After sundown shiver by the moon."He was not watching her now. She saw that clearly. He was lookingvery deliberately at a castle on the back drop, wearing thatexpression he had worn in the Taft Grill. A wave of exasperationswept over her--he was criticising her."That's the vibration that thrills me,
Funny how affection fi-lls me
Uptown, downtown---"Unconquerable revulsion seized her. She was suddenly and horriblyconscious of her audience as she had never been since her firstappearance. Was that a leer on a pallid face in the front row, adroop of disgust on one young girl's mouth? These shoulders ofhers--these shoulders shaking--were they hers? Were they real?Surely shoulders weren't made for this!"Then--you'll see at a glance
"I'll need some funeral ushers with St. Vitus dance
At the end of the world I'll---"The bassoon and two cellos crashed into a final chord. She pausedand poised a moment on her toes with every muscle tense, heryoung face looking out dully at the audience in what one younggirl afterward called "such a curious, puzzled look," and thenwithout bowing rushed from the stage. Into the dressing-room shesped, kicked out of one dress and into another, and caught a taxioutside.Her apartment was very warm--small, it was, with a row ofprofessional pictures and sets of Kipling and O. Henry which shehad bought once from a blue-eyed agent and read occasionally. Andthere were several chairs which matched, but were none of themcomfortable, and a pink-shaded lamp with blackbirds painted on itand an atmosphere of other stifled pink throughout. There werenice things in it--nice things unrelentingly hostile to eachother, offspring of a vicarious, impatient taste acting in straymoments. The worst was typified by a great picture framed in oakbark of Passaic as seen from the Erie Railroad--altogether afrantic, oddly extravagant, oddly penurious attempt to make acheerful room. Marcia knew it was a failure.Into this room came the prodigy and took her two hands awkwardly."I followed you this time," he said."Oh!""I want you to marry me," he said.Her arms went out to him. She kissed his mouth with a sort ofpassionate wholesomeness."There!""I love you," he said.She kissed him again and then with a little sigh flung herselfinto an armchair and half lay there, shaken with absurd laughter."Why, you infant prodigy!" she cried."Very well, call me that if you want to. I once told you that Iwas ten thousand years older than you--I am."She laughed again."I don't like to be disapproved of.""No one's ever going to disapprove of you again.""Omar," she asked, "why do you want to marry me?"The prodigy rose and put his hands in his pockets."Because I love you, Marcia Meadow."And then she stopped calling him Omar."Dear boy," she said, "you know I sort of love you. There'ssomething about you--I can't tell what--that just puts my heartthrough the wringer every time I'm round you. But honey--" Shepaused."But what?""But lots of things. But you're only just eighteen, and I'mnearly twenty.""Nonsense!" he interrupted. "Put it this way--that I'm in mynineteenth year and you're nineteen. That makes us prettyclose--without counting that other ten thousand years Imentioned."Marcia laughed."But there are some more 'buts.' Your people---"My people!" exclaimed the prodigy ferociously. "My people triedto make a monstrosity out of me." His face grew quite crimson atthe enormity of what he was going to say. "My people can go wayback and sit down!""My heavens!" cried Marcia in alarm. "All that? On tacks, Isuppose.""Tacks--yes," he agreed wildly--"on anything. The more I think ofhow they allowed me to become a little dried-up mummy---""What makes you thank you're that?" asked Marcia quietly--"me?""Yes. Every person I've met on the streets since I met you hasmade me jealous because they knew what love was before I did. Iused to call it the 'sex impulse.' Heavens!""There's more 'buts,'" said Marcia"What are they?""How could we live?""I'll make a living.""You're in college.""Do you think I care anything about taking a Master of Artsdegree?""You want to be Master of Me, hey?""Yes! What? I mean, no!"Marcia laughed, and crossing swiftly over sat in his lap. He puthis arm round her wildly and implanted the vestige of a kisssomewhere near her neck."There's something white about you," mused Marcia "but it doesn'tsound very logical.""Oh, don't be so darned reasonable!""I can't help it," said Marcia."I hate these slot-machine people!""But we---""Oh, shut