Part 15

Throughout seven days which brought some tense moments to the Baxter household, Jane remained calm; and she was still calm upon the eighth morning as she stood in the front yard of her own place of residence, gazing steadily across the street. The object of her grave attention was an ample brick house, newly painted white after repairs and enlargements so inspiring to Jane's faculty for suggesting better ways of doing things, that the workmen had learned to address her, with a slight bitterness, as “Madam President.”

Throughout the process of repair, and until the very last of the painting, Jane had considered this house to be as much her property as anybody's; for children regard as ownerless all vacant houses and all houses in course of construction or radical alteration. Nothing short of furniture--intimate furniture in considerable quantity--hints that the public is not expected. However, such a hint, or warning, was conveyed to Jane this morning, for two “express wagons” were standing at the curb with their backs impolitely toward the brick house; and powerful-voiced men went surging to and fro under fat arm-chairs, mahogany tables, disarticulated bedsteads, and baskets of china and glassware; while a harassed lady appeared in the outer doorway, from time to time, with gestures of lamentation and entreaty. Upon the sidewalk, between the wagons and the gate, was a broad wet spot, vaguely circular, with a partial circumference of broken glass and extinct goldfish.

Jane was forced to conclude that the brick house did belong to somebody, after all. Wherefore, she remained in her own yard, a steadfast spectator, taking nourishment into her system at regular intervals. This was beautifully automatic: in each hand she held a slice of bread, freely plastered over with butter, apple sauce, and powdered sugar; and when she had taken somewhat from the right hand, that hand slowly descended with its burden, while, simultaneously, the left began to rise, reaching the level of her mouth precisely at the moment when a little wave passed down her neck, indicating that the route was clear. Then, having made delivery, the left hand sank, while the right began to rise again. And, so well had custom trained Jane's members, never once did she glance toward either of these faithful hands or the food that it supported; her gaze was all the while free to remain upon the house across the way and the great doings before it.

After a while, something made her wide eyes grow wider almost to their utmost. Nay, the event was of that importance her mechanical hands ceased to move and stopped stock-still, the right half-way up, the left half-way down, as if because of sudden motor trouble within Jane. Her mouth was equally affected, remaining open at a visible crisis in the performance of its duty. These were the tokens of her agitation upon beholding the removal of a dolls' house from one of the wagons. This dolls' house was at least five feet high, of proportionate breadth and depths the customary absence of a facade disclosing an interior of four luxurious floors, with stairways, fireplaces, and wall-paper. Here was a mansion wherein doll-duchesses, no less, must dwell.

Straightway, a little girl ran out of the open doorway of the brick house and, with a self-importance concentrated to the point of shrewishness, began to give orders concerning the disposal of her personal property, which included (as she made clear) not only the dolls' mansion, but also three dolls' trunks and a packing-case of fair size. She was a thin little girl, perhaps half a year younger than Jane; and she was as soiled, particularly in respect to hands, brow, chin, and the knees of white stockings, as could be expected of any busybodyish person of nine or ten whose mother is house-moving. But she was gifted--if we choose to put the matter in the hopeful, sweeter way--she was gifted with an unusually loud and shrill voice, and she made herself heard over the strong-voiced men to such emphatic effect that one of the latter, with the dolls' mansion upon his back, paused in the gateway to acquaint her with his opinion that of all the bossy little girls he had ever seen, heard, or heard of, she was the bossiest.

“THE worst!” he added.

The little girl across the street was of course instantly aware of Jane, though she pretended not to be; and from the first her self-importance was in large part assumed for the benefit of the observer. After a momentary silence, due to her failure to think of any proper response to the workman who so pointedly criticized her, she resumed the peremptory direction of her affairs. She ran in and out of the house, her brow dark with frowns, her shoulders elevated; and by every means at her disposal she urged her audience to behold the frightful responsibilities of one who must keep a thousand things in her head at once, and yet be ready for decisive action at any instant.

There may have been one weakness in this strong performance: the artistic sincerity of it was a little discredited by the increasing frequency with which the artist took note of her effect. During each of her most impressive moments, she flashed, from the far corner of her eye, two questions at Jane: “How about THAT one? Are you still watching Me?”

