Читать книгу The Left Lady - Margaret Turnbull - Страница 4

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A man never knows what he has left behind him, until he comes back to it.

Without misgivings, Tom Hastings had stopped his car at the Crossroads Inn garage and asked for five gallons of gasoline. After the gas had been supplied, he parked the car, and went along Central Avenue, glancing about him with a roving eye that saw its Sunday aspect, and noted the changes that eighteen years had made.

Eighteen years had made more changes in the Tom Hastings who had left East Penniwell, but, of course, Tom was not so keen to note those. He had grown up with himself, as he would have put it, whereas East Penniwell had been practically standing still for all those years. The same houses, the same name on the general store and the Inn, but the garage, its brilliant oil signs and the "hot dog" stand just beyond the post office, were new. Some of the houses had been painted a different color, some of them added to, but as a rule they were easily recognized.

Tom Hastings was not given to sentimentalizing, but it did give him an odd feeling to note how East Penniwell had waited for him, while he had been out in the world changing and watching changes. He went his leisurely way toward the Weston house, quite unaware that behind every window of the main street he was being watched, mostly by faded feminine eyes that had been young and flashing when he left East Penniwell.

"Tom Hastings is back!" Already the report had run through the little town, for of course Tom had been recognized at the garage. Indeed his name had been noted on his wallet by John Smith, who kept the garage, and he had sent his son and heir posting home to tell his mother. Mrs. Smith had gone to the party-line telephone at once, and used it to good effect. All up and down the street they were waiting to see Tom Hastings, how he looked and where he was going.

The verdict was that he was looking "pretty fair for a feller that had been gone from East Penniwell so many years." As to his direction, the whole town felt romantically certain. It was only right and proper that Tom Hastings' first call should be on Miss Emmietta Weston, though some "kinda thought it was a little untasty, his picking out the funeral day."

On the whole, however, it was conceded that a man, having stayed away eighteen years and having arrived too late to attend her father's funeral, should make haste to the house of his lady, and show her that eighteen years had had no effect on his devotion.

"Ain't it romantic?" exulted one stout matron, who had gone to primary school with Tom and Emmietta. "Ain't it for all the world like a novel, that Tom Hastings should be so faithful and come arunning back to Emmietta on this here very day of her bereavement."

"He ain't running, Mom. He's walking slow and poking with his stick at the road."

"That's only his kinda natural embarrassment."

"He's staring round a good bit too. He don't look shy, that bird don't."

"Harvey, you dry up! A man like that can't show any feelings in front of people."

"Well, he ain't any moving pitcher hero, that I should stand here agaping at him."

But Harvey's older sister was entranced. "Mom, ain't it wonderful. Here's Miss Emmie so quiet. Everybody thinking she was forever going on keeping house for her stingy old Pop, and her so sweet about it. Always the nicest kinda ideas if you told her about any kinda little affairs—"

"H'mm, and what little affairs have you been confiding in her, Miss? I'd like to know. You ain't any age to be having affairs, Gerty, and if I catch you—"

"Oh, Mom, I don't mean just myself, I mean all us girls could easy go to Miss Emmie and talk about fellows and things. She kinda seemed so interested, and she knew a good many things to tell about when her and you was at school. She told me you was awful popular and it was a wonder to her that Pop ever got you to say 'Yes'—so many was after you."

"H'mm," but the "h'mm" was an extremely gratified and mollified one this time. "Emmie told you that, did she? Well Emmie was no wallflower herself. I'll say that. A prettier girl nor a jollier one than Emmietta Weston nobody wanted to see, until that fellow walking up the street—left."

"That's just it. Why, it's kinda the village romance, ain't it, Mom?"

"Oh my land, Gert, I don't know. I just hope it turns out all right for Emmie, poor thing. My, I'm that nervous."

"Well, he ain't," said Gerty, disappointed. "Ain't it provoking the way men acts, Mom? You'd think he was going to a business meeting or somepin'."

And that was precisely what Tom Hastings thought he was going toward. The brick company, of which he was president, wished to extend its holdings in the East. There had come to Tom a vision of the red shale roads and fields of his native town. He had sent out scouts, who confirmed his memory. The lands behind the Osage orange hedge of Randall's farm, and those of some outlying farms, owned by Eli Weston, were ideal for brick making.

