Читать книгу The Proof of the Pudding - Meredith Nicholson - Страница 6

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Farley improved as the summer gained headway. He became astonishingly better, and his doctor prescribed an automobile in the hope that a daily airing would exercise a beneficent effect upon his temper. Farley detested automobiles and had told Nan frequently that they were used only by fools and bankrupts. A neighbor who failed in business that spring had been one of the first men in town to fall a victim to the motor craze, and Farley had noted with grim delight that three automobiles were named among the bankrupt’s assets.

When the idea of investing in a machine took hold of him, he went into the subject with his characteristic thoroughness. He had Nan buy all the magazines and cut from them the automobile advertisements and he sent for his friends to pump them as to their knowledge of various cars. Then he commissioned a mechanical engineer to buy him a machine that could climb any hill in the State, and that was free of the frailties and imperfections of which his friends complained.

Farley manifested a childlike joy in his new plaything; he declared that he would have a negro chauffeur. It would be like old steamboat times, he said, to go “sailin’ around with a nigger to cuss.”

Nan or the nurse went out with him daily—preferably Nan, who was immensely relieved to find that they were now on better terms than for several years. Life hadn’t been a gay promenade since she ceased to share the festivities of the Kinneys and their friends. Copeland she had dismissed finally, and the rest of them wearied of calling her on the telephone only to be told that it was impossible for her to make engagements. It may have been that Farley realized that she was trying to meet his wishes; at any rate, she had no cause to complain of his kindness.

“This would have tickled mamma,” he would say, as they rolled through the country in the machine. “She was always afraid of horses; these things don’t seem half as risky when you get used to ’em. If I keep on feelin’ better, we’ll take some long trips this fall. There’s a lot o’ places I’d like to see again. I’d like to go down and take another look at the Ohio.”

He spoke much of his wife, and at least once every week drove to the cemetery, and watched Nan place flowers on her foster-mother’s grave.

After one of these visits he ordered the chauffeur to drive north. He had read in the papers of the sale of a farm at what he said was a record price for land in that neighborhood, and he wanted to take a look at the property. After they had inspected the farm and were running toward home, Nan suggested that they stop at the Country Club for a cool drink.

“Let’s drive to Mrs. Copeland’s place,” he remarked casually. “I’ve always meant to look at her farm.”

He watched her sharply, as though expecting her to object. Possibly he had some purpose in this; or the suggestion might be due to malevolence; but she dismissed any such idea. He was always curious about people, and there was, to be sure, no reason why he should not call on Mrs. Copeland.

“Certainly; I shall be very glad to go, papa,” she answered.

“Nan,” he said, laying his hand on her wrist, “there was never any trouble between you and that woman about Copeland, was there? If it’s goin’ to make you uncomfortable to stop at her house, why, we won’t do it.”

“Of course not, papa. I hope she understood that I couldn’t help the gossip. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Well, it was nasty, anyhow,” he remarked. “And as you’ve got rid of Copeland, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let her know it. I guess it won’t be long before that worthless scamp goes to the dump. I’ve got a pretty good line on him and the store. If I was ten years younger, I’d go down there and kick him out and put the house on its feet again.”

He had frequently told her that Copeland-Farley was doing badly, but she supposed this to be only the wail of a retired pilot who thinks his old ship is doomed to disaster without his hand at the wheel. No communications had passed between her and Billy since the day of Grace Kinney’s party. She persuaded herself that she could face Billy Copeland’s former wife with a good conscience.

“That hound,” began Farley after an interval of silence, “had the brass to try to put her in the wrong—didn’t dare go into court with it, but let it be whispered on the outside to save his own face! There was a man somewhere used to visit here, a friend of his. I guess nobody took any stock in that scandal.”

“Of course, nobody would believe it of her,” said Nan. “I hardly—”

She had begun to say that it was incredible that Billy would have done such a thing, but she caught herself in time.

“What?” demanded Farley sharply. “Well, I guess nobody but the lowest cur would have done it.”

