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Green Valley

<h3> CHAPTER XVI </h3> <h3> THE HOUSEWARMING </h3> 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." t 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." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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