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 criticizingthe 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."
They sat stunned and stared at the slip of a girl in pink who was speaking in so matter-of-fact a fashion.
And then Seth Curtis laughed; but he laughed kindly.
"Why," he shouted, "she can't only sing; she can preach too—woman suffrage and prohibition."
The laugh grew and smiles went round and the whole trying situation eased up. Jocelyn laughed too and turned to say good night to her host. And from somewhere in the crowd Frank Burton strode up and carried Jim out and drove him home.
Everybody began to get ready to go, glad that the evening so nearly tragic had been happily saved. And all Green Valley mentally promised to repay the girl who had had the wit and the sweetness to serve in an hour of need.
But while the young people and the married ones with children were crowding out through the front door, Grandma Wentworth was still in the library, staring up into the laughing eyes of the dearest friend life had given her and taken away.
"Cynthia, dear," whispered Grandma brokenly, "it is still here, the thing that hurt you so—that made a widow of me at twenty-eight. We have grown no wiser in spite of the pain."
Sitting in the armchair that Jocelyn had pulled out for Jim Tumley was Roger Allan. His face was a-quiver with pain. And he too was staring hungrily at the pictured face.
"Oh, Roger," wept Grandma, "if only we could have her back, her and Richard."
"Yes," hoarsely whispered he, "if only the years would come back and we could have another chance to live them."
Over in one corner of the room Green Valley's three good little men were discussing something hotly. That is, the fiery little barber was discussing something. The other two just listened.
"I tell you that preacher boy is right. This town needs a home, a place where it can all get together for a good time. No one home, not even this one, is big enough. That's why part of the town hangs out in the hotel, another part in the blacksmith shop, the kids in Joe's shoe shop or a poolroom. We need a big assembly room with smaller rooms off of it for all kinds of honest fun—pool, billiards, bowling, dancing, swimming. I tell you I ain't crazy and no more is the preacher. And Joshua Stillman's library that he pretty near gave all his life and money to needs to be moved out into the sunlight and stretched to its full, grand size. I tell you it would be a great thing for this town. This town's sociable but it ain't social—no, sir!"
Sam Ellis was going home from the party with his girl and two boys.
"Well, father," bitterly spoke up the eldest, "it's still our saloon that's killing Jim Tumley, even though we aren't running it."
"Oh, father," murmured Tessie miserably, "can't you do anything about it?"
Sam groaned.
"Dear God—what can I do? I tell you selling the hotel or renting it or dynamiting it won't stop drinking in this town, so long as there are men in it who want drink and will drink. I don't think even the vote that that little girl suggested will do it. If you vote it out you'll have blind pigs to fight. No, sir! It ain't my fault nor no one man's fault. The whole town's to blame. There's only one thing will stop it. If men in this country will quit making it other men will stop drinking it. So long as it's made it'll be used. The whole country's to blame."
Fanny Foster, having nobody else to talk to, was speaking her mind to John, her husband.
"I told Grandma Wentworth nobody but the Almighty could do anything for Jim. You'll see that I'm right. I know."
Fanny was right. But what she did not know was that she herself was to be one of the instruments with which a stern and patient God was to clean out forever the one foul blot on Green Valley life.
The one person who was not discussing Jim Tumley and his trouble was Jocelyn. She couldn't. She was too occupied with troubles of her own.
She had been the first to leave. She slipped away unobserved for she could not bear to have Green Valley see her leave without an escort. So she got away as noiseless as a fairy. And for the first few rods all was well. The excitement of the past hours, the worry of getting away unseen, kept her mind occupied. But as the night wind cooled her cheeks and the lighted house back of her grew smaller she grew frightened. She was, after all, a city girl and to her there was something fearful in the stillness of the country and the loneliness of the dark road. She hurried her steps, jumped at every sound and grew cold from pure terror as the awful stillness and emptiness closed in about her. She stood still every few minutes, staring at blurred bushes beside the road. The screech of an owl almost made her scream. And in the dark the hard lumpy road hurt her feet cruelly. The little slippers were never meant for dark country roads. So Jocelyn had to pick her steps, and with every second's delay her terror grew.
Finally the trees thinned a bit and for a good space ahead there was a clearing where the night was not so dark and the road not so lumpy. She hurried to get out of the smother of trees. When once she crossed that open space all would be well, she told herself, for then the village lights would wink at her and the sidewalks begin. As soon as she could see her own lighted windows and set foot on a cement walk she would no longer be afraid.
So, head bent, she hurried along and was almost near the walk when, looking up, she saw a man hurrying toward her through a little footpath that led to the road. She stood motionless with horror. Then the scream that had hovered on her lips all the way escaped her and she tried to run.
She did not run far. For one of the high-heeled slippers just curled up under her and she went down, sobbing "David—David."