up!"And as Marcia couldn't talk through her ears she had to.IVHorace and Marcia were married early in February. The sensationin academic circles both at Yale and Princeton was tremendous.Horace Tarbox, who at fourteen had been played up in the Sundaymagazines sections of metropolitan newspapers, was throwing overhis career, his chance of being a world authority on Americanphilosophy, by marrying a chorus girl--they made Marcia a chorusgirl. But like all modern stories it was a four-and-a-half-daywonder.They took a flat in Harlem. After two weeks' search, during whichhis idea of the value of academic knowledge faded unmercifully,Horace took a position as clerk with a South American exportcompany--some one had told him that exporting was the comingthing. Marcia was to stay in her show for a few months--anywayuntil he got on his feet. He was getting a hundred andtwenty-five to start with, and though of course they told him itwas only a question of months until he would be earning doublethat, Marcia refused even to consider giving up the hundred andfifty a week that she was getting at the time."We'll call ourselves Head and Shoulders, dear," she said softly,"and the shoulders'll have to keep shaking a little longer untilthe old head gets started.""I hate it," he objected gloomily."Well," she replied emphatically, "Your salary wouldn't keep usin a tenement. Don't think I want to be public--I don't. I wantto be yours. But I'd be a half-wit to sit in one room and countthe sunflowers on the wall-paper while I waited for you. When youpull down three hundred a month I'll quit."And much as it hurt his pride, Horace had to admit that hers wasthe wiser course.March mellowed into April. May read a gorgeous riot act to theparks and waters of Manhatten, and they were very happy. Horace,who had no habits whatsoever--he had never had time to formany--proved the most adaptable of husbands, and as Marciaentirely lacked opinions on the subjects that engrossed him therewere very few jottings and bumping. Their minds moved indifferent spheres. Marcia acted as practical factotum, and Horacelived either in his old world of abstract ideas or in a sort oftriumphantly earthy worship and adoration of his wife. She was acontinual source of astonishment to him--the freshness andoriginality of her mind, her dynamic, clear-headed energy, andher unfailing good humor.And Marcia's co-workers in the nine-o'clock show, whither she hadtransferred her talents, were impressed with her tremendouspride in her husband's mental powers. Horace they knew only as avery slim, tight-lipped, and immature-looking young man, whowaited every night to take her home."Horace," said Marcia one evening when she met him as usual ateleven, "you looked like a ghost standing there against thestreet lights. You losing weight?"He shook his head vaguely."I don't know. They raised me to a hundred and thirty-fivedollars to-day, and---""I don't care," said Marcia severely. "You're killing yourselfworking at night. You read those big books on economy---""Economics," corrected Horace."Well, you read 'em every night long after I'm asleep. And you'regetting all stooped over like you were before we were married.""But, Marcia, I've got to---""No, you haven't dear. I guess I'm running this shop for thepresent, and I won't let my fella ruin his health and eyes. Yougot to get some exercise.""I do. Every morning I---""Oh, I know! But those dumb-bells of yours wouldn't give aconsumptive two degrees of fever. I mean real exercise. You'vegot to join a gymnasium. 'Member you told me you were such atrick gymnast once that they tried to get you out for the team incollege and they couldn't because you had a standing date withHerb Spencer?""I used to enjoy it," mused Horace, "but it would take up toomuch time now.""All right," said Marcia. "I'll make a bargain with you. You joina gym and I'll read one of those books from the brown row of'em.""'Pepys' Diary'? Why, that ought to be enjoyable. He's verylight.""Not for me--he isn't. It'll be like digesting plate glass. Butyou been telling me how much it'd broaden my lookout. Well, yougo to a gym three nights a week and I'll take one big dose ofSammy."Horace hesitated."Well---""Come on, now! You do some giant swings for me and I'll chasesome culture for you."So Horace finally consented, and all through a baking summer hespent three and sometimes four evenings a week experimenting onthe trapeze in Skipper's Gymnasium. And in August he admitted