Then, apparently in the very midst of her cares, she suddenly and without warning ceased to boss, walked out into the street, halted, and stared frankly at Jane.

Jane had begun her automatic feeding again. She continued it, meanwhile seriously returning the stare of the new neighbor. For several minutes this mutual calm and inoffensive gaze was protracted; then Jane, after swallowing the last morsel of her supplies, turned her head away and looked at a tree. The little girl, into whose eyes some wistfulness had crept, also turned her head and looked at a tree. After a while, she advanced to the curb on Jane's side of the street, and, swinging her right foot, allowed it to kick the curbstone repeatedly.

Jane came out to the sidewalk and began to kick one of the fence-pickets.

“You see that ole fatty?” asked the little girl, pointing to one of the workmen, thus sufficiently identified.

“Yes.”

“That's the one broke the goldfish,” said the little girl. There was a pause during which she continued to scuff the curbstone with her shoe, Jane likewise scuffing the fence-picket. “I'm goin' to have papa get him arrested,” added the stranger.

“My papa got two men arrested once,” Jane said, calmly. “Two or three.”

The little girl's eyes, wandering upward, took note of Jane's papa's house, and of a fierce young gentleman framed in an open window up-stairs. He was seated, wore ink upon his forehead, and tapped his teeth with a red penholder.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“It's Willie.”

“Is it your papa?”

“NO-O-O-O!” Jane exclaimed. “It's WILLIE!”

“Oh,” said the little girl, apparently satisfied.

Each now scuffed less energetically with her shoe; feet slowed down; so did conversation, and, for a time, Jane and the stranger wrapped themselves in stillness, though there may have been some silent communing between them. Then the new neighbor placed her feet far apart and leaned backward upon nothing, curving her front outward and her remarkably flexible spine inward until a profile view of her was grandly semicircular.

Jane watched her attentively, but without comment. However, no one could have doubted that the processes of acquaintance were progressing favorably.

“Let's go in our yard,” said Jane.

The little girl straightened herself with a slight gasp, and accepted the invitation. Side by side, the two passed through the open gate, walked gravely forth upon the lawn, and halted, as by common consent. Jane thereupon placed her feet wide apart and leaned backward upon nothing, attempting the feat in contortion just performed by the stranger.

“Look,” she said. “Look at ME!”

But she lacked the other's genius, lost her balance, and fell. Born persistent, she immediately got to her feet and made fresh efforts.

“No! Look at ME!” the little girl cried, becoming semicircular again. “This is the way. I call it 'puttin' your stummick out o' joint.' You haven't got yours out far enough.”

“Yes, I have,” said Jane, gasping.

“Well, to do it right, you must WALK that way. As soon as you get your stummick out o' joint, you must begin an' walk. Look! Like this.” And the little girl, having achieved a state of such convexity that her braided hair almost touched the ground behind her, walked successfully in that singular attitude.

“I'm walkin',” Jane protested, her face not quite upside down. “Look! I'M walkin' that way, too. My stummick--”

There came an outraged shout from above, and a fierce countenance, stained with ink, protruded from the window.

“Jane!”

“What?”

“Stop that! Stop putting your stomach out in front of you like that! It's disgraceful!”

Both young ladies, looking rather oppressed, resumed the perpendicular. “Why doesn't he like it?” the stranger asked in a tone of pure wonder.

“I don't know,” said Jane. “He doesn't like much of anything. He's seventeen years old.”

After that, the two stared moodily at the ground for a little while, chastened by the severe presence above; then Jane brightened.

“_I_ know!” she exclaimed, cozily. “Let's play callers. Right here by this bush 'll be my house. You come to call on me, an' we'll talk about our chuldren. You be Mrs. Smith an' I'm Mrs. Jones.” And in the character of a hospitable matron she advanced graciously toward the new neighbor. “Why, my dear Mrs. SMITH, come right IN! I THOUGHT you'd call this morning. I want to tell you about my lovely little daughter. She's only ten years old, an' says the brightest THINGS! You really must--”

But here Jane interrupted herself abruptly, and, hopping behind the residential bush, peeped over it, not at Mrs. Smith, but at a boy of ten or eleven who was passing along the sidewalk. Her expression was gravely interested, somewhat complacent; and Mrs. Smith was not so lacking in perception that she failed to understand how completely--for the time being, at least--calling was suspended.

