The reopening of the Fincherie with magical haste, untold extravagance
and new notions set the town gossiping anew.
To see every window wide open and Betsey and Hopeful polishing them while
Ali Baba hurried to and fro on all sorts of errands bent, to know that
the stable was empty of its coupé and motor cars were installed, while a
pert maid with a cap with streamers minced down the streets and smiled
superciliously at every one—it was enough to give the Corners palpitation
of the heart.
The general verdict was that Thurley had returned “to lord it over every
one.” A few more romantically inclined thought she had come back to “win
Dan from ’Raine.” One or two simple souls believed she might be genuinely
anxious to be at home again, at least the only home she had ever known.
Thurley bothered little with public opinion. With false assurance as
to her ideas, she proceeded to put them into practice without delay.
The devil always favoring a new recruit, it would seem, she met with
considerable success.
To still the wondering as to Bliss’s summers, the loneliness for a
personal relationship and the fag in her head brought about by a season’s
hard work and the war agitation, Thurley played along in Lissa’s own
manner.
She treated the Corners with good-natured disdain. There was a trifle of
the boaster in her as she wore her new creations and drove her smart cab
about, smoked openly and permitted unwrapped cases of champagne to be
sent up from the station. But the boasting was because of two elements,
the child’s love of mischief and the woman’s loneliness and determination
to let no one suspect that she had repented of her strange bargain.
She had driven into the town with Miss Clergy beside her, quite content
as long as Thurley was satisfied, Thurley in a startling gown of mulberry
chiffon and a jet toque and her driver in a trig green uniform to match
the body of the limousine.
The word spread like fire, “Thurley Precore is back, grand as a princess,
famous as all outdoors—paint on her cheeks—Miss Clergy is human—it _is_
so, all they’ve said about ’em—watch Dan Birge, sore’n a hedgehog, watch
’Raine—there’ll be doings if she stays.”
There was no attempt at actually refurnishing the Fincherie, but only
to let sun stream in and soap and water do its best. A piano was the
only added asset save the motor cars, the lady’s maid and Thurley’s
accompanist. Thurley preferred to have the contrast of old style
furniture, and Miss Clergy wandered vaguely like a lost child through
the rooms, smiling with delight at the memories such and such a table or
chair recalled; she even pointed to where she had danced the businesslike
little polka at her coming out party.
But when Thurley came face to face with Betsey, Hopeful or Ali Baba, all
trace of the sophisticated young woman vanished and she flew into their
arms in such natural fashion that they afterwards said in stout defense
of her, “Thurley ain’t changed a mite—unless people act changed to her!”
Nevertheless there was a change. No one can go away from a village as a
runaway beggar girl taking the town mystery and richest person in it at
the same time and leave a broken heart to keep green her memory, without
somewhat of a readjustment. Nor can she return three years later both
famous and rich and lovelier than ever without further complications.
The homey things which Thurley had anticipated would set her right in
magic fashion irritated and disappointed her. She wanted to return the
same wild rose she had left, being treated as such. But her grandeur
was like a stone wall over which the village took turns at peeking and
saying, “Well, well, well, so this is Thurley Precore—well, well, _well_!”
Twelve hours after she had come into the town she was bored to
extinction. She missed the excitement of her other life and wondered why
she had not stayed on to do the things society had begged of her. Birge’s
Corners was as removed from the real world as Iceland from the tropics,
they did not appreciate or comprehend her! She was still just a “lucky
girl” in their eyes; they almost questioned her success. She would have
to die and leave funds for a public drinking fountain before the village
would acclaim her as their own with joy and alacrity.
The hills seemed small and stunted and the air over-dusty and hot. The
old drive along the river was stupid, she decided, as she took it and was
prepared to be drifted back into enchanted girlhood. Her accompanist,
who was with her, agreed when Thurley remarked that one never remembered
childhood joys with accuracy. The accompanist was thinking of _her_
own home town where the hills were green and gorgeous and the river
sparkling—but the accompanist had not been home in some time either!
The summer yawned before Thurley like a dark cavern. She longed for fall
and work—glimpses of Hobart with snubs and sarcasm from him if nothing
else. She wanted Ernestine; she felt she could become as cynical as
Ernestine with no trouble at all and she would agree with Caleb that
“kiss-baby” copy was perfectly proper if people were fools enough to
pay for it; she resolved to play cards for money the next winter, as
Lissa urged, and really to bully Polly into accepting decent clothes and
being some one respectable. She wanted Collin to paint her portrait in a
certain cream satin frock, because she wanted to know what Hobart would
say of it, and as for Mark—there was a dangerous expression in Thurley’s
eyes as she thought of what she might or might not do concerning him
... besides, there were many others who would pay her attention, rich,
powerful, foolish creatures who follow such butterflies as religiously as
the hounds do the hares. Every one must decide early in the game if he is
to run with the hounds or with the hares! Thurley had not yet decided.
