Villages are scattered plentifully
over the unstable buttresses of Vesuvius, and the
inhabitants sleep o’ nights: Why not?
Quite unaware that he was much of their condition,
Mr. Madison bade his incidental gossip and the tiny
Lottie good-night, and sought his early bed.
He maintained in good faith that Saturday night was
“a great night to sleep,” because of the
later hour for rising; probably having also some factitious
conviction that there prevailed a hush preparative
of the Sabbath. As a matter of fact, in summer,
the other members of his family always looked uncommonly
haggard at the Sunday breakfast-table. Accepting
without question his preposterous legend of additional
matutinal slumber, they postponed retiring to a late
hour, and were awakened simultaneously
with thousands of fellow-sufferers at about
half-after five on Sunday morning, by a journalistic
uprising. Over the town, in these early hours,
rampaged the small vendors of the manifold sheets:
local papers and papers from greater cities, hawker
succeeding hawker with yell upon yell and brain-piercing
shrillings in unbearable cadences. No good burgher
ever complained: the people bore it, as in winter
they bore the smoke that injured their health, ruined
their linen, spoiled their complexions, forbade
all hope of beauty and comfort in their city, and
destroyed the sweetness of their homes and of their
wives. It is an incredibly patient citizenry
and exalts its persecutors.
Of the Madison family, Cora probably
suffered most; and this was the time when it was no
advantage to have the front bedroom. She had
not slept until close upon dawn, and the hawkers woke
her irreparably; she could but rage upon her hot pillow.
By and by, there came a token that another anguish
kept company with hers. She had left her door
open for a better circulation of the warm and languid
air, and from Hedrick’s room issued an “oof!”
of agonized disgust. Cora little suspected that
the youth reeked not of newsboys: Hedrick’s
miseries were introspective.
The cries from the street were interminable;
each howler in turn heard faintly in the distance,
then in crescendo until he had passed and another
succeeded him, and all the while Cora lay tossing
and whispering between clenched teeth. Having
ample reason, that morning, to prefer sleep to thinking,
sleep was impossible. But she fought for it:
she did not easily surrender what she wanted; and
she struggled on, with closed eyes, long after she
had heard the others go down to breakfast.
About a hundred yards from her windows,
to the rear, were the open windows of a church which
fronted the next street, and stood dos-a-dos
to the dwelling of the Madisons. The Sunday-school
hour had been advanced for the hot weather, and, partly
on this account, and partly because of the summer
absence of many families, the attendants were few.
But the young voices were conducted, rather than accompanied,
in pious melody by a cornetist who worthily thought
to amend, in his single person, what lack of volume
this paucity occasioned. He was a slender young
man in hot black clothes; he wore the unfacaded collar
fatally and unanimously adopted by all adam’s-apple
men of morals; he was washed, fair, flat-skulled,
clean-minded, and industrious; and the only noise
of any kind he ever made in the world was on Sunday.
“Prashus joowuls, sweet joowuls,
thee jams off iz crowowun,” sang the
little voices feebly. They were almost unheard;
but the young man helped them out: figuratively,
he put them out. And the cornet was heard:
it was heard for blocks and blocks; it was heard over
all that part of the town in the vicinity
of the church it was the only thing that could be
heard. In his daily walk this cornetist had no
enemies: he was kind-hearted; he would not have
shot a mad dog; he gladly nursed the sick. He
sat upon the platform before the children; he swelled,
perspired and blew, and felt that it was a good blowing.
If other thoughts vapoured upon the borders of his
mind, they were of the dinner he would eat, soon after
noon, at the house of one of the frilled, white-muslin
teachers. He was serene. His eyes were not
blasted; his heart was not instantly withered; his
thin, bluish hair did not fall from his head; his
limbs were not detached from his torso yet
these misfortunes had been desired for him, with comprehension
and sincerity, at the first flat blat of his brassy
horn.
It is impossible to imagine the state
of mind of this young cornetist, could he have known
that he had caused the prettiest girl in town to jump
violently out of bed with what petitions upon her
lips regarding his present whereabouts and future detention!
It happened that during the course of his Sunday walk
on Corliss Street, that very afternoon, he saw her was
hard-smitten by her beauty, and for weeks thereafter
laid unsuccessful plans to “meet” her.
Her image was imprinted: he talked about her to
his boarding-house friends and office acquaintances,
his favourite description being, “the sweetest-looking
lady I ever laid eyes on.”
Cora, descending to the breakfast-table
rather white herself, was not unpleasantly shocked
by the haggard aspect of Hedrick, who, with Laura
and Mrs. Madison, still lingered.
“Good-morning, Cora,”
he said politely, and while she stared, in suspicious
surprise, he passed her a plate of toast with ostentatious
courtesy; but before she could take one of the slices,
“Wait,” he said; “it’s very
nice toast, but I’m afraid it isn’t hot.
I’ll take it to the kitchen and have it warmed
for you.” And he took the plate and went
out, walking softly.
Cora turned to her mother, appalled.
“He’ll be sick!” she said.
Mrs. Madison shook her head and smiled sadly.
“He helped to wait on all of
us: he must have been doing something awful.”