The report having been favorable, Tom decided to motor down Sunday, and look over the ground himself. It would amuse him to return to the home of his youth as a benefactor and promoter, and it might be that, as one of themselves, his old friends and neighbors, ignorant of what the years had done toward lining his pocket book and making him a power in his financial world, would give him better terms than a stranger.

As to where he was going to learn the truth about present values and possibilities, Tom Hastings had not the slightest doubt. Unhesitatingly he made his way toward Eli Weston's house. The old man held mortgages on half the farms Tom wanted to buy. Indeed, Eli Weston held mortgages on half the farms in the county. If Tom had Weston backing him, the rest would be easy.

Eli Weston had been Tom's guardian, and Tom smiled to himself as he thought of his last interview with him. Tom looked forward with pleasure to proving the old man wrong. Eli had prophesied, as he slammed the door in Tom's face, that the day would come when Tom would be begging him for help. Well, to-day Tom was in a fair way to make Eli richer than ever, and Eli would appreciate that.

That he would find Eli waiting for him, Tom never had the slightest doubt. Eli was the mean and wiry kind that lived forever. Tom had not inquired, feeling sure that if anything had happened he would be notified. There were old matters involving Eli and Tom's father's estate that made this certain. Eli had been living when his scouts were here three weeks ago, but Tom had told them specifically to leave him alone. Eli's death had been sudden, so Tom, ignorant, strode confidently on, thinking, with quiet humor, that it would give old Eli quite a turn to see him, and that, for several reasons, terms ought to be easy.

Tom went up the path, and lifted the knocker on the old-fashioned door. As he waited for a response, he tried to remember the household, as it must be nowadays, so that he might be properly ingratiating and polite. Oh yes, two girls, one of them at least married. Yes, May was married before he left. There remained one girl, who must be married too by this time, and that old sister of Eli's who was the housekeeper. What was it they called her? "Aunt Em." That was the name. He must remember that, and several other names, in order to make this visit pleasant and profitable. It would make a hit with the oldest inhabitants, if he could manage to remember names.

The door had not yet opened, so Tom knocked again. It seemed to him that far off in the interior he heard steps and a voice.

The essential difference between men and women is never more strangely shown than by the memories that survive of the same period—the same event. Tom Hastings' busy life in the outer world had crowded East Penniwell and Emmietta Weston into the dim background. Emmietta, shut in, as she had been for years, to a dull routine of household cares, unrelieved by any touch with the outside world, save through the few books that she had been able to borrow or beg, had long since committed to memory every speech, every action of the Tom Hastings who had occupied a place in the foreground of her life. East Penniwell's people and days were a mere memory to Tom Hastings and not always a pleasant one. Among these memories Emmietta Weston was so far in the background that he gave her no more than a passing thought.

At last the door was opened by Emmietta, herself. Lib, in an agony of embarrassment, had refused. "You should be the first, Miss Emmie," she had insisted.

It was dusky in the living room. All the blinds were not up and it was late afternoon. There was light enough for Tom Hastings to be seen by the woman who opened the door, but Tom saw only a faded, washed-out looking female, in an unbecoming, ill-fitting black dress, who motioned to him to enter.

"Is Mr. Weston at home?" he asked her as he stepped inside.

"No," Emmie managed to say, as she closed the door hurriedly, fearful of East Penniwell's eyes. This was so dreadfully unlike what her first meeting with Tom Hastings should be that she was utterly at sea.

He followed her in. "When will he be home?" asked Tom, disliking the room. It was dim, unlighted and heavy with some sort of perfume. Afterwards he knew it must have been the funeral flowers.

Then, as she continued silent, he remembered patiently that it was not East Penniwell's way to give much small change in the way of speech, and turning to her he began, "If he—"

"He'll never be home again," the woman said, in an odd choked voice. "He—he was buried to-day."

"What!" Tom exclaimed. "To-day! I beg your pardon, Aunt Em." Then, as the woman started, almost shivered and drew back, he continued, hurriedly, embarrassed, and without looking at her again, "I would never have intruded, if I had known. You see I've been away so long."

