Stubble Part 14

He trudged on down the road, although he had no idea of where he was going. There was a soreness deep down in his heart and it hurt all the more because he realized that he had been unreasonable. And he had said he was not going back. He caught his breath slightly at the thought. Well, he wouldn't go back. There was no reason why he should--absolutely no reason. With that he turned about and walked briskly back up the hill toward home.

As he entered the front hall he could hear a low hum of conversation on the other side of the parlour doors. They were partly open, and he hurried past lest someone call for him to come in. He went upstairs, into the ell bedroom, and took off his coat. He looked at himself in the gla.s.s of the bureau. His face was red and streaked with perspiration and dust. And _they_ had looked quite fresh--"smart" was the word. He proceeded to clean himself up and he spent quite a long time in the process.

When he came downstairs again it was growing dark. He no longer heard the voices in the parlour. When he reached the foot, he paused for a moment in uncertainty. The walnut chairs were there, quite placid and content with themselves, and the hat-rack, and the old horsehair sofa.

His aunt Loraine came out of another door, back in the pa.s.sage. She had, of course, laid aside her veil and her face had been freshly powdered; she looked quite the same. There was a certain prim set to her mouth, and her eyes, as she looked at him, were calculatingly cool. She did not touch him but stood with her arms hanging rather stiffly by her sides.

"Joseph," she said, "we want you to stay, if you will--as long as you feel you can."

The tiny spark that he had felt died away. "We," she had said. He wondered who the "we" might be. Mr. Fawcette, perhaps; perhaps one of the old ladies. Aunt Lorry had evidently been looking ahead. There was no need for him here.

"No," he said rather quietly. "Thank you very much, Aunt Lorry. I must be getting back--first train to-morrow, I expect."

She lifted her eyebrows ever so slightly. "Very well. Make yourself at home while you stay." And she glided off with her queer, noiseless step, back into the shadow of the hall.

He walked to the front door and out on to the wide verandah. He looked down the winding driveway to the gate, all mellowing in the dying sunlight. There was not a breath of air, not a sound. The gate was standing partly open; the last departing guest had neglected to shut it. On the driveway lay something white, somebody's handkerchief. It lay without moving, inert. There was nothing to pick it up, not even the slightest breeze. He gazed across the open country that dipped away to the west to the ridge of hills that was crowned with orange and purple mists, with the white road climbing to its crest. And as he watched, he could see a small blob of white dust moving, leaving a feathery tail behind it. And he turned quickly and went into the house.

PART II

MYRTLE

CHAPTER IX

The sunlight was dazzling white. High winds during the night had chased all clouds to remote quarters and had with the morning suddenly gone, leaving the city to the entire mercy of the sun. It was August and very dry and in the corners of buildings huddled little heaps of dust and elusive trash, withered and powdery. On the pavements and walls the sunlight lay like white-hot gold and the shadows cast by the awnings of Bessire's department store were sharply chiselled as by a stencil. Mary Louise paused for a moment in their shelter and drew breath.

Sometimes work is a fattener. It is when, by virtue of its absorption, certain phases of the body are allowed to function naturally. It is true in the case of meddling minds, also in more or less conscientious natures. Mary Louise's nerves had temporarily ceased to feed upon her.

She was getting plump. The lace frill at the bottom of her elbow sleeve lay flat against a curve that was full and round. In fact, one was conscious of a general well-roundedness about her. And her face, which was flushed, was likewise serene.

The tea room had been making money. With the arrival of the intense heat had come generous patronage, especially for the noon meal. And the petty vexations had effaced themselves. For the past few weeks an atmosphere of expectancy had seemed to hover, such as is felt on trains arriving after a long journey, or in the completion of a work.

It was the sense of accomplishment. Mary Louise felt her problem undergoing solution, and nothing else mattered. She now laughed at the dismay she had felt at paying ten dollars for a cook in Bloomfield.

There was no price to be set on her freedom. And the careless streak in Maida was something to be accepted with good nature and not to be allowed to irritate. Maida was at least on the job, eternally on the job. Not much of a companion truly, nor for that matter a really good business partner. But she irradiated good nature and that was something.

A sizzling hot pavement is not much of a place for reflection even if shaded by a striped awning. So Mary Louise pa.s.sed on. The bundle of fresh-printed menus was getting heavy under her arm--she had just come from the printer's--and the soda fountain at the corner drug store tempted her. She yielded.

