Читать книгу Swift Water - Emilie Loring - Страница 5

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The end had justified her confidence in herself Jean exulted, as she ran down the steps of the court house at exactly ten minutes after ten o’clock the next morning, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her white tweed coat. The Judge had dismissed her with a smile and the suggestion that in future she obey traffic regulations—incidentally he told her that he was an old friend of her father. Christopher Wynne had appeared promptly to make his report not only in regard to her defiance of authority, but as a witness against two men who succeeded her in front of his Honor’s bench, the men who were responsible for the car with “a curious sag to its back axle,” she judged. She had felt rather than seen the scowling inspection of the other two law breakers as the Judge smilingly waved her toward the door. Being at peace with the world, and quite pleased with herself, she had been tempted to intercede for them, but Caution, the sprite who occasionally—so occasionally as almost to be a myth—perched on the hillocks of her common sense, whispered:

“Go while the going’s good!”

Behind the wheel of her roadster she drew a long, ecstatic breath. Gorgeous air! Crisp. Tingling. Life-giving after the stuffy atmosphere of the court. Even in the middle of town she smelled the aromatic breath of pine and spruce. A blue and gold day. What should she do with it? Christopher Wynne came down the court house steps. She regarded him triumphantly, mocked gaily:

“Well, Mr. Policeman!”

Hat in hand he stopped beside the car. Something deep in his eyes made her heart stumble. Darn! Why should she feel like a poor, miserable sinner every time she met him? Was it because he was a clergyman and she knew as little of the profession as of the fourth dimension? There was nothing ministerial about his clothes. He was dressed as any man of her acquaintance might be, soft shirt, a smart tie, irreproachable in cut and color, grey sack suit, tan shoes. No clerical collar. No hint of a better-than-thou complex. He smiled as he answered her taunt:

“I’m bloody but unbowed. You should have been fined and put on parole. That Judge has no backbone.”

Jean’s indignation flared:

“Thank you. Lucky for poor motorists that you selected the church and not the law as your profession.”

She had that sense of being set down hard in a corner as he answered:

“Poor motorists! How about poor pedestrians? You and your kind set a bad example.”

Jean’s eyes blazed into his.

“My kind! And what kind may that be?”

He replied with disconcerting promptness:

“Selfish. First, last and always—selfish. You draw a line, shrug and say, ‘My responsibility goes no further,’ and wrap yourselves in self-complacency. Good-morning.”

He bowed with exaggerated formality—was he laughing at her—and swung down the street. The two men who had succeeded her at the Judge’s desk came down the court house steps. Soft hats drawn at cocky angles. One had a moth-eaten mustache which accentuated the mocking twist of his mouth. They shifted their gaze quickly as they caught her glance, looked after Christopher Wynne maliciously. Yesterday must have been his busy day, she thought impenitently.

What should she do now? Too early to call on the friends with whom she had kept in touch through their frequent visits to New York. Her father had gone to the Plant before she was up. No use attempting to see the Contessa until afternoon. The Country Club? A perfect day for tennis. She started the engine, stopped it as a gay voice hailed:

“Yoo-hoo!”

A girl all green and gold jumped on the running-board. Jean greeted her in kind:

“Yoo-hoo yourself, Fanchon. I was thinking of calling on you, decided you wouldn’t be up.”

“Up! I’m up with the lark these days. Isn’t he supposed to be the world’s earliest bird? I’m doing Day Nursery work.”

“Don’t look so smug about it. Jump in and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I haven’t a thing to do. I’d love to chauf.”

With one stubby, smartly shod foot on the running-board Fanchon Farrell hesitated. She looked down the street. Jean’s eyes followed hers. Was she watching Christopher Wynne who was walking slowly beside a girl? She put two and two together. Fanchon, never positive, always hovering between the affirmative and negative, propitiating, eager to please, had acquired poise, decision. Fanchon and service. Naturally as far apart as the poles. Was the Reverend Christopher the magnet which had drawn them together? She looked at the girl’s big blue eyes, slightly wistful now, at her really golden hair. Quite the type for a minister’s wife. She was like a delicate pastel. Jean, conscious of her own rich sun tan, her almost black hair, felt like a splashy oil painting beside her. The comparison hurt. It sharpened her voice as she inquired:

“Coming, Fanchon? Even if I have nothing to do I can think of a better way of spending my time than parking in front of the court house steps.”

