In September Thurley did go back to the Corners, Miss Clergy with her,
but she did not take the maid, the accompanist, the extra motor car with
which to startle the natives.
“I keep humming the old tune:
‘Home, boys, home, in the old countree,
’Neath the oak and the ash and the spreading maple-tree,’”
she confessed to Bliss the day before she left, “so it’s home I’m going
and I’ll probably race back to town and wonder what madness moved me.”
Her concert season did not begin until November, for which she was
thankful and with Miss Clergy amicably assenting to the return, Thurley
sent word to reopen the Fincherie.
Inspiring her return was the longing to see Dan and Lorraine and the
harmony which their child had brought them. Envious though she was and
starved with the longing to have some one of her very own, Thurley had
come to judge things with a broader gauge. She wanted the satisfaction of
saying to Dan that she was glad for him and she understood. She must tell
Lorraine that she was truly friends with “the family!”
She knew her world would have ridiculed her ridiculous conscience,
deeming it more essential that she reopen the flirtation with the
chewing-gum king or find out a more distinctive method of advertising.
But to Thurley the contented handshake of Dan Birge and his wife’s smile
was more to the point. So she drove quietly into the Corners one warm,
early fall day when every color in Dame Nature’s paint box had been
employed in the bordering trees of the Fincherie lawn. She said to Ali
Baba who met them eagerly,
“I’ve come home again.”
Nor did she waver from that manner. She went into the bedrooms and
proceeded to settle Miss Clergy and herself with as businesslike an air
as her own maid had done, stopping to ask Betsey and Hopeful questions
which she knew would please, telling them again and again that it seemed
good to “be home.”
“I guess you’ll find a lot of changes,” Betsey said, lingering in the
room. “I guess you’re changed some yourself,” her kind old eyes looking
at the girl shrewdly.
“Come, Betsey, you’re going to accuse me of growing old! Now what is
it—let me hear the worst?”
“No,” Betsey pushed her glasses on to the top of her head so as to
see the better, “it’s a change of heart—like I’ve heard tell about,”
unconscious of Thurley’s desire both to laugh and cry, “a real change of
heart, I guess.”
“Was I that bad?” Thurley asked penitently. “I thought only the town
drunkards had changes of heart—” she paused, realizing it was not fair
to tax Betsey’s sense of humor. “It is this, Betsey, I’ve grown up and
with all the wonderful things life has given me, I have no one of my own,
so,” she finished bravely, “I’m determined to belong to a town ... now,
Betsey, tell me, what are my chances for having Birge’s Corners fall
dead in love with me?” amused at Betsey’s struggles to be honest yet not
offend.
“I guess you give ’em an earful the last time,” Betsey began. “You know,
Thurley, they ain’t up to the new ways—and you—you—”
“You’re afraid I don’t understand,” Thurley hugged her—because she wanted
to hug some one and Betsey happened to be handy. “I do understand—but
remember the old railway crossing advice, ‘stop—look—listen’—” here she
handed out a dress pattern for a present and took a deep interest in the
debate as to whether there should be box pleats or a circular skirt!
Within a short time Thurley became both unconscious and disinterested
as to her own change of heart. For she discovered that here was an
opportunity to study first hand and in unsuspected fashion the war
madness which was taking its toll of house-and-garden folk destined to
do their bit by stay-at-home effort. The news that Dan had a commission
did not surprise her beyond a certain pride, almost as if she had been
instrumental in her arguments for his going. She thought that Lorraine
probably cried a little and tried to convince Dan his duty lay at home
because of the boy; she could picture Lorraine’s distressed, pretty self
as she coaxed Dan not to go “and get killed” and Dan’s sentimental side
warring with his manhood. At any rate he had gone, so Betsey told her,
watching Thurley’s face for some evidence as to her state of feeling.
Also he was making the very best first lieutenant in the army—for was he
not the first commissioned officer from the Corners?
