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GREEN VALLEY
by
KATHARINE REYNOLDS
Frontispiece by Nana French Bickford
[Frontispiece: They came to her hand in hand and said not a word.]
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers ------ New York
Copyright, 1919,
by Little, Brown, and Company.
All rights reserved
Dedication
TO ALL THE LITTLE ONE-HORSE TOWNS WHERE
LIFE IS SWEET AND ROOMY AND OLD-FASHIONED;
WHERE THE DAYS ARE FULL OF SUNSHINE AND
RAIN AND WORK; WHERE NEIGHBORS REALLY
NEIGHBOR AND MEN AND WOMEN ARE LIFE-SIZE
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This book was written to cure a heartache, to ease a very real and bad
case of homesickness. I wrote it just for myself when I was very
nearly ten thousand miles away from home and knew that I couldn't go
back to the U. S. A. for two long years. It is a picture of a little
Yankee town, the town I tried so hard to see over ten thousand miles of
gray-green ocean.
When I was sailing from New York for South America that sunny June
morning in 1913, about the last thing the last friend hurrying down the
gangplank said was this:
"Of course you are going to be homesick. But it's worth it."
And I laughed.
But before that long stretch of gray-green ocean was plowed under I
knew--oh, I knew--that I was going to be most woefully homesick for the
U. S. A.
A certain tall Swede from New Jersey and I discovered that fact about
the same minute Fourth of July morning. We were standing on the deck,
staring miserably back over the awful miles to where somewhere in that
lost north our town lay with flags fluttering, picnic baskets getting
into trains and everybody out on their lawns and porches.
We didn't look at each other after that first glance--that Swede and I.
And we said the sunlight hurt our eyes.
Three months later I was sitting under the velvet-soft, star-sown night
sky of the Argentine cattle country. I had seen volcano-scarred
Martinique and had watched the beautiful island of Barbados rising like
a fairy dream out of a foamy sea.
I had marveled at the endless beauties of Rio lying so picturesquely in
its immense harbor and at the foot of its great, shaggy, sun-splashed,
smoke-wreathed mountains. I had tramped through unsanitary Santos and
loved it because it looked like Chicago in spite of its mountains and
banana trees. I had witnessed a wonderful fiesta in Buenos Aires and
had churned two hundred miles up the La Plata when it was bubbling with
rain. And I had had a tooth pulled in Paysandu, the second largest
city in Uruguay.
All that in three months! And there were still a million wonders to
see. I loved and shall always love these radiant, sun-drenched
uncrowded lands. But my heart was heavy as lead. For I was homesick.
My eyes were tired of alien starshine, of alien, unfamiliar things, and
my heart cried out for the little home towns of my own country.
But I could not go back for many, many months. So I learned Spanish
and hobnobbed with wonderfully wise and delightful Spanish
grandmothers. I grew to love some darling Indian babies. I
interviewed interesting South American cowboys and discussed war and
socialism with an Argentine navy officer. I exchanged calls and true
blue friendships with soft-voiced Englishwomen. And I took tea and
dinner aboard the ships of Welsh sea captains from Cardiff.
I had a wonderful time. I filled my notebook, took pictures and
collected souvenirs. I laughed and told stories. Folks down there
said I was good company.
But oh! In the hush of a rain-splashed night, when the fire in the
grate dozed and dreamed and a boat siren somewhere out on the inky La
Plata wailed and moaned through the black night, my heart flew back
over those gray-green waves to a little town that I knew in the U. S.
A. And to ease my longing I wrote Green Valley.
KATHARINE REYNOLDS.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I EAST AND WEST
II SPRING IN GREEN VALLEY
III THE LAST OF THE CHURCHILLS
IV A RAINY DAY
V CYNTHIA'S SON
VI GOSSIP
VII THE WEDDING
VIII LILAC TIME
IX GREEN VALLEY MEN
X THE KNOLL
XI GETTING ACQUAINTED
XII THE PATH OF TRUE LOVE
XIII AUTUMN IN GREEN VALLEY
XIV THE CHARM
XV INDIAN SUMMER
XVI THE HOUSEWARMING
XVII THE LITTLE SLIPPER
XVIII THE MORNING AFTER
XIX A GRAY DAY
XX CHRISTMAS BELLS
XXI FANNY'S HOUR
XXII BEFORE THE DAWN
XXIII FANNY COMES BACK
XXIV HOME AGAIN
GREEN VALLEY
CHAPTER I
EAST AND WEST
"Joshua Churchill's dying in California and Nanny Ainslee's leaving
to-night for Japan! And there's been a wreck between here and Spring
Road!"
