That evening at the supper table, Mr. Pollock politely informed him that Alix Crown had returned from Michigan, looking as fit as a fiddle.
"You've been so sort of curious about her, Court?" (it had not taken the male boarders long to dispense with formalities), "that I thought you'd be interested in knowing that she's home. Got back last evening. Her Packard automobile met her at the depot up in the city. You'll know her when you see her. Tall girl and fairly good-looking. Puts on an awful lot of 'dog.' What is it you fellows in the Army call it? Swunk?"
"Swank," said Courtney, rather shortly. He was still smarting under the sting of his afternoon's experience.
"Lemme help you to some more squash, Mr. Thane," said Margaret Slattery in his ear. "And another biscuit."
"Thank you, no," said he.
"What's the matter with your appetite?" she demanded. "You ain't hardly touched anything this evenin'. Sick?"
"I'm not hungry, Margaret."
"Been out in the sun too much, that's what's the matter with you. First thing you know you'll get a sunstroke, and THEN! My Uncle Mike was sunstruck when I was—"
"Pass me the biscuits, Maggie, and don't be all night about it," put in Mr. Webster. "I'm hungry, even if Court isn't. I can distinctly remember when you used to pass everything to me first, and almost stuff it—"
"Yes, and she used to do the same for me before you shaved off your chin whiskers, Charlie," said Mr. Hatch gloomily. "How times have changed."
"It ain't the times that's changed," said Margaret. "It's you men. You ain't what you used to be, lemme tell you that."
"True,—oh so true," lamented Mr. Webster. "I used to be nice and thin and graceful before you began showering me with attention. Now look at me. You put something like fifty pounds on me, and then you desert me. I was a handsome feller when I first came here, wasn't I, Flora? I leave it to you if I wasn't."
"I don't remember how you looked when you first came here," replied Miss Grady loftily.
"Can you beat that?" cried Charlie to Courtney across the table. "And she used to say I was the handsomest young feller she'd ever laid eyes on. Used to say I looked like,—who was it you used to say I looked like, Flora?"
"The only thing I ever said you looked like was a mud fence, Charlie Webster."
"What did she say, Pa? Hey?" This from old Mrs. Nichols, holding her hand to her ear. "What are they laughing at?"
"She says Charlie looks like a mud fence," shouted old Mr. Nichols, his lips close to her ear.
"His pants? What about his pants?"
This time Courtney joined in the laugh.
After supper he sat on the front porch with the Pollocks and Miss Grady. It was a warm, starry night. Charlie Webster and Doc Simpson had strolled off down the street. Mr. Hatch and Miss Miller sat in the parlour.
"She's going to land Furman Hatch, sure as you're a foot high," confided Mr. Pollock, with a significant jerk of his head in the direction of the parlour.
"Heaven knows she's been trying long enough," said Miss Grady. "I heard him ask Doc and Charlie to wait for him, but she nabbed him before he could get out. Now he's got to sit in there and listen to her tell about how interested she is in art,—and him just dyin' for a smoke. Why, there's Alix Crown now. She's comin' in here."
A big touring car drew up to the sidewalk in front of the Tavern. Miss Crown sprang lightly out of the seat beside the chauffeur and came up the steps.
"How do you do, Mrs. Pollock? Hello, Flora. Good evening, Mr. Editor," was her cheery greeting as she passed by and entered the house.
"She comes around every once in a while and takes the Dowd girls out riding in her car," explained Mrs. Pollock.
"Mighty nice of her," said Mr. Pollock, taking his feet down from the porch-rail and carefully brushing the cigar ashes off of his coat sleeve. "Takes old Alaska Spigg out too, and the Nicholses, and—"
"We've been out with her a great many times," broke in Mrs. Pollock. "I think a Packard is a wonderful car, don't you, Mr. Thane? So smooth and—"
"I think I'll take a little stroll," said Courtney abruptly; and snatching up his hat from the floor beside his chair he hurried down the steps.
She had not even glanced at him as she crossed the porch. He had the very uneasy conviction that so far as she was concerned he might just as well not have been there at all. In the early dusk, her face was clearly revealed to him. There was nothing cold or unfriendly about it now. Instead, her smile was radiant; her eyes,—even in the subdued light,—glowed with pleasure. Her voice was clear and soft and singularly appealing. In the afternoon's encounter he had been struck by its unexpected combination of English and American qualities; the sharp querulousness of the English and the melodious drawl of the American were strangely blended, and although there had been castigation in her words and manner, he took away with him the disturbing memory of a voice he was never to forget. And now he had seen the smile that even the most envious of her kind described as "heavenly." It was broad and wholesome and genuine. There was a flash of white, even teeth between warm red lips, a gleam of merriment in the half-closed eyes, a gay tilt to the bare, shapely head. Her dark hair was coiled neatly, and the ears were exposed. He liked her ears. He remembered them as he had seen them in the afternoon, fairly large, shapely and close to the head. No need for her to follow the prevailing fashion of the day! She had no reason to hide her ears beneath a mat of hair.
