Seventeen [58]
advent of apprehension upon the sensitive brow of William, he went on reassuringly: ``He's doin' as well as anybody could expect; that is-- after the crazy way he DID! He's always been considered the dumbest one in all our relations-- never did know how to act. I don't mean he's exactly not got his senses, or ought to be watched, anything like that--and of course he belongs to an awful good family--but he's just kind of the black sheep when it comes to intelligence, or anything like that. I got him as comfortable as a person could be, and they're givin' him hot water and mustard and stuff, but what he needs now is just to be kind of quiet. It'll do him a lot o' good,'' Johnnie concluded, with a spark in his voice, ``to lay there the rest of the afternoon and get quieted down, kind of.''
``You don't think there's any--'' William began, and, after a pause, continued--``any hope --of his getting strong enough to come out and dance afterwhile?''
Johnnie shook his head. ``None in the world!'' he said, conclusively. ``The best we can do for him is to let him entirely alone till after supper, and then ask nobody to sit on the back seat of the trolley-car goin' home, so we can make him comfortable back there, and let him kind of stretch out by himself.''
Then gaily tinkled harp, gaily sang flute and violin! Over the greensward William lightly bore his lady, while radiant was the cleared sky above the happy dancers. William's fingers touched those delicate fingers; the exquisite face smiled rosily up to him; undreamable sweetness beat rhythmically upon his glowing ears; his feet moved in a rhapsody of companionship with hers. They danced and danced and danced!
Then Joe danced with her, while William and Johnnie stood with hands upon each other's shoulders and watched, mayhap with longing, but without spite; then Johnnie danced with her while Joe and William watched--and then William danced with her again.
So passed the long, ineffable afternoon away-- ah, Seventeen!
``. . . 'Jav a good time at the trolley-party?'' the clerk in the corner drug-store inquired that evening.
``Fine!'' said William, taking his overcoat from the hook where he had left it.
``How j' like them Little Sweethearts I sold you?''
``FINE!'' said William.
XXII
FORESHADOWINGS
Now the last rose had blown; the dandelion globes were long since on the wind; gladioli and golden-glow and salvia were here; the season moved toward asters and the goldenrod. This haloed summer still idled on its way, yet all the while sped quickly; like some languid lady in an elevator.
There came a Sunday--very hot.
Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, having walked a scorched half-mile from church, drooped thankfully into wicker chairs upon their front porch, though Jane, who had accompanied them, immediately darted away, swinging her hat by its ribbon and skipping as lithesomely as if she had just come forth upon a cool morning.
``I don't know how she does it!'' her father moaned, glancing after her and drying his forehead temporarily upon a handkerchief. ``That would merely kill me dead, after walking in this heat.''
Then, for a time, the two were content to sit in silence, nodding to occasional acquaintances who passed in the desultory after-church procession. Mr. Baxter fanned himself with sporadic little bursts of energy which made his straw hat creak, and Mrs. Baxter sighed with the heat, and gently rocked her chair.
But as a group of five young people passed along the other side of the street Mr. Baxter abruptly stopped fanning himself, and, following the direction of his gaze, Mrs. Baxter ceased to rock. In half-completed attitudes they leaned slightly forward, sharing one of those pauses of parents who unexpectedly behold their offspring.
``My soul!'' said William's father. ``Hasn't that girl gone home YET?''
``He looks pale to me,'' Mrs. Baxter murmured, absently. ``I don't think he seems at all well, lately.''
During seventeen years Mr. Baxter had gradually learned not to protest anxieties of this kind, unless he
``You don't think there's any--'' William began, and, after a pause, continued--``any hope --of his getting strong enough to come out and dance afterwhile?''
Johnnie shook his head. ``None in the world!'' he said, conclusively. ``The best we can do for him is to let him entirely alone till after supper, and then ask nobody to sit on the back seat of the trolley-car goin' home, so we can make him comfortable back there, and let him kind of stretch out by himself.''
Then gaily tinkled harp, gaily sang flute and violin! Over the greensward William lightly bore his lady, while radiant was the cleared sky above the happy dancers. William's fingers touched those delicate fingers; the exquisite face smiled rosily up to him; undreamable sweetness beat rhythmically upon his glowing ears; his feet moved in a rhapsody of companionship with hers. They danced and danced and danced!
Then Joe danced with her, while William and Johnnie stood with hands upon each other's shoulders and watched, mayhap with longing, but without spite; then Johnnie danced with her while Joe and William watched--and then William danced with her again.
So passed the long, ineffable afternoon away-- ah, Seventeen!
``. . . 'Jav a good time at the trolley-party?'' the clerk in the corner drug-store inquired that evening.
``Fine!'' said William, taking his overcoat from the hook where he had left it.
``How j' like them Little Sweethearts I sold you?''
``FINE!'' said William.
XXII
FORESHADOWINGS
Now the last rose had blown; the dandelion globes were long since on the wind; gladioli and golden-glow and salvia were here; the season moved toward asters and the goldenrod. This haloed summer still idled on its way, yet all the while sped quickly; like some languid lady in an elevator.
There came a Sunday--very hot.
Mr. and Mrs. Baxter, having walked a scorched half-mile from church, drooped thankfully into wicker chairs upon their front porch, though Jane, who had accompanied them, immediately darted away, swinging her hat by its ribbon and skipping as lithesomely as if she had just come forth upon a cool morning.
``I don't know how she does it!'' her father moaned, glancing after her and drying his forehead temporarily upon a handkerchief. ``That would merely kill me dead, after walking in this heat.''
Then, for a time, the two were content to sit in silence, nodding to occasional acquaintances who passed in the desultory after-church procession. Mr. Baxter fanned himself with sporadic little bursts of energy which made his straw hat creak, and Mrs. Baxter sighed with the heat, and gently rocked her chair.
But as a group of five young people passed along the other side of the street Mr. Baxter abruptly stopped fanning himself, and, following the direction of his gaze, Mrs. Baxter ceased to rock. In half-completed attitudes they leaned slightly forward, sharing one of those pauses of parents who unexpectedly behold their offspring.
``My soul!'' said William's father. ``Hasn't that girl gone home YET?''
``He looks pale to me,'' Mrs. Baxter murmured, absently. ``I don't think he seems at all well, lately.''
During seventeen years Mr. Baxter had gradually learned not to protest anxieties of this kind, unless he