's because
       we walked after Willie with our stummicks out
       o' joint.''
       ``Pshaw!'' Rannie cried, lightly. ``My mother
       didn't do anything to me for that.''
       ``Well, nobody told her on you,'' said Jane,
       reasonably.
       ``Can't you come out at all?'' Rannie urged.
       ``Go ask your mother. Tell her--''
       ``How can I,'' Jane inquired, with a little heat,
       ``when she isn't here to ask? She's gone out to
       play cards--she and papa.''
       Rannie swung her foot. ``Well,'' she said,
       ``I guess I haf to find SOMEp'n to do! G' night!''
       With head bowed in thought she moved away,
       disappearing into the gray dusk, while Jane, on
       her part, left the window and went to the open
       front door. Conscientiously, she did not cross
       the threshold, but restrained herself to looking
       out. On the steps of the porch sat William,
       alone, his back toward the house.
       ``Willie?'' said Jane, softly; and, as he made
       no response, she lifted her voice a little.
       ``Will-ee!''
       ``Whatchwant!'' he grunted, not moving.
       ``Willie, I told mamma I was sorry I made you
       feel so bad.''
       ``All right!'' he returned, curtly.
       ``Well, when I haf to go to bed, Willie,'' she
       said, ``mamma told me because I made you feel
       bad I haf to go up-stairs by myself, to-night.''
       She paused, seeming to hope that he would
       say something, but he spake not.
       ``Willie, I don't haf to go for a while yet, but
       when I do--maybe in about a half an hour--I
       wish you'd come stand at the foot of the stairs
       till I get up there. The light's lit up-stairs,
       but down around here it's kind of dark.''
       He did not answer.
       ``Will you, Willie?''
       ``Oh, all RIGHT!'' he said.
       This contented her, and she seated herself so
       quietly upon the floor, just inside the door, that
       he ceased to be aware of her, thinking she had
       gone away. He sat staring vacantly into the
       darkness, which had come on with that abruptness
       which begins to be noticeable in September.
       His elbows were on his knees, and his body was
       sunk far forward in an attitude of desolation.
       The small noises of the town--that town so
       empty to-night--fell upon his ears mockingly.
       It seemed to him incredible that so hollow a town
       could go about its nightly affairs just as usual.
       A man and a woman, going by, laughed loudly at
       something the man had said: the sound of their
       laughter was horrid to William. And from a
       great distance from far out in the country--
       there came the faint, long-drawn whistle of an
       engine.
       That was the sorrowfulest sound of all to
       William. His lonely mind's eye sought the
       vasty spaces to the east; crossed prairie, and
       river, and hill, to where a long train whizzed
       onward through the dark--farther and farther
       and farther away. William uttered a sigh, so
       hoarse, so deep from the tombs, so prolonged,
       that Jane, who had been relaxing herself at full
       length upon the floor, sat up straight with a jerk.
       But she was wise enough not to speak.
       Now the full moon came masquerading among
       the branches of the shade-trees; it came in the
       likeness of an enormous football, gloriously
       orange. Gorgeously it rose higher, cleared the
       trees, and resumed its wonted impersonation of
       a silver disk. Here was another mockery: What
       was the use of a moon NOW?
       Its use appeared straightway.
       In direct coincidence with that rising moon,
       there came from a little distance down the
       street the sound of a young male voice, singing.
       It was not a musical voice, yet sufficiently loud;
       and it knew only a portion of the words and air it
       sought to render, but, upon completing the portion
       it did know, it instantly began again, and
       sang that portion over and over with brightest
       patience. So the voice approached the residence
       of the Baxter family, singing what the shades of
       night gave courage to sing--instead of whistle,
       as in the abashing sunlight.
       Thus:
       ``My countree, 'tis of thee,
       Sweet land of liber-tee,
       My countree, 'tis of thee,
       Sweet land of liber-tee,
       My countree, 'tis of thee,
       Sweet land of liber-tee,
       My countree, 'tis of thee,
       Sweet land of liber-tee,
       My countree, 'tis--''
       Jane spoke unconsciously. ``It's Freddie,'' she
       said.
       William leaped to his feet; this was something
       he could NOT bear! He made a bloodthirsty dash
       toward the gate, which the singer was just in the
       act of passing.
       ``You GET OUT O' HERE!'' William roared.
       The song stopped. Freddie Banks fled like a
       rag on the wind.
       . . . Now here is a strange matter.
       The antique prophets prophesied successfully;
       they practised with some ease that art since lost
       but partly rediscovered by M. Maeterlinck, who
       proves to us that the future already exists,
       simultaneously with the present. Well, if his
       proofs be true, then at this very moment when
       William thought menacingly of Freddie Banks,
       the bright air of a happy June evening--an
       evening ordinarily reckoned ten years, nine months
       and twenty-one days in advance of this present
       sorrowful evening--the bright air of that happy
       June evening, so far in the future, was actually
       already trembling to a wedding-march played
       upon a church organ; and this selfsame Freddie,
       with a white flower in his buttonhole, and in
       every detail accoutred as a wedding usher, was
       an usher for this very William who now (as we
       ordinarily count time) threatened his person.
       But for more miracles:
       As William turned again to resume his meditations
       upon the steps, his incredulous eyes fell upon
       a performance amazingly beyond fantasy, and
       without parallel as a means to make scorn of
       him. Not ten feet from the porch--and in the
       white moonlight that made brilliant the path to
       the gate--Miss Mary Randolph Kirsted was
       walking. She was walking with insulting pomposity
       in her most pronounced semicircular manner.
       ``YOU GET OUT O' HERE!'' she said, in a voice as
       deep and hoarse as she could make it. ``YOU
       GET OUT O' HERE!''
       Her intention was as plain as the moon. She
       was presenting in her own person a sketch of
       William, by this means expressing her opinion
       of him and avenging Jane.
       ``YOU GET OUT O' HERE!'' she croaked.
       The shocking audacity took William's breath.
       He gasped; he sought for words.
       ``Why, you--you--'' he cried. ``You--you
       sooty-faced little girl!''
       In this fashion he directly addressed Miss
       Mary Randolph Kirsted for the first time in his
       life.
       And that was the strangest thing of this strange
       evening. Strangest because, as with life itself,
       there was nothing remarkable upon the surface
       of it. But if M. Maeterlinck has the right
       of the matter, and if the bright air of that June
       evening, almost eleven years in the so-called
       future, was indeed already trembling to ``Lohengrin,''
       then William stood with Johnnie Watson
       against a great bank of flowers at the foot of a
       church aisle; that aisle was roped with white-
       satin ribbons; and William and Johnnie were
       waiting for something important to happen.
       And then, to the strains of ``Here Comes the
       Bride,'' it did--a stately, solemn, roseate, gentle
       young thing with bright eyes seeking through a
       veil for William's eyes.
       Yes, if great M. Maeterlinck is right, it seems
       that William ought to have caught at least some
       eerie echo of that wedding-march, however faint
       --some bars or strains adrift before their time
       upon the moonlight of this September night in
       his eighteenth year.
       For there, beyond the possibility of any fate to
       intervene, or of any later vague, fragmentary
       memory of even Miss Pratt to impair, there in
       that moonlight was his future before him.
       He started forward furiously. ``You--you--
       you little--''
       But he paused, not wasting his breath upon the
       empty air.
       His bride-to-be was gone.
        
       THE END.
       Seventeen, by Booth Tarkington. _