Читать книгу God and the Groceryman - Harold Bell Wright - Страница 7

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MORNING—soft gray sky in the east. Starlight waning pale and dim. Lingering fragrance of the night. Cool earthy smell of growing things wet with dew. Clouds rose-pink and gold, purple-shadowed with edges of shining silver. Sunlight under the horizon. The day.

In a tree just outside the window of Georgia Paddock’s room a mother bird perched on a twig close by her nest and surveyed her tiny brood. The fledglings, with wide-open mouths, clamored feebly for their breakfast. From the topmost bough the father sang his morning hymn. Then, together, the parents flew down to the lawn and began their day’s work.

The milkman’s Ford rattled down the street and stopped. The man’s hurrying steps on the cement walk echoed around the silent house. The screen door of the back porch slammed. The sound of the hurrying feet was repeated—with a clattering whirr the Ford moved on.

Georgia turned her head on the pillow and opened her eyes. Dreamily she looked at the gray square of light between the window hangings, and through the open casement heard the song of the birds. With a slow luxurious movement of her body and a delicious yawn she turned her back to the window and nestled under the covers for another nap. And strangely enough, at that moment, while she lay half asleep and half awake, she thought of Mr. Saxton. Where had she seen that face before?

Her father had introduced her, with Jack Ellory, to Mr. Saxton at the club yesterday afternoon. They had chatted a moment with the groceryman and his guest and then had gone on to change after their somewhat strenuous hour at tennis. But the man’s face had haunted her all that evening. She felt certain that somewhere, sometime, she had seen him before. Jack, too, had been struck with the same feeling that this was not the first time that he had stood face to face with the man who, so far as they knew, was a stranger. Who was he anyway? The name, Saxton, meant nothing. And why was he her father’s guest? How had her father met him? When Jack returned from the locker room he had told her that Mr. Saxton was a big business man from Kansas City and that he was in Westover on a mission which might result in a good thing for everybody. But that information was of no particular importance to Georgia. It was of much greater importance that Jack Ellory, himself, was going to be a man of big business.

The girl moved uneasily and adjusted her pillow. When Jack was a big business man with whom would he share his success? At that moment—though Georgia would never have confessed it to any one and had she been more wide awake would not have admitted it even to herself—that question was, for her, the most important question in all the world. As one will in those half-dreaming moments, the girl drifted on the wide, sleepily flowing stream of memories.

It all started in those early years when she and Jack sometimes played at “keeping house.” But, even then, the game was always of her choosing and he had made himself a stern papa to her dolls. At one period he had stoutly informed all the world that he was going to marry Georgia when they grew up. But the kindergarten had quickly put an end to all that and forced her to suffer tearfully his rude taunts, contemptuous sneers, and cruel teasing. What a masterful leader he had been in every sort of mischief—always bullying the other boys, always fighting, boasting, showing off. How he had scorned all games in which girls had a part. She wondered did he not, in his heart, scorn them still? She sometimes thought he did, but there were other times, when—grade school, high school and the University—from scorning the girls he came to tolerate, then to accept and, finally, to seek their company. He had been masterful always, but was less and less a bully—boasted not so openly, and showed off not quite so conspicuously as he moved up in life, grade by grade. Always they had gone with the same crowd. Nearly always he had preferred her. Since the period of their first going out together, she had felt toward him something very like fear. And he had seemed to feel the same toward her. It was strange—she wondered why. With other boys of her set she had been—well, no more a prude than other girls, and these other boys had taken what her grandparents would have called liberties. But with Jack there had been nothing of that sort though she knew—as girls know such things—that with the others he had been as bold as the boldest. With the passing of their university years her fear, if it was fear, of him had grown until now. She wondered what sort of a man Jack Ellory really was anyway. Her father thought highly of him as a business man. He was admired and praised by the community. But after business hours? There was nothing slow about their set. Some of their parties—had they gone too far last night? Harry Winton did drink too much—it was disgusting. Might there not be a very real danger in their boasted freedom? Danger of what? Jack went to parties where she was not invited. She had heard some things—why did she feel afraid when she was with him—if it was fear? She was not afraid—that was all nonsense, but if it was not fear what was it?

