Green Valley Part 27

"What say if we all go over and ask him what he thinks of it. It looks like rain and I'll have to be starting for home," suggested the bright and peace-loving soul who had left home that morning to avoid unpleasantness.

This brilliant suggestion was promptly acted on and they filed out, leaving Billy standing alone in the doorway. Billy watched them shuffle into the hotel, then he looked up and down Main Street, studying every old landmark and battered hitching post. He told himself that he hoped the old town wouldn't change too much. Hank Lolly came out of the barn just then and Billy turned to him.

"Hank, that innocent little girl in a pink dress last night has sure raised one gosh darned lot of argument in this here town."

"Billy," Hank's voice shook a little, "Billy, I heerd some of those arguments--in there. But, my G.o.d, Billy--look at me--look at me! I'm the best argument in this here town for voting that bar out. For, Billy, so long as that hotel sells liquor, so long as the doors swing open so that the smells can get out, and so long as the winds blow in Green Valley, bringing those smells to me--just so long I'll be afraid--afraid. And Billy, if ever I let go again, it'll be the madhouse for me. I know. I've had a grandfather and two uncles go that way."

Over at the hotel the high, foaming gla.s.ses slid along the bar. The hotel man with the diamond in his tie greeted the men who lined up at the rail with an indifferent smile. The gla.s.ses were raised and drained. And then some bold spirit asked the man with the diamond how he'd feel if the town went dry.

"Why," drawled that individual, "I've been looking down men's throats and watching their Adam's apple and listening to them guzzling their liquor for something like twenty years now and I wouldn't mind a change. I left the city because I was hankering for something I didn't know the name of. Thought I'd find it here. Thought this was a mighty restful town. It is--but not for me and my business. But I'm glad I came, for that young parson of yours put me next to what I really want to do. I've been wanting all my life to run a stock farm. But I didn't know it till that kid preacher told me so. Seems he's been knocking around the country with Hank Lolly and knows of two or three that are up for sale. I'm going out with him next week to look at them. So this town running dry won't upset me any. I've just about made up my mind to quit this game and spend the rest of my life with--cattle. I won't mind the dryness. I don't drink. Never have."

The rain that had been threatening for an hour came suddenly, came down in big angry drops; and there was everywhere in town a scurrying for home. Men b.u.t.toned their coats and bent their heads and hurried home, hoping to find there cheerful wives and peace.

They found their wives cheerful enough, almost suspiciously so, and exceedingly busy with the telephone. By listening to several one-sided conversations Green Valley men learned that while they had been discussing things in Billy's office, Mrs. Brownlee had called on Jim Tumley's wife and on several other more prominent Green Valley matrons; had telephoned to others and had in three morning hours organized a Woman's Civic League.

"A Civic League? What's that? And what for?" Green Valley husbands wanted to know.

"Why, I don't know. I said yes, of course I'd join. I couldn't be mean to the woman after what her little girl did last night," said Green Valley wives.

CHAPTER XIX

A GRAY DAY

Up on his wooded knoll Green Valley's young minister lay grieving and staring up into a gray unhappy sky, a sky choked with thick gray clouds that hung so low and were so full of sadness that even the little hills mourned and the Green Valley world all about lay hushed and penitent.

Summer was dead and everywhere tired winds moaned and sighed and sobbed and then grew suddenly still. The fine old trees were shriveled and weary, as if trying were no longer worth while. They craved sleep and peace--just rest. The gay gra.s.ses were dry and faded and when the little winds tried to rouse them they only rustled impatiently, dolefully and murmured, "Oh what's the use?"

The heart of Cynthia's son studied the low brooding sky, the dying world, listened to the wailing, mourning winds, the sighing of the gra.s.ses and it too said wearily, "Yes--what's the use of anything?"

What's the use of working and trying when the thing you want most to do you can't do. What's the use of longing when the thing you crave most can never again be given to you? What's the use of feeling big, eternal, divine, when you know that every day is dwarfed by your limitations, every friendship marred by your helplessness, every dream blurred by your ignorance? The sweetest things in life, Cynthia's son told himself with all the bitterness of youth, were memories and hopes.

Memories of happy moments, hours perhaps, memories of perfect days and hopes of new days, new friends, new skies.

To-day all hope seemed dead, gone from the hillsides with the summer flowers. And the world was a sad and a lonely place. Cynthia's son had yet to learn that gray days are home days. That if it were not for gray skies there would be no low roofs gleaming through tree tops, no home fires glowing anywhere. Gray days are heart days, for it is then that the heart hungers for sympathy, for kinship. It is then that men draw together for comfort and cheer.

Cynthia's son never felt quite so alone in the world before--the last of his line. He was young and did not know what ailed him. So he lay heartsick and puzzled on his hill top and wished he had some one all his own to talk to.

There are things you can whistle to a robin, whisper to a tree friend or look into the heart of the sunset. There are problems you can argue out with a neighbor or solve with the help of a friend. But the heart has certain longings that you can share only with some one who is all your own and very, very dear.

It is hard to be the last of a line, Cynthia's son told himself bitterly, and in his loneliness he turned over and hid his face on his arm and let his homesick heart stray off across the seas to the land that for so long had been home to him, the land that held the dead hearts that had always robbed his gray days of all sadness.

He craved the hot sunshine, the brittle blue skies, the crowded little lanes full of filth and feet and eternal noise. Perhaps there in the old home he might find eyes that held a bit of the great love he longed for, a voice that had in it the hint of a caress, the note that would give him new courage, new hope.

