THE LAST OF THE CHURCHILLS
Even in beautiful Los Angeles days can be rainy and full of gnawing
cold and gloom.
On such a day Joshua Churchill lay dying. He could have died days
before had he cared to let himself do so. But he was holding on grimly
to the life he no longer valued and held off as grimly the death he
really craved. He was waiting for the coming of the boy who was so
soon to be the last of the Churchills.
He meant, this grim old man, to live long enough to greet the boy whom
he remembered first as a baby, then as a little chap of ten, and later
as a shy boy of seventeen.
Joshua Churchill had been to India several times. But he had never
stayed long. He said that no man who had spent the greater part of his
life in Green Valley could ever be happy or feel at home anywhere else.
Joshua Churchill went to India to see his daughter and grandson; but
mostly to coax that daughter's wonderful husband to give up his
fanatically zealous work among the heathen of the Orient and come and
live in peace and plenty in a little Yankee town where there was a drug
store and a post office and a mossy gray old stone church with a mellow
bell in its steeple.
The wonderful and big son-in-law always listened respectfully to his
big Yankee father-in-law. Then he would smile and point to the little
brown babies lying sick in their mothers' arms.
"Somebody," he would say gently, "must help and heal and neighbor with
these people."
As there was no answer that could be made to this the Yankee
father-in-law said nothing. But the very last time he was in India he
looked sharply at his daughter and then said wearily and bitterly:
"Sinner and saint--we men are all alike. We each in our own way kill
the women we love. Cynthia is dying for a sight of Green Valley and
Green Valley folks."
At that Cynthia's husband cried out. But Joshua Churchill did not stay
to argue. He went away and never came back. He wanted of course to go
back to Green Valley. But he could not bear to live alone in the big
house where he had once been so happy. So he went instead into exile.
And now he was dying in California.
As for Cynthia's husband, he discovered when it was too late to do any
good that while he had been saving the souls and the children of alien
women and men he had let the woman who was dearer to him than life die
slowly and unnoticed. Saints have always done that and they always
will.
Joshua Churchill meant to stay alive long enough to explain the
shortcomings of both saints and sinners to the boy who was the last of
the Churchills. He had half a mind to exact a promise from the boy.
He meant too to tell him a long and a rather strange story and implore
him to beware of a number of things.
But when Cynthia's son,--tall, bronzed and serene, smiled down on the
old man who even in death had the look of a master, the warnings, the
bitterness melted away and Joshua Churchill smiled back and sighed
gratefully.
"Well, son,--I don't know as that saint father of yours and your
sinning granddad made such a mess of things after all. It's something
to give the world a man. Go back home to Green Valley and marry a
Green Valley girl."
And without bothering to say another word Joshua Churchill died.
Nanny came back to her valley town when the budded lilacs dripped with
rain and the wooded hillsides were blurred with spring mists.
But Green Valley rain never bothered Nanny Ainslee. Those who were not
out to greet her telephoned as soon as they heard she was back home
again.
And just as she had gone to help pack, Grandma Wentworth came to help
unpack. There were three trunks besides those Nanny had taken, from
Green Valley. Nanny laughed and chuckled as she explained.
"The joke's on father. We met up with a nice American chap on our
travels. He was so likable that father, who was pretty homesick by
that time and would have loved anything American, fell in love with
him. I can't quite understand why I didn't lose my head too. I came
mighty near it once or twice. But the minute I'd think of that boy
here in Green Valley I'd grow cool and calm. That's all that saved me,
I believe. But father was quite taken with him and being a man he felt
sure that I must be. He was so sure that my maiden days were over that
he dared to be funny. One day he sent up these three brand new trunks
to the hotel. Said I might as well get my trousseau while I was
gadding about this time. Well--I was pretty mad for a minute. But I
concluded that father wasn't the only one in our family who is fond of
a joke. So I just blushed properly and went off shopping. And I tell
you, Grandma, Green Valley will just grow cross-eyed looking at the
pretties that I have in these treasure chests. I showed Dad every
mortal thing I bought and asked his advice and was oh, so shy--and
wondered if he just _could_ let me spend so much; and Dad just laughed
and said he guessed an only daughter could be a bit extravagant, and to
just go ahead. So I smiled again shyly and demurely and went ahead.
And when not so much as a bit of ribbon or a chiffon veil could be
squeezed in anywhere I shut those trunks and sat on them and swung my
feet and bet Dad that I wouldn't marry that boy after all. And he was
so sure that he was rid of me at last and that he could start out on
his next trip blissfully free and alone that he bet me Jim Gray's
Gunshot that I'd be married in six months to the gentleman in question.
Of course it was a disgraceful business, the two of us betting on a
thing like that, but somehow we never thought of that, we were so busy
teasing each other. Well, of course Dad lost. I refused that nice
chap three times in one week. And here I am, heart-free still, with
three trunks of booty and the finest, blackest, and swiftest little
horse in the county--mine. This has certainly been a profitable trip!
Poor Dad, he's so delightfully old-fashioned. He does so believe in
early marriages and husbands and wedding veils. And he thinks that
twenty-three is absolutely a grewsome age. Poor Dad! And he says too
that for what I have done to him in this trunk deal I shall be duly
punished. That the good Lord who looks after the fathers of willful,
old-maidish daughters will see to that. Why, he has gone so far as to
say that he wouldn't be surprised if I wound up by marrying some weird
country minister. Fancy that! Why, that from father is almost a
curse. And he's worried sick about my riding Gunshot. But I shall
manage. So expect to see me dash up to your gate in great style any
day now."
"Nanny," warned Grandma, "I don't trust that horse either. You'd
better be mighty careful. That horse isn't mean but it's young and
scary."
Nan however laughed at fear and rode all about and around Green Valley
town. And then one evening when she was least watchful and tired from
the long day's sport, a glaring red motor came honking unexpectedly
around the corner. So sudden was its appearance, so startling its body
in the sunset light, so shrill its screeching siren, that the young
horse reared. And Nan, caught unprepared, was helpless.
From the various groups of people standing about figures detached
themselves and shot across the square. But before any one could reach
her or even see how it happened, a tall stranger was holding the daring
girl close against his breast with one arm, and the quivering young
horse with the other.
He was reassuring the frightened animal and looking quietly down at the
girl's face against his breast. Under that quiet look Nan's blue-white
lips flushed with life and she tried to smile gratefully. When he
smiled back and said, "So you _did_ get back by lilac time," Nan was
well enough to wonder what he meant. And the little crowd of rescuers
arrived only just in time to hear Nanny thanking him.
But when he asked her where in Green Valley town Mary Wentworth lived
everybody stared and listened. Even Nan came near staring. But after
the puzzled look her face broke into a smile.
"Oh--you mean Grandma Wentworth?"
He smiled too and said, "Perhaps. I am a stranger in Green Valley.
But my mother was a Green Valley girl. She was Cynthia Churchill and
Mary Wentworth was her dearest friend."
"Then you are--why, you must be--" stammered Nanny.
"I am Cynthia Churchill's son."
"From India?" questioned Nan.
"From India," he said quietly.
From out the group of Green Valley folks, now dim in the May twilight,
a voice spoke.
"You may come from India but if you are Cynthia Churchill's son you are
a Green Valley man and this is home. So I say--welcome home."
Roger Allan, straight and tall and speaking with a sweetness in his
voice those listening had never heard before, stepped up to the young
man with outstretched hand.
The young stranger looked for a moment at the dimming streets, into the
kindly faces about him, and then shook hands gladly.
"It is good to be home," he said, "but I wish I had mother here with
me."