The boy whistled briskly, “My country, 'tis of thee,” and though his knowledge of the air failed him when he finished the second line, he was not disheartened, but began at the beginning again, continuing repeatedly after this fashion to offset monotony by patriotism. He whistled loudly; he walked with ostentatious intent to be at some heavy affair in the distance; his ears were red. He looked neither to the right nor to the left.

That is, he looked neither to the right nor to the left until he had passed the Baxters' fence. But when he had gone as far as the upper corner of the fence beyond, he turned his head and looked back, without any expression--except that of a whistler--at Jane. And thus, still whistling “My country, 'tis of thee,” and with blank pink face over his shoulder, he proceeded until he was out of sight.

“Who was that boy?” the new neighbor then inquired.

“It's Freddie,” said Jane, placidly. “He's in our Sunday-school. He's in love of me.”

“JANE!”

Again the outraged and ink-stained countenance glared down from the window.

“What you want?” Jane asked.

“What you MEAN talking about such things?” William demanded. “In all my life I never heard anything as disgusting! Shame on you!”

The little girl from across the street looked upward thoughtfully. “He's mad,” she remarked, and, regardless of Jane's previous information, “It IS your papa, isn't it?” she insisted.

“No!” said Jane, testily. “I told you five times it's my brother Willie.”

“Oh!” said the little girl, and, grasping the fact that William's position was, in dignity and authority, negligible, compared with that which she had persisted in imagining, she felt it safe to tint her upward gaze with disfavor. “He acts kind of crazy,” she murmured.

“He's in love of Miss Pratt,” said Jane. “She's goin' away to-day. She said she'd go before, but to-day she IS! Mr. Parcher, where she visits, he's almost dead, she's stayed so long. She's awful, I think.”

William, to whom all was audible, shouted, hoarsely, “I'll see to YOU!” and disappeared from the window.

“Will he come down here?” the little girl asked, taking a step toward the gate.

“No. He's just gone to call mamma. All she'll do' ll be to tell us to go play somewheres else. Then we can go talk to Genesis.”

“Who?”

“Genesis. He's puttin' a load of coal in the cellar window with a shovel. He's nice.”

“What's he put the coal in the window for?”

“He's a colored man,” said Jane.

“Shall we go talk to him now?”

“No,” Jane said, thoughtfully. “Let's be playin' callers when mamma comes to tell us to go 'way. What was your name?”

“Rannie.”

“No, it wasn't.”

“It is too, Rannie,” the little girl insisted. “My whole name's Mary Randolph Kirsted, but my short name's Rannie.”

Jane laughed. “What a funny name!” she said. “I didn't mean your real name; I meant your callers' name. One of us was Mrs. Jones, and one was--”

“I want to be Mrs. Jones,” said Rannie.

“Oh, my DEAR Mrs. Jones,” Jane began at once, “I want to tell you about my lovely chuldren. I have two, one only seven years old, and the other--”

“Jane!” called Mrs. Baxter from William's window.

“Yes'm?”

“You must go somewhere else to play. Willie's trying to work at his studies up here, and he says you've disturbed him very much.”

“Yes'm.”

The obedient Jane and her friend turned to go, and as they went, Miss Mary Randolph Kirsted allowed her uplifted eyes to linger with increased disfavor upon William, who appeared beside Mrs. Baxter at the window.

“I tell you what let's do,” Rannie suggested in a lowered voice. “He got so fresh with us, an' made your mother come, an' all, let's--let's--”

She hesitated.

“Let's what?” Jane urged her, in an eager whisper.

“Let's think up somep'n he won't like--an' DO it!”

They disappeared round a corner of the house, their heads close together.

XXIX

“DON'T FORGET!”

Up-stairs, Mrs. Baxter moved to the door of her son's room, pretending to be unconscious of the gaze he maintained upon her. Mustering courage to hum a little tune and affecting inconsequence, she had nearly crossed the threshold when he said, sternly:

“And this is all you intend to say to that child?”

