The Gentleman from Indiana - Page 167/212

"Mamma, this is Mr. Harkless."

"How do you do?" The lady murmured this much so far under her breath that

the words might have been mistaken for anything else--most plausibly,

perhaps, for, "Who cares if it is?"--nor further did she acknowledge

John's profound inclination. Frigidity and complaint of ill-usage made a

glamour in every fold of her expensive garments; she was large and

troubled and severe. A second figure emerged from behind her and bowed

with the suave dignity that belonged to Brainard Macauley. "Mr. Macauley

has asked to sit at our table," Mrs. Sherwood said to Helen. "May I beg

you to come at once? Your father is holding places for us."

"Certainly," she answered. "I will follow you with Mr. Harkless."

"I think Mr. Harkless will excuse you," said the elder lady. "He has an

engagement. Mr. Meredith has been looking everywhere for him to take Miss

Hinsdale out to supper."

"Good-night, Miss Sherwood," said John in a cheerful voice. "I thank you

for sitting out the dance with me."

"Good-night," she said, and gave him her hand. "I'm so sorry I shan't see

you again; I am only in Rouen for this evening, or I should ask you to

come to see me. I am leaving to-morrow morning. Good-night.--Yes, mamma."

The three figures went toward the bright lights of the club-house. She was

leaning on Macauley's arm and chatting gaily, smiling up at him brightly.

John watched her till she was lost in the throng on the veranda. There, in

the lights, where waiters were arranging little tables, every one was

talking and moving about, noisily, good-humored and happy. There was a

flourish of violins, and then the orchestra swung into a rampant march

that pranced like uncurbed cavalry; it stirred the blood of old men with

militant bugle calls and blast of horns; it might have heralded the

chariot of a flamboyant war god rioting out of sunrise, plumed with youth.

Some quite young men on the veranda made as if they were restive horses

champing at the bit and heading a procession, and, from a group near by,

loud laughter pealed.

John Harkless lifted to his face the hand that had held hers; there was

the faint perfume of her glove. He kissed his own hand. Then he put that

hand and the other to his forehead, and sank into her chair.

"Let me get back," he said. "Let me get back to Plattville, where I

belong."