And she kept sobbing just that over and over even after David had picked her up and folded her safe in his arms. He tried to soothe her and explained that he had missed her, had guessed that she would try to get home alone down this road and so took the short cut in order to catch up with her and make sure that she got home safely. He never dreamed of frightening her so, but she was safe with him now and there was absolutely nothing to fear.
"But my foot, David. It's swelling. I can feel it—and it hurts."
David took off the little slipper and put it in his pocket. Then he told her not to worry because he could carry her home easily enough. But first he sat down with her on an old stone wall and talked to her until the last sob died away and her head nestled gratefully on his big comfortable shoulder.
"Jocelyn," he asked presently, "are you still angry with me?"
She shook her head.
"I've never been angry with you, David. But I thought you didn't want to be bothered any longer with a silly girl like me and so—I tried to help and be sensible."
"I know. I was crazy that day you rode through town with the minister. I had no right—"
"Oh,"—she raised her head and looked at him in shy wonder and shocked relief, "oh, David—was it that—you were hurt at that?"
For answer he gently drew her close to him.
"But David, I didn't go riding with the minister. I was just taking a little pig home that a boy cousin of mine, who loves to tease me, sent me. I didn't know anything about pigs and the minister happened to be there and helped. He meant no harm."
"Oh, I know, Jocelyn. But he is such a wonderful man. Only another man, I guess, can know what a fine chap he is. And I thought if he did like you I couldn't stand in your way. I found out, of course, that I was mistaken. The minister doesn't care anything about girls. But that wasn't all. You know, Jocelyn, I'm Uncle Roger's own nephew but I bear his name because he legally gave it to me and because I have no name of my own. I was a fatherless baby and a girl like you ought to be courted by a better man than I am."
It was costing David Allan something to tell the girl in his arms all that. She guessed how the telling must hurt the boy, for she stopped it with a little, tender laugh.
"But, David dear, I knew all that the day you took me to the Decoration Day exercises. Grandma Wentworth told me. She said she knew you'd likely tell me yourself some day but she said that she liked you and she noticed that people who liked you always liked you a little better after they heard that."
He sat still, overwhelmed with her sweetness. Then, "Jocelyn, is it only liking?"
Her answer came like a soft note of joy.
"No, David. It's something bigger than liking and when you wouldn't speak to me that afternoon you darkened all my world."
She had not shed a tear through all those lonely days but now she buried her face in David's breast and cried bitterly.
And then it was that David kissed his sweetheart and the touch of her answering lips healed forever the dull ache that had gnawed at his heart ever since he was old enough to understand the story of his cheated childhood.
They sat in the soft darkness of the night that was full of autumn sighs, a night that stirred in their hearts wistful longings for a low, snug roof singing with rain and a drowsy little home fire beneath it.
When they had sat long enough to remember their great hour forever and had repeated the litany of love to each other till they sensed its wonder, David said regretfully:
"And now I must take you to your mother. And Jocelyn, I'm terribly afraid of that mother of yours."
Jocelyn laughed.
"Why, David, mother isn't as bad as all that. And she likes you. She said you made her think of father. And, David, she's always given me everything I've honestly wanted and she could give. She hasn't been out much here. She hasn't cared to do much of anything since father died. But in the city she used to be so busy. You know she's a great club woman and a suffragette and oh, such a beautiful speaker. It's from her I get my funny, big, deep voice. She used to be in such demand at meetings. But she's given it all up. She blames herself for leaving father so much and not going out to the country with him. He never asked her to leave the city but I know he wanted to. When he died she just came out here to do penance. She thought there wasn't anything for her to do in a place like this. But just wait till I tell her about Jim Tumley. Oh, she'll know what to do. Why, mother's wonderful in her way, David! Why, I just know she can do something for Jim Tumley."
David shook his head.
"Jocelyn," he sighed, "it'll take this whole town and God Almighty too to save Jim Tumley now."
"Well, mother will do her share. And, Dav—id, I'd like another kiss—if you don't mind."
David didn't mind in the least.
The very best part of every Green Valley doing is talking it over the morning after.
Nobody even pretended to work the morning after the minister's party. Dell Parsons never even brushed out her lovely hair that morning; just wound it round her head in two big braids and went through the little gate in the hedge to talk it over with Nan Turner.
She found Nan standing over a steaming dishpan, stirring the dishes about absent-mindedly with the pancake spoon. At the sight of Dell she turned her back on the cluttered sink.
"Dell, I'm only just beginning to take in the meaning of what that little neighbor girl of ours said last night. Why, Dell Parsons, we've both been born in this here town; we're only twenty-two miles out from the heart of one of the world's greatest cities and we've never sensed the true meaning of this thing they call woman suffrage and prohibition. Why, we've poked fun at it and jogged along our ignorant hayseed way and watched and watched little sweet-hearted men like Jim Tumley just stumble miserably into their graves, or a man like Sears drive his children from their home and curse his wife, or perhaps we've shuddered at the sight of Hank Lolly lying drunk in the road among the wild flowers.