In the evening glow her face was gloriously beautiful,—clear-cut as a cameo, warm as a rose. It was no longer clouded with anger. She seemed taller. The smart riding costume had brought her trim figure into direct contrast with his own height and breadth, and she had looked like a slim, half-grown boy beside his six feet and over. Now, in her black and white checked sport skirt and dark sweater jacket, she was revealed as a woman quite well above the average height.
He was standing in front of the drug store when the big car went by a few minutes later, filled with people. She was driving, the chauffeur sitting in the seat beside her. In the tonneau he observed the two Dowd sisters, Mr. and Mrs. Pollock and Flora Grady.
As the car whizzed by, A. Lincoln Pollock espied him. Waving his hand triumphantly, the editor called out:
"Hello, Court!"
The object of this genial shout did not respond by word or action. He looked to see if the girl at the wheel turned her head for a glance in his direction. She did not, and he experienced a fresh twinge of annoyance. He muttered something under his breath. The car disappeared around a bend as he turned to enter the store.
"That was Alix Crown, Court," remarked Charlie Webster from the doorway. "Little too dark to get a good look at her, but wait till she flashes across you in broad daylight some time. She'll make you forget all those Fifth Avenue skirts so quick your head'll swim."
"Is THAT so?" retorted Courtney, allowing rancour to get the better of fairness. Down in his heart he had said that Alix Crown was the loveliest girl he had ever seen. "What do you know about Fifth Avenue?"
Charlie Webster grinned amiably. He was not offended by the other's tone.
"Well, I've seen it in the movies," he explained. "What are you sore about?"
"Sore? I'm not sore. What put that into your head?"
The rotund superintendent of the elevator fanned himself lazily with his straw hat.
"If I was fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter," said he, "I'd be sore too. But what's the use of a fat old slob like me getting peeved because Miss Alix Crown don't happen to notice me? Oh, we're great friends and all that, mind you, and she thinks a lot of me,—as manager of her grain elevator. Same as she thinks a lot of Jim Bagley, her superintendent,—and Ed Stevens, her chauffeur, and so on. Now, as for you, it's different. You're from New York and it goes against the grain to be overlooked, you might say, by a girl from Indiana. Oh, I know what you New Yorkers think of Indiana,—and all that therein is, as the Scriptures would say. You think that nothing but boobs and corn-fed squaws come from Indiana, but if you hang around long enough you'll find you're mistaken. This state is full of girls like Alix Crown,—bright, smart, good-looking girls that have been a hell of a ways farther east than New York. Of course, there are boobs like me and Doc Simpson and Tintype Hatch who get up to Chicago once every three or four years and have to sew our return trip tickets inside our belly-bands so's we can be sure of getting back home after Chicago gets through admiring us, but now since prohibition has come in I don't know but what we're as bright and clever as anybody else. Most of the fellers I've run across in Chicago seem to be brightest just after they change feet on the rail and ask the bartender if he knows how to make a cucumber cocktail, or something else as clever as that. But that ain't what we were talking about. We were talking about—"
"I wasn't talking about anything," interrupted Courtney.
"Oh, yes, you were," said Charlie. "Not out loud, of course,—but talking just the same. You were talking about Alix Crown and the way she forgot to invite you to take a ride with the rest of—"
"See here, Webster,—are you trying to be offensive?"
"Offensive? Lord, no! I'm just TELLING you, that's all. On the level now, am I right or wrong?"
"I do not know Miss Crown," replied Thane stiffly. "Why should I expect her to ask me,—a total stranger,—to go out in her car?"
"Didn't Maude Pollock introduce you a while ago?"
"No," said the other succinctly.
"Well, by gosh, that ain't like Maude," exclaimed Charlie. "I'd 'a' bet two dollars she said 'I want to present my friend from New York, Mr. Courtney Thane, the distinguished aviator, Miss Crown,' or something like that. I can't understand Maude missing a chance like that. She just LOVES it."
Courtney smiled. "I daresay she wasn't quick enough," he said drily. "Miss Crown was in a hurry. And I left before she came out of the house. Now is your curiosity satisfied?"
"Absolutely," said Charlie. "Now I'll sleep soundly tonight. I was afraid the darned thing would keep me awake all night. Remember me saying I had a small stock hid away up in my room? What say to going up,—now that the coast is clear,—and having a nip or two?"
"No, thanks, old man. I don't drink. Doctor's orders. Besides, I've got some letters to write. I'll walk home with you if you're ready to go."
II — Mr. Webster shook his head sadly. "That's the one drawback to livin' in Windomville," he said. "People either want to drink too much or they don't want to drink at all. Nobody wants to drink in moderation. Now, here's you, for instance. You look like a feller that could kiss a highball or two without compromising yourself, and there's Hatch that has to hold his nose so's he won't get drunk if he comes within ten feet of a glass of whiskey." They were strolling slowly toward the Tavern. "Now you up and claim you're on the water wagon. I'd been counting on you, Court,—I certainly had. The last time I took Hatch and Doc Simpson up to my room,—that was on the Fourth of last July,—I had to sleep on the floor. Course, if I was skinny like Doc and Hatch that wouldn't have been necessary. But I can't bear sleepin' three in a bed. Doctor's orders, eh? That comes of livin' in New York. There ain't a doctor in Indiana that would stoop so low as that,—not one. Look at old man Nichols. He's eighty-two years old and up to about a year ago he never missed a day without taking a couple o' swigs of rye. He swears he wouldn't have lived to be more than seventy-five if he hadn't taken his daily nip. That shows how smart and sensible our doctors are out here. They—"
"By the way, Mrs. Nichols appears to be a remarkably well-preserved old lady,—aside from her hearing. How old is she?"
