Читать книгу "Good-Morning, Rosamond!" - Constance Lindsay Skinner - Страница 8

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Rosamond regarded her with eyes a-twinkle and presently interrupted her meditation to ask:

“What did Roseborough think of him before he went away?”

Mrs. Lee sighed.

“That is what adds to the difficulty. The truth is that Roseborough hardly knew him. Jack did not care for Roseborough! It seems incredible, but it is a fact. Jack did not care for Roseborough—I mean, the people. He was an orphan and a poor lad of whose beginnings we knew little. He came to us because, in his wanderings, he had met a Charleroy man and heard from him of my husband. He had been tramping about the farming country, year after year, tilling, sowing, reaping—whatever outdoor work he could get—and saving his pennies to put toward an education when he should find just the right instructor. As a child he had been with gypsies.”

“Gypsies! What adventures!”

“Yes, his mother, a young girl of excellent birth, had run away and married a poor artist and been cast off by her proud family. They suffered the hardship of poverty, and Jack was soon left an orphan. Whether he joined the gypsies or they stole him I don’t remember, but he was with them for awhile. At one time his mother’s relations found him and offered to bring him up, but he considered the restrictions of their home too irksome. After two years of it, he ran off and wandered about, earning his way, as I have told you. I shall never forget the night he came to us—it was a rainy, autumn evening—a black, splashing night. There was a loud knock on the door and, when we opened it—for I had followed the Professor, holding the candle (we did not have electric lights in our day in Villa Rose)—there stood a dark, tall, sturdy-looking young man, with long, black hair and the largest and blackest eyes I’d ever seen; and, what’s more, he stood there on two bare feet, and he had no coat, only a gray woollen shirt, belted into dark, fustian trousers turned up above his ankles.”

“You were frightened, weren’t you?”

“Hardly that; I was more amazed. He said—and his voice was mellow and attractive—‘You are Professor Lee and I have come to you to be taught.’ My husband asked, ‘What do you wish to be taught?’ And Jack said, ‘I can read and write and keep a merry heart under all skies; but I wish you to teach me whatever men must know to make them good and wise.’ Then my husband said, ‘Come in, and I will give you dry clothes and something hot to drink.’ Jack answered, ‘Oh, as to that, the weather and I are friends. It never hurts me.’ Well, my dear, he came in and we attended to his needs and gave him a room for the night. Of course he was not ready then to enter college, so my husband gave him private instruction. And he seemed to take it for granted that he could live in our home so we let him have the little room off the living-room. …”

“The little room? Which do you mean?”

“Oh, that is all changed now, of course. Mr. Mearely—when he bought Villa Rose—had it enlarged and built out, taking in all that bend of the verandah. It is your music room now. Jack was a good deal of trouble, you may know!” She laughed. “But he loved my husband and was constantly showing his gratitude, so that I never minded when he upset things.”

“And he didn’t like Roseborough? You could forgive such sacrilege?”

“One forgave Jack everything. He made very few intimates. Indeed, I doubt if he had any besides ourselves. He loved Nature, books, and solitude. He was elusive and shy, I think. For instance I remember that one day while we three were chatting over a cup of chocolate we saw dear Mrs. Witherby and her aged uncle—the late Reverend Dr. Cumming-Shaw of Trenton Waters—drive up to the door. As I turned back from greeting them, I saw one leg of Jack’s fustian trousers and a bare foot disappearing over the back fence. The worst of it was, he had taken the cake with him and I had nothing but crackers to offer the poor dear old vicar, who died almost immediately after of bronchitis. It was really whooping-cough.”

“Wicked, careless lady! They weren’t crackers. You gave him dog-biscuit by mistake and he barked himself to death.”

Mrs. Lee shook a stern forefinger at her irreverent guest.

“You say shocking things. What I mean to show by my little anecdote is that Jack … well … that was, in general, Jack’s attitude toward Roseborough.”

Rosamond burst out laughing.

“His attitude? A barefoot kick over the back fence? Oh, Mrs. Lee!”

