THE HOUSEWARMING
Jocelyn Brownlee was dressing for the minister's party. She was laying
out the prettiest of her pretty things and sighing as she did it. For
what two months before would have seemed a joyous occasion was now
nothing but a painful, trying ordeal, an ordeal that must, however, be
gallantly gone through with.
Ever since that afternoon when she had stood on the back porch waving
joyfully to David and received no answer her world had lost its color.
All the rose and gold had faded and she stood lonely and lost and cold
in a mist of mystery.
She had seen David since that day, had even spoken to him. But her
words were few and full of a gracious courtesy that put a whole wide
world between them.
"Are you going to the minister's housewarming, Jocelyn?" David had
asked painfully. He had realized the raw cruelty of that afternoon and
had come over to explain and make amends.
"Yes--I'm going, David. All the town will be there, won't it?" she had
answered and asked gently.
"Shall I stop for you?" begged the big boy.
"Why, no, David--thank you. I shall not need an escort. It's such a
little way and I'm used to Green Valley now." But David knew just how
afraid this city mouse was of the country roads at night.
She was such a gracious little body as she stood there in her garden
that David wondered how he had ever for a moment doubted her and what
madness in his blood had made him yield to the cruelty that had shut
her heart and door to him.
For closed they were and gone was the simple, confiding girl who had
picnicked with him one May day. In her place was this quiet young
woman who talked to him pleasantly but did not ask him in, and who
scared him with her calm and sweetness and drove the stumbling
explanation from his lips.
So Jocelyn was laying out her pretty things and sighing. As long as
she was not going with David she decided to wear the smart slippers
with the high heels and the pretty buckles. David did not approve of
high heels.
She knew that a great many of the Green Valley women would wear dresses
with collars to their chins. So she smiled just a bit wickedly as she
glanced at the soft, misty dress like pink sea foam, from which her
head and lovely throat rose like a flower. She wondered if it was
wicked to be glad that she was pretty and to want David to see just how
pretty she really was.
She didn't want to go, but go she must, for she knew Green Valley. She
knew it and loved it. But she feared it too, because she did not know
it well enough.
So half-past eight found her stepping daintily and a little tipsily in
her high-heeled slippers over the road, after the last stragglers. She
did not want to be seen going in alone and so hung back till the last,
a lonely little figure in the cool shadows. Yet she was not so far
back that she could not feel the comforting nearness of the folks
ahead. She even heard snatches of conversation and smiled
understandingly, for she too knew now the little daily trials, the
family sorrows and dissensions, the occasional soul tempests, the
laughable ways and tenderly pathetic ambitions of these simple,
guileless human folks.
She heard enough to know that the couple just ahead was Sam Bobbins and
his wife, Dudy; the Sam Bobbins who tried to get rich raising violets
and failed; who then began raising mushrooms in his cellar and failed;
who last year spent good money trying to raise pedigreed dogs and
failed; and who only the week before paid ten dollars for a fancy
rooster and was happily telling his neighbors how rich he was going to
be, selling fighting stock. His wife stepped on her skirt and ripped
it. Jocelyn could hear her worried wail and Sam comforting her with
promises of new dresses when the roosters began to sell. She could
hear fat Mrs. Glenn puffing and laughing her way up the little crests
of the road and could guess that her thin husband was doing his best to
help her.
She was so interested in the folks ahead that she forgot to be afraid
and never once glanced back into the shadows. Had she done so she
might have seen David loitering along, keeping faithful watch over her.
So nicely did he time his steps that when she reached the door of the
minister's country house he was right behind her, and all Green Valley
saw them come in together.
When Jocelyn, in slipping from her evening wrap, turned and saw him and
flushed, he covered her confusion by saying reproachfully but gently:
"Those slippers are ever so pretty, Jocelyn, but you ought not to wear
them on these rough country roads and they are hardly warm enough for
these cool evenings, are they?"
She gave him a little smile full of saucy wickedness for she heard the
pain in his voice and saw the lover's hunger in his eyes and knew that
she was loved well and truly. But she had been hurt and she was too
much a woman and far too human not to take her turn at gentle cruelty.
"What a couple," breathed Joshua Stillman, standing beside the blazing
fireplace with Colonel Stratton. "She's like a dewy sweet rosebud and
he's a regular story-book lover in looks and a rare fine boy. We
haven't had a wild rose romance like this one for a long while."
