Books: Quill\'s Window
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George Barr McCutcheon >> Quill\'s Window
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"The most interesting item in the Sun tomorrow," said Mr. Pollock,
"is the word that young Cale Vick, across the river, has enlisted
in the navy. He leaves on Monday for Chicago to join some sort
of a training school, preparatory to taking a job on one of Uncle
Sam's newest battleships,--the biggest in the world, according
to his grandfather, who was in to see me a day or two ago. I have
promised to send young Cale the Sun for a year without charging him
a cent. Old man Brown says Amos Vick's daughter Rosabel isn't at
all well. Something like walking typhoid, he says,--mopes a good
deal and don't sleep well."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," exclaimed Courtney, real concern in
his voice. "She was such a lively, light-hearted girl when I was
over there. I can't imagine her moping. I hope Amos Vick isn't too
close-fisted to consult a doctor. He's an awful tight-wad--believe
me."
"Doctor can't seem to find anything really the matter ter with
her, so old Cale Brown told me," said Mr. Pollock. "But don't you
think it's fine of young Cale to join the navy, Court? Maybe your
tales about the war put it into his head."
"It's more likely that he'd got fed up with life on a farm," said
Courtney. "He'll find himself longing for the farm and mother a
good many times before he's through with the navy."
Instead of going up to his room immediately after supper, as was
his custom of late, Courtney joined the company in the "lounging
room," so named by Mr. Webster who contended that no first-class
hotel ever had such a thing as a parlour any more. The Misses Dowd,
of course, called it the parlour, but as they continued to refer
to the fireplace as the "chimney corner," one may readily forgive
their reluctance to progress. Smoking was permitted in the "lounging
room" during the fall and winter months only.
A steady rain was beating against the windows, and a rising wind
made itself heard in feeble wails as it turned the dark corners of
the Tavern. Presently it was to howl and shriek, and, as the rain
ceased, to rattle the window shutters and the ancient, creaking
sign that hung out over the porch,--for on the wind tonight came
the first chill touch of winter.
"A fine night to be indoors," remarked Courtney in his most genial
manner as he moved a rocking chair up to the fireplace and gallantly
indicated to old Mrs. Nichols that it was intended for her.
"Ain't you going out tonight, Court?" inquired Mr. Hatch.
"Iron horses couldn't drag me out tonight," he replied. "Sit here,
Mrs. Pollock. Doc, pull up that sofa for Miss Grady and Miss Miller.
Let's have a chimney-corner symposium. Is symposium the right word,
Miss Miller? Ah, I see it isn't. Well, I did my best. I could have
got away with it in New York, but no chance here. And speaking
of New York reminds me that at this very instant the curtains are
going up and the lights are going down in half a hundred theatres,--and
I don't mind confessing I'd like to be in one of them."
"That's one thing I envy New York for," said Mrs. Pollock. "Hand
me my knitting off the table, Lincoln, please. I love the theatre.
I could go every night--"
"You get tired of them after a little while, Maude," said Flora
Grady, a trifle languidly. "Isn't that so, Mr. Thane?"
"Quite," agreed Courtney. "You get fed up with 'em."
"I remember once when I was in New York going six nights in succession,
seeing all the best things on the boards at that time, and I give
you my word," said Miss Grady, "they DID feed me up terribly."
"I know just what you mean, Miss Grady," said Courtney, without
cracking a smile. "One gets so bored with the best plays in town.
What one really ought to do, you know, is to go to the worst ones."
"I've always wanted to see 'The Blue Bird,'" said Miss Miller
wistfully. "It's by Maeterlinck, Mr. Nichols."
Old Mr. Nichols looked interested. "You don't say so," he ejaculated.
"Give me a good minstrel show,--that's what I like. Haverly's or
Barlow, Wilson, Primrose & West, or Billy Emerson's or--say, did
you ever see Luke Schoolcraft? Well, sir, there was the funniest
end man I ever see. There used to be another minstrel man
named,--er--lemme see,--now what was that feller's name? It begin
with L, I think--or maybe it was W. Now--lemme--think. Go on
talkin', the rest of you. I'll think of his name before bedtime."