toMarcia that it made him capable of more mental work during theday."MENS SANA IN CORPORE SANO," he said."Don't believe in it," replied Marcia. "I tried one of thosepatent medicines once and they're all bunk. You stick togymnastics."One night in early September while he was going through one ofhis contortions on the rings in the nearly deserted room he wasaddressed by a meditative fat man whom he had noticed watchinghim for several nights."Say, lad, do that stunt you were doin' last night."Horace grinned at him from his perch."I invented it," he said. "I got the idea from the fourthproposition of Euclid.""What circus he with?""He's dead.""Well, he must of broke his neck doin' that stunt. I set herelast night thinkin' sure you was goin' to break yours.""Like this!" said Horace, and swinging onto the trapeze he didhis stunt."Don't it kill your neck an' shoulder muscles?""It did at first, but inside of a week I wrote the QUOD ERATDEMONSTRANDUM on it.""Hm!"Horace swung idly on the trapeze."Ever think of takin' it up professionally?" asked the fat man."Not I.""Good money in it if you're willin' to do stunts like 'at an' canget away with it.""Here's another," chirped Horace eagerly, and the fat man's mouthdropped suddenly agape as he watched this pink-jerseyedPrometheus again defy the gods and Isaac Newton.The night following this encounter Horace got home from work tofind a rather pale Marcia stretched out on the sofa waiting forhim."I fainted twice to-day," she began without preliminaries."What?""Yep. You see baby's due in four months now. Doctor says I oughtto have quit dancing two weeks ago."Horace sat down and thought it over."I'm glad of course," he said pensively--"I mean glad that we'regoing to have a baby. But this means a lot of expense.""I've got two hundred and fifty in the bank," said Marciahopefully, "and two weeks' pay coming."Horace computed quickly."Inducing my salary, that'll give us nearly fourteen hundred forthe next six months."Marcia looked blue."That all? Course I can get a job singing somewhere this month.And I can go to work again in March.""Of course nothing!" said Horace gruffly. "You'll stay righthere. Let's see now--there'll be doctor's bills and a nurse,besides the maid: We've got to have some more money.""Well," said Marcia wearily, "I don't know where it's comingfrom. It's up to the old head now. Shoulders is out of business."Horace rose and pulled on his coat."Where are you going?""I've got an idea," he answered. "I'll be right back."Ten minutes later as he headed down the street toward Skipper'sGymnasium he felt a placid wonder, quite unmixed with humor, atwhat he was going to do. How he would have gaped at himself ayear before! How every one would have gaped! But when you openedyour door at the rap of life you let in many things.The gymnasium was brightly lit, and when his eyes becameaccustomed to the glare he found the meditative fat man seated ona pile of canvas mats smoking a big cigar."Say," began Horace directly, "were you in earnest last nightwhen you said I could make money on my trapeze stunts?""Why, yes," said the fat man in surprise."Well, I've been thinking it over, and I believe I'd like to tryit. I could work at night and on Saturday afternoons--andregularly if the pay is high enough."The fat men looked at his watch."Well," he said, "Charlie Paulson's the man to see. He'll bookyou inside of four days, once he sees you work out. He won't bein now, but I'll get hold of him for to-morrow night."The fat man was as good as his word. Charlie Paulson arrived nextnight and put in a wondrous hour watching the prodigy swapthrough the air in amazing parabolas, and on the night followinghe brought two age men with him who looked as though they hadbeen born smoking black cigars and talking about money in low,passionate voices. Then on the succeeding Saturday HoraceTarbox's torso made its first professional appearance in agymnastic exhibition at the Coleman Street Gardens. But thoughthe audience numbered nearly five thousand people, Horace felt nonervousness. From his childhood he had read papers toaudiences--learned that trick of detaching himself."Marcia," he said cheerfully later that same night, "I thinkwe're out of the woods. Paulson thinks he can get me an openingat the Hippodrome, and that means an all-winter engagement. TheHippodrome you know, is a big---""Yes, I believe I've heard of it," interrupted Marcia, "but Iwant to know about this stunt you're doing. It isn't