Читать книгу Yonder Shining Light - Mary Esther Miller MacGregor - Страница 8

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Liza returned to her housekeeping duties at the manse, and when Ellen was next able to visit her father she found the home in its usual state of damp and cheerless cleanliness, with great quantities of food in the pantry and cellar, suitable for Gid and Andy after a day’s chopping in the wood-lot.

It was Friday evening when she arrived, as usual, and after choir practice Alfred came over from the church with the minister’s hymn book, which had been left there, and stayed quite late. Ellen tried to play the polite hostess. She brought out some of Liza’s best cookies and a glass of gingerale, and strove to make pleasant conversation, in dread every moment lest Alfred renew his invitation to attend a moving picture.

Her father helped with a question here and there, when the talk showed signs of expiring. Yes, his parents had finally decided to move, Alfred said. Yes, Dad had given in at last. They would move in about a couple of weeks. Dad had not been feeling so well lately. They thought he needed a good rest.

“Yes, perhaps so, perhaps so,” Mr. Carruthers said sadly. “I had hoped he would not have to go yet a while.”

Alfred fell silent for some time after this. He had let Ellen know that he was soon to be left alone in the big house, and was afraid to say any more. There seemed to be something distant in her manner tonight. He went away finally, feeling he had not made much progress. Now that he had made his mind up about Ellen, or almost, Alfred was at a loss how to proceed. Courting a girl, and especially a girl like Ellen Carruthers, who was the minister’s daughter as well, called for special skill. He had intended to ask her to go to town with him to a church concert the next week-end. He felt that would be more suitable than a movie. But he had not found the courage, with her father sitting there; though he had to confess to himself that it would have been perhaps worse had they been alone. Then there was a dance at Acton Hill Community Hall on Saturday night, but Alfred had a sense of the fitness of things and felt that even if she had wanted to go he would not ask her, considering her position as mistress of the manse. Courtship was beset with difficulties, and he went home feeling that the evening had been wasted, except for the fact that he had begun to show Ellen his intentions.

He had indeed shown them, and with a result he could not possibly have imagined. The visit raised a real alarm in Ellen’s mind, so that she did not dare go home for several weeks. Finally, when she felt she must see her father again and know how he was doing, she recklessly packed her bag and took the north-bound train.

She had not sent him word that she was coming, and she stepped off the bus on the Lake Shore Road with some trepidation. And there was her father in the high little box-like car, waiting at the corner! She ran across the road to him with cries of delight. “I came on faith,” he said. “Just a poor weak faith, but it is vindicated!”

“Oh, Father, how did you guess? You just knew I couldn’t stay away any longer, didn’t you? Oh, let me drive! Are you well? Is Rowdy behaving, and Mistress Gummidge? How is Liza? Did you miss me?”

They were running down the grassy road before her rapturous questions could be answered.

“June!” she cried. “I’ve missed three weeks, and now it’s June! Why didn’t you write and tell me the brier-roses were in bloom?”

During her absence summer had come down the Laird Valley. June was smiling from every field and creek and orchard. Lilacs bloomed before every farm house. The brier-roses were decked out in bright pink, the apple trees were bridal bouquets!

As Ellen drove slowly along she kept glancing lovingly at her father, and was seized with the feeling that he seemed especially happy, not only because she had come home. He seemed to have some inner radiance, as though holding a pleasant secret.

“Now tell me all the news,” she demanded. “Did Mr. and Mrs. Alf Laird move?”

She saw she had struck the spring of his hidden joy. He burst into a laugh, the deep hearty laugh she heard so seldom now.

“Yes, my dear, they moved. Twice, in fact. Once to town, and once to the Bay Shore.”

Ellen could scarcely give her attention to her driving. Her father could not know how very much she was interested in the moving of Alfred’s parents.

To the Bay Shore? What was he talking about? They hadn’t come back, had they?

Yes, that was just what they had done, and the telling of the tale lasted till they drove into the manse shed.

Ellen found the whole community humming with the news. It had flooded Lairdale and washed up over the Lake Shore telephones and set the whole countryside laughing. Young Geordie called in on his way from town a few minutes after Ellen’s arrival home, to tell some more of the details; and in the evening Tilly and Liza came up the lane to see that Ellen got all the story right. You couldn’t talk about it over the phone, for they said that Janet was so mad she listened all day long to hear what the neighbours were saying. But she couldn’t be so uppity about her city house and her electric fireplace any more!