Fanny fairly gasped out the astounding news. Then she sank down into
Grandma Wentworth's comfortable kitchen rocker and went into details.
"The two telegrams just came through. Uncle Tony's gone down to the
wreck. I happened to be standing talking to him when Denny came
running out of the station. Isn't it too bad Denny's so bow-legged?
Though I don't know as it hinders him from running to any noticeable
extent. I had an awful time trying to keep up so's to find out what
had happened. I bet you Nan's packing right this minute and just
loving it. My--ain't some people born lucky? Think of having the
whole world to run around in!"
The telephone tinkled.
"Yes, Nan," Grandma smiled as she answered, "I know. Fanny's just this
minute telling me. Yes, of course I can. I'll be over as soon as my
bread's done baking. Yes--I'll bring along some of my lavender to pack
in with your things."
"Land sakes, Grandma," exclaimed Fanny, "don't stop for the bread.
I'll see to that. Just you git that lavender and go. And tell Nanny
I'll be at the station to see her off."
Up-stairs in a big sunny room of the Ainslee house Grandma Wentworth
looked reproachfully at a flushed, busy girl who was laughing and
singing snatches of droll ditties the while she emptied closets and
dresser drawers and tucked things into four trunks, two suitcases and a
handbag.
"Nanny, are you never going to settle down and stay at home?" sighed
Grandma.
"Yes, ma'am," Nanny's eyes danced, "some day when a man makes me fall
in love with him and there are no more new places to go to. But so
long as I am heartfree and footfree, and there's one alien shore
calling, I'll have the wanderlust. I declare, Grandma, if that man
doesn't turn up soon there will be no new places left for a honeymoon!"
Grandma smiled in spite of herself. There were things she wanted very
much to say and other things she wanted very much to ask; but the
trunks had to get down to the station and already the afternoon sun was
low.
The two women worked feverishly and almost in silence so that when the
packing was done they might get in the little visit both craved before
the months of separation.
Nanny finally jumped on the trunks, snapped them shut, locked them and
watched the expressman carry them down and out into his waiting dray.
Then she sat down with a trembling little laugh.
"There--it's over and I'm really going! I have been to just about
every country but Japan. I believe father would rather have skipped
off alone this time. It seems to be some suddenly important
international crisis that we are going over to settle. That's why we
are going East the roundabout way. We must stop at Washington for
instructions, then again at London and Paris."
"Nanny," mused Grandma, "there's a good many years difference in our
ages but there's only one woman I ever loved as I love you. I think I
might have loved your mother but she died the very first year your
father brought her here. And she was ailing when she came. The other
woman that meant so much to me used to go traveling too. I always
helped her with her packing. Then one day she packed and went away,
never to come back."
"Was that Cynthia Churchill?" Nan asked gently.
"Yes--Cynthia. She was dearer than a sister to me, and neither of us
dreamed that a whole wide world would divide us."
"Why did she go, Grandma?"
"Because a Green Valley man well-nigh broke her heart."
"A Green Valley man did--_that_? Oh, dear! And here I have been
hoping that some day I might marry a Green Valley man myself."
"Nanny, I expect I'm old and foolish but I've been hoping and hoping
that you'd marry a home boy and fearing you'd meet up with some one on
your travels who would take you away from us forever. It would be hard
to see you go."
The last sunbeam had faded away and golden twilight filled the room.
Outside little day noises were dying out.
"Grandma dear, don't you worry about me. I intend to marry a Green
Valley man if possible. But even if I didn't I'd always come back to
Green Valley."
"No, you wouldn't. You couldn't, any more than Cynthia could. Cynthia
loved this town better even than you love it. Yet she is lying under
strange stars in a foreign land, far from her old home. Her father,
they say, is dying in California. I suppose the old Churchill place
will go now unless Cynthia's son comes back to take it over. But that
isn't likely."