She knew that as she came home from the disappointing river drive the
last resolve to be natural and her wild-rose self vanished—it was the
final straw which turned her in the way Lissa’s white fingers had pointed.
Vows or no vows, Thurley would live! And if she loved some one who
chose to live a hermit’s life—— And did he live a hermit’s life despite
this chatter of a Maine hermitage? There was room for reasonable doubt.
Thurley would live as she pleased, time enough to take the consequences!
She began cheering the accompanist by promises of a house party and her
own drooping spirits by the promise of thoroughly shocking the narrow,
well-meaning town.
When they drove into the stableyard and Ali Baba came out as was his
custom, Thurley sent the accompanist into the house and wandered back
with Ali Baba.
“Seems mighty fine to have you back,” he said.
“Good to be back, Ali Baba. Well, have I changed so much?” she asked,
waiting curiously for the old man’s opinion.
He shook his head. “If your mother was to have kissed you good-by, I’m
gosh hanged whether or not she’d know you now! You’re a great lady.”
“Nonsense, it’s just the clothes. Let’s talk about every one else but me.
I want to get Hopeful and Betsey fur coats next winter and you’ll have to
find out the sort they like.”
“I guess singin’ pays,” he ventured.
Thurley had led the way inside the barn and settled herself on a bench.
“How is June Myers and Josie Donaldson—see, I haven’t forgotten their
names—and—Lorraine—and Dan?” she tried to say easily.
Ali Baba glanced at her shrewdly. “Oh, June is the same little whiffet
she always was and Josie is tryin’ to write a play; she’ll come to see
you, don’t never worry.... We got a new kind of fool here—Owen Pringle;
he has an art store and when he heard you was comin’, he sent to town for
photographs of you—I didn’t know you could buy ’em right out—and he wants
you to autograph ’em and then he’ll sell ’em—don’t you write a stroke
of the pen—and his clerk, Cora Spooner—oh, we got a right good stock of
pests on hand. I tell you, Thurley, things ain’t like they used to be.”
“You didn’t say about—Dan,” Thurley urged, wondering why she trembled.
“Fine—business growing. Was you scared the first time you come out on the
stage?”
“Not much. How are all the home folks, that’s what I want to know.”
Ali Baba lit his pipe in democratic fashion. “All up to snuff, fools
included ... goin’ to sing in meetin’?”
“If I’m asked.”
“Well, for land’s sake and Mrs. Davis,” he commanded, “sing somethin’
with a regular tune. I can’t go these songs that slide all over and back
again afore a feller gets his foot to tappin’ on time.... Guess you
learned to sing in Eyetalian from what you write Betsey?”
“Yes.”
He snorted disapproval. To his mind, as to the majority of village minds,
there was no more object in discarding one’s coherent language to speak
another than to shave off one’s hair and adopt a wig.
“How is Lorraine?” Thurley studied the barn floor.
“Too good to be true.” Ali Baba stood up and started to examine an old
strap. “Her pa is prouder of her every minnit ... she’s made Dan a fine
wife—had me up for supper and treated me as fine as silk.... Dan’s a
great lad.” He became engrossed in opening the buckle.
Thurley slipped away. Later, Ali Baba told Betsey,
“Opery singers or no opery singers, women is all alike. If they give
a fellow the mitten, they just can’t help comin’ back to see how he’s
wearin’ it!”
Dan was in South Wales the day Thurley arrived. When he returned to
the Corners a week later, the town was chattering with new gusto, but
he learned the news from Lorraine herself,—from Lorraine, who had been
trying to gain courage enough to call on Thurley and blot out memories
of that hidden magazine and the unproved yet strong impression that Dan
had not confined himself to magazine pictures of Thurley. Just wherein
lay his infidelity she did not know; she shrank as do women of her makeup
from ever discovering!
Dan came in buoyantly to waltz her around as was his custom, telling of
his success with this man and that and plans for the branch store.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, realizing that she was not dimpling with
happiness and nodding approbation at every sentence he spoke.
Lorraine disengaged herself from his arm and stood back, twisting her
apron nervously. “The town has something new to talk about, Dan. Who do
you think is back for the summer?” laughing nervously.
“I don’t know. Who ever comes back here?”
“Miss Clergy—and Thurley.” It was a relief now her name was spoken.
“They’ve reopened the Fincherie, and Thurley has a maid and chauffeur and
about eight trunks—so Ali Baba says.”
Dan whistled softly. “What do you think of that?” was his sole comment.
“I suppose I ought to call on her,” Lorraine continued bravely, “although
she may not care to know any one of us now. She’s so famous and changed!
Ali Baba says she smokes and paints her face and the lady’s maid is
prettier than any one in the village. She had her piano shipped from
New York and an accompanist besides! Do you think I ought to call?”
Lorraine’s little face was wrinkled anxiously.
