He went and got his hat. With his hand on the swinging door he paused and looked back. Not a head was raised. In the air there hovered a droning, a rustling. It was like a vast, drowsy, slothful thing, ignorant, dull, hateful. He pulled open the door. And then he left it.
Three hours later he was standing in the "Golden Rule" at Bloomfield. Before him was a glass counter wherein were displayed knives and cleavers and scissors and other cutlery. Above the counter, peering at him rather anxiously over steel-rimmed spectacles, were the head and shoulders of Mr. Burrus. Burrus! It had come to him on the train. That was the name he had not caught. Burrus! Who else?
"And you say that the last time you saw him was when he got into his buggy and drove away—last night? What makes you think he's gone away?"
Mr. Burrus had been thoughtfully eyeing his stock of knives through the case and as Joe finished he cast a quick, sidewise glance up at him. Joe caught the flicker of it through the spectacles. "Well," he began, and hesitated a little, "it's what I woulda done—under the circumstances." Mr. Burrus' manner, usually so brisk and business-like, seemed suddenly to have changed. He scratched his head with a long and bony finger and looked up again at Joe. What he saw seemed not to reassure him, for Joe had all of a sudden grown beyond Bloomfield's conception of him. He towered above the cutlery case—seemed to fill out his clothes. There was a set look about his mouth and a steadiness about his eyes. Mr. Burrus paused again.
"Circumstances?" said Joe. "Under what circumstances?"
Mr. Burrus gazed off into the clear blue of the sky patch outlined by his front door. "Well," he began cautiously, "I weren't callatin' to say anything about this to anybody, but—I had to let Bushrod go." The little weazened body with its scrawny neck rising out of the gaping rubber collar, the shiny bald head with its fringe of graying hair about the edge, the white shirt sleeves with the frayed cuffs and the skinny brown hands—a most incongruous disguise for Nemesis to take in passing a pronunciamento.
"Why?" Joe repeated after him softly. "Wasn't he doing his work?"
Another flash-like glance up through the steel-rimmed spectacles. Mr. Burrus appeared to be weighing his words. "No," he considered, "it weren't that." He drummed with his fingers on the glass counter. "He was drunk," he snapped out, and stared sternly off into space. And then as if he felt it becoming of him, he frowned and his adam's-apple moved up and down with quick, spasmodic jerks. But he would not look at Joe.
A moment's silence descended on the shop and the odours of the place, as though set free by that silence, came drifting to Joe's nostrils as he stood there waiting—waiting for the story. There was a blending of the smells of coal oil and fresh cloth on bolts and the indefinable metallic smell of tinware, and behind it all an overtone of odour, as it were, of sweet growing things—hay and grain—and the fields—Someone dropped a pan in the rear of the shop and Mr. Burrus looked around fiercely. When he again faced Joe, the harassed look was gone.
Joe had been gradually making up his mind. "You'd seen him drunk before?—That wasn't the first time?"
Mr. Burrus looked up. "Well!" he began tartly. "So much the worse, isn't it?"
"No," said Joe, "it's not. If you'd fired him the first time there'd have been some reason for it. It was because he wasn't the kind of man you wanted in your office, wasn't it?"
"That was it, exactly," agreed Mr. Burrus.
"It was because he didn't see things as he should, didn't do things as he should—in a general way—that he wasn't fit for the job, Mr. Burrus?" Joe went on.
"Exactly."
"And if he had—had been of a piece with yourself—so that you could have jiggled him around in your fingers like a hunk of putty, it would have been all right. It was not his drinking—it was his drinking in spite of your wanting him not to—that got him in bad, wasn't it, Mr. Burrus?"
Mr. Burrus fidgeted and then turned sharply on Joe. "This ain't no third degree."
"And you think he's gone away?" Joe continued as though not hearing him.
"Of course he's gone away. What else was there for him to do?"
There was no obvious alternative.
Joe took his leave and went to see Mrs. Mosby. As he stood waiting in the cool, high-ceilinged hall, he was struck by the quiet of the place. It had an air of waiting. What for? There was a high walnut hat-rack with a mirror and a marble slab with a card tray on it, and two high-backed chairs, likewise black walnut and elaborately carved and atrocious, and in the dim recesses of the stair a horsehair sofa, all just as they had been for years. They were mute but they seemed expectant. What could they be waiting for? They were on the outside edge of things—where life was passing. What could be in store for them? And yet, as he stood in the hall, with the sound of his breathing so fine, so distinct in his ears, they seemed to be part of another presence waiting there with him, a mute presence as to sound, but in some way eloquent voiced, clamorous to be heard.
A faint rustling came to his ears and then steps, and looking up, he saw his aunt Loraine coming down the stairs. Her bangles and her trinkets gave out hushed little clickings and he could hear her breathing as she came across the carpet to meet him.
"Joseph," she said, and he could see beneath her shell that she was agitated. "Joseph! What do you suppose can have happened?" Her toilette, like an ancient ritual observed in every sacred detail, included her manner and deportment. The voice, the inflection, the bearing—all went with the ruching and the bangles. Joe had once wondered if she put them all in the same box when she went to bed.
"I don't know, Aunt Lorry, I'm sure." Catching a haggard look about her eyes he added more gently: "But I wouldn't be too worried. He's probably gone to Louisville."
She shook her head, and in spite of herself her voice broke a little. "He's never done that without telling me."
Joe stood for a moment in thought. "There was no business that would take him anywhere—business about the farm?"
"No," she said. "Won't you come in and sit down in the parlour? I was so upset——"
He looked at her kindly. It was perhaps the first time in his experience he had ever done so. Somehow the shell did not seem so to cover her. She was such a tight little body, a close-bound fagot of reserves and inhibitions. She had never exuded the slightest humanity. And now the shell was cracking and little glints were showing through. "No, Aunt Lorry," he said. "Not now. There's nothing to be gained by talking—unless you have any ideas as to where—where he might have gone."
Her eyes looked haggard but they remained stoically dry. She shook her head.
He turned to go and took a few steps toward the door. And she came and laid her hand on his arm. It was as light and feathery as a dead leaf, but he could feel the warmth through his sleeve.
"Don't," she said, "don't let anything get out if—if there's anything should be kept quiet." She looked him earnestly in the eyes. "I'll depend on you?"
He promised and ran lightly down the front steps. Behind him the front door closed, ponderous and grave. And as he passed around the curve of the driveway to the gate he looked back and the shadows of the old house were stretching out toward him on the grass.
He had had a sudden idea. There in the front hall it had occurred to him that there was one person at least who might know something. He had recalled that last night spent in the upstairs ell bedroom, the voices, the clatter of a car. Zeke was probably closer to his uncle Buzz than any other living soul. And just as suddenly he had decided that it would be time wasted to talk with his aunt Loraine—time that could be well spent elsewhere. And so his departure had been precipitate. And now as he hurried along the plank walk, beneath the arching branches, with the world so fresh and green and hopeful about him, he felt how incongruous everything was. Over beyond the hedge the blackbirds were hopping about on the grass looking for worms, giving occasional satisfied clucks. Across an intersecting road, on up ahead, an old buggy passed, drawn by a jogging horse with hanging head. Like the Mosby turnout—very. And that very morning he had been at his desk, drugged, overwhelmed with the hopelessness of monotony.