“Why, yes, Willie.”

“And yet I told you what she said!” he cried. “I told you I HEARD her stand there and tell that dirty-faced little girl how that idiot boy that's always walkin' past here four or five times a day, whistling and looking back, was in 'love of' her! Ye gods! What kind of a person will she grow up into if you don't punish her for havin' ideas like that at her age?”

Mrs. Baxter regarded him mildly, not replying, and he went on, with loud indignation:

“I never heard of such a thing! That Worm walkin' past here four or five times a day just to look at JANE! And her standing there, calmly tellin' that sooty-faced little girl, 'He's in love of me'! Why, it's enough to sicken a man! Honestly, if I had my way, I'd see that both she and that little Freddie Banks got a first-class whipping!”

“Don't you think, Willie,” said Mrs. Baxter--“don't you think that, considering the rather noncommittal method of Freddie's courtship, you are suggesting extreme measures?”

“Well, SHE certainly ought to be punished!” he insisted, and then, with a reversal to agony, he shuddered. “That's the least of it!” he cried. “It's the insulting things you always allow her to say of one of the noblest girls in the United States--THAT'S what counts! On the very last day--yes, almost the last hour--that Miss Pratt's in this town, you let your only daughter stand there and speak disrespectfully of her--and then all you do is tell her to 'go and play somewhere else'! I don't understand your way of bringing up a child,” he declared, passionately. “I do NOT!”

“There, there, Willie,” Mrs. Baxter said. “You're all wrought up--”

“I am NOT wrought up!” shouted William. “Why should I be charged with--”

“Now, now!” she said. “You'll feel better to-morrow.”

“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, breathing deeply.

For reply she only shook her head in an odd little way, and in her parting look at him there was something at once compassionate, amused, and reassuring.

“You'll be all right, Willie,” she said, softly, and closed the door.

Alone, William lifted clenched hands in a series of tumultuous gestures at the ceiling; then he moaned and sank into a chair at his writing-table. Presently a comparative calm was restored to him, and with reverent fingers he took from a drawer a one-pound box of candy, covered with white tissue-paper, girdled with blue ribbon. He set the box gently beside him upon the table; then from beneath a large, green blotter drew forth some scribbled sheets. These he placed before him, and, taking infinite pains with his handwriting, slowly copied:

DEAR LOLA--I presume when you are reading these lines it will be this afternoon and you will be on the train moving rapidly away from this old place here farther and farther from it all. As I sit here at my old desk and look back upon it all while I am writing this farewell letter I hope when you are reading it you also will look back upon it all and think of one you called (Alias) Little Boy Baxter. As I sit here this morning that you are going away at last I look back and I cannot rember any summer in my whole life which has been like this summer, because a great change has come over me this summer. If you would like to know what this means it was something like I said when John Watson got there yesterday afternoon and interrupted what I said. May you enjoy this candy and think of the giver. I will put something in with this letter. It is something maybe you would like to have and in exchange I would give all I possess for one of you if you would send it to me when you get home. Please do this for now my heart is braking. Yours sincerely, WILLIAM S. BAXTER (ALIAS) LITTLE BOY BAXTER.

William opened the box of candy and placed the letter upon the top layer of chocolates. Upon the letter he placed a small photograph (wrapped in tissue-paper) of himself. Then, with a pair of scissors, he trimmed an oblong of white cardboard to fit into the box. Upon this piece of cardboard he laboriously wrote, copying from a tortured, inky sheet before him:

IN DREAM BY WILLIAM S. BAXTER

The sunset light Fades into night But never will I forget The smile that haunts me yet Through the future four long years I hope you will remember with tears Whate'er my rank or station Whilst receiving my education Though far away you seem I will see thee in dream.

He placed his poem between the photograph and the letter, closed the box, and tied the tissue-paper about it again with the blue ribbon. Throughout these rites (they were rites both in spirit and in manner) he was subject to little catchings of the breath, half gulp, half sigh. But the dolorous tokens passed, and he sat with elbows upon the table, his chin upon his hands, reverie in his eyes. Tragedy had given way to gentler pathos;--beyond question, something had measurably soothed him. Possibly, even in this hour preceding the hour of parting, he knew a little of that proud amazement which any poet is entitled to feel over each new lyric miracle just wrought.