“More likely he wants permission
to do something awful.”
Laura looked out of the window.
“There, Cora,” said Hedrick
kindly, when he brought the toast; “you’ll
find that nice and hot.”
She regarded him steadfastly, but
with modesty he avoided her eye. “You wouldn’t
make such a radical change in your nature, Hedrick,”
she said, with a puzzled frown, “just to get
out of going to church, would you?”
“I don’t want to get out
of going to church,” he said. He gulped
slightly. “I like church.”
And church-time found him marching
decorously beside his father, the three ladies forming
a rear rank; a small company in the very thin procession
of fanning women and mopping men whose destination
was the gray stone church at the foot of Corliss Street.
The locusts railed overhead: Hedrick looked neither
to the right nor to the left.
They passed a club, of which a lower
window was vacated simultaneously with their coming
into view; and a small but ornate figure in pale gray
crash hurried down the steps and attached itself to
the second row of Madisons. “Good-morning,”
said Mr. Wade Trumble. “Thought I’d
take a look-in at church this morning myself.”
Care of this encumbrance was usually
expected of Laura and Mrs. Madison, but to their surprise
Cora offered a sprightly rejoinder and presently dropped
behind them with Mr. Trumble. Mr. Trumble was
also surprised and, as naively, pleased.
“What’s happened?”
he asked with cheerful frankness. “You haven’t
given me a chance to talk to you for a long while.”
“Haven’t I?” she
smiled enigmatically. “I don’t think
you’ve tried very hard.”
This was too careless; it did not
quite serve, even for Trumble. “What’s
up?” he asked, not without shrewdness. “Is
Richard Lindley out of town?”
“I don’t know.”
“I see. Perhaps it’s this new chap,
Corliss? Has he left?”
“What nonsense! What have
they got to do with my being nice to you?” She
gave him a dangerous smile, and it wrought upon him
visibly.
“Don’t you ever be nice to me unless you
mean it,” he said feebly.
Cora looked grave and sweet; she seemed
mysteriously moved. “I never do anything
I don’t mean,” she said in a low voice
which thrilled the little man. This was machine-work,
easy and accurate.
“Cora ” he began, breathlessly.
“There!” she exclaimed,
shifting on the instant to a lively brusqueness.
“That’s enough for you just now.
We’re on our way to church!”
Trumble felt almost that she had accepted him.
“Have you got your penny for
the contribution box?” she smiled. “I
suppose you really give a great deal to the church.
I hear you’re richer and richer.”
“I do pretty well,” he
returned, coolly. “You can know just how
well, if you like.”
“Not on Sunday,” she laughed;
then went on, admiringly, “I hear you’re
very dashing in your speculations.”
“Then you’ve heard wrong,
because I don’t speculate,” he returned.
“I’m not a gambler except on
certainties. I guess I disappointed a friend
of yours the other day because I wouldn’t back
him on a thousand-to-one shot.”
“Who was that?” she asked,
with an expression entirely veiled.
“Corliss. He came to see
me; wanted me to put real money into an oil scheme.
Too thin!”
“Why is it `too thin’?” she asked
carelessly.
“Too far away, for one thing somewhere
in Italy. Anybody who put up his cash would have
to do it on Corliss’s bare word that he’s
struck oil.”
“Well?” She turned her
face to him, and a faint perturbation was manifest
in her tone. “Isn’t Mr. Corliss’s
`bare word’ supposed to be perfectly good?”
“Oh, I suppose so, but I don’t
know. He isn’t known here: nobody
really knows anything about him except that he was
born here. Besides, I wouldn’t make an
investment on my own father’s bare word, if
he happened to be alive.”
“Perhaps not!” Cora spoke
impulsively, a sudden anger getting the better of
her, but she controlled it immediately. “Of
course I don’t mean that,” she laughed,
sweetly. “But I happen to think
Mr. Corliss’s scheme a very handsome one, and
I want my friends to make their fortunes, of course.
Richard Lindley and papa are going into it.”
“I’ll bet they don’t,”
said Trumble promptly. “Lindley told me
he’d looked it over and couldn’t see his
way to.”
“He did?” Cora stiffened perceptibly and
bit her lip.
Trumble began to laugh. “This
is funny: you trying to talk business! So
Corliss has been telling you about it?”
“Yes, he has; and I understand
it perfectly. I think there’s an enormous
fortune in it, and you’d better not laugh at
me: a woman’s instinct about such things
is better than a man’s experience sometimes.”
“You’ll find neither Lindley
nor your father are going to think so,” he returned
skeptically.
She gave him a deep, sweet look.
“But I mustn’t be disappointed in you,”
she said, with the suggestion of a tremor in her voice,
“whatever they do! You’ll take
my advice, won’t you Wade?”
“I’ll take your advice
in anything but business.” He shook his
head ominously.
“And wouldn’t you take
my advice in business,” she asked
very slowly and significantly “under
any circumstances?”
“You mean,” he said huskily, “if
you were my wife?”