Fanchon reluctantly withdrew her gaze, stepped into the yellow roadster. Sighed:

“No use waiting to speak to Christopher Wynne if Sue Calvin’s buttonholed him. She has the Ancient Mariner beaten at his own game of holding up the Wedding Guest. Recently she’s been made President of the Woman’s Association of his church. She’s got the inside track against the rest of us. Met her yet?”

“Last night at the Contessa’s.”

“She’s mad about Christopher Wynne. Calls him ‘Dominie’.”

“She barely spoke to him all evening.”

“She wouldn’t. Her father was there, wasn’t he? Cat and mouse stuff. The pious Luther being the cat. He doesn’t like the minister of the Community Church of Garston. Snappy car, Jean. You’re stunning in that white ensemble. Imagine being able to afford to wear white! You must have a million white suits, they always look immaculate.”

“Doubt if I have more than nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand,” Jean responded drily. “Where shall I take you?”

“If you really want to help, to the Day Nursery on the East Side. I ought to walk, I’m putting on flesh, but I’m late.”

Jean gave her entire attention to driving until she was out of the traffic. Then she leaned back and suggested:

“Tell me something about the divine Christopher who can get you out of your bed before noon.”

Fanchon’s laugh was downy. Her unrouged lips—Jean had marveled at their natural color in an era of war-paint—smirked self-consciously as she explained:

“Divine Christopher is right. Wait till you’ve been here a week and you’ll be going to church.” Her meaning giggle set Jean’s eyes and temper ablaze.

“I! Going to church. Because of a man. When I do, Fanchon Farrell—I’ll—I’ll give you this car.”

“Honest?”

“Cross-my-throat an’ hope to die.”

Fanchon looked the roadster over with a maddening air of appraisal.

“When it’s mine I’ll have it painted green. Yellow doesn’t become me. You’ve lost it, Jean. You can’t expect to be different from the rest of us. Every girl in town goes to church regularly and fairly laps up what Chris says whether she understands it or not. No radio fans among the younger set on Sunday morning.”

“Do they call him Chris?”

“I do. You see, Father being one of the pillars of the church, he’s at the house a lot. And I manage to be about. I’ve a dead open and shut on most of the girls—except Sue Calvin whose father is chairman of the Standing Committee.”

“I hate a man who under the guise of church caters to a lot of silly, sentimental women.”

“He doesn’t cater to the women. He is the most independent person alive. The men are mad about him too—most of them,” she qualified honestly. “The church is packed at every service. And when he stands up in the pulpit and sings I feel as though my heart were being put through a wringing machine.”

“Given up cards and dancing and smoking, most particularly smoking?”

“Of course not, but we have given church work the right of way. We do that first and tuck the other things in when we can.”

“Angel girl! You don’t care for yourself a little bit, do you? What’s the Reverend Christopher’s fatal charm, besides his voice?”

Fanchon regarded her with maddening condescension.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough.”

They were out of the business zone, bowling smoothly through the choice residential district along a hillside avenue, bordered by leaves, scattered, swirled into flurries of color by the crisp breeze, performing a ritual dance of autumn on crimson and golden tips. Past homes set far apart on spacious lawns, spruce hedged; the shining river a silver frame beyond. Mellow and imposing many of them, new and charming a few of them, built by the young scions of the old stock on the home acres. The broad road twisted, descended. Houses were smaller, fantastically varied, less important. Lawns shrank to pocket-handkerchief dimensions—relatively. Fences, like rows of white teeth with occasional gaps where the dentist Time had drawn a tooth or two, leaned languidly. Against the horizon bulked factories. The air grew heavier, the sunshine seemed not so clear.