"Eighty-three. Wonderful old woman."
"I suppose she has always had her daily swig of rye."
Charlie Webster was silent for a moment. He had to think. This was a very serious and unexpected complication.
"What did you say?" he inquired, fencing for time.
"Has she always been a steady drinker, like the old man?"
Charlie was a gentleman. He sighed.
"I guess it's time to change the subject," he said. "The only way you could get a spoonful of whiskey down that old woman would be to chloroform her. If I'm any good at guessin', she'll outlive the old man by ten years,—so what's the sense of me preachin' to you about the life preserving virtues of booze? Oh, Lordy! There's another of my best arguments knocked galley-west. It's no use. I've been playing old man Nichols for nearly fifteen years as a bright and shining light, and he turns out to be nothing but a busted flush. She's had eleven children and he's never had anything worse than a headache, and, by gosh, he's hangin' onto her with both hands for support to keep his other foot from slippin' into the grave. But,"—and here his face brightened suddenly,—"there's one thing to be said, Court. She didn't consult any darned fool doctor about it."
Courtney was ashamed of his churlishness toward this good-natured little man.
"Say no more, Charlie. I'll break my rule this once if it will make you feel any better. One little drink, that's all,—in spite of the doctor. He's a long way off, and I daresay he'll never know the difference. Lead the way, old chap. Anything to cheer up a disconsolate comrade."
A few minutes later they were in Webster's room, second floor back. The highly gratified host had lighted the kerosene lamp on the table in the centre of the room, and pulled down the window shades. Then, putting his fingers to his lips to enjoin silence, he tip-toed to the door and threw it open suddenly. After peering into the hall and listening intently for a moment, he cautiously closed it again.
"All's well, as the watchman says at midnight," he remarked, as he drew his key ring from his hip pocket and selected a key with unerring precision from the extensive assortment. "I always do that," he added. "I don't suppose it was necessary tonight, because Angie Miller has got Hatch where he can't possibly escape. Long as she knows where he is, she don't do much snooping. She used to be the same way with me,—and Doc, too, for that matter. Poor Hatch,—setting down there in the parlour,—listening to her talk about birds and flowers and trying to help her guess what she's going to give him for next Christmas. It's hell to be a bachelor, Court."
He unlocked a trunk in the corner of the room, and after lifting out two trays produced a half empty whiskey bottle.
"I had a dozen of these to begin with," said he, holding the bottle up to the light. "Dollar sixty a quart. Quite a nifty little stock, eh?"
"Is that all you have left?"
Charlie scratched his ear reflectively.
"Well, you see, I've had a good deal of toothache lately," he announced. "And as soon as Doc Simpson and Hatch found out about it, they begin to complain about their teeth achin' too. Seemed to be a sort of epidemic of toothache, Court. Nothing like whiskey for the toothache, you know."
"But Simpson is a dentist. Why don't you have him treat your teeth?"
"Seems as though he'd sooner have me treat his," said Charlie, with a slight grimace. Rummaging about in the top tray of the trunk, he produced a couple of bar glasses, which he carefully rinsed at the washstand. "Tastes better when you drink it out of a regular glass," he explained. "Always seems sort of cowardly to me to take it with water,—almost as if you were trying to drown it so's it won't be able to bite back when you tackle it. Needn't mind sayin' 'when' The glass holds just so much, and I know enough to stop when it begins to run over. Well! Here's hoping your toothache will be better in the morning, Court."
"I don't think I ought to rob you like this, Charlie,—"
"Lord, man, you're not robbing me. If you're robbing anybody, it's Doc Simpson,—and he's been absolutely free from toothache ever since I told him this room was dry. Excuse me a second, Court. I always propose a toast before I take a drink up here. Here's to Miss Alix Crown, the finest girl in the U. S. A., and the best boss a man ever had. Course I've never said that in a saloon, but up here it's different,—and kind of sacred."
"I usually make a wry face when I drink it neat like this," said Courtney.
"You'll like her just as well as I do when you get to know her, boy. I've known her since she was a little kid,—long before she was sent abroad,—and she's the salt of the earth. That's one thing on which Doc and Hatch and me always agree. We differ on most everything else, but—well, as I was saying, you wait till you get to know her."
He tossed off the whiskey in one prodigious gulp, smacked his lips, and then stood watching his guest drink his.
Tears came into Courtney's eyes as he drained the last drop of the fiery liquid. A shudder distorted his face.
"Pretty hot stuff, eh?" observed Charlie sympathetically.
Courtney's reply was a nod of the head, speech being denied him.
"Don't try to talk yet," said Charlie, as if admonishing a child who has choked on a swallow of water. "Anyhow," he went on quaintly, after a moment, "it makes you forget all about your toothache, don't it?"