anyspectacular suicide, is it?""It's nothing," said Horace quietly. "But if you can think of annicer way of a man killing himself than taking a risk for you,why that's the way I want to die."Marcia reached up and wound both arms tightly round his neck."Kiss me," she whispered, "and call me 'dear heart.' I love tohear you say 'dear heart.' And bring me a book to read to-morrow.No more Sam Pepys, but something trick and trashy. I've beenwild for something to do all day. I felt like writing letters,but I didn't have anybody to write to.""Write to me," said Horace. "I'll read them.""I wish I could," breathed Marcia. "If I knew words enough Icould write you the longest love-letter in the world--and neverget tired."But after two more months Marcia grew very tired indeed, and fora row of nights it was a very anxious, weary-looking youngathlete who walked out before the Hippodrome crowd. Then therewere two days when his place was taken by a young man who worepale blue instead of white, and got very little applause. Butafter the two days Horace appeared again, and those who sat closeto the stage remarked an expression of beatific happiness onthat young acrobat's face even when he was twisting breathlesslyin the air an the middle of his amazing and original shoulderswing. After that performance he laughed at the elevator man anddashed up the stairs to the flat five steps at a time--and thentiptoed very carefully into a quiet room."Marcia," he whispered."Hello!" She smiled up at him wanly. "Horace, there's something Iwant you to do. Look in my top bureau drawer and you'll find abig stack of paper. It's a book--sort of--Horace. I wrote it downin these last three months while I've been laid up. I wish you'dtake it to that Peter Boyce Wendell who put my letter in hispaper. He could tell you whether it'd be a good book. I wrote itjust the way I talk, just the way I wrote that letter to him.It's just a story about a lot of things that happened to me. Willyou take it to him, Horace?""Yes, darling."He leaned over the bed until his head was beside her on thepillow, and began stroking back her yellow hair."Dearest Marcia," he said softly."No," she murmured, "call me what I told you to call me.""Dear heart," he whispered passionately--"dearest heart.""What'll we call her?"They rested a minute in happy, drowsy content, while Horaceconsidered."We'll call her Marcia Hume Tarbox," he said at length."Why the Hume?""Because he's the fellow who first introduced us.""That so?" she murmured, sleepily surprised. "I thought his namewas Moon."Her eyes dosed, and after a moment the slow lengthening surge ofthe bedclothes over her breast showed that she was asleep.Horace tiptoed over to the bureau and opening the top drawerfound a heap of closely scrawled, lead-smeared pages. He lookedat the first sheet:SANDRA PEPYS, SYNCOPATED
BY MARCIA TARBOXHe smiled. So Samuel Pepys had made an impression on her afterall. He turned a page and began to read. His smile deepened--heread on. Half an hour passed and he became aware that Marcia hadwaked and was watching him from the bed."Honey," came in a whisper."What Marcia?""Do you like it?"Horace coughed."I seem to be reading on. It's bright.""Take it to Peter Boyce Wendell. Tell him you got the highestmarks in Princeton once and that you ought to know when a book'sgood. Tell him this one's a world beater.""All right, Marcia," Horace said gently.Her eyes closed again and Horace crossing over kissed herforehead--stood there for a moment with a look of tender pity.Then he left the room.All that night the sprawly writing on the pages, the constantmistakes in spelling and grammar, and the weird punctuationdanced before his eyes. He woke several times in the night, eachtime full of a welling chaotic sympathy for this desire ofMarcia's soul to express itself in words. To him there wassomething infinitely pathetic about it, and for the first time inmonths he began to turn over in his mind his own half-forgottendreams.He had meant to write a series of books, to popularize the newrealism as Schopenhauer had popularized pessimism and WilliamJames pragmatism.But life hadn't come that way. Life took hold of people andforced them into flying rings. He laughed to think of that rap athis door, the diaphanous shadow in Hume, Marcia's threatenedkiss."And it's still me," he said aloud in wonder as he lay awake inthe darkness. "I'm the man who sat in Berkeley with temerity towonder if that rap would have had actual