"Yes," said the woman, "it's a long time—eighteen years."

"I haven't had much news of East Penniwell."

"No."

"So, I thought I'd stop in, as I was motoring through to-day and ask—ask Mr. Weston about some business. I hope you will accept my sincere apologies."

He paused, but there was no response from Emmie. She could not speak.

"I have been West, you know, for a long time," explained Tom.

"Yes," Emmie managed to say, and motioned toward a chair.

But Tom did not sit. He walked toward the doorway. "I am simply without words to express my regret at having intruded on you, to-day."

Again Emmie waited, then said slowly, "Lawyer Fair's the executor. He has charge of the estate."

"Thank you. I'll see him later. I'll be down again. If there is anything I can do—"

"Nothing," the woman standing there in the shadow, watching him, answered.

"Well, if there should be, remember I am at your service, and glad to do anything." Tom opened the door himself, the woman seemed so slow, or stupid. Stupefied with grief, he corrected himself, fatigue of course, and no longer young. Yet, how wonderful these country people were! Positively Aunt Em didn't seem a day older than when he had turned his back on East Penniwell. He looked again at the silent figure, in the shadow.

"I shall be back in a day or two, and in the mean-time my respects to the daughters. May was married, I remember, and Emmie?"

"Emmie hasn't married," the woman murmured, and then with a little gulp, "I—I'll give—her—your respects."

Tom closed the door and went down the steps.

Emmie sank down in a heap. Lib heard her and came running down the stairs.

On either side of the street the faces at the window reflected oddly different disappointments and conclusions:

"Found out it was no time at all to call."

"Don't look none too pleased."

"H'mm, pretty short call, after eighteen years stay-away."

"What do you expect when he comes on such a day as this?"

"D'ye think Miss Emmie's given him his come-uppance?"

"Started in early. Musta heard old Eli left a heap of money."

"Maybe Miss Emmie thinks she don't need to take him back, but she'd better go slow. There's so many left-over females since this here war, that a woman on the upper slope of thirty better take heed what she's doing."

But the younger portion of East Penniwell—its girls—sighed romantically, despite bobbed hair and lip sticks. They wondered what Miss Emmie would do, now that Tom Hastings had come back to her.

Lib helped Emmie to rise to her feet and put an arm about her shaking frame. Lib's face, hard and lined as it was, expressed acute sympathy—until she discovered that Miss Emmie was laughing.

"Miss Emmie, are you crazy?"

"No," Emmie managed to say, between gusts of painful laughter. "For the first time in years, Lib, I'm completely sane. All my illusions are gone."

Lib looked at her as she leaned against the wall.

"Miss Emmie, that was him, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Emmie answered, as soon as she could get her breath, "that was Tom and this is Emmie Weston. Only he didn't think it was." She stopped laughing and her whole face changed. "Lib," she said, and she held her ancient friend and servant's arm in a hard clutch, "he thought I was Aunt Em!"

"Cloud-a-Witnesses!"

"Lib, on your sacred word, do I look like that?"

"It was dark in the hall," Lib began.

"The truth, Lib. The truth, so help you."

"Well, Miss Emmie," Lib faltered, "with all you have been through, the nursing and all—lately. Maybe—let me give you a cup of tea."

But Emmie held her fast.

"The truth, Lib, as you hope for Heaven."

"Well, then, Miss Emmie, yes. You do favor her some. As she was—say eighteen years ago."

"Answered." Emmie sank down on the floor again. She said nothing for a long time, then, "And Aunt Em was sixty, eighteen years ago!"

She rose determinedly. "Lib, go into the kitchen and get me something to eat. Is Asher back?"

"Not yet, Miss Emmie."

"Then as soon as he comes send him to me." But before Lib could leave, Emmie called again. "No. Lib, go over to the Crossroads Inn now, and if my sister hasn't gone, get from her the name and address of the woman who does her hair."

"My Saints! Miss Emmie, have you gone off?"

"No."

"This day of all days!"

"Never mind what day it is. Father understands me now, better than any of you. But don't let May come near me. Tell her my hair's coming out, and I want to send for a tonic. Tell her you have to do something to keep me quiet—and that's true."