The other cleared his throat raucously. "Now I know why the redskins call it fire water," said he.
"Have another?"
"Not on your life," exclaimed the New Yorker. "Put it back in the trunk,—and lock it up!"
"No sooner said than done," said Charlie amicably. "Now I'll pull up the shades and let in a little of our well-known hoosier atmosphere,—and some real moonshine. Hello! There go Hatch and Angie, out for a stroll. Yep! She's got him headed toward Foster's soda water joint. I'll bet every tooth in his head is achin'."
"How long have you been running the grain elevator, Charlie?"
"Ever since David Windom built it, back in 1897,—twenty-two years. I took a few months off in '98, expecting to see something of Cuba, but the darned Spaniards surrendered when they heard I was on the way, so I never got any farther than Indianapolis. Twenty-two years. That's almost as long as Alix Crown has lived altogether."
"Have you ever seen the grave at the top of Quill's Window?"
"When I first came here, yes. Nobody ever goes up there now. In the first place, she don't like it, and in the second place, most people in these parts are honourable. We wouldn't any more think of trespassin' up there than we'd think of pickin' somebody's pocket. Besides which, there's supposed to be rattlesnakes up there among the rocks. And besides that, the place is haunted."
"Haunted? I understood it was the old Windom house that is haunted."
"Well, spooks travel about a bit, being restless sort of things. Thirty or forty years back, people swore that old Quill and the other people who croaked up there used to come back during the dark of the moon and hold high revels, as the novel writers would say. Strange to say, they suddenly stopped coming back when the sheriff snook up there one night with a couple of deputies and arrested a gang of male and female mortals and confiscated a couple of kegs of beer at the same time. Shortly after old David Windom confessed that he killed Alix's father and buried him on the rock, people begin to talk about seeing things again. Funny that Eddie Crown's ghost neglected to come back till after he'd been dead eighteen years or so. Ghosts ain't usually so considerate. Nobody ever claims to have seen him floating around the old Windom front yard before Mr. Windom confessed. But, by gosh, the story hadn't been printed in the newspapers for more than two days before George Heffner saw Eddie in the front yard, plain as day, and ran derned near a mile and a half past his own house before he could stop, as he told some one that met him when he stopped for breath. Course, that story sort of petered out when George's wife went down and cowhided a widow who lived just a mile and a half south of their place, and that night George kept on running so hard the other way that he's never been heard of since. Since then there hasn't been much talk about ghosts,—'specially among the married men."
"And the rattlesnakes?" said Courtney, grinning.
"Along about 1875 David Windom killed a couple of rattlers up there. It's only natural that their ghosts should come back, same as anybody else's. Far as I can make out, nobody has ever actually seen one, but the Lord only knows how many people claim to have heard 'em."
He went on in this whimsical fashion for half an hour or more, and finally came back to Alix Crown again.
"She did an awful lot of good during the war,—contributed to everything, drove an ambulance in New York, took up nursing, and all that, and if the war hadn't been ended by you fellers when it was, she'd have been over in France, sure as you're a foot high."
"Strange she hasn't married, young and rich and beautiful as she is," mused Courtney.
"Plenty of fellers been after her all right. She don't seem to be able to see 'em though. Now that the war's over maybe she'll settle down and pay some attention to sufferin' humanity. There's one thing sure. If she's got a beau he don't belong around these parts. Nobody around here's got a look-in."
"Does she live all alone in that house up there? I mean, has she no—er—chaperon?"
"Nancy Strong is keeping house for her,—her husband used to run the blacksmith shop here and did all of David Windom's work for him. He's been dead a good many years. Nancy is one of the finest women you ever saw. Her father was an Episcopal minister up in the city up to the time he died. Nancy had to earn her own living, so she got a job as school teacher down here. Let's see, that was over thirty years ago. Been here ever since. Tom Strong wasn't good enough for her. Too religious. He was the feller that led the mob that wiped out Tony Zimmerman's saloon soon after I came here. I'll never forget that night. I happened to be in the saloon,—just out of curiosity, because it was new and everybody was dropping in to see the bar and fixtures he'd got from Chicago,—but I got out of a back window in plenty of time. But as I was saying, Nancy Strong keeps house for Alix. She's got a cook and a second girl besides, and a chauffeur."
"An ideal arrangement," said Courtney, looking at his wrist-watch.