existence had my ear notbeen there to hear it. I'm still that man. I could beelectrocuted for the crimes he committed."Poor gauzy souls trying to express ourselves in somethingtangible. Marcia with her written book; I with my unwritten ones.Trying to choose our mediums and then taking what we get-- andbeing glad."V"Sandra Pepys, Syncopated," with an introduction by Peter BoyceWendell the columnist, appeared serially in JORDAN'S MAGAZINE,and came out in book form in March. From its first publishedinstalment it attracted attention far and wide. A trite enoughsubject--a girl from a small New Jersey town coming to New Yorkto go on the stage--treated simply, with a peculiar vividness ofphrasing and a haunting undertone of sadness in the veryinadequacy of its vocabulary, it made an irresistible appeal.Peter Boyce Wendell, who happened at that time to be advocatingthe enrichment of the American language by the immediate adoptionof expressive vernacular words, stood as its sponsor andthundered his indorsement over the placid bromides of theconventional reviewers.Marcia received three hundred dollars an instalment for theserial publication, which came at an opportune time, for thoughHorace's monthly salary at the Hippodrome was now more thanMarcia's had ever been, young Marcia was emitting shrill crieswhich they interpreted as a demand for country air. So early Aprilfound them installed in a bungalow in Westchester County, with aplace for a lawn, a place for a garage, and a place foreverything, including a sound-proof impregnable study, in whichMarcia faithfully promised Mr. Jordan she would shut herself upwhen her daughter's demands began to be abated, and composeimmortally illiterate literature."It's not half bad," thought Horace one night as he was on hisway from the station to his house. He was considering severalprospects that had opened up, a four months' vaudeville offer infive figures, a chance to go back to Princeton in charge of allgymnasium work. Odd! He had once intended to go back there incharge of all philosophic work, and now he had not even beenstirred by the arrival in New York of Anton Laurier, his oldidol.The gravel crunched raucously under his heel. He saw the lightsof his sitting-room gleaming and noticed a big car standing inthe drive. Probably Mr. Jordan again, come to persuade Marcia tosettle down' to work.She had heard the sound of his approach and her form wassilhouetted against the lighted door as she came out to meet him."There's some Frenchman here," she whispered nervously. "Ican't pronounce his name, but he sounds awful deep. You'll haveto jaw with him.""What Frenchman?""You can't prove it by me. He drove up an hour ago with Mr.Jordan, and said he wanted to meet Sandra Pepys, and all that sortof thing."Two men rose from chairs as they went inside."Hello Tarbox," said Jordan. "I've just been bringing togethertwo celebrities. I've brought M'sieur Laurier out with me.M'sieur Laurier, let me present Mr. Tarbox, Mrs. Tarbox'shusband.""Not Anton Laurier!" exclaimed Horace."But, yes. I must come. I have to come. I have read the book ofMadame, and I have been charmed"--he fumbled in his pocket--"ahI have read of you too. In this newspaper which I read to-day ithas your name."He finally produced a clipping from a magazine."Read it!" he said eagerly. "It has about you too."Horace's eye skipped down the page."A distinct contribution to American dialect literature," itsaid. "No attempt at literary tone; the book derives its veryquality from this fact, as did 'Huckleberry Finn.'"Horace's eyes caught a passage lower down; he became suddenlyaghast--read on hurriedly:"Marcia Tarbox's connection with the stage is not only as aspectator but as the wife of a performer. She was married lastyear to Horace Tarbox, who every evening delights the children atthe Hippodrome with his wondrous flying performance. It is saidthat the young couple have dubbed themselves Head and Shoulders,referring doubtless to the fact that Mrs. Tarbox supplies theliterary and mental qualities, while the supple and agileshoulder of her husband contribute their share to the familyfortunes."Mrs. Tarbox seems to merit that much-abused title--'prodigy.'Only twenty---"Horace stopped reading, and with a very odd expression in hiseyes gazed intently at Anton Laurier."I want to advise you--" he began hoarsely."What?""About raps. Don't answer them! Let them alone--have a padded door."
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