"When one of our drunkards dies we cut our choicest flowers and go to the funeral and maybe cry with the wife and children and then go home and wait for the next one to do it. Of course, we talk to the children and try to scare the boys into letting it alone. But that doesn't do much good because, Dell, we don't bury enough drunkards at one time to make a strong impression and convince the boys that we are right. Our boys see big, respectable men like George Hoskins and Seth Curtis and even good Billy Evans taking their drinks regularly and living and prospering. So they make up their minds that mothers are all a little bit crazy on the drink question. And the first thing we know we find that our boys have been washing down their cigarettes with a drink. And in those first sick five minutes we know, Dell, that the thing has beaten us to the boy."
"Yes," mused Dell aloud, "but we aren't the only ones who feel beaten. The men aren't all against us, Nan. Lots of them right here in this town are on our side. And I tell you it's no joke for a natural man who loves to hang around and pal with his neighbors to put himself in the position of a spoilsport or an odd goody-goody. There's Uncle Tony's brother William. He's been against war and drink and smoking all his life, and look at the dog's life he's led. Nan, I believe the men are as helpless as we. The Thing has grown so huge that we can't fight it. It's got us all. And we're so helpless because we're ignorant and won't think this thing out. Look at Frank Burton, who'd give his soul to save Jim Tumley's. Yet it's only last year that he gave up having drink in the house. He never realized until so late that just by having it around he was hurting the man he'd die to save. And there's Billy Evans. Why, Nan, Billy has sat up nights pulling Hank Lolly through a jag. Yet Billy lets Hank see him take a drink every day. And, Nan, it must be plain hell for Hank to see that. Why, Billy wouldn't tempt Hank or make him suffer torment knowingly for a million dollars. And yet he does it every day of his life because he's ignorant, doesn't know any bigger, finer, more unselfish way of helping Hank. No, Nan, you can't make me believe our Green Valley men are a mean lot, meaner than others. They just don't know and when once they realize, why, they'll put an end to it themselves fast enough."
"That's all right, but, Dell Parsons, you know that the world over men have to be nagged and coaxed into seeing the right by their women folks. And I tell you I'm going to begin right now to do a little of both. And as for that vote—I've laughed about that long enough. Now I'm going after it. It's just struck me that we women need a vote about as much as we need a pair of scissors, a bread board or a wash boiler, cook stove and bank book. We need it along with the other things to keep our children properly clothed, fed, housed and educated."
The blacksmith shop was closed. George Hoskins' wife was pretty sick. So the crowd that was usually seated about the forge was crowded into Billy Evans' office.
It was a big crowd but it wasn't feeling any jollier because of its size. Each man there had had a word or two with his wife that morning. Not a few wives had begun to discuss the Jim Tumley incident seriously the minute they got home and got the children to bed the night before. Every man in Billy's office felt more or less uncomfortable and talked in nervous, disconnected snatches.
Said one:
"Well—I drove in to town this morning so's not to have words with Rose—and just to escape the whole dumbed subject—but if—I'd known that everybody I met and talked to and set down with—was a-going to talk about the same dumbed thing I'd a-stayed to home."
"The whole trouble," argued another, "is just women's imagination, that's all. I never saw a woman that had a living father, brother, beau, husband, brother-in-law, father-in-law, cousin or boy baby in arms that she wasn't worrying all the time night and day that drink'd get him. It's just their way of being foolish, that's all. And as for all this talk about the terrible danger and it being a menace to the future generation, that's all slop and slush."
Billy was irritable this morning for the first time in months. It must be remembered that Billy's wife was red-headed and a highly efficient soul. She had very frankly and plainly told Billy what she thought of a town that was run in so slack a fashion that it couldn't protect one of its own lovable citizens. She had never spoken so sharply in all their days together and Billy felt that he had lost his bride forever. And he had.
"Well—boys, I'll tell you," sighed Billy. "The old woman gave me hell, I tell you—as if—great gosh, it was all my fault. The women are partly right and we all know it. That's why they talk up so and why we have to take it. I've about come to the conclusion that as long as the women are partly right and we are partly wrong I'm going to quit it, as far as I myself am concerned. But don't think for one minute that I fancy that I have a right to vote this town dry for any other man. Live and let live's my way of thinking and doing."
"Well, Billy," spoke up Jake Tuttle who had come out strongly for a dry town, a dry state and a dry country, "you're fair and square and a-doing all you honestly can. Maybe the time will come when you'll feel that voting it out is the only thing."