Mrs. Copeland’s brown bungalow was set upon the highest point on her farm, and from her veranda and windows she could view every part of it. The veranda was made to be lived upon; there was a table with books and periodicals; a work-basket lay in a swing seat as though some one had just put it down; there were wall-pockets filled with fresh flowers. Along the veranda rail nasturtiums bloomed luxuriantly.

As Nan waited for an answer to her ring, the lower floor of the house lay plainly in view through the screen door: a large raftered living-room with a broad fireplace and a dining-room beyond. Here at least were comfort and peace. Perhaps Billy Copeland’s wife hadn’t fared so ill after all!

The maid said Mrs. Copeland was out on the farm, and an observation from the veranda discovered her in the barn lot.

Nan had counted on Farley’s presence to ease the shock of the meeting, and she did not wholly relish being sent off alone to meet a woman who might be pardoned for wishing to avoid her. Farley said he would wait in the car, and Nan left him contentedly studying the house and its encompassing landscape.

When Mrs. Copeland saw Nan approaching, she started across the lot to meet her. A handsome collie trotted beside her. She had not yet identified her visitor, and was flinging back an injunction to a workman as she moved toward the gate. She wore a dark skirt, blue waist, and heavy shoes, and a boy’s round felt hat. A pair of shabby tan driving-gloves covered her hands.

“Good-afternoon!” said Nan. “Papa and I were passing, and he thought he’d like to see your place. If you’re busy, please don’t bother.”

“Oh, I’m glad so see you, Miss Farley; I was just coming to the house. My pump works badly and we are planning some changes. I’m glad Mr. Farley is able to be out again.”

She set the pace with a quick, eager step. Several times she turned smilingly toward Nan; the girl saw no trace of hostility. To all appearances Fanny Copeland was a happy, contented woman. The tempests might vent their spite on her, but she would still hold her head high. Nan, little given to humility, experienced suddenly a disturbing sense of her inferiority to this woman whose husband she had allowed to make love to her.

“Yes, I get a great deal of fun out of the farm,” Mrs. Copeland was saying. “I don’t have any time to be lonesome; when there’s nothing else to do, I can fuss around the garden. And now that I’ve taken up poultry there’s more to do than ever!”

“I believe I’d get on better with chickens than with cows,” said Nan. “They wouldn’t scare me so much.”

“Oh, cows are adorable! Aren’t these in this pasture beauties!”

A calf thrust its head through the bars of the fence, and Fanny patted its nose. Nan asked if they all had names and Mrs. Copeland declared that naming the calves was the hardest part of her work.

“I think it’s a mistake for a girl to grow up without knowing how to earn her own living, and I don’t know a thing!” said Nan impulsively.

NAN EXPERIENCED SUDDENLY A DISTURBING SENSE

OF HER INFERIORITY TO THIS WOMAN

Fanny looked at her quickly. If it was in her mind that the obvious and expected thing for Nan to do was to marry Billy Copeland, she made no sign. Nan was amazed to find that she was anxious to appear to advantage before this woman who had every reason for disliking and distrusting her, and she was conscious that she had never seemed so stupid. Her modish gown, her dainty slippers with their silver buckles, contrasted oddly with Fanny’s simple workaday apparel. She was self-conscious, uncomfortable. And yet Fanny was wholly at ease, talking light-heartedly as though no shadow had ever darkened her life.

They reached the house and found that Farley had braved the steps and established himself on the veranda. The maid had brought him a glass of milk which he was sipping contentedly while he ran his eye over a farm paper.

“Mrs. Copeland, what will you take for your place?” he demanded. “If I’d moved into the country when I quit business, the doctors wouldn’t be doggin’ me to death.”

“But Miss Farley tells me you are almost well again! It’s fine that you’ve taken up motoring—a new world to conquer every morning.”

“I got tired o’ bein’ hitched to the bedpost; that’s all. But I want to talk farm. It’s a great thing for a woman to run a place like this and I want you to tell me all about it.”

He examined and cross-examined her as to the joys and sorrows of dairying. She replied good-naturedly to most of his questions and parried the others.

“Of course, I’m not going to tell you how much I lose a year! Please keep it a dark secret, but I’m not losing anything; and besides, I’m having a mighty good time.”