There had been a quota of village lads, some of whom Thurley remembered,
who had gone and there was a fudge club organized by the village maidens
which yielded weekly so many pounds of sugary delight to be forwarded to
the training camps. The social club was a Red Cross center, the lodge
rooms were forwarding station for garments and relief funds, no corner
of the town but what had scrambled personal possessions into a corner to
make way for impersonal duties.
As Thurley saw these evidences in even the shut-in hamlet, she reproached
herself for having mere visions of a time far ahead when America should
win the violet crown, the time when the future generations would recite
in history the events of the war of wars and then say with as much
assertion as they told of the enemy’s defeat, “A renaissance in art
was noted in America during the reconstruction period, art was placed
on a more permanent, moral basis, there was a widecut destroying and
discouragement of all pursuits and achievements which did not conform to
a high moral and spiritual idea. For the first time in the history of the
world, our people demanded of artists more than their work, they demanded
a conforming to moral law so that the number of art workers became fewer
and the public was relieved of superfluous art intriguers whose influence
was a menace.” So would the children recite and when the teacher would
ask: “Who inspired this great movement?” their answer would be, “Bliss
Hobart, he named it the violet crown—the crown for supremacy, violet as
the eccelesiastics interpret it—for humility.”
Thurley could almost fancy she heard the answer being made, as glorious
a feat as there ever was to be, to have children speak one’s name with
admiration, to have shown America over-rich in all physical attributes,
as taking for her spoils the greatest lesson of all, re-educating her
artists so they might draw on the wonderful and hitherto barely skimmed
surface of her astral or mystical energy which lies waiting for all true
idealists.
The third day after Thurley’s return, when she was card-indexing her
thoughts in order to begin her concert tour, wondering how to convince
the town that she had returned to be one of them and that no matter how
great the world might call her she did not belong to the world but to
Birge’s Corners, she finally decided to go to see Lorraine.
She was amused at the situation as she slipped into a frock like the
beautiful green blue rust which comes on copper and put a gold piece
in her purse for the boy. She, Thurley Precore, like a wistful village
spinster, going to call on the son of her erstwhile adorer! And she chose
to carry out the illusion by walking through the streets, nodding at
passers-by and pretending not to notice their astonished glances.
The Corners could never quite forget the birthday party for Taffy,
although Taffy had long since ascended to canine realms above.
She came upon a gathering in front of Dan’s store—she had wanted to go
inside to buy some trifle and recall the atmosphere of the old days,
even if Dan’s desk was now locked and deserted, the days when a willful
girl used to dance in and call “Cohoo” up at the young proprietor. But
there was a platform in front of the showcases and women were sitting on
it, all of them in uniforms. They had a barrel for a table, a pitcher
of water and glasses, and pamphlets which they flung out into the crowd
at intervals. Boy Scouts were standing in line and singing lustily the
doughboy favorite, while a small person also in uniform directed them
with wild gestures:
Oh, there was a little hen and she had a wooden leg,
The best little hen that ever laid an egg,
And she laid more eggs than any hen on the farm—
And another little drink won’t do us any harm—
As the crowd cheered, the small directress turned to face them and speak
in a shrill, excited voice about the need for funds, lapsing into slang
when other superlative failed her, striding up and down, her soldier hat
on one side and her hair dishevelled. It was Lorraine Birge! Thurley felt
as if the world were approaching an end as she discovered the identity
of the speaker. Beside Lorraine were Josie Donaldson, Hazel Mitchell and
presently Cora Spooner appeared to play an uncertain trombone solo, while
a queer youth in white flannels and a dangling eye glass began passing
the hat—it was Oweyne Pringle of the art shoppe!
He gurgled his delight when he recognized Thurley. “You’ll have to sing
for us—the crowd will be twice as generous ... oh, do, it will please
Mrs. Birge.”
“Tell Mrs. Birge I will wait for her after the meeting.” Thurley weakly
dropped the gold piece she had intended for the boy into the offered hat.