"I wonder if you ever came across Nancy Strong's son over in France. He was in the Medical Corps in our Army. He's a doctor. Went to Rush Medical College in Chicago and afterwards to some place in the East,—John Hopkins or some such name as that. Feller about your age, I should say. David Strong. Mr. Windom sent him through college. They say he's paying the money back to Alix Crown as fast as he makes it. Alix hates him worse'n poison, according to Jim Bagley, her foreman. Of course, she don't let on to David's mother on account of her being housekeeper and all. Seems that Alix is as sore as can be because he insists on paying the money to her, when she claims her grandpa gave it to him and it's none of her business. Davy says he promised to pay Mr. Windom back as soon as he was able, and can't see any reason why the old man's death should cancel the obligation. Jim was telling me some time ago about the letter Alix showed him from Davy. She was so mad she actually cried. He said in so many words he didn't choose to be beholden to her, and that he was in the habit of paying his debts, and she needn't be so high and mighty about refusin' to accept the money. He said he didn't accept anything from Mr. Windom as charity,—claiming it was a loan,—and he'd be damned if he'd accept charity from her. I don't believe he swore like that, but then Jim can't say good morning to you without getting in a cuss word or two. Alix is as stubborn as all get out. Jim says that every time she gets a cheque from Davy she cashes it and hands the money over to Mrs. Strong for a present, never letting on to Nancy that it came from Davy. Did I say that Davy is practisin' in Philadelphia? He was back here for a week to see his mother after he got out of the Army, but when Alix heard he was coming she beat it up to Chicago. I thought maybe you might have run across him over in France."
"I was not with the American Army,—and besides there were several million men in France, Charlie," said Courtney, arising and stretching himself. "Well, good night. Thanks for the uplift. I'll skip along now and write a letter or two."
"Snappy dreams," said Charlie Webster.
Just as Courtney was closing a long letter to his mother, the automobile drew up in front of the Tavern and Alix Crown's guests got out. There were "good-nights" and "sleep-tights" and then the car went purring down the dimly lighted road. He had no trouble in distinguishing Alix's clear, young voice, and thereupon added the following words of comfort to his faraway mother: "You will love her voice, mater dear. It's like music. So put away your prejudice and wish me luck. I've made a good start. The fact that she refused to look at me on the porch tonight is the best sign in the world. Just because she deliberately failed to notice me is no sign that she didn't expect me to notice her. It is an ancient and time-honoured trick of your adorable sex."
III — The next morning his walk took him up the lane past the charming, red-brick house of Alix the Third. His leg was troubling him. He walked with quite a pronounced limp, and there were times when his face winced with pain.
"It's that confounded poison you gave me last night," he announced to Charlie Webster as they stood chatting in front of the warehouse office.
"First time I ever heard of booze going to the knee," was Charlie's laconic rejoinder. "It's generally aimed at the head."
He made good use of the corner of his eye as he strolled leisurely past the Windom house, set well back at the top of a small tree-surrounded knoll and looking down upon the grassy slope that formed the most beautiful "front yard" in the whole county, according to the proud and boastful denizens of Windomville. Along the bottom of the lawn ran a neatly trimmed privet hedge. There were lilac bushes in the lower corners of the extensive grounds, and the wide gravel walk up to the house was lined with flowers. Rose bushes guarded the base of the terrace that ran the full length of the house and curved off to the back of it.
A red and yellow beach umbrella, tilted against the hot morning sun, lent a gay note of colour to the terrace to the left of the steps. Some one,—a woman,—sat beneath the big sunshade, reading a newspaper. A Belgian police dog posed at the top of the steps, as rigid as if shaped of stone, regarding the passer-by who limped. Halfway between the house and the road stood two fine old oaks, one at either side of the lawn. Their cool, alluring shadows were like clouds upon an emerald sea. Down near the hedge a whirling garden spray cast its benevolent waters over the grateful turf, and, reaching out in playful gusts, blew its mist into the face of the man outside. Back of the house and farther up the timbered slope rose a towering windmill and below it the red water tank, partially screened by the tree-tops. The rhythmic beat of a hydraulic pump came to the stroller's ears.
Courtney's saunterings had taken him past this charming place before,—half a dozen times perhaps,—but never had it seemed so alluring. Outwardly there was no change that he could detect, and yet there was a subtle difference in its every aspect. The spray, the shadows, the lazy windmill, the flowers,—he had seen them all before, just as they were this morning. They had not changed. But now, by some strange wizardry, the tranquil setting had been transformed into a vibrant, exquisite fairyland, throbbing with life, charged with an appeal to every one of the senses. It was as if some hand had shaken it out of a sound sleep.
But, for that matter, the whole village of Windomville had undergone a change. It was no longer the dull, sleepy place of yesterday. Over night it had blossomed. Courtney Thane alone was aware of this amazing transformation. It was he who felt the thrill that charged the air, who breathed in the sense-quickening spice, who heard the pipes of Pan. All these signs of enchantment were denied the matter-of-fact, unimaginative inhabitants of Windomville. And you would ask the cause of this amazing transformation?
Before he left the breakfast table Courtney had consented to give a talk before the Literary Society on the coming Friday night. Mrs. Maude Baggs Pollock had been at him for a week to tell of his experiences at the front. She promised a full attendance.
"I've never made a speech in my life," he said, "and I know I'd be scared stiff, Mrs. Pollock."
"Pooh! Don't you talk to me about being scared! Anybody who did the things you did over in France—"
"Ah, but you forget I was armed to the teeth," he reminded her, with a grin.
"Well," put in Charlie Webster, "we'll promise to leave our pistols at home. The only danger you'll be in, Court, will come from a lot of hysterical women trying to kiss you, but I think I can fix it to have the best lookin' ones up in front so that—"
"I wish you wouldn't always try to be funny, Charlie Webster," snapped Mrs. Pollock. "Mr. Thane and I were discussing a serious matter. If you can postpone—"
"I defy anybody to prove that there's anything funny about being kissed by practically half the grown-up population of Windomville with the other half lookin' on and cussin' under their breath."