“Well,” he warned her, “don’t let it put you in a hole. The place may be a leetle too fancy. You don’t want to make your butter too good; your customers won’t appreciate it.”

“You preach what you never practiced,” laughed Nan. “Your rule at the store was to give full measure.”

“Well, I guess I held trade when I got it,” he admitted.

“I’ve been adding another department to the farm,” said Mrs. Copeland. “I started it early in the summer in the old farmhouse back there that was on the place when father bought it. Real homemade canned fruit, pickles, and so on. I’ve set up four girls who’d found life a hard business, and they’re doing the work with a farmer’s wife to boss them. It’s my business to sell their products. I’ve interested some of the farmers’ daughters, and they come over and help the regulars on busy days. We’re having a lot of fun out of it.”

Farley was immensely interested. Nan had not in a long time heard him talk so much or so amiably; he praised and continued to praise Mrs. Copeland’s enterprise and success; for he had satisfied himself fully that she was successful. He clearly liked her; her quiet humor, her grace and prettiness. In his blunt way he told her she was getting handsomer all the time. She knew how to talk to men of his type and met him on his own ground.

He began telling stories and referred to Old Sam Copeland half a dozen times, quite unconscious that the sometime daughter-in-law of Old Sam was sitting before him. Nan grew nervous, but Mrs. Copeland met the situation with perfect composure.

Finally, when they were about to leave, Eaton appeared. He had walked over from the Country Club merely, he protested, to refresh himself at Mrs. Copeland’s buttermilk fountains. He addressed himself cordially to Farley, whose liking for him was manifest in a brightening of the old man’s eyes. It was plain that Eaton and Mrs. Copeland were on the friendliest terms; they called each other by their first names without mincing or sidling.

Nan suspected that Eaton had come by arrangement and that in all likelihood he meant to stay for dinner; but already the lawyer was saying, as he saw Farley taking out his watch:—

“I’m going to beg a lift into town from you plutocrats. I thought I could stay me with flagons of buttermilk and catch the interurban that gallops by at five fifty; but I made a miscalculation and have already missed the car.”

“I can send you in,” said Mrs. Copeland, “if it isn’t perfectly convenient for Mr. Farley.”

“Of course Eaton will go with us,” said Farley cordially. “It’s time to move, Nan.”

While Eaton helped him down the steps, Mrs. Copeland detained Nan for glimpses of the landscape from various points on the veranda.

“It was nice of you to stop; I think we ought to know each other better,” said Fanny.

“Thank you!” said Nan, surprised and pleased. “It won’t be my fault if we don’t!”

As they crossed the veranda their hands touched idly, and Mrs. Copeland caught Nan’s fingers and held them till they reached the steps. This trifling girlish act exercised a curious, bewildering effect upon Nan. She might have argued from it that Mrs. Copeland didn’t know—didn’t know that she was touching the hand of the woman who was accused of stealing her husband’s affections.

“I don’t see many people,” Mrs. Copeland was saying; “and sometimes I get lonesome. You must bring your father out again, very soon. He can ride to the barn in his machine and see my whole plant.”

“He would like that; he’s one of your warmest admirers, you know.”

“We always did seem to understand each other,” she laughed; “probably because I always talk back to him.”

“I’M NOT LOSING ANYTHING; AND BESIDES, I’M

HAVING A MIGHTY GOOD TIME”

“He’s much gentler than he looks or talks; and he means to be kind and just,” replied Nan, knowing in her heart that she had frequently questioned both his kindness and his justice. “I hope you will stop and see us, very soon. Papa’s getting too much of my company; it would cheer him a lot to see you.”

“I never make calls, you know,” said Mrs. Copeland, smiling, “but I’m going to accept your invitation.”

Bitterness and resentment, traces of which Nan had sought in this cheery, alert little woman, were not apparent. Her kindness and sweetness and tolerance, as of the fields themselves, impressed Nan deeply.

In saying good-bye Nan impulsively put out both hands.

“I wish we could be good friends!” she exclaimed.

Her face flushed scarlet the moment she had spoken, but Fanny’s manner betrayed no agitation.

“Let’s consider that we’re already old friends,” she responded, smiling into the girl’s eyes.