Not many of her girl friends who had married had escaped unhappiness. She thought of some of the confidences she had received. Were all men like that? She recalled the married men she had seen with women who were not their wives, at some of the places frequented by her set. Grandfather and Grandmother Paddock—what a dear, loving old couple! Fifty years together and sweethearts still. Was such happiness possible in this generation? Could such a home ever be, to her or to any one whom she knew, more than an idle dream? The plays that she saw, the motion pictures, the newspapers, magazines, novels, the popular songs, the jokes in the funny papers—was there anywhere in this modern world a love like that of her grandparents? If there was why didn’t some one talk or write or sing about it? Why did everybody talk and write novels and stories and songs and make plays and pictures about the other thing?

The living room of the Paddock home was in keeping with the exterior. It was old-fashioned enough to have dignity but, with each progressing year, Mrs. Paddock had been careful that modern effects were not lacking. On the shelves of the bookcases Dickens and Ruskin and Hawthorne touched elbows with the latest-born of the realists. On the fine old Steinway piano were sheets of popular songs. A mahogany library table of a past period held a magazine of the super-intellectuals, a novel of sex madness, a volume of Hindu poetry, a denominational church paper, the latest authority on bridge, and a Bible. The walls were hung with pictures—a landscape in oils, painted by Mrs. Paddock with the help of a teacher, from a study which she had received with an art magazine, two fine old engravings, three bargain counter etchings and an excellent reproduction of the head of Jesus from Hoffmann’s “Jesus and the Rich Young Ruler.” Directly under this picture of the lowly Nazarene a radio stood ready with an inexhaustible program of jazz.

When Georgia Paddock came down to the living room that morning her father, with an air of ominous self-control, was pretending to read the Herald. Mrs. Paddock stood before the gas log, glazed tile and golden oak fireplace. From her mother’s somewhat martial attitude and the set expression of her rather classical countenance the daughter knew that the domestic barometer registered slightly colder.

People quite generally remarked that the beautiful daughter of the groceryman was exactly like her mother. And, in a way, the people were right. Laura Louise Paddock certainly was not fat. By unlimited worrying and the strenuous use of every known method—exercises, diets, treatments, salts, baths, massage, and mental suggestion—she still managed to look anything but matronly. That she managed, also, to look anything but motherly was quite beside the all-important question of the day.

But it must not be understood by this, that Georgia’s mother was actually lacking in those finer qualities of motherhood which the world agrees are, after all, woman’s most enduring charm. It was only that by certain well known, modern, intellectual processes this instinctive and natural motherliness in Mrs. Paddock had been refined to a point where it was almost invisible to the naked eye.

With an air of critical, if loving, authority Mrs. Paddock noted every detail of her daughter’s appearance. Had she not been so unmistakably Georgia’s mother one might have fancied that, in her expression of proud possession, there was a slight touch of envy—the girl’s beauty was so fresh, and vigorous, and youthful.

“I’m sorry if I am late, Mother,” said Georgia, and there was a wistful look in the frank, gray eyes as if the girl’s early morning thoughts lingered with her still.

The groceryman dropped his paper and smiling cheerfully at his daughter rose from his chair.

Mrs. Paddock returned evenly: “It is of no importance, I suppose. The cook will probably give notice. Your father’s business does not matter. As for my affairs—they, of course, are not to be considered.”

The wistfulness vanished from the girl’s face and in its stead came a look of proud rebellion. Her voice was coolly impudent. “Oh, bunk, Mother, it’s not five minutes past our usual breakfast time.”

Joe looked at his watch. “Four minutes exactly,” he said with forced good humor. “Good morning, dear. You look fresh as a posy. Come on, Mother, let’s eat.”

