Читать книгу The Bail Jumper - Robert J. C. Stead - Страница 5

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“We have felt the April breezes warm along the plashy plains;We have mind-marked to the cadence of the falling April rains;We have heard the crash of water where the snow-fed rivers run,Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in the sun;We have known the resurrection of the Springtime in the land,Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words of her command,Felt the thrill of Springtime twilight and the vague, unfashioned thoughtThat the season’s birthday musters from the hopes we had forgot.” Prairie Born.

“Plainville has a sure-enough singer at last,” declared Alice Goode to her mother the morning after the Grant party.

“That’ll be the new-comer at Grand’s,” said Mrs. Goode, who had a talent, amounting almost to genius, for mispronouncing proper names.

“You’re on,” Alice agreed. “I don’t claim to be much of a judge of warbles, but I like her samples.”

“You’ll be gettin’ her into the choir, for the Grands are Presbyterians. You want to speak to the minister about her, Alice.”

“Sure I do, but it means war with Mrs. Fairley. She’s led the choir so long and so far she’s sure to flare up at the prospect of a real singer breakin’ in. But I don’t care. She only keeps me because she knows I can’t sing either. Here’s where the fat goes into the fire.”

Alice went to the telephone and called up the Rev. Andrew Guthrie.

“Hello—that you, Mr. Guthrie?—hello—Alice Goode speaking—yes—say, you ought to been at Grant’s dance last night—what’s that?—Oh, that don’t matter—Me?—well, I just went on church business, rustlin’ new chickens for your flock, an’ I caught one, a lulu—Mr. Grant’s niece, an’ she can sing some. Say, Mr. Guthrie, you get after her to join the choir, before the Methodists get busy. … No, don’t leave it to Mrs. Fairley, she’s too jealous. Just get her to sing with us once, an’ Mrs. Fairley can come in or stay out, as the weather suits her. … Perhaps, but she’s an old crank, anyway. She spoils the effect of the sermons, an’ that ain’t fair to you, Mr. Guthrie. That’s why I go to dances instead of prayer-meeting. … That’s right, drive out and see her. She’ll change the look of those empty pews, or I’m no guesser.”

Whether it was due to the doubtful compliments of this conversation or the unquestionable sincerity which prompted Alice Goode’s suggestion may never be known, but the fact is that the Reverend Mr. Guthrie called that afternoon on Mrs. Fairley, and deftly announced that a friend of the Grants’ was staying with them, and, he understood, would be willing to take advantage of the facilities afforded by the choir. Now, Mrs. Fairley, good woman, never attended anything so worldly as a dance, and supposed that the recruit was some country girl anxious for a chance to be seen by the congregation. She had no objection to an additional worshipper in the choir—the meanest service of the Lord must not be despised, Mr. Guthrie—so long as she proved bidable, Mr. Guthrie, and did not spoil the effect of those who could sing. Armed with this authority from the autocrat of the choir, Mr. Guthrie hitched up horse and cutter and drove to the Grant homestead. It was a place where he always found a warm welcome, and he would gladly have called oftener, had it not been for the jealousy of some of his parishioners who objected when he failed to visit them, and gave him little courtesy when he did. He remained to tea, and, indeed, long after, and when at last he drove home it was with feelings of mingled gratification and mistrust.

“Well, Mary,” he announced, as his wife helped to remove his great-coat, “I have found an addition for our choir. But I rather suspect that she will soon be the choir, and the present members will constitute the addition. Mrs. Fairley made two conditions; that the new-comer should not spoil the music, and should be amenable to those in authority, meaning herself. Both these conditions I will guarantee, but there are cases when authority forsakes officials and returns to its original source—the people. And when the congregation have heard Miss Vane sing, they will insist on a change in the leadership of the choir.”

“Oh, it may not be so bad as that,” said his wife, always eager to smooth the difficulties from the path of her over-worked and under-paid husband.

“So good as that, you mean,” exclaimed Andrew Guthrie, exultantly.

The next Sunday saw a new face in the choir, and the expectant glances of the congregation indicated that a large percentage of Mr. Guthrie’s flock had not attained to the godliness of Mrs. Fairley, who eschewed dances.

The opening hymn was announced, and before three bars were sung a buzz of excitement was electrifying the congregation. At the end of the first line Mrs. Fairley stopped and looked straight at Miss Vane. For ten years, whenever Mrs. Fairley stopped singing, the music stopped, and so accustomed had the organist become to this understanding, that she expected always to double back when the familiar voice was no longer heard. But this morning a new precedent was established. Mrs. Fairley stopped, but the music went on. The new singer sang on, quite unconscious of the epoch-making nature of her hardihood. For one full line Mrs. Fairley remained silent, and in that brief space of time she surrendered for ever the leadership of the choir of Plainville Presbyterian church.

After the service Mrs. Fairley went to the minister. Her chagrin was apparent, and it was evident that she blamed him for no small share of her undoing.

“I think it was quite unnecessary to bring that young woman into the choir,” she said. “We were getting along very well, and the music was all that Plainville desired.”

“No one, surely, will complain of the music,” said Mr. Guthrie, very mildly, “but if this young woman wishes to take part in the singing, how shall we despise even the meanest service of the Lord? And how shall we avoid accepting that service? We must not ask her to remain away, and we cannot ask her not to sing when we rise to worship Him with psalms and hymns. It is, therefore, merely a question of whether she shall sing in the choir or in the congregation.”

