Green Valley Part 6

Maybe it was Hank who first called him the minister. It may of course have been that old Mrs. Rosenwinkle, who, not knowing his name for some time, explained him to her daughter as "the new preacher of the lost."

At any rate, when f.a.n.n.y Foster came to make her periodical report it was found that to the lonely, the outcast and the generally unfit Cynthia's son was "the new minister." And his influence was already felt by those who as yet regarded him as just a Green Valley boy who was helping out. f.a.n.n.y Foster voiced this sentiment in Joe Baldwin's shop when she was paying for the four patches Joe had just put on her second best pair of shoes.

"Well--I shouldn't wonder if Green Valley hadn't got a minister to its taste at last. He hasn't been regularly appointed and I guess he don't realize himself that he's it but I'm pretty sure that the minute Parson Courtney steps out that's just what's going to happen. Of course there's them that says it can't. Mr. Austin says it would be a terrible mistake, that he's too young; and Seth Curtis says no rich man would be fool enough to pester himself with a d.i.n.ky country church.

But I guess people like Seth and Mr. Austin ain't the kind of people that have much to say. He's doing regular minister's work, comforting the sick and picking up the fallen and pacifying the quarrelsome, and it's work like that that'll elect him.

"And he's getting mighty popular, let me tell you, even with them that no other minister could please or get near. There's old Mrs.

Rosenwinkle. She loves him just because he never tried to tell her that the earth was round. Why, she says he's as good as any Lutheran.

And Hank Lolly said that maybe when that new suit Billy's ordered him out of the new mail-order catalogue gets here, he'll go hear him preach. It seems the minister's been driving around with Hank all over creation and Hank says he can get along with him as easy as he does with Billy.

"And did you hear what he did for Jim Tumley? It seems the minister told Grandma Wentworth what a fine voice Jim had and what an ear for music. And he was most surprised that Jim never even had a second-hand organ of his own in the house but had to go over to his sister's, Mrs.

Hoskins, for to play a little tune when the fancy took him. He said it was an awful pity that a man who wanted music so badly and was always so obliging at weddings and funerals and entertainments should be without a proper instrument. And Grandma just said, 'My land, n.o.body's ever thought of that but I'll speak of it.'

"Well, she did and the consequence is that Mary Tumley is so nervous she can't sleep. She says if she takes the savings out of the bank there won't be enough money for a Keeley cure, or a respectable funeral for Jim in case he dies. She's struggled and struggled but come to the conclusion that it wouldn't be right and would set an awful example to the Luttins next door, who are extravagant enough as it is.

"But it's my notion that Jim Tumley will get his organ and maybe a piano. I saw him going in with Frank Burton on that early morning train and it means something. Besides, Grandma told me that Frank fairly hates himself for not thinking of it before and waiting like a born idiot for a boy to come all the way from India and tell him what to do for his best friend.

"Agnes Tomlins says she's got a good mind to go and see the minister about Hen. She says that if Hen don't quit abusing her and tormenting her she's going to leave him; that her sister Mary over in Aberdeen has a big up-stairs bedroom all aired and waiting for her. It seems that Hen's more than contrarily stubborn lately. He's contradicted Agnes publicly time and again and gone against her in private till Agnes says there's no living with him.

"But she says she would overlook everything except Hen's keeping a secret drawer in his chiffonier. It seems Hen has gone and locked that bottom drawer and Agnes can't either buy or borry a key that will open it. And she can't find where Hen has hid his, try as she may. And when she mentions that drawer to Hen, saying she wants to red up, he lets on like he don't know what she's talking about but he does, because he told Doc Philipps, when he went to see about his liver, that if he couldn't wear a soft collar or a soft hat like other men and keep a dog and smoke in the house, and eat strawberries or whistle or go to ball games on Sundays and prize fights on the sly, why, there was one thing he could do and would have and that was a drawer, a whole chiffonier drawer, all to himself. And that he bet there weren't many men in Green Valley that could say as much. Hen just swore that he intends to have something all his own and that n.o.body'll open that drawer except over his dead body.