"We'll have a finer when that young parson wakes up. He has the look
of a great lover, and look at the love history of the Churchills."
It was evident that no man there dreamed of criticizing
the dress that looked like pink sea foam. Even David drank in the
picture of his little sweetheart and saw how necessary to this wild
rose sweetness the high-heeled slippers were. He wondered if ever in
his life he would kiss her and, should such glory come to him, if he
would live through the joy of it.
It was the women who were inclined to murmur. But as soon as they
caught a look or a smile meant just for them their primness melted.
Their duty to their conscience and their upbringing done, they smiled
back lovingly at the girl, for who could be critical of a sweet wild
rose!
Jocelyn was not the only one whose gown had no collar. Nan Ainslee
wore a plain dress that was so beautiful it made the women catch their
breath. When Dolly asked the Green Valley dressmaker if she could make
her one like it, that body sighed and shook her head and said that she
knew that that dress looked awful simple but that it wasn't as simple
as it looked and she knew better than to try and copy it.
Some one overheard and asked somebody else why Dolly Beatty should
happen to want a dress like that, and instantly somebody smiled and
whispered that Charlie Peters, the widower from North Road, was making
eyes at her and calling regularly.
So the ball was set rolling and soon everybody knew that Grandma
Wentworth had just had a letter from Tommy Dudley, saying that he was
doing so well out West on his homestead that he was building himself a
new house and was aiming to make Green Valley a visit next lilac time.
And Jimmy Sears, Milly Sears' second boy, was a sergeant in the army
and was having a wonderful time somewhere down in Panama. Milly had a
letter from him with photographs and was showing them around. Not only
did Jimmy give her news of himself but he wrote that John, the oldest
boy, was up in Canada and doing well. Jimmy was sending his mother and
sister Alice some wonderful laces and embroideries and Frank Burton
several kinds of strange fowl by a sailor friend from one of the
warships who was going home. So patient, long-suffering Milly Sears
was wholly happy for the first time in years.
And no sooner had all this news been digested than somebody discovered
a diamond ring on Clara Tuttle's left hand. So Clara was surrounded
and an explanation demanded. But before she could conquer her blushes
and stammer out her news Max Longman came in from another room and,
putting his arms about her, said, "Don't be afraid, girl of mine, I'm
here." And so everybody knew then that it was Max, after all, and not
Freddy Wilson.
Over near one of the big windows Steve Meckling was looking down at
Bonnie Don.
"Bonnie, when will you stop torturing me? When will you let me give
you a ring?"
Bonnie was Clara Tuttle's chum and she was watching Clara's face, the
light in Clara's eyes, the happy curve of her lips. It was a happiness
that made Bonnie's eyes wistful.
"Steve," she said softly, "would you always love me and be gentle with
me?"
At that big Steve caught his breath and put his hungry arms behind his
back out of temptation's way and said huskily, "Oh, Bonnie, girl, just
try me!"
So Bonnie raised her eyes and the big man was at peace.
Billy Evans was the last to arrive. He had to get all the old folks to
the party before he and Hank could put in an appearance. But his wife
and little Billy were there, little Billy with his ruddy hair curling
about his merry little face and his eyes dancing at everything and
every one.
Green Valley was full of lovable little ones, but they were as a rule
kept closely sheltered in the front and back yards. But Billy was a
town baby. His days were spent in and around his father's livery barn.
He went to his twelve o'clock dinner perched on Hank Lolly's shoulder,
and it had gotten so no gathering of men in his father's office was
considered complete without him.
And maybe it was just as well; for since Billy's coming there was less
careless language, less careless gossip. And if some one's tongue did
slip now and then, Hank Lolly had a way of putting his head in and
saying solemnly:
"Guess you forgot that Mrs. Evans' boy was around when you said that."
For Hank Lolly was little Billy's proud godfather and Billy's welfare
was a matter that kept Hank awake nights.
It was Hank who introduced little Billy to all the livery horses and
patiently developed deep friendships between the animals and the child.
"I've fixed it so's no horse of ourn'll ever hurt the boy. But that
ain't saying that somebody's ornery critter won't harm him. There's
some awful mean horses in this town, Billy," Hank worried. But Billy
Evans only laughed.
"Hank," he said, "with you and God taking turns minding that kid, and
his ma and me doing a little now and then, I guess he'll grow up."