"Yes, Miss Emmie." Lib turned and went without looking back.

Emmie stood motionless for a few moments and then resolutely walked into the front room and started to light the big oil hanging lamp in the middle of the room. She decided that it wouldn't do. All East Penniwell would see it and stare. She took a candle from the mantel shelf and lit it. Candle in hand she went to the long greenish mirror, in a gold frame, hanging over the tip-table. Emmie held the candle close to the glass and surveyed herself.

"Tom was right," she admitted finally, blowing out the candle. "Aunt Em and worse, because Aunt Em was resigned and I'm not."

She went to the passage between the dining room and the kitchen and began to grind the handle of the old-fashioned party-line telephone that was against the wall. She called up 436 J and, while she waited for a response, endeavored to get her thoughts under control. She must not betray undue agitation. Emmie knew her East Penniwell. It would get every detail. She must not tell too much, for half the receivers on her line were down, as she knew by the muffled sound of John Smith's voice. John was tired and hurried. He had been very busy that day, for he himself had driven her to the cemetery, because he thought it was "due Miss Emmietta." She knew she could rely on John.

Quickly, and with as little excitement as possible, and yet with enough to show him that it was a matter of importance, she asked if he could give her a closed car and a driver to go all the way to New York, that night.

John was astonished. "Now look ahere, Miss Emmie, nobody could want to accommodate you more'n I do, but there ain't a man here I could get to undertake such a journey at such short notice. My Guy, Miss Emmie, New York's New York, and it takes some going and some brains to get about in that town. To-morrow now, Miss Emmie, would give us some time to look about us."

"John, I've got to go to-night."

"Well, then that's that, Miss Emmie. I got to admit I got the car. You give me, say half an hour, to look up Bill Sladen and see if so be he'll undertake the job. Bill's a good, careful driver. I'll call you back in—say half an hour—and let you know. But, my Guy, Miss Emmie, that's some order you've given me and it'll cost you some."

"I don't care what you charge me, John, as long as I get there to-night."

"Miss Emmie, I'll do my damndest, seeing it's you."

John Smith hung up the receiver and returned to his supper table and the cup of coffee that was getting cold. He surveyed his waiting wife with uplifted eyebrows. "It's enough to make old Eli turn in his grave. Here's Miss Emmie determined to go to New York at any cost. Any cost, mind you! And to-night!"

He reached out and helped himself to a big slice of bread and butter, and held out his plate for some preserves.

"I gotta reach round and get things started. Hen," to his peaceful and somnolent son of twelve, "you stop eating and go over to Sladen's and tell Bill I got an order to drive to New York to-night, and will he stop round and see me about it. Try to tell him in the entry, so his wife won't hear everything and start a row. Let her think it's just a 'mergency about some bust-up machine down the road a piece, if you can, without akshally lying. Now, Mother, I know what I'm 'bout. Teenie Sladen 'ull throw a fit about New York."

He took another piece of steak, as Hen protested.

"Aw, I ain't half finished. Mom, don't let Pop eat my pie."

"Dear me," said the excited Mrs. Smith, as Hen got up slowly from the table. "You'll be wore out, John, with things coming on you as they have to-day. Do eat all you can, before you begin rushing round, so's you'll have something in your stummick to work on. Ain't it awful the way things jist whirl? Tom Hastings leaving his car in the garage one minit, the next minit taking it off and rushing out. Then Emmietta Weston, right on the heels of his coming, calling up like that! My gracious, John, it has a kinda flavor of an elopement, ain't it?"

John Smith paused, balancing the rest of his steak and a few fried potatoes on his fork. "My Guy! Women's certainly the en-tire limit! An elopement, and Tom Hastings goes off in his car looking no more like a bridegroom than I do. Why, there's as many as ten things might call Miss Emmie to town, and none of them be Tom Hastings. There's settlements, and things about her father's estate between her sister May and herself, for one thing."

"Oh, you say so! Then why ain't she going to New York in May's car? May ain't started yet, and there's plenty room in her car."

"That's so," agreed John, open-mouthed.