He passed on to the other side of town, keeping to the back streets, for he did not wish to meet any one or talk to any one. It was nearing six o'clock as he approached the gate of Zeke Thompson's cabin, and there was that golden glow in the sky which so often follows a spell of dampness. It had rained the night before—the road looked dark and cool—and about the western sky the clouds were hovering as if undecided. But the sunlight streamed bravely through and all was fresh and clean and cool.
The front door was open and as Joe passed through the gate he saw no one. Softly he climbed the steps and passed over the threshold. The room was empty, but an apron thrown carelessly over the back of a rocking chair gave evidence of its having been vacated not long since. The door to the next room was standing ajar.
Joe stood and pondered. Just what should he ask Zeke? Should he tell him what had happened? Zeke might probably have heard, if the news was about. Standing there, waiting, there came to his ears a peculiar sound, faint, high-pitched, and monotonous. He listened. Someone was singing in the next room in a voice not much louder than a whisper. Curious, he walked softly over to the door and peered through.
There in a tiny rocking chair sat a little figure rocking to and fro. Its back was half turned toward him, but he could see a kinky head which was bent over something held in its arms, which it was most evidently lulling to sleep. The room was darkening, with only a single patch of orange-coloured sunlight upon the bare floor. Back and forth went the little body. He could see the bare feet with the stubby toes, escaping as by miracle the ever-threatening rocker. There was a small square of blue-calico-covered back, two little pigtails of hair tightly tied with scraps of baby-blue ribbon, and—the voice. It was as fine and high as wind blowing across a hair and with a curious, lifting minor note. He listened.
First there would be a gentle hushing and then the refrain—the melody was unappreciable and elusive, though constant:—
"Grasshopper set on sweet tater vine,
On sweet tater vine,
On sweet tater vine.
Big turkey gobbler come up behime
And nip him off that sweet tater vine."
With the word "nip" would come a crescendo, swelling to a sharp little monosyllabic quaver, and then the whole thing would die away most mournfully.
Twice he heard it sung through to the faint accompaniment of the tiny screaking rocker. It was a very solemn abjuration against the promiscuous sitting about of casual creatures. And oddly enough it seemed to him in a way that something was speaking through that feeble, quavering voice to him; that this was of the same parcel with what had happened, was happening. He felt singularly tense—had not the slightest desire to laugh. And as he watched, the orange patch on the floor began to fade, until the room was bathed in shadow. And the song came suddenly to an end and he heard a gentle little "Hush," and then a sigh, and then silence. Slowly he backed away on tiptoe from the door.
He had barely gained the security of the front room—somehow he felt it as security—when he heard the gate screak and, turning suddenly, saw a man dart like a shadow around the side of the house. For a moment he stood in indecision; then he walked softly to the open front door and stood waiting on the threshold. It would be easier to explain his presence there. The sky had grown darker; curling billows of cloud rolling in from the south had chased away the orange glow and their under surface was lit by a pale-green luminance as they came. Shifting wisps of vapour slid twisting and writhing on up ahead, like outriders on reconnaissance. It was singularly still.
Joe stood and waited. Directly he heard a sound, and then steps echoed on the walk around the side of the cabin, and then a man came hurrying around the corner, took one step up on the cabin stair, and then fell back with a low cry: "Fo' de Lawd."
It was Zeke. The smoothness of his skin turned an ashen colour and the whites of his eyes were rolling. He pushed back away from the doorway and stared at Joe. Gradually the terror began to fade out of his face and it was superseded by a sickly grin. Joe was watching him closely.
"You plum skeered me to deff," he finally managed to say, his breath coming fast and thick. "Thought you wuz a ghos'." The grin was very weak and it quickly subsided.
Zeke was a gaunt "darky" of that peculiar transparent blackness that looks as though it is put on only one layer deep, and yet is black, not brown. He was thin and shambling, with high and prominent cheekbones and eyes that showed a lot of white at all times. Across one cheek was a long, purplish scar reaching up to the corner of one eye. It gave him a look of cunning from that quarter. But on the whole he was an ineffectual, shiftless looking Negro, with hands that were always dangling and feet that always dragged.
"Ain' seen you fo' a long time, Mist' Joe."
"No. I've been away—down in the city." He paused a moment, considering the best way to begin. "Where were you and Mr. Bushrod last night?" he ventured on a bold stroke.
Zeke's eyes opened wide. "Why, we wusn' no place, Mist' Joe, Mist' Bushrod, he—I was to bring him—he and I wuz to have a little bisnis ovah to de house, but I couldn' come." His face clouded and took on an anxious look. "Dey ain' no trubbel, is dey, Mist' Joe?"
Joe made no reply and Zeke watched his thoughtful, serious face with growing anxiety. Here was one more avenue of possible solution blocked. Since yesterday afternoon no one had apparently seen him—Uncle Buzz. It was as though the world had swallowed him up. He would have to seek elsewhere. He was on the point of dismissing the matter, of going elsewhere, when a thought suddenly came to him.
"You and he were to have some business last night?" he said, looking at Zeke intently.
Zeke grinned a sheepish grin. "Yessuh, we wuz—we had a little bisnis."
"But you didn't meet him? Sure you didn't meet him?"
"Sho I neveh. I ain' able to git de—I was detain'." Zeke had learned from experience and considerable instinct to hedge his utterances about with much generality. It was a good principle. It meant less to retract.
Joe thought another moment. "Take me," he said suddenly, "to the place where you get the business." There he might find a connecting link in his chain, he felt growingly certain.
"Oveh to Mist' Bushrod's?" The inflection was perfectly naïve.
"No. Of course not—out where you get it. Over to Fillmore or wherever it is."
"Now, Mist' Joe," very reproachfully and with a quick, nervous flashing of the eyes.
Joe frowned. "You needn't put on anything with me, Zeke. I'm not going to give you away. Let's go get your car." He stretched out his arm as though to sweep Zeke into doing his bidding and started for the door.
"But I ain' eveh had no bisnis to Fillmo'," Zeke began in a last effort to stem the tide. "They ain' no bisnis theh."
"That's more like it. That may be the truth," said Joe pressing him on. And Zeke reluctantly passed out and descended the steps.
As Joe turned to close the front door behind him he caught a look back in the room. Framed in the doorway stood a very small pickaninny, barely reaching to the knob. She was barefoot, in a blue calico dress, with her hair done in two kinky braids that stood out in front like diminutive horns. In her arms she held tightly clutched an old corn shock wrapped in a red rag. One hand grasped the doorpost. And she was watching him wide eyed and very gravely.
"That's good advice you gave me," Joe said to her, as he closed the door.
They made their way around a corner to a ramshackle shed, Joe urging on the reluctant Zeke by the menace of an encroaching shoulder. Zeke paused at the entrance. He groped in his pocket and directly pulled forth a key on a very dirty, greasy string. Fumblingly he inserted it in the lock. Then he paused again and lifting his eyes, thoughtfully inspected the sky.
"Look powahful lak rain," he reflected dubiously.
"Get the car out," said the inexorable Joe. "We can put the top up."