"Why--did Cynthia Churchill leave a son?" wondered Nanny.
"Yes. He must be a few years older than you. He was born and raised
in India. 'Tisn't likely he'd come to Green Valley now that he's a man
grown. Still, if Joshua Churchill dies out there in California, that
boy will come into all his grandfather's property."
"Well," Nanny stood up and walked to the window from which she could
see the fine old home of the Churchills, "if any one willed me a lovely
old place like that Churchill homestead I'd come from the moon to claim
it, let alone India."
"Nanny, are you sure there's no boy now in Green Valley who could keep
you from roaming? I thought maybe Max Longman or Ronny Deering--"
"No--no one yet, Grandma. I like them all--but love--no. Love, it
seems to me, must be something very different."
"Yes, I know," sighed Grandma.
When Uncle Tony returned from viewing the wreck he assured his townsmen
that it was a wreck of such beautiful magnitude that traffic on the
Northwestern would be tied up for twenty-four hours. It was feared
that Mr. Ainslee would not be able to get his train and would have to
drive five miles to the other railroad.
However Uncle Tony was reckoning things from a Green Valley point of
view. As a matter of fact the wreckage was sufficiently cleared away
so that the eastbound trains were running on time. It was the
westbound ones that were stalled. The Los Angeles Limited Pullmans
stood right in the Green Valley station. They were still standing
there when Nanny and her father came to take the 10:27 east.
Perhaps nothing could explain so well Nanny Ainslee's popularity as the
gathering of folks who came to see her off.
Fanny had stopped at the drug store and bought some headache pills.
"This excitement and hurry and you not scarcely eating any supper is
apt to give you a bad headache. They'll come handy. And here's some
seasick tablets. Martin says they're the newest thing out. And oh,
Nanny, when you're seeing all those new places and people just take an
extra look for me, seeing as I'll never know the color of the ocean."
Uncle Tony was tending to Nanny's hand luggage and in his heart wishing
he could go along, even though he knew that one week spent away from
his beloved hardware store would be the death of him.
It was a neighborly crowd that waited for the 10:27. And as it waited
Jim Tumley started singing "Auld Lang Syne." He began very softly but
soon the melody swelled to a clear sweetness that hushed the laughing
chatter and stilled the shuffling feet of the Pullman passengers who
crowded the train vestibules or strolled in weary patience along the
station platform.
Then the 10:27 swung around the curve and the good-bys began.
"So long, dear folks! I shall write. Don't you dare cry, Grandma.
I'll be back next lilac time. Remember, oh, just remember, all you
Green Valley folks, that I'll be back when the lilacs bloom again!"
Nanny's voice, husky with laughter and tears, rippled back to the
cluster of old neighbors waving hats and handkerchiefs. They watched
her standing in the golden light of the car doorway until the train
vanished from their sight. Then they drifted away in twos and threes.
From the dimmest corner of the observation platform a man had witnessed
the departure of Nanny Ainslee. He had heard Jim's song, had caught
the girl's farewells. And now he was delightedly repeating to himself
her promise--"I'll be back when the lilacs bloom again."
Then quite suddenly he stepped from the train and made his way to where
the magenta-pink and violet lights of Martin's drugstore glowed in the
night. He bought a soda and some magazines and asked the druggist an
odd question.
"When," asked the stranger, smiling, "will the lilacs bloom again in
this town?"
Martin, who for hours had been rushing madly about, waiting on the
thirsty crowd of stalled visitors, stopped to stare. But he answered.
Something in the mysteriously rich face of the big, brown boy made him
eager to answer.
"From the middle of next May on into early June."
The stranger smiled his thanks in a way that made Martin look at his
clerk with a mournful eye.
"Jee-rusalem! Now, Eddie, why can't you smile like that? Say, if I
had _that_ fellow behind this soda counter I'd be doing a rushing
business every night."
When the Limited was again winging its way toward the Golden West and
train life had settled down to its regular routine, one dining-car
waiter was saying to another:
"Yes, sah--the gentleman in Number 7 is sure the mighty-nicest white
man I eber did see. And he sure does like rice. Says he comes from
India where everybody eats it all the time. I ain' sure but what that
man ain' a sure-enough prince."