He went to the girl and put his arm around her with a comforting little hug which she acknowledged with a kiss. Then they followed his wife and mother to the dining room.

Mrs. Paddock glanced competently over the details of the breakfast table. With the studied effort at calmness, of one announcing a national disaster, she spoke to the maid: “Ella, there are no fruit knives.”

A moment later she addressed her husband in exactly the same tone: “Joe, this fruit is simply impossible! I should think that, as long as you are in the grocery business, you might at least supply your own family with decent food!”

“It’s hard to find any good fruit just now,” Joe answered mildly, “between seasons, you know.”

“Others seem to know where to find it. The fruit salad at Mrs. Gordon’s luncheon last Thursday was simply perfect. What have you been doing since yesterday morning, Georgia? I never see you any more except at breakfast.”

“Dad and I lunched at home—strikes me you are the one to give an account of yourself, Mother dear.”

“You dined at the country club, I suppose?”

“Not much! Catch me feeding on the junk they serve there, if I can help! Jack and I had some tennis, then we went to Tony’s Place for eats, danced a while and played around with the bunch till quittin’ time. How did you and dad spend your evening? Did you foregather with some of the elect to sample their home-brew and discuss the morals of the younger generation—or did you fight peacefully at home?”

“Georgia!”

“Yes, Mother dear.”

Mrs. Paddock loftily withdrew into her superior self. The groceryman was mutely feeling inferior and hopelessly wondering what was wrong. Georgia was thinking of Grandpa and Grandma Paddock.

“You’ll have to walk down town this morning, Joe,” said Mrs. Paddock as her husband pushed back his chair. “I want the car.”

“All right,” Joe returned heartily. “Exercise will be good for me.”

“And you must put some money in the bank for me—I have overdrawn my account.”

“All right, Mother, I’ll fix you up. By the way, I’d like to ask Mr. Saxton for dinner some evening soon—if it’s convenient.”

“And who is Mr. Saxton?”

“You know—the man I told you about last night—from Kansas City—represents big interests. He’s looking into Westover with a view to establishing an industrial plant of some sort. I thought—”

“Why don’t you take him to the Palace or to your club?”

“Well, I thought—well, you see, he’s the sort of a man who would really enjoy a simple home dinner.”

“Well, I wouldn’t particularly enjoy entertaining some one we know nothing about. Besides, if he really is a man of any importance and you are trying to impress him with your position in Westover it would be a sad mistake to try to entertain him in this house—it’s quite impossible.”

“Oh, Mother,” cried Georgia. “Be a good sport—if dad wants to bring a friend to dinner—”

“Georgia! How many times have I assured you that I have no ambition to be, what you call, a good sport?”

The groceryman was already on his way to the front door.

Georgia caught him as he was going down the steps.

“Dad, let me drive you down to the store. I’d love to—it’s such a glorious morning. I’ll bring the car straight home.”

“Never mind, daughter, I’d just as soon walk—exercise do me good.”

“Please let me, Daddy,” she urged.

“Nope—need the exercise—by-by.”

She stood in the doorway watching him down the street.

The telephone rang. The instrument was in the hall and Georgia turned from the door to answer the call. As she took down the receiver her back was toward the living room so that she did not notice her mother, who had also heard the bell and was coming to answer. Mrs. Paddock, seeing her daughter at the phone, paused in the living room door and waited, unnoticed by the girl, who was speaking into the instrument.

In the customary, matter-of-fact, impersonal voice: “Hello—”

A shade of doubtful recognition—not at all glad to hear the voice at the other end of the line: “Who is speaking, please?”

With a touch of mocking surprise: “Oh-h, it is? Well—” sarcastically, “not exactly.”

Cheerfully: “No, I’m not the maid—I’m not the cook either. Father has just left the house. You can get him at the store in half an hour, ring 702—”

Impudently: “Oh, you do—well, I don’t think she is in.”