Zeke opened the door and went in. For several minutes there was the metallic slip and catch of the crank and Zeke's laboured breathing. Then there issued forth a reverberating roar as of a monster released in travail, and then slowly there emerged, back end first, a perfect scarecrow of an automobile, mud stained and rust streaked, with an arrangement on the back like a discarded chicken crate, with fenders that were battered and twisted as though torn by some elemental tempest, and with a sagging and flopping top over the front seat that looked as though at any moment it might collapse from sheer decrepitude. Slowly the thing backed out of the shed, in a curve to the road, with much groaning and roaring, and then came to a stop. The whites of two eyes peered out of the shadow of the enveloping bonnet as Joe approached.
He took one more look at the sky before he climbed in. The racing forerunners of storm had in some inexplicable manner vanished and there remained a lowering canopy of gray and black with here and there a patch of grayish green. Over in the west was a thin line of greening yellow, and the shadows were darkening over the back lanes through the trees.
"Let's go," said Joe, climbing in.
With much panting and sputtering and popping the car started slowly forward and they were off. Neither spoke. They came to an intersecting street and Zeke slowed down the car.
"Which way, Mist' Joe?" he asked.
Joe was suddenly irritated. "To Fillmore. You know where I mean. Wherever you've been going for the stuff."
Zeke made a sudden turn to the left, narrowly escaping the projecting roots of a tree. Joe clung to the top brace for support. Down a darkening street they rolled, with the trees arching, sombre overhead, and on either side, back in the shadows, the darker shapes of houses with here and there the passing glow of a lighted lamp. Night descended upon them as they left the town and a few splashes of rain appeared on the dirty glass of the wind-shield. Joe settled stoically down to wait. There was so much time to be passed until he could be of further use and until then there was no need of making any effort. The thought of the morning came back to him. It did not seem possible that the same day was passing. Singularly, the idea of Bromley's was the thing that obsessed him rather than the business in hand. It was as though he had been released on furlough. "Grind, grind, grind," said the car. "You will be back at it all to-morrow. This is not real. This is a dream you're having." He shook himself. He was getting sleepy, felt utterly fagged.
And then Mary Louise flashed across his mind. "Come on," she seemed to say. "You're slipping. You're getting behind. They're all getting ahead of you. You're not keeping up. Let's get in a little more—little more—little more." He lurched against the top brace, blinked, and straightened up. Beside him was the shadow bent a little over the wheel. He could see the outline of the peak of the old golf cap and the dim tracing of Zeke's face, about it a faint gleam, and then the flash of an eye. He pondered. Here was Zeke doing his work—playing his part in the scheme of things.Hewas not bothered by any notions of obligation.Hewas not concerned with working out his destiny.Heplayed his cards as he got them. "Sometime they roll seven—and sometime they roll two," he remembered the words of a philosopher of the rolling rubes a year ago—or was it a lifetime? Bromley's! The Golden Rule! Mary Louise! All alike. "Shape yourself to this pattern. Fill this niche. You've got to," said one. "Be like me. Do as I do. Or get out," said another. "It costs so much to live this way. And you have to. Or it's not worth living," said the third. How about his way of looking at it?
He turned suddenly to the inscrutable face beside him.
"You don't let anybody cramp your style, do you, Zeke?" he said.
Zeke started. The sudden voice for a moment terrified him. "Nossuh, I doesn'," he stammered, anxious to agree.
Joe's voice was kindly encouraging. "Well, don't you let them, ever."
"Nossuh, I won'." And singularly he spoke the truth.
They came to a stretch of sand and the car slowed down appreciably. In addition there was a grade. And then came a flash of lightning over in the west, straight ahead of them, and another, fan-shaped, like the slow opening of a hand. In the momentary glare they saw the outlines of a hill up before them, with the road clipping it in two. A telephone pole on the crest stretched out spectral arms and leaned away. And then darkness again.
Joe decided he had better tell Zeke the object of their mission. It really didn't matter much, but then he wanted to talk.
"Do you reckon Mr. Bushrod's in Fillmore, Zeke?" he began, trying to make it as conversational as possible.
"I dunno. Mist' Joe. He might could." This offered no encouragement.
"He's been gone—ever since last night. Reckon he is in Fillmore?" He caught the gleam of two eyes as Zeke partly turned to look at him.
"I dunno, Mist' Joe. Wheh you reckon he gone?" As yet the import had failed to reach him.
For a short while they rolled along in silence, silence save for the rattling labour of the car. The grade was growing steeper. On both sides of the road the woods were encroaching and the only light was the feeble one cast by the single uncertain lamp of the car. It barely seemed to puncture the black.
"Mist' Bushrod ain' been home?" came Zeke's voice. The idea was beginning to have effect.
"Not since yesterday morning."
For another interval, silence, and then: "Whuh Mist' Bushrod gone? Reckon he gone to Louisville?" Perhaps the faint stirrings of a cell of conscience. Who can say?
"Don't know, Zeke. Perhaps."
As though satisfied by this mutual exchange of confidence, Zeke lapsed again into silence, and for a time nothing was heard save the voice of the car and occasional sighing bursts of wind high up in the tree-tops. Then there came a black line of shadow stretching across their way, on up ahead, and above it a yellowish, greenish streak of light where the clouds were breaking. Faint wisps of vapour went curling slowly across the streak and there was a patch of blue, very deep, and the momentary gleam of a star, and then they plunged into the shadow.
The air grew cooler, almost cold. The woods had swept down upon the road and engulfed it. Even the noise of the motor seemed quieter, and above it could be heard whisperings and occasional crackings. Something started up from a thicket by the side of the road and they could hear it scurrying through the underbrush. Zeke moved up the throttle and they began to move faster. And on either side of them came down the darkness, sweeping past them, pressing close, and before them wavered the faltering light, and the cool damp air came fingering and touched their faces.
Zeke stopped the car. The rushing darkness stopped. The breeze was still.
"Heah's de place," he said, and his voice was lower; Joe could barely hear him.
"I thought it was Fillmore. This isn't Fillmore."
"I know," said Zeke. "I doesn' go to Fillmo'. Dis is de place whuh I gets it. Up de paff a piece."
Joe was on the point of telling him to go on—on to Fillmore, where proper inquiry might be made, when a sense of curiosity prompted him to stop. He would see where the illegal traffic was being carried on. Zeke was trustingly letting him in on his business and he might not understand. After all, it was getting down in a way to the heart of the business—in a way getting closer to Uncle Buzz. He had never bothered much before. He climbed out of the car and Zeke shut off the motor.
The silence, as he followed Zeke down the narrow path, was oppressive. There would come a vast sighing like a wave of sound, and a settling, a few crackings far off, and then silence. The ground was soft with a matting of fallen leaves, damp and mouldy, and once as Zeke turned his pocket flashlight from the path there came a gleam of water. Briars flicked his face and scratched his hands, and once a low-hanging branch struck him across the eyes and he stumbled from the path and stepped into slime. He kept close behind his guide, for the darkness was intense and the path was tortuous. Directly Zeke stopped. The pocket light made a small circle on the ground.
"Heah 'tis," Zeke whispered, and pointed with the light.