Perhaps he was helped, too, by wondering what Miss Pratt would think of him when she read “In Dream,” on the train that afternoon. For reasons purely intuitive, and decidedly without foundation in fact, he was satisfied that no rival farewell poem would be offered her, and so it may be that he thought “In Dream” might show her at last, in one blaze of light, what her eyes had sometimes fleetingly intimated she did perceive in part--the difference between William and such every-day, rather well-meaning, fairly good-hearted people as Joe Bullitt, Wallace Banks, Johnnie Watson, and others. Yes, when she came to read “In Dream,” and to “look back upon it all,” she would surely know--at last!

And then, when the future four long years (while receiving his education) had passed, he would go to her. He would go to her, and she would take him by the hand, and lead him to her father, and say, “Father, this is William.”

But William would turn to her, and, with the old, dancing light in his eyes, “No, Lola,” he would say, “not William, but Ickle Boy Baxter! Always and always, just that for you; oh, my dear!”

And then, as in story and film and farce and the pleasanter kinds of drama, her father would say, with kindly raillery, “Well, when you two young people get through, you'll find me in the library, where I have a pretty good BUSINESS proposition to lay before YOU, young man!”

And when the white-waistcoated, white-side-burned old man had, chuckling, left the room, William would slowly lift his arms; but Lola would move back from him a step--only a step--and after laying a finger archly upon her lips to check him, “Wait, sir!” she would say. “I have a question to ask you, sir!”

“What question, Lola?”

“THIS question, sir!” she would reply. “In all that summer, sir, so long ago, why did you never tell me what you WERE, until I had gone away and it was too late to show you what I felt? Ah, Ickle Boy Baxter, I never understood until I looked back upon it all, after I had read 'In Dream,' on the train that day! THEN I KNEW!” “And now, Lola?” William would say. “Do you understand me, NOW?”

Shyly she would advance the one short step she had put between them, while he, with lifted, yearning arms, this time destined to no disappointment----

At so vital a moment did Mrs. Baxter knock at his door and consoling reverie cease to minister unto William. Out of the rosy sky he dropped, falling miles in an instant, landing with a bump. He started, placed the sacred box out of sight, and spoke gruffly.

“What you want?”

“I'm not coming in, Willie,” said his mother. “I just wanted to know--I thought maybe you were looking out of the window and noticed where those children went.”

“What children?”

“Jane and that little girl from across the street--Kirsted, her name must be.”

“No. I did not.”

“I just wondered,” Mrs. Baxter said, timidly. “Genesis thinks he heard the little Kirsted girl telling Jane she had plenty of money for carfare. He thinks they went somewhere on a street-car. I thought maybe you noticed wheth--”

“I told you I did not.”

“All right,” she said, placatively. “I didn't mean to bother you, dear.”

Following this there was a silence; but no sound of receding footsteps indicated Mrs. Baxter's departure from the other side of the closed door.

“Well, what you WANT?” William shouted.

“Nothing--nothing at all,” said the compassionate voice. “I just thought I'd have lunch a little later than usual; not till half past one. That is if--well, I thought probably you meant to go to the station to see Miss Pratt off on the one-o'clock train.”

Even so friendly an interest as this must have appeared to the quivering William an intrusion in his affairs, for he demanded, sharply:

“How'd you find out she's going at one o'clock?”

“Why--why, Jane mentioned it,” Mrs. Baxter replied, with obvious timidity. “Jane said--”

She was interrupted by the loud, desperate sound of William's fist smiting his writing-table, so sensitive was his condition. “This is just unbearable!” he cried. “Nobody's business is safe from that child!”

“Why, Willie, I don't see how it matters if--”

He uttered a cry. “No! Nothing matters! Nothing matters at all! Do you s'pose I want that child, with her insults, discussing when Miss Pratt is or is not going away? Don't you know there are SOME things that have no business to be talked about by every Tom, Dick, and Harry?”