“Do you know Miss Wynne?” Jean inquired apropos of nothing at all.

“Not well. She’s not a knowsy person. She frightens me. When I talk to her I feel as though she were peeling layers of silly conventions from my mind to find out what’s in it. She cramps my style. She’s a wonderful home-maker besides keeping her partnership in an interior decorating firm. She spends three days a week in New York. She’s really artistic—not arty. Hollyhock House, the parsonage, is charming, but then, think what she had to start with. After he had seen her, knew that she was to be the housekeeper, your father left the large pieces of priceless furniture which belonged there. She has preserved the old-time atmosphere. Not a discordant note.”

“Do the Wynnes live alone?”

“Except for two Swedish servants and Sally-May.”

“Who is Sally-May?”

“Their niece. Aged thirteen and a terror. She’s a born mimic. Our crowd is scared to death of her. Queer, thin, big-eyed child. Will be pretty some day. Lost both parents in the flu epidemic. Adores her uncle. She and Flo Calvin and three other girls their age have formed a club. The W.Vs. The Wise Virgins. Can you beat that? Their insignia is a little silver lamp. Christopher Wynne had the pins made. They’ve organized into a sort of protective society for him. It’s a scream.”

“Does he think so?”

“Good heavens, no. He takes them seriously. Has them in his study at the church once a week for tea—or its equivalent. Translates the parable for them into terms of preparedness in honor, courage,—I’ve forgotten the other three qualities—anyway, each of the five lamps represents a—a—oh well, call it a virtue. Some of the older girls who can’t cajole a minute out of him are furious with those kids. Here we are. Come in and enroll among the Earnest Workers.”

“No thank you. I have my faults but I’m not a hypocrite. When I go into charity work it will be for the Cause, not for a man.”

Fanchon’s giggle registered skepticism.

“You won’t be so upstage when you’ve been here a week, Jean. We all fall. I’ll bet you my jade ring against that gold thing you have about your neck that you’ll be playing the organ in Christopher Wynne’s church before the new year.”

“Thanks, but I’ve bet enough on a sure thing.”

“Don’t be snooty about it. Thanks for the lift. See you soon.” She hesitated: “You’re likely to see a lot of the Wynnes. Your father is quite crazy about the sister.” On the sidewalk she paused to scrutinize the roadster through half closed eyes. “I’m mad about my car,” she giggled, before she ran toward the building from which drifted the voices and laughter of children. The Day Nursery, obviously. Jean shrugged her disdain as she started the engine.

“Silly to have bet this car. Of course I can’t lose, but I hate to do stupid things. Thank heaven, I didn’t fall for the second wager. Play the organ in the Reverend Christopher’s church! That would be amusing. He’ll find that there is one girl in town who won’t kowtow to him.” Her thoughts traveled back to Fanchon’s insinuation. Hugh Randolph and Constance Wynne. An interior decorator! Then she was responsible for the powder-room as well as for the jeweled bracelets. Hughie’s voice had deepened when he spoke of her. And he had a wife. Not much of a wife to be sure but one who never would divorce him in spite of her threats. The notoriety which would follow would hurt her with the public. What a mess. Why couldn’t her mother have been a sport. Anyone would hate living in a small city, but, once in by marriage, why not make the best of it? Silly to contend that the environment cramped her genius. She would be careful herself—not—to get caught in a backwater town.

“Extra! Extra!” shouted a newsboy. He intoned sentences in which Jean caught the words, Community Church. What had happened to it. She drew up to the curb. Bought a paper. In large type on the front page blazed the headlines:

LA CONTESSA DI FANFANI, THE GLORIOUS FANFANI, MAKES LARGE GIFT TO COMMUNITY CHURCH FOR SOCIAL CENTRE ON CONDITION THAT PARISHIONERS DOUBLE AMOUNT BEFORE CHRISTMAS EVE.