A thicket of blackberry bushes crowded into a corner of an old snake-rail fence and two old boards were all that was visible in the narrow compass of the light—that, and a pool of dark water over to one side. Up above, there was a break in the trees and a suggestion, beyond, of open fields. He stood for a minute. Nothing else was visible, nothing from the hand of man, as Zeke moved the light back and forth in slow-sweeping arcs. It had been a waste of time; there was nothing to see, nothing but the crude assignation place of a troop of spectral whiskey jugs, and the seat of a profitable industry. He turned to go, his mind shifting to other things. He heard Zeke fumbling in the bushes, saw the light switch into the fence corner, then across the pool; and then he heard a cry, a low cry of terror, and caught a glimpse of something white—on the ground, near a big tree. And then Zeke's voice, "Fo' Gawd!" and the light switched off and someone came hurrying toward him in the darkness.
"Come on, Mist' Joe. Le's git away fum heah!"
Zeke brushed past him in an agony of haste. He heard his footsteps on the leaf carpet, saw the crazy flickerings of the light through the trees, and had a sudden intense desire to follow. But he paused, curious, mastering his fear. And then the outline of the clearing came slowly to his eyes, and looking up he saw that the clouds were breaking and that the tip of the moon was showing through. Slowly the place was bathed in a silvery flood. Back slipped the shadows. Shapes that had been pressing, close at hand, receded and took the form of trees, of bushes, lurking there on the edge of the darkness. He saw the fence corner. He saw the two boards propped up against it, forming a cache. He saw the pool, a tiny little woodland pool. And then he caught again that glimmer of white by the foot of a huge beech tree. Slowly he made his way toward it with beating heart. Slowly it took shape, a huddled shadow, right on the edge of the light. He touched it with his foot, careful lest he step beyond. He stooped. He touched it with his hand. He turned it over. And the moonlight, slipping through the trees as though to help him, sent a feeble, flickering shaft down—upon the upturned face of Uncle Buzz. For a moment it rested there, as if to reassure him, bringing out in misty detail all that was necessary. The thing was hideously befouled, besmirched, lying there in that black swamp water, mute, helpless, utterly broken. But it was unmistakeable. He stretched out his arms and dragged it from the water, and the clouds, closing in again, obscured the moon, leaving all in darkness.
Twodays later they buried Mr. Mosby.
Joe had kept his promise. At least he had kept it as well as it was possible to keep it. It was decided that Mr. Mosby had met his death by drowning. That is what "One Half of Rome" believed. The "Other Half of Rome" perhaps had various ideas. It could not be surmised from the set conventional expressions on the faces of those gathered together in the back parlour that hot Saturday afternoon just what the consensus was. There had been at first a surreptitious buzz of conversation and then deep silence as the Episcopal priest in his long white vestments came slowly in. Joe felt peculiarly outside of it all. He was in a sense neither spectator nor mourner. For Mrs. Mosby depended on the palsied arm of her brother for support. And then there were a few old ladies, friends of Mrs. Mosby's, and himself bringing up the rear—merely appended to the family, the last survivor of the discredited branch. He was conscious of a heavy scent of flowers banked about the close, dark room, a scent in which the cloying sweetness of jasmine prevailed. For a moment there was not a sound, and then the minister lifted his head and began the burial service. He, too, was feeling the heavy hand of time, and his voice, so long charged with the burden of emotion, emotion that had had to be summoned on short notice, seemed on the point of breaking. He was old and broken himself, wearied with futility, with his head raised, half-closed eyes lifted ceiling-ward, his fluttering draperies now billowy, now closely enwrapping his gaunt frame in the little breeze that came in from the hall. There was not much of comfort to be gained, not much of hope. Looking out of the corner of his eyes, Joe could get a glimpse of a wall of white, blank, expressionless faces and the silent waving of countless palm-leaf fans. Directly in front of him was the long, narrow back of Mr. Fawcette, and beside the latter, Aunt Loraine, sitting very straight and very stiff, her new black veil opaquely shielding from curious eyes the delicacy of her grief. The ruching was there, but the bangles had been laid aside. On went that quavering, faltering voice:
"All flesh is not the same flesh: but there is one kind of flesh of men, another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds."
Of just what kind had been Uncle Buzz, he found himself wondering. A weaker kind, or at least, a kind ill suited to the world it had been thrown in.
"Now I say, brethren," the voice went on, "that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; neither doth corruption inherit incorruption."
What, thought Joe, were the chances of all those white, fleshy faces staring there, immovable? The crowd in the back parlour—a single, silent, pasty-faced, fan-waving convention, over which the fat, pasty white hand of death was significantly hovering, and about which the odour of jasmine was pressing. He felt suddenly stifled, suffocated. He wanted to get up and run away, out of doors, anywhere. The only thing that seemed to escape the stifling was his Uncle Buzz, lying there quietly, in acceptance. And then he knew that another link had been broken, a link that held him to the past. There was a little less friendliness, a little less cheer, a little less understandableness—he was conscious of it—a little less need of him.
The service came to an end and a small fraction of the assembly filed out to the family burying ground on the hill behind the house. Here came a repetition of what had been enacted in the back parlour, only there was the distraction of the wind which would be playful and of a robin, perched on a near-by fence post, who would not be depressed but sang away its liquid, throaty warble as though the whole ceremony had been arranged for its own entertainment. It came quickly to an end. Mr. Mosby was sent on his way with all due convention and dispatch with a little of sentimentality thrown in for good measure. A few moments of grace after the last clods of earth were tossed on and patted down, and then everyone was hurrying away, back to his respective niche, cloaking haste with a thin layer of dignity. Mr. Burrus openly ran after a departing "Ford." It was Mr. Martin's, and the handy reserve carry-all of the "Golden Rule," and Mr. Burrus preferred a moment's haste to a long, hot walk at greater leisure. Joe remembered his face, there in the third row at the end, in the back parlour. Inscrutable it had seemed—a weazened, yellowing blank mask, slowly souring in the heat. What had he been thinking on? On the waste of some lost accounts, perhaps—or even on the amount of credit he might allow the widow. It might be that he contemplated the remote results of his own handiwork lying there in the black cloth-covered box. But if this latter, his face showed no sign. And "Neither Half of Rome," though it point an accusing finger, would pause for a moment as it passed him by.
Joe did not go back to the house with the rest of the family. Instead, he struck out across the fields away from them. He climbed the back boundary fence and was soon walking up to his knees in grass and weeds. The air was hot and sticky and heavily charged with a shimmering white water vapour. There were a few sluggish clouds with sombre centres hanging about the valley to the southwest, and there was a drone and zip of flying creatures in swarms above the drying weeds and stubble. Coming to a large oak tree standing solitary in that wasting field, he threw himself face downward on the ground in its shadow, careless that the grass was scant, and that his bed was scratchy. For a moment he lay in utter relaxation, caring for and observing nothing. And then, the sharp edge of his fatigue being broken, he slowly turned on his side and leaned his head on his palm, his elbow resting on the ground. It was a barren prospect that stretched out before him: lazy, shiftless land clear over the brow of the hill that sloped away to the house. The Fawcette place had not been worked to capacity for years, and there it lay, the waste of Mr. Mosby's opportunity. Tiny creatures swarmed in the grass. Joe could see them scurrying up and down the withered and drying stalks. A little crowd of gnats was hovering about his head and occasionally one would light upon his face and stick there dejectedly. Above the grass, against the blue of the sky beyond, he could see the shimmering waves hang tremulous like the air above a hot wood-stove in winter, and there came to his ears the sudden whirring zip of a grasshopper in mid-flight. Directly there came another, and another, till the air seemed full of them. Summer had come. And about him lay the field in listless idleness.