"Why," grumbled another member of this caucus, "anybody'd think that this whole town had ought to turn in and just die of thirst on account of a man that ain't much bigger than a pint of cider and never did have no proper stomach. Why, who ever heard of sech a thing as a whole town being run for one man?"
"A town that ain't run fair and square for one man isn't run fair and square for any man," insisted Jake. "And as for hearing strange things, I've heerd tell of a man once, a poor kind of low-style Jew he was, lived over in a little two by four town called Nazareth, who not only believed in going dry and hungry for other people but actually died so's to show them a finer way of living and a braver way of dying. I've heerd tell that they called that man the Greatest Fool that ever lived and that they killed Him fur His foolishness. So, if this whole town should turn in an' help Jim Tumley there'd be nothing new in that."
The pause that followed would have been uncomfortable if Seth Curtis hadn't opened the door just then and squeezed in.
Seth was mad. For the first time since their marriage he had quarrelled with his wife. Docile, sweet-tempered Ruth Curtis was aflame with mother wrath. She, like a great many Green Valley women, thought of Jim Tumley not as a man but as a voice, the voice of a lark on a summer morning. That other men's selfish strength should still that voice made her sweet eyes flame and her soft voice shake with anger. That Seth, who so hated waste of any kind, could stand calmly by while a lovable human soul was being thrown away puzzled her at first. She tried to argue with him. If Jim Tumley were trying to save his burning barn or mend his fence Seth would have helped him gladly. But Jim was trying to save his body and soul and Green Valley men, even though they knew he was not equal to the struggle, could not see that it was their business to help.
Seth resented this passionate fight for little Jim that the women were making. In his anger Seth could not see that beyond the figure of the gentle singing man stood the children of Green Valley. In this harmless little man who could not save himself every mother saw her boy, her girl; one a drunkard-to-be perhaps, the other mayhap a drunkard's wife and the mother of more drunkards.
Seth's eyes blazed around Billy's crowded office and he waited for the question that he knew he would be asked:
"Well—Seth—you voting the town dry this morning?"
And then Seth let loose. He said fool things to ease his ugly temper but he wound up his argument with the telling reminder that Green Valley couldn't afford to lose the fifteen-hundred-dollar yearly license tax.
"Not only would we men lose our freedom and be a thirsty lot of wife-driven idiots but our taxes would rise."
And that argument told. It had been overlooked somehow. But at the mention of it every man's face but Jake's brightened. Why, sure—Seth was right. That fifteen hundred dollars kept the taxes down and was an argument that ought to appeal to every Green Valley woman whose life was an eternal struggle to save.
"Why, yes, that's so," agreed Jake. "It seems as if the women ought to see that, but like as not they'll talk back and say that if there was no hotel bar to attract us men there'd be less time wasted and more than fifteen hundred dollars' worth of extra work turned out. And for all they talk so everlastingly about saving, there's some kind of money that no nice woman will touch with a ten-foot pole. And just put it up to them as to which they want, Jim Tumley or fifteen hundred a year, and see what they say."
Jake was the richest man of all the men packed in Billy Evans' office. He could afford to talk bravely for he had no need to curry any man's favor. And he could demand respectful attention for his opinions. There were those present who resented this independence.
"These farmers nowadays are getting danged smart and officious," muttered Sears to Sam Bobbins.
But Sam wasn't listening. He too had an argument and he wanted to voice it.
"Mightn't the closing of the bar lose us a lot of outside trade, ruin our business life?"
At that Billy's eyes twinkled.
"By gosh—Sam—I hadn't thought of that. I sure would miss the poor drunks that crawl in here to sleep it off. And like as not I'd not get to drive old man Hathaway home every time he hits town and tries to paint it red. Never have dared to leave that old fool in town when he was drunk. Never can tell what that poor miserable mind of his mightn't prompt him to do. Might set fire to something or hang himself on somebody's front door."
As town marshal Billy had a pretty accurate idea of the kind of trade that the hotel bar attracted. There was a levity in Billy's voice and a dancing light in Billy's eye. He could never take anything seriously for any great length of time. However, old man Sears didn't like this attitude of Billy's.
"It isn't only losing that fifteen-hundred-dollar license and losing outside trade but we'd be robbing an honest and respectable man of his livelihood," said Sears with his most ponderous air.
An unwilling, sheepish grin ruffled every man's face and Seth said with a rasp:
"Well, Sears, I wouldn't lose any sleep worrying about that honest, respectable man's livelihood if I were you. He owns a fine seven-passenger car, some fancy driving horses, and that diamond pin he wears week days in his tie would keep my meat bill paid for many and many a day. No, I can't say that I'd let that make my conscience ache."
"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 God, 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 glasses 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 glasses 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 buttoned 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.