She took a seat alongside a revolving electric fan and let the breeze play on her heated cheek. She felt suddenly lazy and allowed herself a delicious relaxation. Behind the counter two boys in spotless caps and ap.r.o.ns were working with desperate haste to cool the dusty throats lined up before them. One of them looked like Joe Hooper, except that he moved faster, was quicker with his hands. Poor Joe! How helpless and hopeless he had looked that afternoon. He was one of the kind that could not learn how. The other clerk stopped before her and asked her for her order. This one looked very much like the new cook Maida and she had just hired. So intent was she upon her observation that she forgot he was speaking to her. That new cook--he was a smart, sharp-looking boy--just out of the army a few months. It had seemed a bit incongruous having that type in the kitchen, but then----She watched the face before her, hair sleek and parted in the middle with ears a little too prominent, features rather regular. The eyes were set too close together. He slid in and out without friction, made up almost two drinks to the other one's one--the one who looked like Joe.

Probably made more money even than the real Joe.

A tall frosty tumbler was placed before her. She dipped into it with a straw. It was delightfully cool and refreshing, with a blend of fruit odour and flavour beneath the sprig of mint that floated on the top.

Slowly she sipped it. And then for a moment she let her eyes wander across the faces lined up before the counter beside her. Next to her was an old woman in a sleazy black dress with a turban-like hat all swathed with a long black veil hemmed with black. She had looped it back in antic.i.p.ation of the drink she would soon get. The old face was white and limned with wrinkles, and one hand, as it rested timidly on the edge of the counter, was heavily veined and thin and swollen about the knuckles. There was a droop to the shoulders and a patient, haggard look about the eyes. Mary Louise wondered if the mourning were very real; she seemed so very tired that even a poignant grief might well be spent. As she looked, the old woman caught her eye and turned hurriedly away.

Beyond her two young girls were making merry with the cherries in their gla.s.ses. At odd moments they would surrept.i.tiously bid for the soda-jerker's attention. They had finely plucked eyebrows and were much powdered about the nose. One of them sat with her back partly turned to Mary Louise, who could catch the occasional lift of an alluring eyelash from the gla.s.s's brim in the direction of the clerk.

She had her legs crossed, and once when she shifted her position Mary Louise could see the gleam of a bare knee. It made her feel a bit older somehow, but likewise complacent.

She finished her drink and arose to go. Just then the big, raw-boned clerk, the one who looked a bit like Joe, dropped a gla.s.s on the counter and immediately there was a widening stain of red and a piece of gla.s.s rolled over the edge and fell to the floor. A woman sprang up and back from the counter in irritation. And a dull red flush crept into the boy's face as he quickly produced a rag and began to mop up the debris. As she walked to the door, the other clerk, the one with the close-set eyes, was saying something to him in a sharp tone.

She paused a moment. Past her on the sidewalk pressed a steady stream in each direction. Hot, perspiring faces, flushed and lined with concentration, worry, or fatigue--all hurrying. She felt curiously complacent and aloof. Perhaps it was the momentary rest and cooling.

Her thought returned again to Joe, being reminded perhaps by the little incident at the counter. She recalled Claybrook. She remembered Claybrook's words that afternoon--that afternoon she had gone to Bloomfield. It was just a few minutes after they had left Joe Hooper on the road; they were pa.s.sing the old Mosby place. She had noticed the interest with which Claybrook had inspected the place as they rolled by. He had asked the name of the owner.

"Fine old trees," he had said. And later, "Walnuts," in answer to her question as to which ones he had meant.

Yes, they had been fine old trees. Something enduring about them. They added to a place--trees. There was nothing artificial or upstart about their beauty, but the venerableness of dignity. The Mosby place had been noted for its walnuts.

"Tell 'em," Claybrook had said, "I'll give 'em a nickle a foot for those trees right there on the ground. That is, if they are hard up,"

he had added as if seeking to justify himself. She remembered the incident now with regret, a sort of complacent regret. Claybrook was a bit crude at times, or at least he was not quite awake to some of the finer sensibilities. But he was a kindly man and doing well. He was the sort you could depend on. Business was cruel. You had to overlook certain things, for instance--Maida. But Joe! Well, it was too bad. He just didn't have the knack.