She looked away, and slightly inclined
her head. “No,” he answered doggedly,
“I wouldn’t. You know mighty well
that’s what I want you to be, and I’d
give my soul for the tip of your shoe, but business
is an entirely different matter, and I ”
“Wade!” she said,
with wonderful and thrilling sweetness. They
had reached the church; Hedrick and his father had
entered; Mrs. Madison and Laura were waiting on the
steps. Cora and Trumble came to a stop some yards
away. “Wade, I I want
you to go into this.”
“Can’t do it,” he
said stubbornly. “If you ever make up your
mind to marry me, I’ll spend all the money you
like on you, but you’ll have to keep
to the woman’s side of the house.”
“You make it pretty hard for
me to be nice to you,” she returned, and the
tremor now more evident in her voice was perfectly
genuine. “You positively refuse to do this for
me?”
“Yes I do. I wouldn’t
buy sight-unseen to please God ’lmighty, Cora
Madison.” He looked at her shrewdly, struck
by a sudden thought. “Did Corliss ask you
to try and get me in?”
“He did not,” she responded,
icily. “Your refusal is final?”
“Certainly!” He struck
the pavement a smart rap with his walking-stick.
“By George, I believe he did ask you!
That spoils church for me this morning; I’ll
not go in. When you quit playing games, let me
know. You needn’t try to work me any more,
because I won’t stand for it, but if you ever
get tired of playing, come and tell me so.”
He uttered a bark of rueful laughter. “Ha!
I must say that gentleman has an interesting way of
combining business with pleasure!”
Under favourable circumstances the
blow Cora dealt him might have been physically more
violent. “Good-morning,” she laughed,
gayly. “I’m not bothering much about
Mr. Corliss’s oil in Italy. I had a bet
with Laura I could keep you from saying `I beg to differ,’
or talking about the weather for five minutes.
She’ll have to pay me!”
Then, still laughing, she lowered
her parasol, and with superb impudence, brushed it
smartly across his face; turned on her heel, and,
red with fury, joined her mother and sister, and went
into the church.
The service failed to occupy her attention:
she had much in her thoughts to distract her.
Nevertheless, she bestowed some wonderment upon the
devotion with which her brother observed each ceremonial
rite. He joined in prayer with real fervour; he
sang earnestly and loudly; a great appeal sounded
in his changing voice; and during the sermon he sat
with his eyes upon the minister in a stricken fixity.
All this was so remarkable that Cora could not choose
but ponder upon it, and, observing Hedrick furtively,
she caught, if not a clue itself, at least a glimpse
of one. She saw Laura’s clear profile becoming
subtly agitated; then noticed a shimmer of Laura’s
dark eye as it wandered to Hedrick and so swiftly
away it seemed not to dare to remain. Cora was
quick: she perceived that Laura was repressing
a constant desire to laugh and that she feared to
look at Hedrick lest it overwhelm her. So Laura
knew what had wrought the miracle. Cora made up
her mind to explore this secret passage.
When the service was over and the
people were placidly buzzing their way up the aisles,
Cora felt herself drawn to look across the church,
and following the telepathic impulse, turned her head
to encounter the gaze of Ray Vilas. He was ascending
the opposite aisle, walking beside Richard Lindley.
He looked less pale than usual, though his thinness
was so extreme it was like emaciation; but his eyes
were clear and quiet, and the look he gave her was
strangely gentle. Cora frowned and turned away
her head with an air of annoyance. They came
near each other in the convergence at the doors; but
he made no effort to address her, and, moving away
through the crowd as quickly as possible, disappeared.
Valentine Corliss was disclosed in
the vestibule. He reached her an instant in advance
of Mr. Lindley, who had suffered himself to be impeded;
and Cora quickly handed the former her parasol, lightly
taking his arm. Thus the slow Richard found himself
walking beside Laura in a scattered group, its detached
portion consisting of his near-betrothed and Corliss;
for although the dexterous pair were first to leave
the church, they contrived to be passed almost at
once, and, assuming the position of trailers, lagged
far behind on the homeward way.
Laura and Richard walked in the unmitigated
glare of the sun; he had taken her black umbrella
and conscientiously held it aloft, but over nobody.
They walked in silence: they were quiet people,
both of them; and Richard, not “talkative”
under any circumstances, never had anything whatever
to say to Laura Madison. He had known her for
many years, ever since her childhood; seldom indeed
formulating or expressing a definite thought about
her, though sometimes it was vaguely of his consciousness
that she played the piano nicely, and even then her
music had taken its place as but a colour of Cora’s
background. For to him, as to every one else
(including Laura), Laura was in nothing her sister’s
competitor. She was a neutral-tinted figure,
taken-for-granted, obscured, and so near being nobody
at all, that, as Richard Lindley walked beside her
this morning, he glanced back at the lagging couple
and uttered a long and almost sonorous sigh, which
he would have been ashamed for anybody to hear; and
then actually proceeded on his way without the slightest
realization that anybody had heard it.
She understood. And she did not
disturb the trance; she did nothing to make him observe
that she was there. She walked on with head,
shoulders, and back scorching in the fierce sun, and
allowed him to continue shading the pavement before
them with her umbrella. When they reached the
house she gently took the umbrella from him and thanked
him; and he mechanically raised his hat.
They had walked more than a mile together;
he had not spoken a word, and he did not even know
it.