Читать книгу Proud Lady - Neith Boyce - Страница 8

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Judge Baxter's office was in the Bank Building, up a flight of worn and dingy stairs. Carlin, knowing the Judge's habits, appeared there at eight o'clock the next morning, and was warmly welcomed. The judge was a big man, with waves of white hair and beard and bright blue eyes; carelessly dressed; with a quid of tobacco in his cheek, which did not interfere with his speech, but gave him a somewhat bovine, meditative air, as he rolled and nibbled at it in the intervals of conversation.

"Coming back to me, Laurence?" he said at once, tilting back his chair and beaming at the young man.

"I don't know—I came to talk things over," Laurence hesitated.

"Hope you will—don't see as you could do better. I always said you ought to go into law. And I need an assistant. What's the objection?"

"Well—I hadn't thought of settling here."

"I know." The Judge nodded. "Hard to settle down now—I expect things seem pretty dull and drab to you around here. Natural. A lot of good fellows will have the Wanderlust—"

"No, I want to settle down.... I want to be married soon," said Laurence, slightly embarrassed.

"Yes, I know—Miss Mary! Think of her waiting for you all this time—a lot of girls wouldn't have done that, and I don't believe she even had a sweetheart," said the Judge, his eyes twinkling. "Though I tell you, if I'd been twenty years younger—you see, she used to run up here and read me some of your letters.... She's a beautiful woman," ended the old man warmly.

"I must make some money—I haven't a dollar!" Laurence explained. "I thought there'd be better chances in the city perhaps, or—"

"No, no!" the Judge protested. "Why, look here, you'd have a salary—not much, to be sure, at first—but you come into my office and peg away at Blackstone and Chitty—and in a year or less you can be admitted to the bar. And meantime you could live with the old folks—they're so wrapped up in Mary, they'd like it—"

"No," said Laurence positively, "I wouldn't do that. I must have a place of my own to take her to."

"Well, yes, I understand." The Judge chewed his cud for a moment, then his face lit up. "See here, why shouldn't you live with me!... I've got a good-sized house and there's the whole top floor I never use, and I've got a sort of housekeeper, such as she is. You two young folks could have all the room you want, and Mary could fix up the old place and make it a hell of a lot more cheerful, and I'd have somebody to eat with and something pretty to look at—why, Jesus, man! It would be charity to me, it would, upon my soul! Say you will, now!"

"Why, Judge, you're very kind, I don't know—I'll think it over, and talk to Mary—we'd pay our board, of course," Laurence stammered, rather overcome.

"Board, hell!" said the Judge, excited. "Mary could fix up some pies and things once in a while—I haven't had a decent doughnut for a year.... Well, you can board if you want to, we won't quarrel.... And you can be making something besides your salary, if you don't mind work—"

"I don't," said Laurence, smiling, curiously touched by the old man's warmth. Somehow he felt at home now for the first time since his return, he felt some wish to stay.

The Judge pondered and rolled his quid.

"Ever run a creamery?" he asked, suddenly, with a twinkle.

Laurence shook his head.

"I was principal of a school once," he remarked.

"Well, I haven't got a school, but I've got a creamery—that is, I'm the Receiver. Owner was killed at Vicksburg, and his widow has been trying to run it—it's a big place at Elmville, about five miles from here—I need a manager for it. I tell you what, Laurence, you have a bite of dinner with me at twelve, and then we'll drive over there, I've got to go anyway, and we can talk it over on the way—"

There was a knock at the glazed door, the pale youth who occupied the outer office put his head in and announced a client. Laurence rose. The Judge escorted him out with an arm round his shoulders, and they were to meet at the tavern.

"It's only a little worse than at my house," Judge Baxter said cheerfully. "We need a good hotel here. We need a lot of things, principally some good, hustling young men—I tell you, we've missed you fellows. But the town's all right, you mustn't look down on our town, we're going ahead."

Laurence strolled across the little square, the centre of the town, and smiled at the Judge's civic fervour. He could not see any signs of enterprise or change, except that the young maple trees along the sidewalks had grown, and there were two or three new buildings. The same row of country plugs tied to wooden posts in front of the courthouse, the same row of loafers in front of the saloon. The dry-goods store had a new window with a display of shirts and neckties. There was a new Tonsorial Parlour, with a gaily painted striped pole, the cigar-store had a wooden Indian standing on the sidewalk, holding out a bunch of wooden cigars, and the Opera-house had been repainted, and had large bills outside, announcing a minstrel show. Yes, there was an ice-cream parlour, too, with a window full of confectionery. Laurence stopped to buy a cigar, and spoke to two or three people who recognized him; their greetings were friendly enough but not especially cordial. Laurence had no great fund of friendship to draw upon in his native town. He said to himself, as he walked on, that Judge Baxter was his only friend there. Should he go and see Mary this morning? It was too early to go yet—and there was a sore feeling in him about Mary. No, he would wait till he had made his expedition with the Judge and had something definite to talk to her about. Something practical, that would suit her. He smiled wryly and went on along the street. There was not much of the brass band about this home-coming, he reflected, not much of Hail, the conquering hero comes. No, he would sink into civilian life without any fuss being made over him—so would all the other fellows, the men he had marched with this last week, through the streets of Washington, Sherman's magnificent army. There had been plenty of brass band there, they had felt pretty important then—it was a shame that the Old Man hadn't been allowed to lead his army in review, but had been sent straight off to the border. Laurence had a feeling of personal affection for the Old Man, and he realized suddenly, for his companions in arms. He was going to miss them, those tough chaps, scattered now to the four winds of heaven. The best soldiers on earth—now, like him, they would have to compete empty-handed with the fat citizens who had stayed behind and been piling up money these four years.