She crossed the street. The glare was terrific. Hugging the wall, to keep as far in the shelter of its shade as possible, she proceeded north. In spite of the heat the streets were crowded. She looked at her watch. It was eleven-thirty. She would have to be hurrying to get her menus back on time. She came to an alley and paused on the curb to look in either direction for traffic. By the curb at the corner of the alley stood a bright, shiny, new car. Something about it attracted her attention. She looked more closely and was conscious of a peculiar little catch or start somewhere deep down inside her. In the front seat, behind the steering wheel, sat Joe Hooper, with his arm flung negligently along the polished patent leather of the top brace. And such a Joe Hooper! He had on a new straw hat, and while Mary Louise could not trust herself to a very long inspection, she noticed the fresh creases in his coat sleeve. He was wearing a "shepherd plaid"

suit that looked "bran spanking" new, and in his collar was knotted a pale lavender-hued tie. More than that, he seemed positively well groomed. Beside him sat a woman, back turned toward the curb. It was a most alluring back, in a soft, shimmering dark-blue dress with a lace collar and above it a gentle curve of neck with little provoking wisps of hair curling softly about it. That was all she took in in that flash of vision, except--as she looked, the creature raised a dainty, tapering hand and filliped a tiny feather under Joe's nose. He drew back slightly and smiled--she saw the whole thing--a quite restrained and, if anything, a condescending kind of smile.

Mary Louise pa.s.sed on inconspicuously across the alley, into the sheltering shade, of the shop awnings again. She wondered if he had seen her. And then she was tempted to turn around and rea.s.sure herself with another look. But she did not.

A singular mixture of emotions surged through her. She felt as if someone were secretly laughing at her. Joe Hooper, she had decided, had been one of those people who could never learn how to do things.

And yet, unless her eyes had deceived her, here he had burst gorgeously from his chrysalis. She was not sure she was glad of it, either. Charity, especially of thought, is frequently more of a luxury to the donor than to the recipient.

She hurried on. The street was becoming more crowded and the heat, if anything, more intense. She began to feel just a bit angry with herself for exposing herself to it. Her face felt as if it were burning up. It had not been at all necessary. She could just as well have sent someone else. And here she was plugging along, with her clothes all sticky, her hair coming down in wisps about her ears, and her face as red as a beet. Funny, what had come over Joe. She was certain it had been he but it seemed improbable. And she had been sorry for him. He was the kind who could not "put anything across."

All her complacency was gone as she opened the tea-room door. She was hot and tired and hurried. The little clock on the mantelshelf said a quarter to twelve as she closed the door behind her and then she saw that there was a customer at a far table in the corner and realized how late she was. A short, fat little woman was sitting tensely on the edge of a chair, looking about her with quick, restless, stabbing glances. She had on an atrocity of a hat that looked as though someone had plumped down on her head a flimsy crate of refuse blossoms and vegetables. It was a riot of colour and disorder. And her short, protuberant bosom rested on the table's edge while the face above it was marked with stern lines of dissatisfaction. Little folds of flesh hung down below her jaws.

Giving Mary Louise a momentary appraising glance, us the latter came in with her bundle, she snapped out: "This place open, you suppose?"

Mary Louise hastily laid down the menus. "Yes," she said, "it is.

Haven't you been waited on?"

"No," said the old lady, stirring in her chair and making as if to rise, though wild horses could not have pulled her away from even the prospect of food. "I've been sitting here ten minutes by your clock."

She turned away and stared gloomily into s.p.a.ce with her mouth sharply set in indignant endurance of such mistreatment.

Mary Louise hurried across the room. She pushed open the swinging door into the pa.s.sage that led to the kitchen. Everything was quiet. She wondered at it. As she stood there for an unappreciable instant, she heard a slight sound to her right, seemingly from the little pantry or storage room that was tucked in beneath the stairs. The door of it ordinarily stood open.

She paused a moment then took one step forward and pushed open the door.

Full beneath the light of the pendent lamp, leaning against the serving table for support, stretched the billowy form of Maida Jones, half reclining in the arms of the sleek-haired cook who sat on the table edge and faced the door. Her head was thrown back in complete abandonment and her hair was coming down about her shoulders. The boy's close-set eyes peered up sharply as Mary Louise opened the door. Then there was an immediate scurry, the lamp was switched off, and directly Maida emerged flushed and sullen.

Mary Louise was stunned. Her ideas were chaotic and could take no form. But as they stood there facing each other, she was conscious of a rising sense of the ludicrous mingled with disgust. The memory of that momentary scene lingered in her mind like a piece of burlesque statuary. She stifled a desire to laugh.

Then the other culprit began to stir about among the pans. Maida was staring at her with lips partly open, her breath still coming short and thick.

"Turn on the light," said Mary Louise.

And then as Maida made no move:

"Go fix yourself up. There's someone in the room waiting to be served." Her voice was heavy with the scorn she felt.

Maida recovered. She bit her lip. Then she laughed a short, nervous laugh. "Shocked to death, aren't you?"