It was common talk that it should be worked, that it was a shame not to work it. But there had not been money enough. Money was needed for everything, everything that man wanted to do, money and something else. About him buzzed the gnats; all around him poured the sunshine; and in his ears was the drone of countless insects. This was Saturday. Another full day and would come Monday. Monday! He had not thought of it until now. He suddenly felt the uselessness of his bonds. And yet he could feel the stretching of his tether. Was everybody fastened to a tether? Was there no such thing as freedom? Singularly enough, this field in all its idleness, with all its heat, with its droning and buzzing, suggested freedom. In fact, the feel of the entire country, this country that he had known, about which his memories clustered thick, suggested freedom. And yet it was not above reproach. People spoke of it condescendingly. "Poor land—unproducing—a century behind the times." What was it? The land? The people? The times? There was Uncle Buzz, with his foothold on two hundred acres, and they had buried him in his one good suit. Buried beneath the force of circumstances, he had never once lifted his head—had died with it in a shallow pool of water. Andhewas no better. He could feel the shackles close about him, binding him hand and foot. What was one to do? His head dropped down upon the crook of his arm and he fell asleep.
An hour later he awoke. He felt hot and uncomfortable. He stretched himself and rolled over on his back. He gazed upward through the tangle of branches and tried to relax again. But the heat had become unbearable. He struggled to his feet and brushed the litter from his clothes. Away in each direction stretched the field. It was dry and dusty and covered with a short, cutting stubble beneath the upper surface of waving grass and weeds. It no longer held any allurement for him and yet he did not want to go back to the house. He looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. Some of the old ladies would still be there. They would be sitting about on the horsehair chairs making lugubrious conversation. Back toward the left stretched the pike, white and dusty enough. But there were trees along the edge of it, and he remembered the grass in the fence corners to be long and fresh and succulent as a rule, even in midsummer. Slowly he started in that direction. When he reached the boundary fence he was dripping with perspiration and his shoes and trouser hems were covered with the yellow dust. He climbed the fence, and as he stepped out into the road he saw an automobile approaching in the distance, dipping down a hill to the creek that broke the stretch toward Guests. It was not often that motors of any distinction saw fit to travel into Bloomfield; the pike was not good enough. But this approaching car seemed to be one of some distinction—was long and rather rakish, had a deep sound to the exhaust as it started up the hill toward him. Idly he watched it. There were two passengers, a man and a woman, slouched well down in the seats. What could they be doing in the heat of the afternoon with the top down and in all that blazing sunlight? He stepped over to the side of the road and dragged his feet, first one and then the other, in the grass to wipe off some of the dust. He knew that he was hot and dirty and dishevelled, but he did not care much. On came the car. As it came nearer it lost its interest to him and he sat down in the grass and plucked a blade to chew, paying it no further attention. Suddenly, to his surprise, he realized it was stopping and then the woman called to him.
At first he did not recognize her. Her face was quite red from the sun and she had on a fetching little close-fitting motor-bonnet with fluttering lavender strings. A long lemon-coloured duster enveloped the rest of her. She was quite pretty, with the contrast of colour, with her hair all snugly tucked away. It did not look like Mary Louise, but it was. He felt very conscious of his dusty old suit and his wilting collar and his flushed and perspiring face, as he came and stood by the car.
"This is Mr. Claybrook, Joe," she said, looking at him gravely.
He remembered then the big, confident man that had joined them that unhappy night.
"I just heard, Joe. It was terrible. I was awfully distressed."
He looked into her eyes—she spoke so earnestly—and wondered if she were feeling all she might feel. Uncle Buzz had not received very charitable treatment at her hands. The picture of it all came before his mind and he said nothing.
"When is—when is the funeral?"
"It's all over," he replied shortly. "This afternoon."
"Oh."
She turned and had a word with her companion. And then he leaned over, partly across her, smiling quietly.
"We're going right back in an hour or so. Be glad to have you go with us. There's plenty of room." His voice was big and rather pleasant and he had an air of careless assumption that everything would be all right.
"Yes, do, Joe," Mary Louise put in. "I had John drive me up this afternoon. I wanted to get here in time for——Aunt Susie wanted some things."
It was quite natural the way she said, "I had John——"
"It will be better than going back on that morning train—to-morrow? And I suppose you'll have to be back at the office Monday?" He had never known her voice to be so solicitously sweet.
"No," he said, and he surprised himself, "I'm not going back." He had come to no such decision. But the idea was suddenly so utterly distasteful that it seemed impossible. Andshehavinghim, Claybrook, take him, Joe, back to work. The smart of it was intolerable. "No," he repeated firmly, "I'm not going back." And then he gazed off across the hood of the motor into the vacant field beyond.
"I see," she replied, rather softly, and he could feel that she was watching him and that Claybrook was, in a way, standing by in a condescending attitude, ready to do her bidding.
He was anxious to be off, anxious to be alone. "Thank you very much, however," he said, and bowed to Claybrook. He avoided Mary Louise's eyes. He backed away from the car and lifted his hat. "Good-bye."
Turning away, he set off down the road, away from Bloomfield, and shortly he heard the motor start and the grind of wheels. He looked back. He saw her lean over as though to speak to Claybrook. And then he saw Claybrook turn his face toward hers. They were probably talking about him.
He trudged on down the road, although he had no idea of where he was going. There was a soreness deep down in his heart and it hurt all the more because he realized that he had been unreasonable. And he had said he was not going back. He caught his breath slightly at the thought. Well, he wouldn't go back. There was no reason why he should—absolutely no reason. With that he turned about and walked briskly back up the hill toward home.
As he entered the front hall he could hear a low hum of conversation on the other side of the parlour doors. They were partly open, and he hurried past lest someone call for him to come in. He went upstairs, into the ell bedroom, and took off his coat. He looked at himself in the glass of the bureau. His face was red and streaked with perspiration and dust. Andtheyhad looked quite fresh—"smart" was the word. He proceeded to clean himself up and he spent quite a long time in the process.
When he came downstairs again it was growing dark. He no longer heard the voices in the parlour. When he reached the foot, he paused for a moment in uncertainty. The walnut chairs were there, quite placid and content with themselves, and the hat-rack, and the old horsehair sofa. His aunt Loraine came out of another door, back in the passage. She had, of course, laid aside her veil and her face had been freshly powdered; she looked quite the same. There was a certain prim set to her mouth, and her eyes, as she looked at him, were calculatingly cool. She did not touch him but stood with her arms hanging rather stiffly by her sides.
"Joseph," she said, "we want you to stay, if you will—as long as you feel you can."
The tiny spark that he had felt died away. "We," she had said. He wondered who the "we" might be. Mr. Fawcette, perhaps; perhaps one of the old ladies. Aunt Lorry had evidently been looking ahead. There was no need for him here.
"No," he said rather quietly. "Thank you very much, Aunt Lorry. I must be getting back—first train to-morrow, I expect."
She lifted her eyebrows ever so slightly. "Very well. Make yourself at home while you stay." And she glided off with her queer, noiseless step, back into the shadow of the hall.