“How very naughty you are this morning! To twist my words so! I shall always maintain that it was shyness which made Jack avoid all intimacy with those who would have received him for my husband’s sake. They did know, later, that he had left the college abruptly, just because the desire to wander was so strong in him; and that, too, after Professor Lee had succeeded in having him appointed to teach minor subjects. They were most indignant—even those who did not know him at all.”

“They might have left it to Professor Lee and to you to be indignant.”

“Oh! but you see, in a matter of that kind the communal spirit of Roseborough was affronted. And, alas, it will be remembered. All that must be overcome, and Roseborough must take him to its heart. How shall it be managed?”

To manage the communal spirit of sensitive Roseborough was no light undertaking. Old head and young head pondered in silence.

“If they could come together in some wholly unexpected way, without personalities, and not as Roseborough and Jack Falcon, who shook the dust of Roseborough from his feet sixteen years ago! If only they could meet under other identities and, having no memories, each immediately find the other’s true self!”

“Like a fairy prince and a fairy kingdom. Oh, yes, that would be lovely. But,” the gay, mocking light danced within her eyes again, “even if life is ‘beautifully arranged,’ it is not so beautifully arranged as all that!”

“What would you suggest?”

“Well, I think that—since he can’t come as a fairy prince and discover Roseborough’s true nature and, in turn, be discovered as a human symbol of all Roseborough’s day-dreams—which is what you would like, you writer of fairy tales”—(she paused, with wrinkled brow and pursed lips) “I think you will have to make it the very opposite of all that, and lay stress on the fact that this returning wanderer is the very same Jack Falcon who did run away, but who has now come back to dear old Roseborough with bells on, and all of them ringing! And then Roseborough will be beside itself with delight at the opportunity of welcoming home its distinguished prodigal son. Emphasize the point that he has deserted kings’ palaces for Roseborough and they will all turn out to greet him.”

“Yes! Yes! You’re right. Roseborough would enjoy that view.”

“How will he come?”

“By the morning train to Trenton Waters. I know he will want to walk home from there—the old walk he loved—down the river path. He should arrive between ten and eleven, easily. What do you think of this? To gather all our dear friends here to meet him, at a sort of informal breakfast?”

Rosamond clapped her hands.

“Oh, yes! I knew you’d think of something clever in a moment! Make it one of those breakfast-lunch affairs with delicious cold things to eat, and have it set out in the garden in a semicircle about the well, so that the big tree will shade them all. Mrs. Greenup can do all the cooking for it this afternoon. I will run home and telephone her that you want her. And do let me bring over enough of that old Mearely damask to cover the tables.”

“Yes—yes. I shall be so grateful for everything. Oh, dear! I never was in such a flutter! I do believe that I never, never was in such a flutter! How shall I let them all know?”

“I will telephone to all those who have telephones. And—oh! a splendid idea! We will ask Mrs. Witherby to drive about to those who have no telephones, and ask them to come. Then she will feel that it is really she who is arranging everything, and that will help tremendously.”

“Yes, yes—dear Mrs. Witherby. In a sense, her nature epitomizes our sensitive little town. One must not take it by surprise—that is, not deliberately. How fortunate that dear Jack has given me at least a day’s leeway! If he had walked in on me to-morrow, without notice, I doubt whether I could ever have truly convinced them that I had not known of his coming and kept the secret from them perhaps for weeks. Quite innocently I might have caused discord in Roseborough!”

“I think it would be nice for you to come to Villa Rose this evening for an hour. Now, don’t shake your head, I know you go to bed when the first star peeps out. Some of us will bring you home at eight, if you like. This is my idea, and it is a very good one. I will ask Mrs. Witherby to come over with Corinne and Mabel for a round or two of cards with Dr. and Mrs. Wells—and Judge Giffen and Mr. Andrews. Wilton will come, too. Just those few—oh, yes, and Dr. Frei also; he can play for us. I can say that I wanted a few friends about me this evening, since my sister has disappointed me. That will seem very natural to them. And you can take the occasion, just at the right moment, to talk about Mr. Falcon and to tell about the book and the royal person—all in that unselfish, tactful way of yours. They will all be pleased, and Mrs. Witherby will set the pace for Roseborough. Nobody dares gainsay her.”