"Don't pay any attention to him, Mr. Thane," said the poetess of Windomville. "Alix Crown said last night she was coming to the meeting this week, and I'd so like to surprise her. Now please say you will do it."
"I really wouldn't know what to talk about," pleaded the young man. "You see, as a rule, we fellows who were over there don't feel half as well qualified to talk about the war as those who stayed at home and read about it in the papers."
"Nonsense! All you will have to do is just to tell some of your own personal experiences. Nobody's going to think you are bragging about them. We'll understand."
"Next Friday night, you say? Well, I'll try, Mrs. Pollock, if you'll promise to chloroform Charlie Webster," said he, and Charlie promptly declared he would do the chloroforming himself.
The meetings of the Literary Society were held once a month in the Windomville schoolhouse, a two story brick building situated some distance back from the main street at the upper edge of the town. There were four classrooms and three teachers, including the principal, Miss Angie Miller, who taught the upper grade. Graduates from her "room" were given diplomas admitting them to the first year of High School in the city hard-by in case they desired to take advantage of the privilege. As a rule, however, the parents of such children were satisfied to call it an honour rather than a privilege, with the result that but few of them ever saw the inside of the High School. They were looked upon as being quite sufficiently educated for all that Windomville could possibly expect or exact of them. When the old schoolhouse was destroyed by fire in the winter of 1916, Alix Crown contributed fifteen thousand dollars toward the construction of this new and more or less modern structure, with the provision that the town board should appropriate the balance needed to complete the building. On completion the schoolhouse was found to have cost exactly $14,989.75, and so, at the next township election, the board was unanimously returned to office by an appreciative constituency, and Miss Crown graciously notified by the assessor that she had been credited with ten dollars and twenty-five cents against her next year's road tax.
The Literary Society always met in Miss Miller's "room," not because it was more imposing or commodious than any of the others but on account of its somewhat rarified intellectual atmosphere. Miss Angie's literary attainments, while confined to absorption rather than to production, were well known. She was supposed to have read all of the major poets. At any rate she was able to quote them. Besides, she had made a study of Dickens and Thackeray and Trollope, being qualified to discuss the astonishing shortcomings of those amiable mid-Victorians in a most dependable manner. She made extensive use of the word "erudite," and confused a great many people by employing "vicarious" and "didactic" and "raison d'etre" in the course of ordinary conversation. For example, in complaining to Mr. Hodges, the school trustee, about the lack of heat in mid-January, she completely subdued him be remarking that there wasn't "the least raison d'etre for such a condition." In view of these and other intellectual associations, Miss Miller's "room" was obviously the place for the Literary Society to meet.
Mr. George Ade, Mr. Booth Tarkington, Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, Mr. Meredith Nicholson and other noted Indiana authors had been invited to "read from their works" before the Society, and while none of them had been able to accept, each and every one had written a polite note of regret to the secretary, who not only read them aloud to the Society but preserved them in her own private scrap book and spoke feelingly of her remarkable "collection."
The room was crowded to hear the "celebrated air-man" relate his experiences at the front. The exercises were delayed for nearly an hour while Mr. Hatch, the photographer, prepared and foozled three attempts to get a flashlight picture of the gathering. Everybody was coughing violently when A. Lincoln Pollock arose to introduce the speaker of the evening. In conclusion he said:
"Mr. Thane was not only wounded in the service of humanity but he was also gassed. I wish to state here and now that it was not laughing gas the Germans administered. Far from it, my friends. Mr. Thane will tell you that it was no laughing matter. He has come to God's own country to recuperate and to regain his once robust health. After looking the world over, he chose the health-giving climate of his native state,—ahem! I should say, his father's native state,—and here he is not only thriving but enjoying himself. I take it upon myself to announce that he left all of his medals at his home in New York. They are too precious to be carried promiscuously about the country. It is my pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce to you one of the real heroes of the Great War, Mr. Courtney Thane, of New York City, who will now speak to you."
Alix Crown sat at the back of the room. There were no chairs, of course. Each person present occupied a scholar's seat and desk. Courtney had seen her come in. She was so late that he began to fear she was not coming at all. The little thrill of exultation that came with her arrival was shortly succeeded by an even greater fear that she would depart as soon as the meeting was over, without stopping to meet him at the "reception" which was to follow.
In his most agreeable drawl and with the barest reference to his own exploits, he described, quite simply, a number of incidents that had come under his personal observation while with the American Ambulance and afterwards in the British Flying Corps. Most of his talk was devoted to the feats of others and to the description of scenes and events somewhat remote from the actual fighting zone. He confessed that he knew practically nothing of the work of the American Expeditionary Force, except by hearsay, as he did not come in contact with the American armies, except an occasional unit brigaded with British troops in the Cambrai section of the great line. His listeners, no doubt, knew a great deal more about the activities and achievements of the Americans than he, so he was quite sure there was nothing he could say that would interest or enlighten them. In concluding he very briefly touched upon his own mishap.