Whereupon the ancient Mr. Nichols relapsed into a profound state
of thought from which he did not emerge until Mr. Webster shook
his shoulder some fifteen or twenty minutes later and informed him
that if he got any worse Mrs. Nichols would be able to hear him,
and then she couldn't go 'round telling people that he slept just
like a baby.
Courtney was in his element. He liked talking about the stage,
and stage people. And on this night,--of all nights,--he wanted to
talk, he wanted company. The clock on the mantel-piece struck ten
and half-past and was close to striking eleven before any one made
a move toward retiring,--excepting Mr. and Mrs. Nichols who had gone
off to bed at eight-thirty. The Misses Dowd had joined the little
company in the "parlour." He discussed books with Mrs. Pollock
and Miss Miller, fashions with Miss Grady, politics with Mr.
Pollock,--(agreeing with the latter on President Wilson),--art with
Mr. Hatch and the erudite Miss Miller, the drama with every one.
Now, Courtney Thane knew almost nothing about books, and even less
about pictures. He possessed, however, a remarkable facility when
it came to discussing them. He belonged to that rather extensive
class of people who thrive on ignorance. If you wanted to talk
about Keats or Shelley, he managed to give you the impression that
he was thoroughly familiar with both,--though lamenting a certain
rustiness of memory at times. He could talk intelligently about
Joseph Conrad, Arnold Bennet, Bernard Shaw, Galsworthy, Walpole,
Mackenzie, Wells and others of the modern English school of
novelists,--that is to say, he could differ or agree with you on
almost anything they had written, notwithstanding the fact that he
had never read a line by any one of them. He professed not to care
for Thomas Hardy's "Jude the Obscure," though nothing could have
been more obscure to him than the book itself or the author thereof,
and agreed with the delightful Mrs. Pollock that "The Mayor of
Casterbridge" was an infinitely better piece of work than "Tess
of the D'Urbervilles." As for the American writers, he admitted a
shameful ignorance about them.
"Of course, I read Scott when I was a boy,--I was compelled to do
so, by the way,--but as for the others I am shockingly unfamiliar
with them. Ever since I grew up I've preferred the English novelists
and poets, so I fear I--"
"I thought Scott was an English writer," put in Charlie Webster
quietly.
"What Scott are you referring to, Charlie?" he asked indulgently.
"Why, Sir Walter Scott,--he wrote 'Ivanhoe,' you know."
"Well, I happen to be speaking of William Scott, the American
novelist,--no doubt unknown to most of you. He was one of the
old-timers, and I fancy has dropped out of the running altogether."
"Never heard of him," said Mr. Pollock, scratching his ear
reflectively.
"Indigenous to New England, I fancy,--like the estimable codfish,"
drawled Courtney, and was rewarded by a wholesome Middle West laugh.
"What are those cabarets like?" inquired Mr. Hatch. He pronounced
it as if he were saying cigarettes.
"Pretty rotten," said Thane.
"Are you fond of dancing, Mr. Thane?" inquired Mrs. Pollock. "I
used to love to trip the light fantastic."
"I am very fond of dancing," said he, and then added with a smile:
"Especially since the girls have taken to parking their corsets."
There was a shocked silence, broken by Miss Grady, who, as a
dressmaker, was not quite so finicky about the word.
"What do you mean by parking?" she inquired.
"Same as you park an automobile," said he, enjoying the sensation
he had created. "It's the fashion now, among the best families as
well as the worst, for the girls when they go to dances to leave
their corsets in the dressing rooms. Check 'em, same as you do your
hat."
"Bless my soul," gasped Mr. Pollock. "Haven't they got any mothers?"
"Sure,--but the mothers don't know anything about it. You see, it's
this way. We fellows won't dance with 'em if they've got corsets
on,--so off they come."
"What's the world coming to?" cried the editor.
"You'd better ask where it's going to," said Charlie Webster.