“How thoughtful you are! My dear, you have forgotten nothing. It is really you who will have made my Jack’s homecoming a success. And you have just called me unselfish! The word belongs to you, dear.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not! I’m—I’m jealous.” Suddenly her eyes misted and her lip quivered. Protest, passionate and clamorous, surged through her and out at her trembling mouth. “Oh! must I wait till I am seventy to have a real, Wonderful Day? Nothing—nothing but make-believe.”

“My dear child, what is the matter?”

Rosamond’s fingers tightened on the hand which had gently taken hers. She turned almost fiercely upon Mrs. Lee as if she challenged fate, or an enemy, in this benign old lady who was regarding her now with some perturbation.

“Will nobody ever come to me till I’m old—old—old?”

“Will nobody ever come to you?” Mrs. Lee repeated, puzzling.

Tragedy rushed on, interrupting her.

“This is my Wonderful Day—my only, one, Wonderful Day. And somebody should come—he should come. …”

“He? Oh, you mean Jack.”

“I don’t! I dare say he’s nice—a thoroughly good man. I’m glad that you’re glad, and all that. But I’m not glad! No, I’m not! I think it’s an outrage. The gray, the bald, the whiskered! Roseborough is full of them already. Another of those is an outrage!”

“My—dear—child! What is an outrage?”

“That another oldish man is coming to Roseborough! I want a fairy prince—or a beggar—or a tramp—if only he is young! He can come to the back door in bare feet and fustian, or in rags and patches. I shan’t mind what he wears or how empty his pockets are, if only he is young—young—and can laugh out loud and say ‘Good-morning, Rosamond!’ ”

“My—dear! You go so fast; and tears and laughter follow each other so rapidly that I am all in a whirl. But if you think my Jack. …”

Rosamond broke in impetuously:

“Do you hear that? Ding—dong, ding—dong. It is eleven o’clock and nearly half my only Wonderful Day has passed already! I shall run away now and do all that I have promised—telephones, cakes, linen, Witherby, everything! But every moment of the time I shall be saying in my heart: ‘It is an outrage that another gray, bald, whiskered, middle-aged, prosy old man is coming to Roseborough! It is an outrage!’ … Why couldn’t he be young?”

Before Mrs. Lee could gather herself into composure after a sudden violent hug and as sudden and violent a release, her mercurial friend was dashing through the gateway into the grounds of Villa Rose.

Mrs. Lee sat down and gave herself up to reflection.

“ ‘A gray—bald—whiskered—outrage!’ Is that what she said? Dear, dear. What can have given her the notion that Jack … ?” She murmured. “To be sure I did say that some of our boys are past middle life now, but I’m sure I didn’t say that Jack. …” [She broke off her musing to pat her sooty kitten smartly. “No, no! naughty kitty! You are not to scratch the table legs!”] “Such a rebel cry for youth! Nay, it was more; it was an unashamed cry for a young man! Yet we all thought hers such a wonderful marriage for a farm girl. But perhaps it wasn’t, after all. Do those who live by the soil need the cling of the earth in all vital things? Why there! what a mate she might have made for my Jack if. …”

Her perplexed expression changed suddenly into a glow and a smile as if her questioning thoughts had accidentally discovered something so unexpected that she hardly knew what to make of it.

“If? Why, there is no ‘if’! She is quite free! It may be difficult for Roseborough to believe that its Hibbert Mearely has really passed away from it to a better place—for, of course, it seems almost disloyal to suggest that even heaven is a better place than Roseborough—but the truth remains that Hibbert Mearely has gone.” After contemplating this calamitous but none-the-less statistical fact, she added, “And it would almost seem as if that April-hearted child he married realizes it and is”—she cast about for a word and presently decided upon—“resigned.”