So Billy was at the minister's party, as were very nearly all the other
Green Valley youngsters. For these were old-fashioned folks whose
entertainments were so simple and harmless that children could always
be present.
As a matter of fact Green Valley folks never had to be entertained.
All one had to do was to call them together and they entertained
themselves.
Cynthia's son knew this. So he had made no elaborate plans. He knew
too that it was the old homestead they came to see, and to find out
what that poolroom man was doing in his back yard, and why Hen Tomlins
had been coming up so regularly, and why Bernard Rollins had been
asking to see people's old albums for the past three months.
So Cynthia's son had no programme. He just threw open every door and
invited them to walk through and look. He explained that in the
kitchen his housekeeper, Mary Dooley, and her two cousins from Meacham
were getting up the refreshments and that any one who strayed in there
would in all probability be put to work.
Still he wanted Green Valley housewives to go in and see if they could
think of anything that would make Mary's work easier. He had, he said,
tried to make that kitchen a livable kind of a room, a room that would
be easy on a woman's feet and back and restful to her heart.
In the library and scattered all about were samples of Hen Tomlins'
art. Hen was a rare workman, their minister told them. With his box
of tools and his cunning hands Hen had taken old, broken but still
beautiful heirloom furniture and refashioned it into new life and
beauty.
In his little study just off the library his Green Valley neighbors
would find all manner of oriental things, treasures gathered for him by
his wonderful mother and father and given to him by his many dear and
far-away Indian friends. He had put little cards on the articles,
explaining their history and uses.
For the babies there were big, quiet, safe rooms upstairs, and for the
young people there was the hall and the back sitting room, the piano,
the music box and Timothy Williams. Timothy was the man who up till
the day before yesterday had owned and run the poolroom. But he wasn't
in the poolroom business any more. He was now his, John Knight's,
assistant and friend. Timothy's story was a common enough little
story--the story of a man without a home. If they'd all listen a
minute he'd tell them all there was to tell.
So, in the midst of a merrymaking, John Roger Churchill Knight
introduced Timothy Williams to Green Valley, introduced him in such a
way as to pave a wide clear path for him into Green Valley hearts. And
so quick was Green Valley's response that before that same merrymaking
was over Green Valley was calling him Timothy and inviting him over for
Sunday dinner.
So then they were all provided for. And here was the house. It was
years since some of them were in it, and to a home-loving,
home-worshipping people it was a treat to go from room to room. In
spite of the changes, the newness everywhere, there was much of the old
home left. Its soul was still the same. The new hangings, the new
wicker furniture, the oriental treasures were all duly inspected,
commented upon and admired.
But it was the old things, the Green Valley things that made the great
appeal. And Green Valley folks rested loving hands every now and then
on some fine old heavy chair that a long-gone Churchill had with his
own hands fashioned from his own walnut trees.
There were pictures to look at, old familiar faces, the faces of men
and women who had been born and raised in this joyous little valley
town; who had gone to the village school and had in their courting days
strolled over the shady old town roads.
Here was a picture of Cynthia's mother in a crinoline with her baby on
her knee. There was a famous artist's painting of a storm passing over
the wooded knoll that now was John Knight's favorite retreat. The
famous artist had been visiting John Knight and had painted the storm
as he watched it from the sitting-room windows.
There were old candlesticks, guns, old dishes, old patterns, hand-sewn
quilts and such little things of long ago as stirred the oldest folks
there very nearly to tears and awed even the youngsters into a
wondering respect for the old days they could never know.
The old house hummed with the treasured memories of a hundred years.
Groups of twos and threes stood everywhere about, hovering over some
article. In every such group there would be at first a short hushed
silence, then would come the sudden burst of memories spattering like a
shower of raindrops; then the turning away of eyes full of misty,
unbelieving, far-away smiles.
Cynthia's son watched and smiled too. But his thoughts flew back and
he longed with a cruel ache for the mother who lay sleeping in a far
and foreign land.
By and by a gong sounded somewhere. That was the signal for supper.
So they gathered around the tables and Cynthia's son explained that
Bernard Rollins had for the last three months been painting a portrait
of Cynthia Churchill, Cynthia as they knew her. That was why Rollins
had searched old albums for pictures that might give him an idea of the
sweetness of her smile. That was the surprise of the evening and the
meaning of the shrouded picture above the library fireplace. She had
so loved Green Valley, had so longed to be there.
They sat very still and waited while Grandma Wentworth uncovered the
face of the girl who had been so loved by Green Valley folks.