"Do you go to the opera very often?" asked Miss Miller nervously.
He spoke rather loftily of the Metropolitan Opera House, and very
lightly of the Metropolitan Museum,--and gave Charlie Webster a
sharp look when that amiable gentleman asked him what he thought
of the Metropolitan Tower.
But he was at home in the theatre. He told them just what Maude
Adams and Ethel Barrymore were like, and Julia Marlowe, and Elsie
Ferguson, and Chrystal Herne, and all the rest of them. He spoke
familiarly of Mr. Faversham as "Favvy," of Mr. Collier as "Willie,"
of Mr. Sothern as "Ned," of Mr. Drew as "John," of Mr. Skinner as
"Otis," of Mr. Frohman as "Dan."
And when he said good night and reluctantly wended his way to the
room at the end of the hall, round the corner of which the fierce
October gale shrieked derisively, he left behind him a group
enthralled.
"Isn't he a perfect dear?" cried Mrs. Pollock, clasping her hands.
"The most erudite man I have ever met," agreed Miss Miller
ecstatically. "Don't you think so, Mr. Hatch?"
Mr. Hatch was startled. "Oh,--er--yes, indeed. Absolutely!"
he stammered, and then looked inquiringly at his finger nails. He
hoped he had made the proper response.
Charlie Webster ambled over to one of the windows and peered out
into the whistling night.
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," said he sententiously.
"What do you mean by that, Charlie?" inquired Flora Grady, at his
elbow.
"Well, if it had been a pleasant night he'd have been up at Alix
Crown's instead of here," said Charlie.
"I see," said Flora, after a moment. "You mean the ill wind favoured
Alix, eh?"
Charlie's round face was unsmiling as he stared hard at the fire.
"I wonder--" he began, and then checked the words.
"Don't you worry about Alix," said Flora. "She's nobody's fool."
"I wasn't thinking of Alix just then," said Charlie.
II
The following morning, Courtney went, as was his custom, to the
postoffice. He had arranged for a lock-box there. His letters were
not brought up to the Tavern by old Jim House, the handy-man.
The day was bright and clear and cold; the gale had died in the
early morning hours. Alix Crown's big automobile was standing in
front of the post-office, the engine running. Catching sight of it
as he left the Tavern porch, he hastened his steps. He was a good
two hundred yards away and feared she would be off before he could
come up with her. As he drew near, he saw the lanky chauffeur standing
in front of the drug store, chatting with one of the villagers.
Alix was in the post-office. As he passed the car, he slackened
his pace and glanced over his shoulder into the tonneau. The side
curtains were down. A low growl greeted him. He hastened on.
She was at the registry window.
"Hello!" he exclaimed, extending his hand and searching her face
as he did so for signs of a sleepless night.
"Good morning," she responded cheerily. There was nothing in her
voice, her eyes or her manner to indicate an even remotely disturbed
state of mind. Her gaze met his serenely; the colour did not rush
to her cheeks as he had fondly expected, nor did her eyes waver
under the eager, intense gleam in his. He suddenly felt cheated.
"Where are you off to this morning?" he inquired.
"To town for the day. I have some business to attend to and some
shopping to do. Would you like to come along?"
He was in a sulky mood.
"You know I hate the very thought of going to town," he said. Then,
as she raised her eyebrows slightly, he made haste to add: "I'd go
from one end of the desert of Sahara to the other with you, but--"
shaking his head so solemnly that she laughed outright,--"not to
the city. Just ask me to go to the Sahara with you and see how--"
"Haven't you had enough of No-Man's Land?" she cried merrily.
"It depends on what you'd call No-Man's Land," said he, and her gaze
faltered at last. There was no mistaking his meaning. "Sometimes
it is Paradise, you know," he went on softly.
Twice before she had seen the same look in his eyes, and both times
she had experienced a strange sensation, as of the weakness that
comes with ecstasy. There had been something in his eyes that
seemed to caress her from head to foot, something that filled her
with the most disquieting self-consciousness. Strange to say, it
was not the ardent look of the love-sick admirer,--and she had not
escaped such tributes,--nor the inquiring look of the adventurous
married man. It was not soulful nor was it offensive. She reluctantly
confessed to herself that it was warm and penetrating and filled
her with a strange, delicious alarm.