Laurence scowled under the rim of his cap, and reflected that he must get himself a suit of civilian clothes. The street he was on brought him to the railroad tracks. A long freight-train was passing, car after car loaded with cattle, going to Chicago. After it had passed, he crossed the tracks, and the street became a road, which led up a slight rise, to the cemetery. He followed it listlessly, his eyes fixed on the wide expanse of tombstones, crosses, spires, slabs of grey and white, that covered the swell of the prairie. The cemetery was considerably more populous than the town, he thought; and now he was here, he would go and look at his mother's grave. He had some difficulty in finding it, though he vaguely remembered its location. The lot had been neglected, the prairie-grass had grown long over it, hiding the grey slab with her name, the date of her death and her age, forty-seven. Another small stone, with a dove and the name "Evangeline," marked the grave of his little sister, dead twenty years. And this was all that remained of his family. Patrick lay on the field of Shiloh. As to his father, he might be dead or living—he had run away ten years before, and nothing had ever been heard of him.

He stood looking sorrowfully down on the unkempt grass. Poor his mother had lived, poor she had died, and alone too. Pat and he had both gone and left her. He had been very fond of his mother. The proud woman she was, and silent, with long black hair and fine little hands and feet—and she worked at the wash-tub, and he and Pat, bare-footed boys, carried the wash home in baskets. Oh, but she had a bitter tongue when she did let it out, and she let his father have it. He remembered the night when his father struck her, and he, Laurence, fifteen then, knocked his father flat on the floor. That was the last night they saw him, he had sworn he wouldn't stay to be beaten by his own son, and they had all been glad he went....

He turned away, and went on across the rise, thinking he would get out into the country. At the far side of the cemetery he passed a little plot without even a headstone but neatly kept, where a girl in a grey dress was kneeling, setting out some plants. He noticed her slim figure and her copper-coloured hair, but passed without seeing her face. She called after him.

"Oh, Larry! Is it you?"

He turned and she got up and put out both hands to him, smiling, showing her big white teeth.

"Well, Nora!" he cried, clasping her hands gladly. "Why, what a young lady you've grown!"

She was not pretty, her red mouth was too big and her nose turned up, and she was freckled, but she had a slim graceful shape, her hair was a glory and her eyes full of warmth. She had been Laurence's playmate of old—she belonged to the only other Irish family in town. They had lived in the slum together, and she had been his first sweetheart.

"And you!" she said, looking at him shyly with artless admiration. "I hardly knew you, and yet I knew it was you!"

They stood and talked for a while. Laurence found out that she was tending the grave of her brother, "Colin, you'll remember," who had come back with the prison-fever on him, and died, "wasted to the bone." And that she did very well, she had been working on a dairy farm but it was too hard for her, and now she had got a place in the store, and was to begin next week. She lived with her mother. When Laurence said he would go to see her she seemed a little embarrassed, and asked, couldn't they meet some evening outside, her mother was a bit queer. So they arranged to meet on Sunday evening, (Mary would be at church) by the big willow on the river road. Nora looked a little disappointed, perhaps at having the meeting put off so long, but she was not one to demand or expect much. Laurence remembered what she had been—an humble, generous little creature, grateful for the least kindness, and she didn't get much. She was always giving more than she got, to her family and every one. She was hot-tempered, too, and would fly into a rage easily, and then dissolve in repentant tears. He looked at her rough red hands—poor Nora always had worked hard. But her neat dress, her carefully arranged hair, showed that she was making the most of herself. Her skin was soft and creamy, in spite of the freckles, her eyes were almost the colour of her hair, deep reddish-brown. They were like a dog's eyes, so soft and warm and wistful. Poor Nora, what a good little thing she was! With a quick glance round, Laurence seized her in his arms and kissed her very warmly on her red mouth. She blushed and trembled, but did not resist. She never had been able to resist any sign of affection, however careless. He kissed her again, and said a few tender words to her, in a lordly way. The homage of her shining dazzled eyes was sweet to him. And besides, the remembrance of old times had wakened.

As he left her and went on down the slope, along the country road, he realized that his memories of this place were deep. He would still have said that there was not much he cared to remember, that it was better to cut loose and begin afresh in some new place. The poverty of his boyhood still stung him, the community had looked down upon him and his, and old slights rankled in him. And yet it seemed that, little by little, things were shaping to tie him here. Not only outside, but in himself he was feeling as if some root went down deep into the black soil of the prairie and held him.