After the collection and another shower of pamphlets, Lorraine and her
young Coldstream Guards marched off the platform to tack up placards
asking for farmerettes and speakerettes to be pressed into service. Then
Lorraine dashed over to Thurley—nothing left of the timid little person
with a saddish look in her dove-colored eyes. She approached Thurley as
hail-fellow well-met, holding out her hand cordially:
“Well, Thurley, you’ve stolen a march on us. You would have been dragged
up here to sing if I’d seen you ... isn’t it glorious?” She paused as if
uncertain whether it was the war, the audience or Thurley’s frock.
“I was going to call on you,” Thurley said gravely.
“Come along—I drive the car now. Yes, indeed, I’m qualifying for an
ambulance corps. Come on, girls—this is Thurley Precore who’ll boost the
subscriptions a lot—you know these girls—Josie, Cora, Hazel—and, Owen,
you stay behind and take in the platform and the barrel.”
They piled into the muddied car while Lorraine whizzed them up the hill.
Sentimental thoughts about entering Dan’s house, which was to have once
been hers, took flight. This new and a trifle mad Lorraine commanded all
of Thurley’s attention—and sense of humor.
It was amusing to see the desperate way in which she strove to appear
mannish, capable, immune to fears as to bumblebees or punctured
tires, shouting out commands to her “crew,” the way the crew shouted
back opinions and watched Thurley and her frock in semi-envy,
semi-disapproval! They left the car before the door and went inside in
breathless fashion. Lorraine walked up the pathway with Thurley.
“How can you bury yourself here,” she asked, “when you could be speaking
to crowds in New York? I’m going to get there—I can’t go overseas because
of Dan.” She almost resented the interference!
“I was tired—my head was in a whirl, the season seems a nightmare—”
“Oh, not personal work—the cause we women have championed,” she opened
the door as she spoke.
“Where is your boy?” Thurley interrupted.
“Oh, the love—I’ve a girl to take care of him, I couldn’t do both my
war work and the boy.” Lorraine went upstairs, her absurd little boots
tapping importantly.
The young Coldstream Guardesses waited below, playing the Victrola and
rummaging for a dish of fudge.
A frowsly headed, sullen girl met them at the head of the stairs. “He’s
bumped hisself again,” she said by way of greeting.
“Then watch him more, Herta,” Lorraine was petulant. “Dear me, such a
great lad ought to be more steady on his feet, I should think!”
The disordered nursery exhibited traces of a large lunch which Herta had
consumed, a novel spread face downward, also for Herta, and the outlines
of Herta’s recumbent form on the divan. Thurley’s face was disapproving
as she said swiftly:
“If I were a detective, I could explain why the Boy bumped himself!”
“Oh, Herta’s mad about him,—dear me, some days I never see him at all.
He’s terribly self-willed. I spoiled him those first months because we—we
were all so happy,” she flushed as she went ahead. “Then Dan went away
and I saw my duty as a war worker. I really have lived in the fullest
sense since I went in for public work. Thurley, let’s be friends—I used
to think I envied you because Dan had once loved you so,” there was a
trace of the old Lorraine as she spoke, but with a surety of opinion
which told Thurley that Lorraine’s husband now loved only his wife!
“Boy made it all so different. Now I envy you because you are free,
unhampered, able to do things—I’d be in France if I could.”
Herta appeared with Boy in her arms, a splendid little chap if he had had
a little more grooming. There were telltale hollows under his pinkish
rimmed eyes indicative of nervous spasms, of unattended or unchecked
sobs, his hands were soiled and scratched and a blue-black bump stood out
over one temple; he tried his best both to abuse and welcome his mother
in his incoherent greeting.
“Oh, see his poor head.” Thurley took him from the girl’s unwilling
arms. “Didn’t you put anything on it?” she asked her sharply.
“He’s got an awful temper,” the girl retorted. “He fights me off for
fair. I would have, but he didn’t want it—so I let him cry it out.”
Lorraine interposed, “It is my own fault—I never left him alone at first
and it makes it hard for any one else who looks after him.”
Thurley sat down to rock Boy. “I should think you wouldn’t let a baby’s
nerves be an excuse for neglecting him,” she said to her own surprise.