It was a long story, but it bore retelling. It opened with a joke, a really good joke on the whole neighbourhood. Because they had given them such a send-off, and a grand present to each of them, and all in the church at that.

Most of the community gatherings were held in the hall at Acton Hill instead of the church; for the young people argued, what was the sense of getting together for an evening if you couldn’t have a dance? So, when anyone moved away, or got married, or joined the fighting forces, a collection was taken up, a suitable gift bought and presented, and then you could devote the rest of the night to the real business of the gathering.

But Alfred had not attended any of the dances for some years, and when he was consulted about a farewell for his parents, he asked that it be held at the church, feeling that the minister and his daughter would like it better that way.

So collectors went up and down the Bay Shore and gathered enough money to buy two fine upholstered rocking-chairs. Young Geordie made a grand speech when they were presented, but poor Old Alf could scarcely reply. He stood up and gazed around forlornly, and shaking his head said, “Well, mother, it looks as if the folks expected us jist to sit and rock ourselves for the rest of our lives!” And Mrs. Alf sat right down in one of the beautiful chairs and wept.

The moving took place the next day. Alfred used his truck and hired another to take everything, with the two grand chairs sitting right on top. Old Geordie Laird, their oldest and best friend, would not lend his truck when asked for it. He considered the moving an outrage and would not even go to the farewell in the church. But he promised that if ever Old Alf should come to his sane senses again and want to return, he, Old Geordie, would send in his truck to bring him home, all of which made Old Geordie something of a prophet afterwards, in his neighbours’ eyes.

Folks said that old Alf looked like a criminal going to serve a life sentence, but that Mrs. Alf went as a bride to her new home. This was the end of milking and baking and feeding calves and hens, she announced.

All the neighbours who had driven round by the new house on Elm street reported that it was just what anyone might desire. It was only two blocks from Nettie’s, and three from down-town; had a cement sidewalk right past the door, and a neat little yard at the back.

Old Alf, himself, was the only one who could have told accurately what happened after they had settled in the town house that first night. And not even he could have expressed in mere words all the turmoil of soul into which he was thrown. Even on the occasional days when they had gone to town to do some fixing to the new place, Old Alf had a sense of utter loss and loneliness whenever he crossed its alien threshold. And when they had arrived finally and Alfred had said good-bye and returned to the farm alone, he was overwhelmed by a sense of complete desertion. It seemed indecent to live in a place where you could stretch out your arm and touch the brick wall of your neighbour’s house. There was no place where a man could sit in peace outside and smoke his pipe, without the whole town staring at him.

He could not sleep that night. Muriel and her daughter had stayed with them, and the women sat up late unpacking and talking. The old man had gone to bed early, as was his custom. But he could not rest even after the women had retired. How could anyone sleep with a great blazing street light shining in at your window, and no friendly darkness anywhere? And the bedlam outside! Harsh scraping of feet on the cement sidewalks, loud voices, honking cars, banging car doors. Did anybody go to bed at all in town?

Five o’clock was his usual hour for rising, but he was up long before that time. He stole from his bed and dressed quietly. He had to put on his best clothes, for he had worn them for the coming away. He hated them, and his Sunday boots hurt his feet. But he did not know where to find anything else.

Janet was sleeping soundly. He took the new boots in his hand and cautiously made his way down the stairs. He turned on the electric light in the kitchen where some of the things they had unpacked last night were hanging. Among them he found a pair of old overalls, and in a corner his farm boots. He threw his Sunday suit over a chair and changed into his old clothes. Even his old cap and sweater were there, and when he put them on he felt like a man again.

It had been his lifelong custom to light the kitchen fire and put on the tea kettle for Janet before he went out to the barn. He turned instinctively towards the stove, and remembered with a shock that it was a gas range: a horrible cold heap of iron, with not a damper for a man to put his feet on, and never a lid to lift to throw in rubbish or shake your pipe! He fumbled with the door handle, turned the key finally, and stepped out. They had locked themselves in last night like prisoners! He had never locked a door at night in his life. It was still dark, but he could see the faint outline of the despised garden patch, almost covered by the wide arms of a clothes-reel.

