Читать книгу Thrifty Stock, and Other Stories - Ben Ames Williams - Страница 6

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THE girl, stormful and rebellious, had come out of the old farmhouse above Fraternity, and without much caring in which direction she turned, walked across the stubble of the freshly cut meadow toward the edge of the woods at the crest of the hill. This meadow was really a high plateau; it was fringed with bushes which grew along the crumbling stone wall which bordered it, and with birch and wild cherry trees here and there along its edge. Between these trees she could look abroad across a wooded valley, down whose middle meandered the dead water of the George’s River, backed up by the mill dam at the village. There had been a light shower at dawn, scarce sufficient to settle the dust; and the air, thus clarified, lent lovely colors to the countryside. Deep green of hemlock and spruce and pine, straggling tracery of hackmatack, lighter green of the birch tops almost yellow in the heart of the woods; the blue of distant hillsides; the blue of the sky; the yellow glory of sunlight drenching everything. In an uncut strip of meadow white daisies bloomed. There were birds about. But to all these matters, Lucia Moore was oblivious. She knew only that her father was stubborn and unreasonable, her mother supine, the world at an ill turn. Drops of water on the stubble wet her ankles; dust and water combined to muddy her impracticable shoes; an occasional bramble tore at her silken stockings. She came to the stone wall at the brink of the hill and chose a large boulder half-shaded by an apple tree that was all run to suckers, and sat down on it, her feet propped upon a stone below, her elbows on her knees, her chin cupped in her hands. The girl’s eyes were sulky, and her lips pouted. There was a hint of color not their own upon these lips of hers, and her eyebrows were plucked to a thin line, their smooth arch distorted by the frown she wore. Her gingham dress was short, and her present posture revealed her thin, unformed legs, which confirmed the almost emaciated slimness of her figure. She stared unseeingly across the lovely land.

Down the slope below her and to the right, Johnny Dree was dusting his orchard. His well-trained team knew their work; they drew the sledge on which he had secured the dusting machine up and down between the wide-spaced rows; and Johnny himself controlled and directed the blast of dust which smothered the trees, depositing itself on every leaf and twig. Now and then, at the turnings, he called a command to the horses; or ran ahead to tug at their reins. He was doing two men’s work, and doing it with very little effort. His voice, pitched musically, carried far across the still hillside on this quiet morning; and the whir of the duster carried further. The spouting clouds of heavy dust rose above the trees, to settle swiftly down again. Lucia Moore heard his voice, heard the duster’s purring, punctuated by the bark of the exhaust; she looked in his direction and saw the violently spouting dust, and wondered who he was and what he was doing. She had an uncontrolled curiosity, and after a few moments her awakened interest brought her down the hill. She entered the orchard at the side where the Wolf Rivers were planted, a hundred trees of them, the fruit already filling and coloring. Johnny’s father had set out this small orchard with discretion; a hundred Wolf Rivers, a hundred Starks, a hundred Ben Davises. Hardy apples, easily tended, easily handled, easily marketed. Wolf Rivers for fancy trade, for the great city hotels to bake and to serve, crisply browned, with rich cream; Starks and Ben Davises for keeping through the winter. Johnny was in the middle of the Starks when he saw Lucia coming toward him among the trees. After the fashion of the countryside, he looked at her with frank curiosity. He had seen her, at some distance, once or twice before, since Walter Moore bought the run-down farm on the hilltop above his orchard. Had summarized his impressions of rouge, plucked brows, short dresses in a single phrase, “A city girl.” There was no malice in the appellation; it was simply a classification. Her approach now did not embarrass him; there is a self respect in such men, not easily disturbed. She had paused between two trees at a point he was approaching, and when he came near where she stood, he stopped the horses and waited for her to speak her errand.

Lucia looked at him curiously. She was just twenty years old, but he was only two or three years older, and she was used to boys. His overalls were patched and faded from much washing; his blue shirt seemed fresh and clean; she thought him nice looking, and when she was sure of this, smiled most dazzlingly. Johnny tugged off his cap at that smile, and Lucia said precisely:

“How do you do?”

“Howdo, Miss Moore,” Johnny replied.

Her eyes widened in a pretty affectation. “Oh, how did you know my name?”

His lips were inscrutable, but his eyes were amused. “I guess everybody around here knows you.”

She pouted a little. “That doesn’t sound nice.”

“It don’t do any harm,” he said equably; and she was a little disappointed, had expected flattery. She pointed to the machine, whose engine still racketed.

“What’s that?”

“A duster,” he told her. “Kills the bugs on the trees.”

She made a grimace. “I should think it would. But what a nasty way to do. Smother them with that dust.”

He did smile this time. “The dust’s poison,” he explained. “It sticks to the leaves, and they eat it with the leaves, and it kills them.”

“Why?” she asked.

He understood that she was interested not in the process but the reason for it. “So they won’t hurt the trees; so the trees will bear better,” he told her.

“Papa doesn’t do that to our trees,” she said.

He turned away, and she thought he smiled. “That’s right,” he agreed.

She looked around her. “And there are lots more apples on your trees than on ours, too.”

“That’s because I dust ’em and spray ’em and take care of them,” he said. “You’ve got to treat an apple tree right if you want it to bear right.”

She came gingerly to his side and inspected the duster and asked questions about it, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the dust; and he answered her questions, warming a little at her interest in that which was dear to him. She perceived that she pleased him, and pretended even greater interest, and smiled at him in her most charming fashion. Turned from the machine to the trees about them, plucked an apple and bit into it and threw it away with a grimace. His engine still coughed and barked; he showed no disposition to shut off its ignition and give his time to her. She discovered a waxy bandage upon one of the trees and asked what it was and he told her it was a graft, and would have added some explanation, but her attention flitted elsewhere.

“Where do you live?” she asked presently. “That house up there?”

“Yes.”

“Is it your house?”

“My mother’s and mine,” he replied.

She turned the full battery of her eyes upon him. “Why haven’t you come up to see a fellow?” she asked. “I’ve been awfully lonesome here.”

He was not at all disconcerted, as she had expected him to be. “I hadn’t thought of it,” he said. “I’m pretty busy.”

“You’ll think of it now, won’t you?” she begged prettily. She was, this morning, in a reckless mood; she had been, was still, a spoiled child.

“I might,” he assented, and she thought again there was a smile deep hidden in his eyes.

“I’m used to having boys crazy to come and see me,” she said wistfully; and he did smile; and she was satisfied with this much of victory, and turned and ran away. She ran prettily, and she knew her skirts were none too long. From the border of the orchard, she looked back and lifted her hand to him. He touched his hat in a restrained fashion by way of response; and she ascended the hill, at peace with the world again.

And this was the first encounter between the tender of trees and Lucia Moore.