He walked to the front door and out on to the wide verandah. He looked down the winding driveway to the gate, all mellowing in the dying sunlight. There was not a breath of air, not a sound. The gate was standing partly open; the last departing guest had neglected to shut it. On the driveway lay something white, somebody's handkerchief. It lay without moving, inert. There was nothing to pick it up, not even the slightest breeze. He gazed across the open country that dipped away to the west to the ridge of hills that was crowned with orange and purple mists, with the white road climbing to its crest. And as he watched, he could see a small blob of white dust moving, leaving a feathery tail behind it. And he turned quickly and went into the house.
Top
Thesunlight was dazzling white. High winds during the night had chased all clouds to remote quarters and had with the morning suddenly gone, leaving the city to the entire mercy of the sun. It was August and very dry and in the corners of buildings huddled little heaps of dust and elusive trash, withered and powdery. On the pavements and walls the sunlight lay like white-hot gold and the shadows cast by the awnings of Bessire's department store were sharply chiselled as by a stencil. Mary Louise paused for a moment in their shelter and drew breath.
Sometimes work is a fattener. It is when, by virtue of its absorption, certain phases of the body are allowed to function naturally. It is true in the case of meddling minds, also in more or less conscientious natures. Mary Louise's nerves had temporarily ceased to feed upon her. She was getting plump. The lace frill at the bottom of her elbow sleeve lay flat against a curve that was full and round. In fact, one was conscious of a general well-roundedness about her. And her face, which was flushed, was likewise serene.
The tea room had been making money. With the arrival of the intense heat had come generous patronage, especially for the noon meal. And the petty vexations had effaced themselves. For the past few weeks an atmosphere of expectancy had seemed to hover, such as is felt on trains arriving after a long journey, or in the completion of a work. It was the sense of accomplishment. Mary Louise felt her problem undergoing solution, and nothing else mattered. She now laughed at the dismay she had felt at paying ten dollars for a cook in Bloomfield. There was no price to be set on her freedom. And the careless streak in Maida was something to be accepted with good nature and not to be allowed to irritate. Maida was at least on the job, eternally on the job. Not much of a companion truly, nor for that matter a really good business partner. But she irradiated good nature and that was something.
A sizzling hot pavement is not much of a place for reflection even if shaded by a striped awning. So Mary Louise passed on. The bundle of fresh-printed menus was getting heavy under her arm—she had just come from the printer's—and the soda fountain at the corner drug store tempted her. She yielded.
She took a seat alongside a revolving electric fan and let the breeze play on her heated cheek. She felt suddenly lazy and allowed herself a delicious relaxation. Behind the counter two boys in spotless caps and aprons were working with desperate haste to cool the dusty throats lined up before them. One of them looked like Joe Hooper, except that he moved faster, was quicker with his hands. Poor Joe! How helpless and hopeless he had looked that afternoon. He was one of the kind that could not learn how. The other clerk stopped before her and asked her for her order. This one looked very much like the new cook Maida and she had just hired. So intent was she upon her observation that she forgot he was speaking to her. That new cook—he was a smart, sharp-looking boy—just out of the army a few months. It had seemed a bit incongruous having that type in the kitchen, but then——She watched the face before her, hair sleek and parted in the middle with ears a little too prominent, features rather regular. The eyes were set too close together. He slid in and out without friction, made up almost two drinks to the other one's one—the one who looked like Joe. Probably made more money even than the real Joe.
A tall frosty tumbler was placed before her. She dipped into it with a straw. It was delightfully cool and refreshing, with a blend of fruit odour and flavour beneath the sprig of mint that floated on the top. Slowly she sipped it. And then for a moment she let her eyes wander across the faces lined up before the counter beside her. Next to her was an old woman in a sleazy black dress with a turban-like hat all swathed with a long black veil hemmed with black. She had looped it back in anticipation of the drink she would soon get. The old face was white and limned with wrinkles, and one hand, as it rested timidly on the edge of the counter, was heavily veined and thin and swollen about the knuckles. There was a droop to the shoulders and a patient, haggard look about the eyes. Mary Louise wondered if the mourning were very real; she seemed so very tired that even a poignant grief might well be spent. As she looked, the old woman caught her eye and turned hurriedly away.
Beyond her two young girls were making merry with the cherries in their glasses. At odd moments they would surreptitiously bid for the soda-jerker's attention. They had finely plucked eyebrows and were much powdered about the nose. One of them sat with her back partly turned to Mary Louise, who could catch the occasional lift of an alluring eyelash from the glass's brim in the direction of the clerk. She had her legs crossed, and once when she shifted her position Mary Louise could see the gleam of a bare knee. It made her feel a bit older somehow, but likewise complacent.
She finished her drink and arose to go. Just then the big, raw-boned clerk, the one who looked a bit like Joe, dropped a glass on the counter and immediately there was a widening stain of red and a piece of glass rolled over the edge and fell to the floor. A woman sprang up and back from the counter in irritation. And a dull red flush crept into the boy's face as he quickly produced a rag and began to mop up the débris. As she walked to the door, the other clerk, the one with the close-set eyes, was saying something to him in a sharp tone.
She paused a moment. Past her on the sidewalk pressed a steady stream in each direction. Hot, perspiring faces, flushed and lined with concentration, worry, or fatigue—all hurrying. She felt curiously complacent and aloof. Perhaps it was the momentary rest and cooling. Her thought returned again to Joe, being reminded perhaps by the little incident at the counter. She recalled Claybrook. She remembered Claybrook's words that afternoon—that afternoon she had gone to Bloomfield. It was just a few minutes after they had left Joe Hooper on the road; they were passing the old Mosby place. She had noticed the interest with which Claybrook had inspected the place as they rolled by. He had asked the name of the owner.
"Fine old trees," he had said. And later, "Walnuts," in answer to her question as to which ones he had meant.
Yes, they had been fine old trees. Something enduring about them. They added to a place—trees. There was nothing artificial or upstart about their beauty, but the venerableness of dignity. The Mosby place had been noted for its walnuts.
"Tell 'em," Claybrook had said, "I'll give 'em a nickle a foot for those trees right there on the ground. That is, if they are hard up," he had added as if seeking to justify himself. She remembered the incident now with regret, a sort of complacent regret. Claybrook was a bit crude at times, or at least he was not quite awake to some of the finer sensibilities. But he was a kindly man and doing well. He was the sort you could depend on. Business was cruel. You had to overlook certain things, for instance—Maida. But Joe! Well, it was too bad. He just didn't have the knack.
She crossed the street. The glare was terrific. Hugging the wall, to keep as far in the shelter of its shade as possible, she proceeded north. In spite of the heat the streets were crowded. She looked at her watch. It was eleven-thirty. She would have to be hurrying to get her menus back on time. She came to an alley and paused on the curb to look in either direction for traffic. By the curb at the corner of the alley stood a bright, shiny, new car. Something about it attracted her attention. She looked more closely and was conscious of a peculiar little catch or start somewhere deep down inside her. In the front seat, behind the steering wheel, sat Joe Hooper, with his arm flung negligently along the polished patent leather of the top brace. And such a Joe Hooper! He had on a new straw hat, and while Mary Louise could not trust herself to a very long inspection, she noticed the fresh creases in his coat sleeve. He was wearing a "shepherd plaid" suit that looked "bran spanking" new, and in his collar was knotted a pale lavender-hued tie. More than that, he seemed positively well groomed. Beside him sat a woman, back turned toward the curb. It was a most alluring back, in a soft, shimmering dark-blue dress with a lace collar and above it a gentle curve of neck with little provoking wisps of hair curling softly about it. That was all she took in in that flash of vision, except—as she looked, the creature raised a dainty, tapering hand and filliped a tiny feather under Joe's nose. He drew back slightly and smiled—she saw the whole thing—a quite restrained and, if anything, a condescending kind of smile.