“He must have sobbed and sobbed—and see,” pointing to traces of dried and
goo-ey egg around his mouth.
“Oh, we scrub him up at night—it really doesn’t pay to keep him like
a doll.... I want to show you my letters of recommendation.” Lorraine
vanished with Thurley following reluctantly, Boy in her arms playing with
her sash fringe.
The entire house had the neglected look which the town had prophesied
Thurley’s house would have should she marry Dan—dust over everything,
unpolished floors, a careless air of hurried living, merely existing
within the four walls in order to escape without. Herta poked herself
after them, with a look of disapproval as she watched Thurley.
When Thurley refused to surrender Boy, but sat down to listen to this
new and surprising Lorraine tell of her work and aims, mentioning Dan
casually, of how surprised he would be at her development, the young
guardesses below set up a chorus of protests and came bounding into the
room with a quick hullo to Boy and a “Mercy, what a bruise,” settling
themselves on the divan to explain their life-work to Thurley.
Of course they were all going overseas—heavens, yes, why Josie and Hazel
had their passports and were waiting further orders—didn’t Thurley pine
to go and sing? Fancy any one’s not going if they could ... they were
all going to keep a diary and take a camera, lots of people had smuggled
pictures through, they just knew they had. Owen Pringle was going too—he
was so jolly and his mother was related to a senator and it had all been
arranged for him—these old fogies who said people had better stay home
and ’tend to their knitting, who listened to them?—at least, not until it
was over ... just think of the adventures, the sea trip and the chance
of being submarined, every one said there were lots of life boats—and
the chance to learn French and the friends they would make, particularly
moving picture men. Every one said Cora Spooner was as good as Nazimova,
only she needed an introduction among the professional set, while the
ideas for Josie’s war stories—well, all the editors would be cabling her!
Josie’s mother would have to do the housework because the help had all
gone to the munition plants and her aunt’s eyes had failed terribly—but
of course their day was over and it was Josie’s turn to find adventures.
Besides, she would lose weight. There was an incentive—she did hate being
called Fatty at all the parties. As for Hazel Mitchell—any one who knew
what a wonderful godmother Hazel had been to several Tommies—and what
beautiful little things she could do to make every one happy—well, Hazel
would walk in and literally back melancholy against the ropes. Of course
Lorraine had to stay at home—but she was certainly going to try to speak
in larger cities—she wanted to be as much of the great cause as she could
be—
Despite the clatter of tongues, Boy’s dark little head drooped wearily
and he slept the exhausted sleep of a neglected hysteric who feels the
sympathetic throb of a woman’s breast and can afford to ignore brainless
chatter.
Lorraine took Thurley home. The lieutenants were all to stay for tea and
start out on an evening campaign.
“We’ll have a canned supper—and candy,” she said. “I do think I’ve been a
goose to drudge so in the kitchen—but no more of it.”
“And when Dan comes home?” Thurley asked in spite of herself.
“The old dear will be so used to soldiers’ fare he’ll think mine
perfection.... Good-by, Thurley, do change your mind and give us a
benefit sing. Don’t worry about Boy, he is all right, I weigh him every
week and I am afraid I’ll lose Herta if I find too much fault—”
Ali Baba was working in the backyard and Thurley fled with relief to find
him busied with currant bushes.
“Ali Baba,” she said, stamping her foot, “look at me—tell me, do you see
war-madness in my eyes?”
He leaned on his hand cultivator reflectively. “War madness? Land sakes
and Mrs. Davis, that’s a new one—”
“You have seen fame-madness and vanity-madness and lonesome-madness and
even temper-madness in me,” Thurley confessed, “but this war-madness,
this way of leaving houses undusted and babies unkissed—like Lorraine—”
Ali Baba left the cultivator to come forward. His blue eyes were keen
with indignation. “Thurley,” he said, “God bless our women that work and
pray for the boys, but I’m gosh-hanged sick of these critters chasing
around day and night trying their best to get changed into these here
semi-monjays!”