"We were returning from a bombing flight over the German positions when somebody put a bullet into our petrol and down we came in flames. There was a gas attack going on at the time. We managed to land in a cloud of it, and—somehow we got back to our own lines, a little the worse for wear and all that sort of thing, you know. It wasn't as bad as you'd think,—except for the gas, which isn't what you would call palatable,—and I came out not much worse off than a chap who has been through a hard football scrimmage. Knee and ankle bunged up a little,—and a dusty uniform,—that's about all. I hope you will excuse me from talking any longer. My silly throat goes back on me, you see. My mother probably would tell you, 'too many cigarettes.' Perhaps she is right. Thank you for listening to all this rot, ladies and gentlemen. You are very kind to have given me this undeserved honour."
Not once during his remarks did he allow his gaze to rest upon Alix Crown. It was his means of informing her that she had not made the slightest impression upon him.
As he resumed his seat beside Mr. Pollock, and while the generous hand-clapping was still going on, Pastor Mavity arose and benignly waited for the applause to cease. Mr. Mavity invariably claimed the ecclesiastical privilege of speech. No meeting was complete, no topic exhausted, until he had exercised that right. It did not matter whether he had anything pertinent to say, the fact still remained that he felt called upon to say something:
"I should like to ask Mr. Thane if he thinks the Germans are preparing for another war. We have heard rumours to that effect. Many of our keenest observers have declared that it is only a matter of a few years before the Germans will be in a position to make war again, and that they will make it with even greater ferocity than before. We all know of the conflict now raging in Russia, and the amazing rebellion of De Annunzio in Fiume, and the—er—as I was saying, the possibility of the Kaiser seizing his bloody throne and calling upon his minions to—ah—er—renew the gigantic struggle. The history of the world records no such stupendous sacrifice of life on the cruel altars of greed and avarice and—er—ambition. We may turn back to the vast campaigns of Hannibal and Hamilcar and Julius Caesar and find no—er—no war comparable to the one we have so gloriously concluded. Our own Civil War, with all its,—but I must not keep you standing, Mr. Thane. Do you, from your experience and observation, regard another war as inevitable?"
"I do," was Courtney's succinct reply.
There was a distinctly audible flutter throughout the room. Here, at last, was something definite to support the general contention that "we aren't through with the Germans yet." A lady up in front leaned across the aisle and whispered piercingly to her husband:
"There! What did I tell you?"
Another lady arose halfway from her seat and anxiously inquired:
"How soon do you think it will come, Mr. Thane?"
She had a son just turning seventeen.
"That is a question I am afraid you will have to put to God or the German Emperor," said Courtney, with a smile.
"When David Strong was home this spring I asked him what he thought about it," said Editor Pollock. "I published the interview in the Sun. He was of the opinion that the Germans had had all they wanted of war. I tried to convince him that he was all wrong, but all I could get him to say was that if they ever did make war again it would be long after the most of us were dead."
"David Strong didn't see anything of the war except what he saw in the hospitals," said a woman contemptuously.
"Permit me to correct you, Mrs. Primmer," said Alix Crown, without arising. "David Strong was under fire most of the time. He was not in a base hospital. He was attached to a field hospital,—first with the French, then with the British, and afterwards with the Americans."
"In that case," said Courtney, facing her, "he was in the thick of it. Every man in the army, from general down to the humblest private, takes his hat off to the men who served in the field hospitals. While we may differ as to the next war, I do not hesitate to say that Dr. Strong saw infinitely more of the last one than I did. It may sound incredible to you, ladies and gentlemen, but my job was a picnic compared to his. As a matter of fact, I have always claimed that I was in greater danger when I was in the American Ambulance than when I was flying, quite safely, a couple of miles up in the air. At any rate, I FELT safer."
"Oh, but think of falling that distance," cried Miss Angie Miller.
"It was against the rules to think of falling," said he, and every one laughed.
The "reception" followed. Every one came up and shook hands with Courtney and told him how much his address was enjoyed. As the group around him grew thicker and at the same time more reluctant to move on, he began to despair of meeting Alix Crown. He could see her over near the door conversing with Alaska Spigg and Charlie Webster. Then he saw her wave her hand in farewell to some one across the room and bow to Charlie. There was a bright, gay smile on her lips as she said something to Charlie which caused that gentleman to laugh prodigiously. All hope seemed lost as she and little old Alaska turned toward the open door.
It was not fate that intervened. It was Pastor Mavity. Disengaging himself from the group and leaving a profound sentence uncompleted, he dashed over to her, calling out her name as he did so.
"Alix! Just a moment, please!"
She paused,—and Courtney discreetly turned his back. Presently a benevolent hand was laid on his shoulder and the voice of the shepherd fell upon his ear.
"I want you to meet Miss Crown, Mr. Thane. She has just been telling me how interested she was in your remarks. Miss Crown, my very dear friend, Mr. Courtney Thane. Mr. Thane, as you may already know, is sojourning in our midst for—"
"I am delighted to meet you, Miss Crown," broke in Courtney, with an abashed smile. "Formally, I mean. I have a very distinct recollection of meeting you informally," he added wrily.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr. Mavity, elevating his eyebrows.