Mary Louise passed on inconspicuously across the alley, into the sheltering shade, of the shop awnings again. She wondered if he had seen her. And then she was tempted to turn around and reassure herself with another look. But she did not.
A singular mixture of emotions surged through her. She felt as if someone were secretly laughing at her. Joe Hooper, she had decided, had been one of those people who could never learn how to do things. And yet, unless her eyes had deceived her, here he had burst gorgeously from his chrysalis. She was not sure she was glad of it, either. Charity, especially of thought, is frequently more of a luxury to the donor than to the recipient.
She hurried on. The street was becoming more crowded and the heat, if anything, more intense. She began to feel just a bit angry with herself for exposing herself to it. Her face felt as if it were burning up. It had not been at all necessary. She could just as well have sent someone else. And here she was plugging along, with her clothes all sticky, her hair coming down in wisps about her ears, and her face as red as a beet. Funny, what had come over Joe. She was certain it had been he but it seemed improbable. And she had been sorry for him. He was the kind who could not "put anything across."
All her complacency was gone as she opened the tea-room door. She was hot and tired and hurried. The little clock on the mantelshelf said a quarter to twelve as she closed the door behind her and then she saw that there was a customer at a far table in the corner and realized how late she was. A short, fat little woman was sitting tensely on the edge of a chair, looking about her with quick, restless, stabbing glances. She had on an atrocity of a hat that looked as though someone had plumped down on her head a flimsy crate of refuse blossoms and vegetables. It was a riot of colour and disorder. And her short, protuberant bosom rested on the table's edge while the face above it was marked with stern lines of dissatisfaction. Little folds of flesh hung down below her jaws.
Giving Mary Louise a momentary appraising glance, us the latter came in with her bundle, she snapped out: "This place open, you suppose?"
Mary Louise hastily laid down the menus. "Yes," she said, "it is. Haven't you been waited on?"
"No," said the old lady, stirring in her chair and making as if to rise, though wild horses could not have pulled her away from even the prospect of food. "I've been sitting here ten minutes by your clock." She turned away and stared gloomily into space with her mouth sharply set in indignant endurance of such mistreatment.
Mary Louise hurried across the room. She pushed open the swinging door into the passage that led to the kitchen. Everything was quiet. She wondered at it. As she stood there for an unappreciable instant, she heard a slight sound to her right, seemingly from the little pantry or storage room that was tucked in beneath the stairs. The door of it ordinarily stood open.
She paused a moment then took one step forward and pushed open the door.
Full beneath the light of the pendent lamp, leaning against the serving table for support, stretched the billowy form of Maida Jones, half reclining in the arms of the sleek-haired cook who sat on the table edge and faced the door. Her head was thrown back in complete abandonment and her hair was coming down about her shoulders. The boy's close-set eyes peered up sharply as Mary Louise opened the door. Then there was an immediate scurry, the lamp was switched off, and directly Maida emerged flushed and sullen.
Mary Louise was stunned. Her ideas were chaotic and could take no form. But as they stood there facing each other, she was conscious of a rising sense of the ludicrous mingled with disgust. The memory of that momentary scene lingered in her mind like a piece of burlesque statuary. She stifled a desire to laugh.
Then the other culprit began to stir about among the pans. Maida was staring at her with lips partly open, her breath still coming short and thick.
"Turn on the light," said Mary Louise.
And then as Maida made no move:
"Go fix yourself up. There's someone in the room waiting to be served." Her voice was heavy with the scorn she felt.
Maida recovered. She bit her lip. Then she laughed a short, nervous laugh. "Shocked to death, aren't you?"
"Not at all," replied Mary Louise pleasantly. "It's quite charming, I assure you." She turned and entered the kitchen. The other cook and a maid were quietly attending to their work. She paid them no attention but went and stood by the back window over which was stretched a heavy wire screen, and through the thick dust of which she could see a dim, dusty, narrow courtyard and a pile of discarded boxes.
For a long time she stood there, with her hands folded one upon the other and resting limply upon a table. The world had taken on a grotesque slant. It was a strange place in which it was easy to lose one's way. Her assurance, her satisfaction, her enthusiasm had vanished. Nothing was well ordered; everything was haphazard. People did the most unexpected things. And there was ugliness and deceit parading about in broad daylight. She suddenly felt herself utterly incapable of passing judgment on anything.
And as she stood staring out through that dingy window, with the bustle and sounds of feet behind her, two fat round tears welled from her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.
Meantime, Joe had written his name at the top of a new sheet. He drew up to the curb on Broadway just below Fourth and stopped the motor. He leaned back against the tufted arm and stretched himself. Then he idly viewed the passing show before him. It was past mid-afternoon and dry and dusty. The keen edge of the sun had slightly dulled, but a Negro, seated high up on a pile of shabby furniture on a moving van, mopped a shining black face with the end of a very dirty undershirt sleeve. A boy came wavering along on a bicycle, swerved in to the curbing across the street, stopped, got off and went in to the Baptist Seminary, leaving the bicycle sprawling in the gutter. An old woman came out of nowhere; he heard her uncertain steps before he saw her as she approached him; the wide pavement the moment before had been entirely deserted. She walked as though she had no definite destination, not straight ahead in a plumb line. She had an old-fashioned bonnet with dangles on her head and a straw basket over one arm. Somehow he thought of his aunt Lorry. She came peering up at him from under her lashes. She seemed drawn by the brightness of the car. And her dim eyes seemed searching in the shadow of the top for a definite assurance. As she drew near, Joe smiled, a little absently; the rusty steel aigrette perched on top of the bonnet like the horn of a unicorn was nodding so gravely. The old thing caught the smile. Her face brightened. Her mouth spread in a toothless grin. She reached out a hand and touched the car lightly with a withered finger on the fender.
"Such a pretty buggy," she said. The voice was tremulous and high-pitched and the articulation thick and indistinct.
Then she looked at Joe; her rheumy gaze passed over him from the tips of his shiny new shoes to the crown of his hat. Admiration now spoke from her with perhaps greater eloquence even though her lips were still, parted a little. The pause had been but momentary.
Joe reached over and threw the door open.
"Climb in," he said. "I'll take you for a ride."
The old woman shrank back from the car, wide-eyed in alarm.
"Come on," he urged, quite gently, "I'm not a masher. I'll bring you right back here, all safe and right side up."
The old face wrinkled in a shrewd, crafty grin. She lingered on the pavement for a moment in indecision, then came slowly forward and paused at the running board, peering upward into Joe's face.
"Take me for a ride?" she lisped, tremulously eager.
"Sure," said Joe. "I'm selling 'em." He held the door open invitingly. "Maybe you'll buy one some day."
Again the swift flash of a smile passed over the slack mouth and there was a gathering in the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. Painfully she pulled herself up into the car and sank into the seat beside him.
