The Happy Average. Brand Whitlock

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      The Happy Average

      CHAPTER I

      A YOUNG MAN’S FANCY

      “Come on, old man.”

      Lawrence led the way with a jaunty step that was intended to show his easy footing with the Carters. But Marley lagged behind. Even if calling on girls had not been such a serious business with him, he could not forget that he was just graduated from college and that a certain dignity befitted him. He wished Lawrence would not speak so loud; the girls might hear, and think he was afraid; he wished to keep the truth from them as long as possible. He had already caught a glimpse of the girls, or thought he had, but before he could make sure, the vague white figures on the veranda stirred; he heard a scurrying, and the loose bang of a screen door. Then it was still. Lawrence laughed—somehow, as Marley felt, derisively.

      The way from the sidewalk up to the Carters’ veranda was not long, of course, though it seemed long to Marley, and Marley’s deliberation made it seem long to Lawrence. They paused at the steps of the veranda, and Lawrence made a low bow.

      “Good evening, Mrs. Carter,” he said. “Ah, Captain, you here too?”

      Marley had not noticed the captain, or Mrs. Carter; they sat there so quietly, enjoying the cool of the evening, or such cool as a July evening can find in central Ohio.

      “My friend, Mr. Marley, Mrs. Carter—Glenn Marley—you’ve heard of him, Captain.”

      Marley bowed and said something. The presentation there in the darkness made it rather difficult for him, and neither the captain nor his wife moved. Lawrence sat down on the steps and fanned himself with his hat.

      “Been a hot day, Captain,” he said. “Think there’s any sign of rain?” He sniffed the air. The captain did not need to sniff the air to be able to reply, in a voice that rumbled up from his bending figure, that he had no hope of any.

      “Mayme’s home, ain’t she?” asked Lawrence, turning to Mrs. Carter.

      “I’ll go see,” said Mrs. Carter, and she rose quickly, as if glad to get away, and the screen door slammed again.

      “Billy was in the bank to-day,” Lawrence went on, speaking to Captain Carter. “He said your wheat was ready to cut. Did you get Foose all right?”

      “Yes,” said the captain, “he’ll give me next week.”

      “Do you have to board the threshers?”

      “No, not this year; they bring along their own cook, and a tent and everything.”

      “Je-rusalem!” exclaimed Lawrence. “Things are changing in these days, ain’t they? Harvesting ain’t as hard on the women-folks as it used to be.”

      “No,” said the captain, “but I pay for it, so much extra a bushel.”

      His head shook regretfully, but he would have lost his regrets in telling of the time when he had swung a cradle all day in the harvest field, had not Mrs. Carter’s voice just then been heard calling up the stairs:

      “Mayme!”

      “Whoo!” answered a high, feminine voice.

      “Come down. There’s some one here to see you.”

      Mrs. Carter turned into the parlor, and the tall windows that opened to the floor of the veranda burst into light.

      “She’ll be right down, John,” said Mrs. Carter, appearing in the door. “You give me your hats and go right in.”

      “All right,” said Lawrence, and he got to his feet. “Come on, Glenn.”

      Mrs. Carter took the hats of the young men and hung them on the rack, where they might easily have hung them themselves. Then she went back to the veranda, letting the screen door bang behind her, and Lawrence and Marley entered the parlor. Marley took his seat on one of the haircloth chairs that seemed to have ranged themselves permanently along the walls, and Lawrence went to the square piano that stood across one corner of the room, and sat down tentatively on the stool, swinging from side to side.

      Marley glanced at the pictures on the walls. One of them was a steel engraving of Lincoln and his cabinet; another, in a black oval frame, portrayed Captain Carter in uniform, his hair dusting the strapped shoulders of a coat made after the pattern that seems to have been worn so uncomfortably by the heroes of the Civil War. There was, however, a later picture of the captain, a crayon enlargement of a photograph, that had taken him in civilian garb. This picture, in its huge gilt frame, was the most aggressive thing in the room, except, possibly, the walnut what-not. Marley had a great fear of the what-not; it seemed to him that if he stirred he must topple it over, and dash its load of trinkets to the floor. Presently he heard the swish of skirts. Then a tall girl came in, and Lawrence sprang to his feet.

      “Hello, Mayme. What’d you run for?” he said.

      He had crossed the room and seized the girl’s hand. She flashed a rebuke at him, though it was evident that the rebuke was more out of deference to the strange presence of Marley than for any real resentment she felt.

      “This is my friend, Mr. Marley, Miss Carter,” Lawrence said. “You’ve heard me speak of him.”

      Marley edged away from the what-not, rose and took the hand the girl gave him. Then Miss Carter crossed to the black haircloth sofa and seated herself, smoothing out her skirts.

      “Didn’t know what to do, so we thought we’d come out and see you,” said Lawrence.

      “Oh, indeed!” said Miss Carter. “Well, it’s too bad about you. We’ll do when you can’t find anybody else to put up with you, eh?”

      “Oh, yes, you’ll do in a pinch,” chaffed Lawrence.

      “Well, can’t you find a comfortable seat?” the girl asked, still addressing Lawrence, who had gone back to the piano stool.

      “I’m going to play in a minute,” said Lawrence, “and sing.”

      “Well, excuse me!” implored Miss Carter. “Do let me get you a seat.”

      Lawrence promptly went over to the sofa and leaned back in one corner of it, affecting a discomfort.

      “Can’t I get you a pillow, Mr. Lawrence?” Miss Carter asked presently. “Or perhaps a cot; I believe there’s one somewhere in the attic.”

      “Oh, I reckon I can stand it,” said Lawrence.

      Marley had regained his seat on the edge of the slippery chair.

      “Where’s Vinie?” asked Lawrence.

      “She’s coming,” answered Miss Carter.

      “Taking out her curl papers, eh?” said Lawrence. “She needn’t mind us.”

      Miss Carter pretended a disgust, but as she was framing a retort, somehow, the eyes of all of them turned toward the hall door. A girl in a gown of white stood there clasping and unclasping her hands curiously, and looking from one to another of those in the room.

      “Come in, Lavinia,” said Miss Carter. Something had softened her voice. The girl stepped into the room almost timidly.

      “Miss Blair,” said Miss Carter, “let me introduce Mr. Marley.”

      The sudden consciousness that he had been sitting—and staring—smote Marley, and he sprang to his feet. Embarrassment overpowered him and he bowed awkwardly. Lawrence had been silent, and his silence had been a long one for him. Seeming to recognize this he hastened to say:

      “Well, how’s the world using you, Vinie?”

      The girl smiled and answered:

      “Oh, pretty well, thank you, Jack.”

      It grated on Marley to hear her called Vinie. Lavinia Blair! Lavinia Blair! That was her name. He had heard it before, of course, yet it had never sounded as it did now when he repeated it to himself. The girl had seated herself in a rocking-chair across the room, almost out of range, as it were. He was rather glad of this, if anything. It seemed to relieve him of the duty of talking to her. He supposed, of course, they would pair off somehow. The young people always did in Macochee. He supposed he had been brought there to pair off with Lavinia Blair. He liked the thought, yet the position