That was the sorrowfulest sound of all to William. His lonely mind's eye sought the vasty spaces to the east; crossed prairie, and river, and hill, to where a long train whizzed onward through the dark--farther and farther and farther away. William uttered a sigh, so hoarse, so deep from the tombs, so prolonged, that Jane, who had been relaxing herself at full length upon the floor, sat up straight with a jerk.
Now the full moon came masquerading among the branches of the shade-trees; it came in the likeness of an enormous football, gloriously orange. Gorgeously it rose higher, cleared the trees, and resumed its wonted impersonation of a silver disk. Here was another mockery: What was the use of a moon NOW?
In direct coincidence with that rising moon, there came from a little distance down the street the sound of a young male voice, singing. It was not a musical voice, yet sufficiently loud; and it knew only a portion of the words and air it sought to render, but, upon completing the portion it did know, it instantly began again, and sang that portion over and over with brightest patience. So the voice approached the residence of the Baxter family, singing what the shades of night gave courage to sing--instead of whistle, as in the abashing sunlight.
“My countree, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liber-tee, My countree, 'tis--”
Jane spoke unconsciously. “It's Freddie,” she said.
William leaped to his feet; this was something he could NOT bear! He made a bloodthirsty dash toward the gate, which the singer was just in the act of passing.
The song stopped. Freddie Banks fled like a rag on the wind.
The antique prophets prophesied successfully; they practised with some ease that art since lost but partly rediscovered by M. Maeterlinck, who proves to us that the future already exists, simultaneously with the present. Well, if his proofs be true, then at this very moment when William thought menacingly of Freddie Banks, the bright air of a happy June evening--an evening ordinarily reckoned ten years, nine months and twenty-one days in advance of this present sorrowful evening--the bright air of that happy June evening, so far in the future, was actually already trembling to a wedding-march played upon a church organ; and this selfsame Freddie, with a white flower in his buttonhole, and in every detail accoutred as a wedding usher, was an usher for this very William who now (as we ordinarily count time) threatened his person.
