I
The girl, stormful and rebellious, had come out of the old farmhouse
above Fraternity, and without much caring in which direction she turned,
walked across the stubble of the freshly cut meadow toward the edge of
the woods at the crest of the hill. This meadow was really a high
plateau; it was fringed with bushes which grew along the crumbling stone
wall which bordered it, and with birch and wild cherry trees here and
there along its edge. Between these trees she could look abroad across a
wooded valley, down whose middle meandered the dead water of the
George’s River, backed up by the mill dam at the village. There had been
a light shower at dawn, scarce sufficient to settle the dust; and the
air, thus clarified, lent lovely colors to the countryside. Deep green
of hemlock and spruce and pine, straggling tracery of hackmatack,
lighter green of the birch tops almost yellow in the heart of the woods;
the blue of distant hillsides; the blue of the sky; the yellow glory of
sunlight drenching everything. In an uncut strip of meadow white daisies
bloomed. There were birds about. But to all these matters, Lucia Moore
was oblivious. She knew only that her father was stubborn and
unreasonable, her mother supine, the world at an ill turn. Drops of
water on the stubble wet her ankles; dust and water combined to muddy
her impracticable shoes; an occasional bramble tore at her silken
stockings. She came to the stone wall at the brink of the hill and chose
a large boulder half-shaded by an apple tree that was all run to
suckers, and sat down on it, her feet propped upon a stone below, her
elbows on her knees, her chin cupped in her hands. The girl’s eyes were
sulky, and her lips pouted. There was a hint of color not their own upon
these lips of hers, and her eyebrows were plucked to a thin line, their
smooth arch distorted by the frown she wore. Her gingham dress was
short, and her present posture revealed her thin, unformed legs, which
confirmed the almost emaciated slimness of her figure. She stared
unseeingly across the lovely land.
Down the slope below her and to the right, Johnny Dree was dusting his
orchard. His well-trained team knew their work; they drew the sledge on
which he had secured the dusting machine up and down between the
wide-spaced rows; and Johnny himself controlled and directed the blast
of dust which smothered the trees, depositing itself on every leaf and
twig. Now and then, at the turnings, he called a command to the horses;
or ran ahead to tug at their reins. He was doing two men’s work, and
doing it with very little effort. His voice, pitched musically, carried
far across the still hillside on this quiet morning; and the whir of the
duster carried further. The spouting clouds of heavy dust rose above the
trees, to settle swiftly down again. Lucia Moore heard his voice, heard
the duster’s purring, punctuated by the bark of the exhaust; she looked
in his direction and saw the violently spouting dust, and wondered who
he was and what he was doing. She had an uncontrolled curiosity, and
after a few moments her awakened interest brought her down the hill. She
entered the orchard at the side where the Wolf Rivers were planted, a
hundred trees of them, the fruit already filling and coloring. Johnny’s
father had set out this small orchard with discretion; a hundred Wolf
Rivers, a hundred Starks, a hundred Ben Davises. Hardy apples, easily
tended, easily handled, easily marketed. Wolf Rivers for fancy trade,
for the great city hotels to bake and to serve, crisply browned, with
rich cream; Starks and Ben Davises for keeping through the winter.
Johnny was in the middle of the Starks when he saw Lucia coming toward
him among the trees. After the fashion of the countryside, he looked at
her with frank curiosity. He had seen her, at some distance, once or
twice before, since Walter Moore bought the run-down farm on the hilltop
above his orchard. Had summarized his impressions of rouge, plucked
brows, short dresses in a single phrase, “A city girl.” There was no
malice in the appellation; it was simply a classification. Her approach
now did not embarrass him; there is a self respect in such men, not
easily disturbed. She had paused between two trees at a point he was
approaching, and when he came near where she stood, he stopped the
horses and waited for her to speak her errand.
Lucia looked at him curiously. She was just twenty years old, but he was
only two or three years older, and she was used to boys. His overalls
were patched and faded from much washing; his blue shirt seemed fresh
and clean; she thought him nice looking, and when she was sure of this,
smiled most dazzlingly. Johnny tugged off his cap at that smile, and
Lucia said precisely:
“How do you do?”
“Howdo, Miss Moore,” Johnny replied.
Her eyes widened in a pretty affectation. “Oh, how did you know my
name?”
His lips were inscrutable, but his eyes were amused. “I guess everybody
around here knows you.”
She pouted a little. “That doesn’t sound nice.”
“It don’t do any harm,” he said equably; and she was a little
disappointed, had expected flattery. She pointed to the machine, whose
engine still racketed.
“What’s that?”
“A duster,” he told her. “Kills the bugs on the trees.”
She made a grimace. “I should think it would. But what a nasty way to
do. Smother them with that dust.”
He did smile this time. “The dust’s poison,” he explained. “It sticks to
the leaves, and they eat it with the leaves, and it kills them.”
“Why?” she asked.
He understood that she was interested not in the process but the reason
for it. “So they won’t hurt the trees; so the trees will bear better,”
he told her.
“Papa doesn’t do that to our trees,” she said.
He turned away, and she thought he smiled. “That’s right,” he agreed.
She looked around her. “And there are lots more apples on your trees
than on ours, too.”
“That’s because I dust ’em and spray ’em and take care of them,” he
said. “You’ve got to treat an apple tree right if you want it to bear
right.”
She came gingerly to his side and inspected the duster and asked
questions about it, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the dust; and he
answered her questions, warming a little at her interest in that which
was dear to him. She perceived that she pleased him, and pretended even
greater interest, and smiled at him in her most charming fashion. Turned
from the machine to the trees about them, plucked an apple and bit into
it and threw it away with a grimace. His engine still coughed and
barked; he showed no disposition to shut off its ignition and give his
time to her. She discovered a waxy bandage upon one of the trees and
asked what it was and he told her it was a graft, and would have added
some explanation, but her attention flitted elsewhere.
“Where do you live?” she asked presently. “That house up there?”
“Yes.”
“Is it your house?”
“My mother’s and mine,” he replied.
She turned the full battery of her eyes upon him. “Why haven’t you come
up to see a fellow?” she asked. “I’ve been awfully lonesome here.”
He was not at all disconcerted, as she had expected him to be. “I hadn’t
thought of it,” he said. “I’m pretty busy.”
“You’ll think of it now, won’t you?” she begged prettily. She was, this
morning, in a reckless mood; she had been, was still, a spoiled child.
“I might,” he assented, and she thought again there was a smile deep
hidden in his eyes.
“I’m used to having boys crazy to come and see me,” she said wistfully;
and he did smile; and she was satisfied with this much of victory, and
turned and ran away. She ran prettily, and she knew her skirts were none
too long. From the border of the orchard, she looked back and lifted her
hand to him. He touched his hat in a restrained fashion by way of
response; and she ascended the hill, at peace with the world again.
And this was the first encounter between the tender of trees and Lucia
Moore.