"Ain't you heard about the estate? Everything left to Emmie, and nothing to May or her boy at all."

"How'd you hear that?"

"The Mink girls stopped in."

"My Guy!" John stopped. "If May ain't gone home, I'm a good mind to—"

"John, don't you dare say anything to May Kent. The nasty, stuck-up thing! Never came near her father or her own sister for years, and now all ready to make a fuss because Emmie's got the money. Believe me, John, if Emmie wants to go to New York ahead of May she's got her reasons."

Before John could reply, Hen came back from his errand.

"Bill's coming. Mis' Sladen, she didn't ask me anything on account of being at the telefoam, talking to Annie Mink. Annie Mink says Tom Hastings left the house, and just after he left Lib went a dashing over to the hotel and spoke to Mis' Kent, just as Mis' Kent was getting into her car, and right after that Miss Emmie she 'foamed you, Pop, and right after that she 'foamed Lawyer Fair to come over immejitly and he's on his way across the street now."

He paused for breath. "Gimme my pie, Mom. Annie Mink knowed all 'bout Miss Emmie 'foaming you, Pop, and she asked if Bill was going, and advised Mis' Sladen to leave him go for Miss Emmie's sake, because he was better'n that Oxel Johnson any day. Here's Bill coming now."

"My Good Peanuts!" John Smith rose. "You women's got me all tewed up about me own business." He went slowly toward the garage, but turned to call out: "Mom, you keep away from that there receiver until I get Miss Emmie settled, is all I ask you."

Emmietta and Lib faced each other.

"Here's the address, but Miss May says everything the woman does or makes is terrible dear," said Lib.

"I know." Emmie took the slip of paper. "I'm going to New York. I'd like you to go with me, Lib. I'll need you."

Lib was aghast. "My Saints! Where we going to stay when we get to that God forsaken city in the middle of the night?"

Emmie's eyes lit up with amusement. She looked a quite different person, when she smiled. "Oh, Lib, brace up! We're not two young girls going to be 'lost in the great city.'"

"I rode once to Trenton," Lib told her, and shivered. "Asher took me." And then as she saw the amusement in Emmie's eyes, she said her say: "Maybe you'n me ain't young fools, but there's old fools, and middle-aged fools, that gits lost in the city. Where we going to spend the night?"

"There are hotels."

"Miss Emmie, do you know what kinda hotel we'll land in?"

"There's one I heard May say some friend of hers stayed in. It's all right, Lib. We'll be safe."

"H'mm, safe." Lib sniffed. "How about our pocket books?"

"We don't have to think about them."

Lib's face took on a white and frightened look. "Miss Emmie, it's the last time I'll allude to it, but while God gives me breath I feel that I should say at least this to you, and you know it's no thought of myself makes me say it. It's just my thought for you. Miss Emmie, Eli Weston was a mean man and a mean man's somethin' awful. A mean woman's something worse. But, Miss Emmie, there's such a thing as being foolish, and there's old age. You promise me you'll hold on to somethin'. Put money in the savings bank—for your old age."

"I have already done it, Lib. Mr. Fair is looking after the money. There's enough put by for your old age and mine, so don't worry, Lib."

"I shall worry," Lib told her mistress honestly, "and it's but natural that I should, seeing that I have you to look after and everything strange about me, but I won't fret. I should be fretted to death if I thought we was spending our last cent to put up a kinda bold front."

Emmie turned and regarded Lib with astonishment. "Who told you we were going to do that?"

"Oh, Miss Emmie, I ain't blind. What else would make you dash off to New York after all that's happened, specially after Tom Hastings' visit, except to put a good face on a bad business?"

"Lib, don't get in my way. I'm going to be out of this house and on my way in an hour's time, if I can get the car. I don't care who's against it."

"Miss Emmie, listen."

"Lib, you know this town and you know what they'll say about me and Tom Hastings now. Well, are you standing by me, or are you siding with Tom and the town? Lib, what would they say in East Penniwell if they knew what you and I know about Tom Hastings' home-coming?"

"Oh, Miss Emmie, you can't do anything. It's all in Tom Hastings' hands."

"Is it? Just you wait and see."