She quickly withdrew her gaze and turned to the little window where
Mrs. Pollock was making out her receipt for a registered package.
She felt that she was cowardly, and the thought made her furious.
"Will it go out today, Mrs. Pollock?" she asked.
"This afternoon," replied the postmaster's wife and assistant.
"Wasn't that a dreadful wind last night, Alix? I thought of you.
You must have been frightened."
"I slept like a log through all of it," said Alix. "I love the
wild night wind. It makes me feel so nice and comfy in bed. I was
awfully tired last night. Thanks." Then turning to Courtney: "Sorry
you will not go with me. I'll bear you in mind if I ever take a
trip to the Sahara. Good-bye."
"Will you be at home tonight?" he asked, holding the door open for
her to pass through.
"Yes," she replied composedly.
"I mean,--to me?"
"If you care to come," she said.
He did not accompany her to the car. The big grey-brown dog with
his paws on the back of the front seat, was eagerly watching her
approach.
She wore a long mole-skin coat and a smart little red turban. She
had never looked so alluring to the young man who waited in the
open door until the car started away.
"Close the door, please," called out Mrs. Pollock. "This isn't
July, you know."
"So she slept like a log, did she?" muttered Courtney as he turned
away from his lockbox with a letter. "Well, that's more than I
did."
He glanced hurriedly through the letter, crumpled it up in his hand,
and went jauntily up the street until he came to Hatch's Photograph
Gallery. Entering, he gave the proprietor a hearty "good morning,"
and then drew a chair up before the low "sheet-iron stove" which
heated the reception-room. Hatch was "printing" behind a partition,
and their conversation was carried on at long range over the top.
Presently the visitor drew the crumpled letter from his pocket,
tore it into tiny pieces and cast it into the fire.
"Well, so long, Hatch. I'm off for a stroll in your crisp October
air."
CHAPTER XI
THANE VISITS TWO HOUSES
All day long Alix was troubled. She could not free her thoughts
of that searing look or the spell it had cast over her during the
brief instant of contact. She was haunted by it. At times she gave
herself up to a reckless, unmaidenly rejoicing in the thrill it
had given her; at such times she flushed to the roots of her hair
despite the chill of ecstasy that swept over her. But far more
often she found herself resenting the liberty his eyes had taken,--a
mental rather than a physical liberty. She was resolved that it
should not happen again.
She had posted a note to David Strong that morning. Before the car
had covered the first mile on its way to town, she was wishing she
had not dropped it into the slot at the post-office. Only the fear
of appearing ridiculous to Mrs. Pollock kept her from turning back
to reclaim it. She could not explain this sudden, almost frantic
impulse,--she did not attempt to account for it. Somehow she sensed
that it had to do with the look in Thane's eyes,--but it was all
so vague and intangible that even the suggestion did not take the
form of thought.
In this curt little note she had said:
DEAR DAVID:
I hereby acknowledge receipt of your cheque No. 372 for two hundred
and fifty dollars, but as I have tried to make you understand
before, it is not only an unnecessary but a most unwelcome bit of
paper. You are perfectly well aware that my grandfather's estate
has been settled and, as I have informed you time and again, your
obligation to him no longer exists. You may have owed something
to him, but you owe nothing to me. If I were to follow my impulse
I should tear up this cheque of yours. It would be useless to return
it to you, for you would only send it back to me, as you did with
the first two cheques that came last winter. I want you to understand
that I do not accept this money as my own. If it is any satisfaction
to you to know that I give it away,--no matter how,--you are welcome
to all the consolation you may get out of it.
Yours truly,
ALIX CROWN.
P.S.--I have advised your mother to go to Philadelphia whenever
you are ready for her to come. A.
P.S.S.--Under separate cover by registered post I am also returning
to you the bracelet you sent me from Paris. I think I wrote you a
long time ago how much I admired it. A.