Courtney's humility disarmed her. She allowed her lips to curve slightly in a faint smile. The merest trace of a dimple flickered for an instant in her smooth cheek.
"I suppose it was the old story of forbidden fruit, Mr. Thane," said she. Then, impulsively, she extended her hand. He clasped it firmly, and there was peace between them.
"On the contrary, Miss Crown, it was an unpardonable piece of impudence, for which I am so heartily ashamed that I wonder how I can look you in the face."
"I was tremendously interested in your talk tonight," she said, coolly dismissing the subject. "Thank you for giving us the pleasure. It is just such adventures as you have had that makes me wish more than ever that I had not been born a girl."
He bowed gallantly. "What would the world be like if God had neglected to create the rose?"
"Bravo!" cried Mr. Mavity, slapping him on the back. "Spoken like a knight of old."
"Good night, Mr. Thane,—and thank you again," she said. Nodding to Mr. Mavity, she turned to leave the group.
Again the parson intervened. "My dear Alix, I can't let you go without saying a word about your splendid defence of David Strong. It was fine. And you, sir, were—ah—what shall I say?—you were most generous in saying what you did. David is a fine fellow. He—"
"I should have said the same about any doctor who was up at the front," said Courtney simply. "Is he an old friend, Miss Crown?"
"I have known him ever since I can remember," she replied, and he detected a slight stiffness in her manner.
"Ahem! Er—ah—" began Mr. Mavity tactfully. "David was born here, Mr. Thane. Well, good night, Alix,—good night."
When she was quite out of hearing, the flustered parson lowered his voice and said to Courtney:
"They—er—don't get along very well, you see. I couldn't explain while she was here. Something to do with money matters,—nothing of consequence, I assure you,—but very distressing, most distressing. It is too bad,—too bad."
Mrs. Pollock overheard. "They're both terribly set in their ways," she remarked. "Stubborn as mules. For my part, I think Alix is too silly for words about it. Especially with his mother living in the same house with her. Now, mind you, I'm not saying anything against Alix. I love her. But just the same, she can be the most unreasonable—"
"They haven't spoken to each other for over three years," inserted Angie Miller. "When they were children they were almost inseparable. David Windom took a fancy to little David. The story is that he was trying to ease his conscience by being nice to a blacksmith's son. You see, his own daughter ran away with a blacksmith's son,—and you've heard what happened, Mr. Thane. David was in my class for two years before he went up to High School, and I remember he always used to get long letters from Alix when she was in England. Then, when she came home,—she was about twelve I think,—they were great friends. Always together, playing, studying, reading, riding and—"
"Everybody used to say old David Windom was doing his best to make a match of it," interrupted Mrs. Pollock, who had been out of the conversation longer than she liked. "Up to the time the old man died, we used to take it for granted that some day they would get married,—but, my goodness, it's like waving a red flag at a bull to even mention his name to Alix now. She hates him,—and I guess he hates her."
"Oh, my dear friend," cried Mr. Mavity, "I really don't think you ought to say that. Hate is a very dreadful word. I am sure Alix is incapable of actually hating any one. And as for David, he is kindness, gentleness itself. It is just one of those unfortunate situations that cannot be accounted for."
Charlie Webster came up at that juncture.
"Say, Court, why didn't you tell 'em about the time you called Colonel What's-His-Name down,—the French guy that—" The scowl on Courtney's brow silenced the genial Charlie. He coughed and sputtered for a moment or two and then said something about "taking a joke."
As Charlie moved away, Miss Angie Miller sniffed and said, without appreciably lowering her voice:
"I wonder where he gets it. There isn't supposed to be a drop in Windomville." Suddenly her eyes flew wide open. "Furman! Oh, Furman Hatch!" she called out to a man who was sidling toward the door in the wake of the pernicious Mr. Webster.
While there was nothing to indicate that Mr. Hatch heard her, the most disinterested spectator would have observed a perceptible acceleration of speed on his part.
"You promised to tell me how to—" But Mr. Hatch was gone. Mr. Webster turned a surprised and resentful look upon him as he felt himself being pushed rather roughly through the door ahead of the hurrying photographer. When Miss Angie reached the door,—she had lost some little time because of the seats and the stupidity of Mrs. Primmer who blocked the way by first turning to the right, then to the left, and finally by not turning at all,—Mr. Hatch was nowhere in sight, even though Mr. Webster was barely two-thirds of the way down the stairs.
A pleasant, courteous voice accosted her from behind as she stood glaring after the chubby warehouseman.
"Do you mind if I walk home with you, Miss Miller?"
"Oh, is—is that you, Mr. Thane?" she fairly gasped. Then she simpered. "I'm really not a bit afraid. Still,"—hastily—"if you really wish to, I should be delighted."
If Mr. Hatch was lurking anywhere in the shadows, he must have been profoundly impressed by the transformation in Miss Angie Miller as she strode homeward at the side of the tall young New Yorker, her hand on his arm, her head held high,—he might also have noticed that she stepped a little higher than usual.