He switched on the motor, threw out the clutch, engaged the starting gear, and paused with his hand on the lever.
"We'll go around this way. It's not so crowded and I think the air's better."
She smiled at him confidently.
They started. At the corner he swung around in a wide sweep. He caught a glance at her and saw her sitting with eyes glued intently on the street before them, her hands gripping the edge of the seat. Then the block ahead was straight and smooth and free of traffic.
He patted the chest of his coat.
"I've just put an order away in here," he said. "It's very easy. They're scrambling over each other to buy these cars."
She gave him a fleeting glance and returned to her desperate business of watching the road.
For a moment he was silent. They rounded another corner.
"I'm not really expecting you to buy a car—merely speak a good word for it with your friends. That is, if you like it. It is all right, isn't it?"
At his questioning tone she again ventured a look at him and smiled again uncertainly, still gripping the edges of the seat.
One more corner and they were on the return trip. Directly they were rolling up toward the curb from whence they had started. They stopped and Joe reached over and opened the door again. The old woman caught the import of the movement and clambered stiffly out, stooping low with her head to avoid the top brace. She stood on the curbing, bewildered and blinking, apparently lost.
Joe reached out and handed her a card.
"You're headed just the same way you were when I picked you up," he said. "And in the same spot." And as she made no move and apparently did not hear him, "Call on me if I can serve you. I can do other things besides sell motor cars.
"Good-bye," he said, tipping his hat and slamming the door shut. Then he moved away. He left her standing there, watching.
He turned in Fourth Street and slowed down to about six miles an hour. The lengthening shadows were bringing out the ephemeral creatures that might otherwise wither in the heat. The west pavement was already crowded and there was a stream of motors idling along in a sluggish tide, southward. It was the time of day when the city, as it were, stretches itself after its siesta and takes long, lazy, satisfied looks at itself.
Joe slumped in the seat. This lazy panorama had not begun to pall on him. He luxuriated in it. It was something of a holiday to him. The change that had come over his life was inexplicable; without effort he had lifted himself. The selection of an occupation had been haphazard; he had merely taken the first thing that had offered itself—selling automobiles. And there had been no difficulty in selling them, none whatever. The very first month his commissions had amounted to considerably more than twice the sum Bromley's had paid him.
The motor was thrumming along slowly and regularly, giving out soft little ticks like a clock. Everything about it was shining and new. Everything about Joe was shining and new. He felt sleek, lazy, and comfortable. He made no effort to analyze the change that had come over him, merely accepted it as a matter of course. At times would come vague wonderings why he had been such a "chump" as to hang on in that treadmill of an office as long as he had.
He thought about the old woman and her grenadier bonnet and her bewildered pleasure, and chuckled to himself. The old soul had probably never been in an automobile before. He had raised the standard of her desires. She might not be satisfied again until she had another ride, maybe many more. It might even stir her up. That was what it was. Ignorance was what kept most people down. They did not know what they were missing. And so they just plugged along taking things as they came, most of them. That was what had been the matter with him. Hard work never got a man anywhere, just hard work. He shut his mind resolutely on the thought and turned again to the inspection of the evening parade.
As he came in sight of the windows of Bessire's Department Store he remembered that there was something there that he needed. And there was no need of his hurrying back to the office. He had done enough for the day. So he turned the corner and squeezed into an opening on the side street. He stepped out on to the pavement and indulged in a luxurious stretch of the arms. The sudden glare of the sun on the pavement made him sneeze. It was delightful. He walked lazily through the revolving doors of the department store.
As he gained the interior a woman brushed past him so that he had to stop in his tracks. As she passed she looked into his eyes. Something in him stopped with a click like a notch on a reel.
He gazed after her, trying to remember. But all there was was a faint lingering scent that was difficult and alluring. There was something familiar about the curve of the neck, something about the tilt of the hat, he had seen before. It disturbed him. All he had caught was a flicker of her eyes, as though she had thought to recognize him and then had changed her mind. She turned a corner into a distant aisle and was gone.
He had a momentary impulse to follow to the end of that aisle and see where it led to, but he checked it. He gathered himself together and lazily strolled along in search of the counter he wanted. Quiet had descended upon the store. It was almost deserted of shoppers and the yellow light came streaming down the cross aisles heavy laden with dust particles. The little bundle girls leaned from their stalls behind the counters and chatted. There was a pleasant buzz in the air.
He made his purchase and lingered for a moment at a counter of notions. Then he strolled back toward the door, steeped in the feeling of well being. A girl at a curved counter was tucking in a wisp of hair and taking off her paper sleeve protectors. Over beyond, there by the west entrance, they were already shutting the doors. He paused and watched the day's closing pleasantly settle down. Then he reached out a hand to push open the door before him. Somebody jostled against him. A small collection of paper bundles spilled out on to the floor at his feet and he mechanically stooped to pick them up. They were manifestly feminine. There were four of them, all small; he gathered them all up in one hand.
Then he rose to his feet and turned to restore them to their owner.
He looked into a pair of limpid violet eyes.
They dropped and long lashes shaded them. A delicate colour rose and splashed the softest of cheeks.
Joe stood, holding the bundles.
Directly she looked at him again. It was a very timid, gentle, apologetic look. She seemed to be gathering courage.
"Oh," she burst out in a sudden sweet abandonment to friendliness. "I'm so sorry." She paused then, uncertain what next to do or say.
Joe held the door open for her, keeping tight hold of the packages. He felt a little warm behind the ears.
She preceded him to the pavement. He got a good look at her as she passed through the door. Still the baffling resemblance!
Then she turned and faced him on the pavement. Again she looked at him shyly, and there were little dimples in her cheeks as she tried hard not to smile.
"I knew I'd get into trouble when I loaded myself down with all these bundles," she explained, reaching out for them.
Confidence was returning to him. He felt the old lazy relaxation of being amused.
"Can't I help you out of your difficulty—see that you get safely home with them?" he asked quietly. "I've my car here."
She raised her eyebrows, looked startled a moment, and then flushed slightly. "Oh, don't bother. I can get a taxi."
She made no further resistance and directly he was slamming the door behind her. He had caught a glimpse of black-silk stocking above a white buckskin pump that somehow disturbed his poise. As he walked around to the other side of the car he was wondering where it was he had seen her before. He could not remember.
He climbed into his place behind the steering wheel and observed her again. It was a setting that became her. Her shyness seemed to have all vanished. She was powdering her nose as he climbed in; a silver vanity case lay open on her lap. He noticed it, saw a hairpin and two nickles and a card or two. She had said she might take a taxi.
Directly she was smiling into his eyes. It made him just a little bit giddy in spite of himself. How old was she, he wondered? For a moment he busied himself with the car. There was nothing made up about her; it was a clear case of good looks. And she knew how to wear her clothes.
"I think I'm terrible," she was saying.
"How?" he answered, hardly hearing her.
"Letting you take me up this way." She finished her renovation to her evident satisfaction and packed away the puff with a snap.
"You couldn't expect to manage those bundles any other way," he assured confidently and quietly. It was an amusing game.
She gazed off toward the corner and wetted her lips.
He started the car. They turned the corner into Fourth Street and moved south. As if sensing the need of further explanation here on the esplanade, where all seemed acquainted, she began in a slightly more animated tone:
"Of course, it's not like we had never met."