With positive disapproval: “Oh, she did—well, you can’t talk to Mrs. Paddock just now. She is—”

A furious exclamation caused the girl to look hastily over her shoulder. Her mother was upon her with: “Georgia Paddock! I never heard such impudent rudeness in all my life—Give me that receiver!”

The daughter spoke into the instrument with mocking sweetness: “I’m sorry, Mr. Astell, I find that mother is here after all.”

With her lips still close to the instrument she added: “Mother, dear, Mr. Astell wishes to speak to you—Mr. Edward Alton Astell.”

The daughter stood aside but did not leave the hall while her mother spoke over the wire.

“Yes, Mr. Astell—

“Good morning, isn’t it rather early for you?—

“Oh, how perfectly charming of you—yes, indeed, it is perfectly beautiful—

“Oh, but you know I love to rise at an early hour when nature is so fragrant and cool and sweet—

“Yes—yes—how perfectly wonderful—

“You should hear the birds in our trees. The air fairly rings with their music, and the flowers are so wonderful in their dewy freshness—

“Yes—

“Yes—

“Oh, yes—

“How wonderful—so few men are able to appreciate such things. I don’t wonder that you find your greatest inspiration in the early morning—

“At eleven o’clock—

“Oh, thank you—thank you so much. It is so generous of you to give poor little me so much of your valuable time—

“How charming of you to say that—

“I only wish it were true—

“Until eleven—good-by.”

She hung the receiver gently on the hook and whirled on her daughter: “Now, young lady, perhaps you will be good enough to explain how you dare to treat a man like Mr. Astell with such unheard of rudeness?”

Georgia stood her ground with the frank contempt of parental authority so characteristic of her generation. “Perhaps you will explain why that darned snob calls you up and you make appointments with him when he wouldn’t even speak to father on a bet.”

“Mr. Astell is one of our few real gentlemen. It is a privilege to have his friendship. I’m consulting him about our Literary Club program. He is not only an authority on art and literature, he is, himself, a distinguished author. He lives in a world very different from the world in which your father moves. You can’t expect a genius of Mr. Astell’s standing to have anything in common with mere grocerymen.”

“Distinguished author! Your foot! Why, you know, he never wrote but one fool novel and had to pay to have that published. No one outside of Westover ever even heard of the silly indecent thing—and no one here ever read it, except a bunch of half-baked women that he gave autographed copies to. Genius—my eye! He’s a common, nasty-minded snob who would be cleaning cuspidors for his living if his father hadn’t left him enough money to keep him.”

The girl caught her breath with a choking sob and her angry eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Mother—Mother, what’s the matter with us all? You’re not a bit like you used to be when I was little—and I—I guess I’m going crazy too, chasing around day and night. Nobody seems to want the simple, honest, unpretentious, decent things any more. Why can’t we be like Grandpa and Grandma Paddock? Poor dad looks so old and worried and lonesome and discouraged. And you—you—you don’t care for anything but your rotten old culture. I—I tell you, I can’t stand it, Mother! I can’t stand it!”

She rushed upstairs and Mrs. Paddock heard the door of her daughter’s room slam.

For several minutes Mrs. Paddock stood as motionless as a woman carved in wood.

Slowly the strained, shocked expression of her face changed and the light of motherhood came into her eyes. Slowly, almost reluctantly, as if forced by some inner power that was stronger than her will, she went up the stairway.

Georgia, who had thrown herself on the bed with her face buried in the pillow of her morning dreams, heard a knock at the door. She did not answer. Then a voice—a gentle voice—called: “Georgia—it is mother—may I come in, dear?”

“No,” cried the girl, “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to see any one!”

The girl felt, rather than heard, the door open quietly. She felt some one softly crossing the room. Then an arm encircled her trembling shoulders. She turned her head impatiently on the pillow. Her mother was kneeling beside the bed. Her mother’s face was close beside her own. Her mother’s cheeks were wet.