Meanwhile, Thane was making the best of a rather empty morning. He
put off finishing a letter to his mother, who had returned to New
York and was so busy with dressmakers that twice she had employed
the telegraph in promising to "write soon,"--a letter in which
he already had written, among other rapturous passages: "She is
positively ravishing, mater dear. I am simply mad about her, and
I know you will be too." He was determined that the day should not
be a total loss; he would turn at least a portion of it to profit.
First of all, he visited Alaska Spigg at the log-hut village
library. Miss Spigg was very proud of her geraniums. No one else
in Windomville,--or in the world, for that matter, if one were to
recall Mr. Pollock's article in the Sun,--no one else cultivated
such geraniums as those to be seen in the pots that crowned the
superinforced windowsills at the library.
There was no such thing as a florist's shop in Windomville. Roses
or orchids or even carnations were unobtainable. A potted geranium
plant, in full bloom,--one of Alaska Spigg's tall, sturdy, jealously
guarded treasures was the best he could do in the way of a floral
offering to his goddess. So he set about the supposedly hopeless
task of inducing Alaska to part with one of her plants. Half an
hour after entering the library he departed with a balloon shaped
object in his arms. He was not too proud to be seen shuffling
up the lane with his prize, a huge thing loosely done up in
newspapers,--leaving behind him a completely dazzled Alaska who
went about the place aimlessly folding and unfolding a brand new
two-dollar bill.
"I don't know what come over me," explained Alaska later on to a
couple of astonished ladies who had hurried in to see if the report
was true that she had parted with one of her geraniums. "For the
life of me, I don't know how I happened to do it. 'Specially the
one I was proudest of, too. I've always said I'd never sell one of
my plants,--not even if the President of the United States was to
come in and offer me untold millions for it,--and here I--I--why,
Martha, I almost GAVE it to him, honest I did. I just couldn't seem
to help letting him have it. Of course, I don't mind its loss half
so much, knowing that it is going to Alix. She loves flowers. She'll
take the best of care of it. But how I ever came to--"
"Don't cry, Alaska," broke in one of her callers cheerfully. "You'll
be getting it back before long."
"Never," lamented Alaska. "What makes you think I'll get it back?"
she went on, suddenly peeping over the edge of her handkerchief.
"Why, as soon as Alix knows how miserable you are about parting
with that geranium, she'll send it back to you,--and you'll be two
dollars ahead. Don't be silly."
Repairing at once to the house on the knoll, Courtney took counsel
with Mrs. Strong. The housekeeper could hardly believe her eyes
when she saw the geranium.
"Well, all I've got to say is that you must have stolen it," she
exclaimed. "There couldn't be any other way to get one of those
plants away from Alaska Spigg."
"Be that as it may," said he airily, "what we've got to decide
now, Mrs. Strong, is just where to put it. I want to surprise Miss
Crown when she returns from town."
"She'll be surprised all right when she finds out you got one
of Alaska Spigg's pet geraniums. I remember Alaska saying not so
long ago that she wouldn't sell one of those plants for a million
dollars. Now let me see. It ought to go where it will get as much
sun as possible. That would be in the dining-room. I guess we'd
better--"
"I really think it would look better right here in this room, Mrs.
Strong," said he, indicating one of the windows looking out over
the terrace. There was little or no sunlight there, but he did not
mind that. As a matter of fact, he wasn't at all concerned about
the future welfare of the plant. It meant no more to him than the
customary bunch of violets that one sends, "sight unseen," to the
lady of the hour.
"Well, you're the boss. It's your plant," said Mrs. Strong briskly.
"Alaska Spigg will go into hysterics when she hears where you've
put it,--but that's of no consequence."
And so the plant was placed on a small table in the window of the
long living-room.
"Link Pollock told us last night that you may go to Philadelphia to
join your son, Mrs. Strong," said he, as he watched her arranging
the window curtains.
Mrs. Strong flushed. "It did not occur to me to ask Mr. Pollock not
to repeat what I said to him in confidence," she said, with dignity.