Grandma's face was a little white with memories and the hand that was
reaching for the cord to draw away the covering shook a little.
Cynthia Churchill and she had been dearer to each other than sisters.
They had gone to school together in the days of pinafores and
sunbonnets and picked spring's wild flowers along the roadsides and in
the woodlands. They had knitted and made lace together, gone to
picnics and parties, always together, until the time came when a tall
Green Valley boy walked beside each. And even then they were
inseparable. Why, they made their wedding things together and when
Mollie Wentworth passed out of the village church a wife, Cynthia,
lovely as the bride, walked behind as bridesmaid. And Mollie was to
have returned the favor in a few days. But something happened,
something tragic and cruel, and lovely Cynthia never wore the wedding
gown that had been fashioned for her. It was packed away and on what
was to have been her wedding day Cynthia left Green Valley and was gone
a long while. She came back once or twice but in the end Green Valley
heard that she married a wonderful missionary and sailed away to India.
So Grandma's hand shook and her face was white. But when the covering
slipped off and a lovely, laughing face looked down at them Grandma
smiled, even though the tears were running down her cheeks.
Yes, that was Cynthia. Disappointment could never mar the high joy of
her nature. She was laughing at them, telling them that with all its
sorrows and bitterness and heartache life was worth while.
Her son stood beneath her picture and read to them parts of her
letters, last messages to many of them. She had written them on her
deathbed and they were full of yearning for the town of her birth, for
the old trees and familiar flowers, home voices and the sound of the
old church bell sighing through the summer night.
"But," ran one letter, "I am sending you my son and I want you to tell
him all the old stories and town chronicles, sing him all the old songs
and love him for my sake--for he's going home--going home to Green
Valley--alone."
Oh, they cried, those Green Valley folks, for they were as one family
and they guessed what it must have been to die away from home and
kindred.
But Cynthia's son did not weep. He had shed his tears long ago and had
learned to smile. He was smiling at them now.
"I had planned to have Jim Tumley sing some of the old songs for us
to-night. But Jim isn't here and so if somebody will offer to play
them we can all sing. Jim promised he'd come," the young host's face
was troubled and they all guessed what was worrying him, "but he isn't
here--"
"Yes--he--is," a strange voice chirped somewhere near the door. Green
Valley turned and looked and froze with horror. For there, staggering
grotesquely, came little Jim Tumley, a piteous figure. He had kept his
promise to his new friend--he had come to sing the old songs.
Not a soul stirred. Only somewhere in the heart of the seated audience
Frank Burton groaned. This was a fight that he could not fight for
little Jim.
Nan Ainslee had stepped to the piano but her fingers were lead. And
for once the young minister was unable to rise to the situation. A
dark agony flooded his eyes and kept him motionless. It was the look
Grandma Wentworth had once seen in Cynthia's eyes. And it was that
look that took the strength from Grandma so that she too was helpless.
For sick, still minutes Green Valley watched little Jim stumble about
and fumble for his handkerchief. They stared at the stricken face of
their minister and at the laughing face whose memory they had come to
honor.
And then, when the deathly silence was becoming unbearable, a girl in a
dress like pink sea foam rose from her chair and stepped quietly,
daintily down the room until she stood beside the swaying figure of Jim
Tumley. She placed her hand gently on the little man's arm and turned
to her Green Valley neighbors.
"I shall sing the old songs with him," she said quietly.
She found an armchair and put the docile Jim into it. Then she smiled
at Nan Ainslee and told her what to play.
Nan's fingers touched the keys softly and from the slim throat that
rose like a flower stem from the pink sea foam there rolled out a
great, deep contralto.
It was unbelievable, that rich deep voice. It blotted out
everything--little Jim, the room, all sense of time and place--and
brought to the listeners instead the deep echoes of cathedral aisles,
the holy peace of a still gray day and the joy of coming sunshine. She
sang all the old songs, tenderly, softly. When she could sing no more
and they showered her with smiles and tears and applause, she raised
her hand for silence, for she had something to say.
"I am glad you liked the songs. I always sang them for father. I am
glad that I could do something for you, for you have all been so
wonderfully kind to me from the very first day that I came to Green
Valley. But why are you not kinder to Jim Tumley? Why don't you vote
the thing that is hurting him out of your town? If the women here
could vote that's what they would do. But surely you men will do it to
save Jim Tumley."