He walked around to the front and stood looking up and down. The place was dead and silent as the grave—the street that had been such a bedlam last night! And at home they would soon be up and out to the barn to do the chores. Far down the dim distance he could hear the slow clump-clump of a horse, the milkman on his rounds, the only living creature in this town of dead men. There was not even a fence between his property and the street. Everything was bold and obtrusive. There was no privacy for a man’s soul. He hated that row of brick houses opposite, with windows all looking at him. He was a prisoner, shut in a long tunnel of red brick walls.

He stepped out upon the sidewalk. He must get beyond this narrow crack in the brick wall, before he smothered. His feet made such a loud clatter on the cement that, abashed, he stepped hastily into the middle of the roadway. He walked away down to the end of the street and turned into another that led up a hill. He walked faster, passing more and more rows of brick houses. He passed a filling station on the edge of the town; passed the silent dark bulk of spacious homes set back in the blackness of wide lawns; passed a row of motor cabins. He paused at the top of the hill. It was still dark, but he was aware of a subtle transparency in the air. From the bushes and trees along the way his ear caught a rustle, a soft murmur and a twitter. He marched on. He was out in the open country now, and the air was filled with the scent of brier-roses and apple blossoms. The dewy fields on either side still lay in darkness, but the heavens had begun to grow faintly grey, and seemed farther away. As he went on there gradually grew a twittering and a whispering on all sides, as though fairy voices were telling some wonderful secret. The whispers grew and swelled. Then came a murmuring from the grass as though ten thousand tiny orchestras were tuning their instruments. They were joined by a soft chorusing of myriad voices. Every blade of dewy grass by the roadside and far over all the fields, every leaf on every tree became vocal. And then, high up in a towering elm, an oriole that had caught a glimpse of the dawn blew a thrilling call on his little golden trumpet. A robin shouted an answer from the fence across the way, and the whole waking earth was chanting a hymn to the morning!

He could see the misty white apple trees in the orchards now. Away to the east he caught a faint crystal clearness tinged with pale gold. That great black bulk against it was the Blue Ridge. Somehow, unerringly, his feet had found the Bay Shore Road. He stepped out briskly, with a young, jaunty step, and marched straight into the sunrise.

It was only eight miles to his own gate! What was eight miles? His pioneer father had walked it many a time with a sack of flour on his back. His pioneer mother had walked it with a basket of butter and eggs. He marched on, his back limber and free from pain, his feet light and young.

The sun had set the heavens aflame, and the fields were alive with the song of bobolink and meadowlark when he turned in at his own gate. His old dog came bounding down the lane in frantic welcome, and was still leaping about him in mad joy when he tramped in at the kitchen door.

The family were at breakfast. He noticed there was no one at his place at the head of the table. Alfred sat in his old place at the side, but Bud’s wife was in mother’s place, holding the coffee pot. At the sight of him the two jumped up in alarm, and Bud Armstrong came running in from the barn.

What was the matter, they all demanded, was anybody sick? “Where’s Mother?” cried Alfred. There was nothing the matter, the old man said calmly; he just walked out, he had nothing else to do. He sat down rather hurriedly. His knees were feeling queer.

Bud’s Lucy brought him a great plate of porridge and Alice fried up more potatoes and eggs, while Alfred went to the telephone to tell his mother. Then Alfred sat down and stared. He had always been a good son, but not at all demonstrative or very affectionate. But as he looked at his father something of the turmoil of soul he had been through seemed to get to the son’s understanding.

“Well,” he declared, “you sure came at the right time. Cherry wouldn’t let down her milk last night, and she’ll hardly let any of us touch her.”

“Yeah, and she’s kickin’ everythin’ to smithereens this mornin’.” Bud complained. “You had better come out to the barn as soon as you’re done.”

The old man turned to his breakfast with a great warmth and comfort surging through his heart. They needed him here!

Janet held out for two whole days, but finally summoned the girls. They came and took down the new curtains, and lifted the new rugs. True to his promise, Old Geordie sent his truck, and it came roaring out the Bay Shore Road with all the furnishings of the new home, the two upholstered rocking-chairs on top. The house was rented to summer visitors, and the neighbours all said they believed that Janet was as glad to get back as Alf, only she would not let on.

When Ellen had listened to the story for the third time, amplified by Liza and Tilly, she was ready to feel as happy over the ending as Old Alf himself. Perhaps, now that his mother was with him again, Alfred’s mind would not be troubled with speculations about another housekeeper.