No--he did not know what was the matter with him. All he knew was that summer was dead and that he had no one in all the world he could call his very own. He did not know that lying there he was really waiting for a step and a voice, a step that would stir the leaves with a joyous rustling, a voice that even on a gray day sounded gay and sunshiny. He had always liked Nan Ainslee's voice. Lately he had begun to notice other pleasant things about her. Last night, for instance, he had for the first time seen her hair, the beauty of her creamy throat and had really looked down into her laughing, wide eyes and forgotten all the world for a second or two. And the hand she gave him when she said good night was warm and full of a strange comfort. He had almost asked her to stay a while after the others left and sit beside his fire in a low chair and talk the party over with him.

The world was so still it seemed as if it waited with him. And then it came--that voice warm and gay.

"h.e.l.lo--you here again?"

Then something about that head buried on that out-flung arm made her laugh softly, oddly, and say, "Isn't this a delicious, restful, dozy day? You'd better sit up and look at those s.h.a.ggy gray clouds over yonder. Or are you listening to the little winds sighing out lullabies? I came here today to hear the world being hushed to sleep."

He heard and his heart jumped queerly. But he didn't raise his head until he was sure the homesick longing for some one all his own was gone from his eyes.

She had on a gray dress as soft as wood smoke. He caught flashes of flame color beneath the gray and at her breast fluttered a knot of scarlet silk. She looked like somebody's home fire, all fragrant smoke and golden flame and ruddy coals. Her eyes held the dancing lights, the visions and her voice had the tender warmth. She was the spirit of the day and the sight of her comforted his soul and filled his heart with content.

"I think it is a sad day," he said, "and I have been desperately lonely for India and my mother and father and all the little brothers and sisters and playmates that I never had. The only playmates I ever had were camels and missionaries and a few brown babies and two white hens."

He had not meant to talk in this grieving, childish fashion. But something about her brought his heart thoughts to his lips. And to-day he found no pleasure in looking down on the village roofs where Joe Tumley lay sick and miserable and Mary, his wife, wept and men and women talked and argued as he very well knew they were talking and arguing.

"What! No playmates? No boy friends--not even a dog?" Nan grieved with him.

"Oh, I had an Irish soldier's boy for two months once and a little brown dog for a week. Mother was always afraid of disease."

He could hardly believe that remembrance of these long-past things was in him. Yet he was suddenly remembering many old, old matters and with it came back the old, childish pain.

She sat down on the oak stump quite near him and there was more than pity in her eyes, only he did not see.

"Why," she advised gently, "you must have a dog at once. I can give you a wonderful collie and then on gray days you can bring him up here to your hill top or go tramping through woods and ravines with him. A dog is the finest kind of company for a gray day. And there is your attic. Why, I always spend hours in my attic these still, gentle days.

I go up there to read old letters and look over old boxes full of queer keepsakes. I sit in a three-legged chair and sometimes, if I find an old coverless book and if the rain begins to drum softly on the shingles, I go to sleep on an ancient sagging sofa and dream great dreams. Haven't you ransacked that attic of yours yet?" she wanted to know.

"No. And the housekeeper insists on my doing it soon. Says that if I'm going to give Jimmy Trumbull that party I promised him I'd better have the barn and the attic all fixed up for it, because the boys wouldn't have any fun in the house and the house wouldn't stand it any better."

And then because neither one of them could think of anything else to say they were perfectly still there on the hill top. There seemed to be no need for speech. Nanny looked down at the little town and Cynthia's son lay contentedly at her feet, looking at her and rustling the dead leaves with an idle hand.

It might have become dangerous, that contented silence. For Nan at least was thinking. She was thinking how often she came to the hill top to visit with this man at her feet and how seldom he came to her door to visit with her. When he came it was not to see her but her father, her brother. With a sick shame Nanny thought how the sight of him, the sound of his voice, the very mention of his name made her heart fill with warm gladness. She loved him and he had no need of love--her love. She who had turned men away, men who were--

She rose suddenly. There was a kind of terror in her eyes and she locked her hands together to warm them, for they had suddenly grown icy cold.

"I must go," she murmured in real distress.

But he just looked up and put out his hand. And she sat down again and let her hand rest in his. And half her joy was pure misery. For she did not understand the ways of this strange, boyish man and she did not know what the end of such a friendship could be.

When those first angry drops pattered down on the leaves Nanny started up in alarm and would have raced for home. But he caught her quickly, slipped her cloak on, and before she had time to protest, they were running hand in hand down the hillside. Just as the full fury of the storm struck the house they banged the front door shut and stood panting and laughing in the hall.

It was very pleasant to sit by his fire and let the storm and the ruddy flames do the talking. But even as she sat and dreamed Nanny knew it would never do. Green Valley knew and loved her but that would not save her. So Nanny walked to the telephone and called up the one soul it was always safe to tell things to. And twenty minutes later Grandma Wentworth arrived.

It was while they sat talking in cozy comfort before the snapping fire that Cynthia's son suggested the attic.

"Mother told me once never to rummage through her old trunks unless Mary Wentworth was by to explain. So come along."

Grandma looked a little startled at that.

"We'll go," she said. "It's the finest kind of a day to go messing in an attic. But I'll step into the kitchen first and borrow two all-over ap.r.o.ns. My dress isn't new but Nan's is."

The old Churchill homestead was built in the days when folks believed reverently in attics. Not little cubby-holes under the roof but in generous, well-lighted, nicely-floored affairs that less reverent generations have turned into smoking dens, studios and ballrooms.