This view of the situation was a bomb-shell to Mrs. Fairley. If Miss Vane’s presence in the choir was aggravating, in the congregation it would become demoralising. As argument failed her she answered, hotly:

“Well, if the people don’t want my singing, they won’t have to listen to it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Mr. Guthrie. “We must all give what service we can——”

But Mrs. Fairley had flounced down the aisle and out of the church.

So it came about that Miss Vane was officially declared leader of the choir. Her position necessitated her coming to town twice on Sundays and once during the week, and although her cousins were always glad enough to drive her in, it was observed that Mr. Gardiner frequently relieved them of the duty.

Burton, also, was afforded the opportunity of meeting Miss Vane at church, and occasionally waiting on her in the store, but their acquaintance developed slowly. He found himself while in her presence hampered by a self-consciousness amounting to bashfulness. Thus, while they frequently met at the rink, he had never asked her to skate. He wondered whether she thought of him at all.

And so the winter wore on, and at length the spring was in the land. For five months the wind had studiously avoided the south-west, but now it fell into that favoured quarter, and the snow shrank before its balmy breath. The sun beat down with June brilliancy; the creeks and ponds filled with blue snow-water; the life that had lain dormant since November stirred itself in sod, and flower, and leaf. In the town the period of depression was followed by one of great activity; every merchant, implement dealer, and tradesman was working under high pressure to keep up with the demands of his customers. Gardiner’s store shared in the general prosperity; in fact, as the proprietor thought, they were receiving rather more than their share. This meant busy days for Burton and his employer, but both were eager for work, and from week to week Gardiner postponed his intention of engaging another clerk. He was well satisfied with Burton, and had freely congratulated himself upon securing for a moderate wage a young man of so much value to his store. But circumstances were already in the mould which were destined to alter his opinion.

On an evening late in May, Gardiner left the store early, saying his horse needed exercise, and as the day’s work was practically over he would go out for a drive. Burton remained to tidy the store and lock up, but he noticed that Gardiner’s horse took the well-known road to Grants’.

As he was sweeping behind the counter a young woman entered the store, and Burton, looking up, was surprised to see Miss Vane.

“I hope I am not too late, Mr. Burton. I have had a number of errands to do for Aunty, and it always takes longer than one expects. I wonder if you will let me have this small bill of groceries?”

“You are not too late; you are just in time,” assured Burton, who felt that the moment was the most opportune of the whole day.

He quickly filled the order, and said, “If you will tell me where your buggy is, Miss Vane, I will take your packages around and put them in it.”

“Oh, I have no buggy this time, I’m walking.”

“Walking! You surely do not intend to walk home with all these parcels?”

“They are not heavy, and besides, I am to walk only as far as Mrs. Delt’s. Harry will meet me there later in the evening. They are very busy on the farm at present, and I told them it was quite unnecessary to drive me to town.”

Burton wrestled with his thoughts. Here, surely, was an opportunity to offer a service which could be construed only as a business courtesy.

“If you can wait until I close the store—it will be only a minute—I should be very glad to carry your parcels.”

“Oh, that is too much—I could not expect you to do that.”

“It is not too much—unless you say it is.”

Miss Vane laughed. Hers was a quiet, mirthful laugh, like a vocal smile.

“If your offer is made as a kindness to me, I cannot accept it; if it is your own desire, I cannot refuse.”

“It is my desire,” said Burton. There was no other answer, although he felt that the reply shattered his theory about a business courtesy.

Soon they were walking gaily along the road leading out of the village. This ran by the amusement grounds, where the young men of the town were gathering for an evening’s baseball practice. Burton and his companion were not unnoticed.

The talk was of the commonplace: the weather, the seeding, the life of town and country; Burton careful, discriminating in his speech; Miss Vane frank, impetuous, but correct. They had almost reached Delt’s when the young woman, placing her fingers to her throat, uttered a cry of dismay.

“I believe I’ve lost my brooch,” she explained, in answer to Burton’s anxious inquiry. “It was a gift from Brother Harry, and——”

She found no words to express her emotion, which Burton knew to be greater than she cared to admit.

“I don’t think you need worry,” the young man said. “The sun is just setting, and we still have an hour of fair light. I noticed the brooch when we left the store, so it must be on the road. I will hurry back and find it.”

“We will,” she corrected.

Burton set the packages down a little way from the road, and the two hurried back through the gathering twilight, keeping a keen look-out as they walked. It was not until they were almost at the recreation grounds that a faint glint in the dust attracted Burton’s eye. He lifted the precious trifle and restored it to the delighted owner, whose profuse thanks called forth blushes that might be seen even in the dusk which was now silently enwrapping all the familiar objects of the prairie and roadside. Retracing their steps they walked more slowly; it became quite dark, but a mild wind blew from the south-west, and there was just enough eeriness in the situation to suggest the necessity of a man’s protection. Finally they arrived at Delt’s gate, where Harry Grant and young Mrs. Delt were awaiting Miss Vane with growing anxiety.

A horse and buggy swung past them as they left the main road, and Harry Grant called out:

“Ah, here you are at last! And who is this? Why, I declare, if it isn’t our friend Burton. That accounts for the delay. ‘In the spring a young man’s fancy,’ you know.”

Gardiner, returning from his fruitless drive to the Grants’ home, heard the words and recognized the voice.

And they troubled his sleep that night, and for many nights to come.