“If you like—I don’t suppose Thurley _does_ care,” Dan went over to the
lounge and, flinging himself down, picked up a newspaper, “or she would
never have left here! Anything else new—nobody lynched Owen yet—Cora got
a new beau? I saw a travelling man in Hamilton that was her speed. When
he comes here we’ll ask him over and let Cora do her best. I suppose
Hazel and Josie have camped out here while I’ve been away. You look pale,
’Raine—what’s wrong—your dad sick? Then come here and guess what I
brought for you—”
“You’re always bringing me things,” she said wistfully. Even his
reassuring words did not satisfy. They were spoken with a glib uneasiness
which did not deceive.
“You extravagant Dan,” Lorraine said, examining the silver purse, “how
lovely of you!”
“I’m going to take forty winks before supper—mind? I can’t get used
to irregular hours and country hotels. Oh, ’Raine, small towns are
the devil’s own makings, of all the narrow, carping—” Dan dozed off,
apparently, with unfinished sentiments giving way to regular breathing.
Lorraine tiptoed away. “He didn’t seem to mind,” she consoled herself as
she cooked supper, “but he has not seen her!”
Lorraine had. She watched Thurley as she drove by, standing half hidden
behind bushes to note every lovely, strange detail of her appearance,
wondering why Thurley, who had brought the world to her feet so easily,
must return to this village to steal the peace of mind of a woman who had
not even brought the one man she loved to her own timid feet!
Dan stayed at home that evening as if wishing to prove his devotion to
Lorraine. Usually he would have wandered down to the hotel or the lodge
room. They talked of everything else but Thurley’s return, although each
thought of nothing else, and in the morning Dan said carelessly,
“Don’t call on Thurley unless you like. I dare say she does not expect
it. Every gawk of a country girl will crowd in on her, curious and
self-seeking, and if Thurley wants to see any one, she’ll come to them.
She doesn’t belong to the town any more but to the world.” His voice
softened as he added, “Good-by, dear; now don’t work your head off. I’ll
lunch at the hotel—there is so much stuff to catch up on.”
That same afternoon Dan’s car drove slowly past the Fincherie, whose
crisp curtains and lifted shades told the world a new, optimistic story.
No one was visible, not even the much discussed lady’s maid or the
accompanist who was said to sit on the lawn and drink endless cups of tea
“right in the middle of the afternoon!”
Further along in the road he was hailed by a dreaded trio—Josie, Hazel
and Cora!
“Oh, Dan, do take us by her house,” they began, waving their arms in wild
invitation. “We’re crazy to see her—Cora never knew her,” Josie Donaldson
explained by way of excuse as they climbed pell mell into the machine.
“I guess she won’t want to remember us,” Josie added, “but ma sent over
my winter coat one time and she wore it two seasons—she ought to know
_me_.”
“My aunt helped her a lot too,” added Hazel Mitchell, “and she borrowed
every one’s books. I don’t think she’ll dare put on airs. I’m going to
start right in and call her Thurley just as if I didn’t know she was
famous. I’m dying to get inside that house. Just think, girls, it hasn’t
been opened for years until—” Thin ice was fast approaching in the matter
of the past and with a swift side glance at Dan, who steered ahead with
a fiendish hope of dashing his human cargo off the nearest cliff, Hazel
winked at the others and began anew,
“How’s Lorraine?”
“Fine! Where do you girls want to go?”
“To call on Thurley. Please, Dan, drive us up there. It’ll look so much
better if we came in a machine.”
“Your machine, anyhow,” giggled Josie.
“Aren’t you working to-day?” he asked Hazel savagely.
“I had a headache and the doctor said I needed fresh air.”
“Then you better stay outdoors instead of calling on people, if it’s
fresh air you are after,” he advised.
Nothing but giggles answered him and they hailed the white clad figure of
Owen Pringle, who held up his cane in threatening fashion.
“You sha’n’t have the prettiest girls all to yourself, you old married
man,” he threatened. “Do let me sit in the back—”
Unwillingly, Dan halted the car and a new element of disturbance was
added.
“We want to call on Thurley Precore,” they told Owen, who was always at
his best when his arms were full of girl and some one else was driving
the car. “Come along and we’ll ask her to let you design some hats—come
on.”
“Joyful, joyful, joyful,” he began in an assumed falsetto, at which Dan
drew the car to a standstill and looked around with a frown.
“I don’t wish to call on Thurley,” he said sharply, “as you well know. If
you insist on my driving you up to her house, I’ll do so. My wife will
call on her when she sees fit.”
Which somewhat subdued the quartette, who murmured their gratitude and
were hurriedly raced back until the Fincherie was reached. Whispering
their thanks, each personally thinking what a dreadful disposition Dan
Birge had, they raced up the walk—the leisure class of Birge’s Corners,
as Dan thought with half a chuckle.
He was wondering what Thurley would say to them, as he turned his machine
in the opposite direction.