"I'm sorry I mentioned it. I am sure Pollock didn't understand it
was--er--a secret or anything like that, Mrs. Strong."
"It isn't a secret. I have talked it over with Miss Alix, and I
have practically decided to remain with her. You may tell that to
Mr. Pollock if you like."
"She would miss you terribly," said he, allowing the sarcasm
to pass over his head. "Your son and Miss Crown were boy and girl
sweethearts, I hear,--oh, please don't be offended. Those things
happen, you know,--and pass off like all of the children's diseases.
Like the measles, or mumps or chicken pox. Every boy and girl has
to go through that stage, you know. I remember being horribly in
love with a girl in our block when I was fifteen,--and she with
me. But, for the life of me, I can't remember her name now. I mean
her married name," he explained, with his whimsical grin.
"I don't believe Alix and David ever were in love with each other,"
said she stiffly. "They were wonderful friends,--playmates and all
that,--but,"--here she flushed again, "you see, my boy was only
the blacksmith's son. People may have told you that, Mr. Thane."
"What has that to do with it?" he cried instantly. "Wasn't Miss
Crown's father the son of a blacksmith?"
He caught the passing flicker of appreciation in her eyes as she
lifted her head.
"True," she said quietly. "And a fine young man, they tell me,--those
who knew him. His father was not like my David's father, however.
He was a drunkard. He beat his wife, they say."
"Abraham Lincoln was a rail splitter. James A. Garfield drove
a canal boat. Does anybody think the worse of them for that? Your
son, Mrs. Strong,--I am told by all who know him,--will be a great
surgeon, a great man. You must not forget that people will speak
of HIS son as the son of Dr. David Strong, the famous surgeon."
Her face glowed with pleasure. Mother love and mother pride kindled in
her dark eyes. He caught himself wondering if young David Strong
was like this tall, grey-haired woman with the steady gaze and
quiet smile.
"I am sure David will succeed," she said warmly. "He always was a
determined boy. Mr. Windom was very fond of him. He took a great
interest in him." A self-conscious, apologetic smile succeeded the
proud one. "I suppose you would call Alix and David boy and girl
sweethearts. As you say, boys and girls just simply can't help having
such ailments. It's like an epidemic. Even the strongest catch it
and,--get over it without calling in the doctor."
He grinned. "It is a most amiable disease. The only medicine
necessary is soda water and ice cream, with a few pills in the shape
of chocolate caramels or marshmallows, taken at all hours and in
large doses."
Mrs. Strong's eyes softened as she looked out of the window. A
faraway, wistful expression lurked in them.
"Those were wonderful days, Mr. Thane,--when those two children
were growing up." She sighed. "David is four years older than Alix,
but ever since she was a tiny child she seemed older than he was.
I guess it was because he was so big and strong that he just couldn't
bear to lord it over her like most boys do with girls. He was kind
of like a big shepherd dog. Always watching over her and--dear
me, I'll never forget the time they got lost in the woods up above
here. That was when she was about seven. They were not found till
next morning. We had everybody for miles around beating the woods
for them all night long. Well, sir, that boy had taken off his coat
and put it on her, and his stockings too, and he had even removed
his shirt to make a sort of muffler to wrap around her throat,
because she always had sore throats and croup when she was a child.
And when the men found them, he was sitting up against a tree sound
asleep, almost frozen stiff, with her in his lap and his cold little
arms around her. It was late in September and the nights were cold.
Then there was the time when she fell off the side of the ferry
boat and he jumped in after her,--with his best suit on, the little
rascal,--and held her up till Josh Wilson stopped the ferry and
old Mr. White, who was crossing with his team, managed to throw a
buggy rein out to him and pull him in. The water out there in the
middle of the river is ten feet deep, Mr. Thane, and David was
just learning how to swim. And they BOTH had croup that night. My
goodness, I thought that boy was going to die. But, my land, that
seems ages ago. Here they are, a grown, man and woman, and probably
don't even remember those happy days."
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