"Dolly Beatty was sitting in the waiting room and heard him. Of course, she's a great friend of Bessie Williams and told her and Bessie told Laura Enbry and of course it got to Agnes. So she's going to speak to the minister and maybe get a divorce, which will be the first divorce scandal in Green Valley.

"Now that's the sort of thing that goes on in Green Valley. And if the new minister is supposed to calm these troubled waters he's got my sympathy. Joe, I think you're charging me ten cents too much for these patches. They're not as big as the ones you put on the other pair and those were fifty cents."

So without a conscious move on anybody's part Cynthia's son became Green Valley's minister. All the necessary rites gone through, Green Valley accepted him as it accepted the suns.h.i.+ne and rain, the larks and wild roses, and all the other gifts that heaven chose to send.

Roger Allan and Grandma Wentworth began to call him John. But Nanny Ainslee always spoke of him and addressed him as Mr. Knight. And he discovered after a time that for some strange reason he did not like this.

One day he mentioned the matter. He was walking home from church with her. Mr. Ainslee had invited him up for Sunday dinner and the party of them were chatting pleasantly as they walked along together.

In asking him a question Nan addressed him as Mr. Knight. Then it was that he stopped and made his startling request. He addressed them all but he meant only Nan.

"I wish," he said suddenly, "you would not call me Mr. Knight."

Mr. Ainslee and Billy hid a smile, said nothing and walked on. But Nan stopped in amazement.

"Why not?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"n.o.body else does. I was never called that in India. It makes me feel lonely, and a stranger here."

"But," Nanny's voice was colorless and almost dreary, even though a wicked little gleam shot into her eyes, "what in the world shall I call you? I can't call you--_John_. And 'parson' always did seem to me rather coa.r.s.e and disrespectful."

He had stopped when she did and now was looking straight down into her eyes. Before the hurt and surprise and bewilderment in his face the wicked little gleam retreated and a deep pink began to flush Nanny's cheeks. The suspicion crossed her mind that this tall young man from India with the unconquered eyes and the directness of a child might be a rather difficult person to deal with.

He just stood there and looked at her and said never a word. Then he quietly turned and walked on up the road with her.

For the first time in her life Nanny felt queer in the company of a man, queer and puzzled and almost uncomfortable. She was not a flirt and her remark was commonplace and trivial. Yet this new chap was taking it seriously and making her feel insincere and trifling. She told herself that she was not going to like him and kept her eyes studiously on the road and wayside flowers.

They mounted the front steps in silence but before he opened the door to let her pa.s.s in he paused and waited for her to raise her eyes to his. She did it much against her will. He spoke then as if they two were all alone in the world together.

"It is true that you have not known me long. But I have known you for some time. I saw you leave Green Valley one summer night last year and I came from the West two months before I should have just to see if you got safely back at lilac time."

At that Nanny's eyes lost all their careful pride and he saw them lovely with surprise. So he explained.

"I was standing on the back platform of the Los Angeles Limited the night you went East with your father."

Then a smile that the Lord gives only now and then, to a man that He is sure He can trust, flitted over the tall boy's face as he added:

"And the very first evening I came back to Green Valley I held you in my arms--rescued you."

He laughed boyishly, plaguing her. But she stood motionless with amazement,--too angry to say a word. When that smile came her anger faded. Through her heart there flashed the mad conviction, through her mind the certain knowledge, that for her in the time to come the height of bliss would be to cry in this strange man's arms.

Then she recollected herself and flamed with shame so bitter that her lower lip quivered and she hoped he would ask her again to call him John so that she could make him pay for her momentary madness.

But he never asked again. It seemed he was not that kind of a man.

CHAPTER VI

GOSSIP

The last and surest sign of spring's arrival in Green Valley is gossip.

The mornings may be ever so full of meadow larks, the woods moistly sweet and carpeted with spring's frail and dainty blossoms, but no one dreams of letting the furnace go out or their base burner get cold until they see f.a.n.n.y Foster flitting about town at all hours of the day and behold the array of s.h.i.+ny armchairs standing so invitingly in front of Uncle Tony's hardware store.

When these two great news agencies open up for business Green Valley laughs and goes to Martin's drug store to buy moth b.a.l.l.s and talks about how it's going to paint its kitchen woodwork and paper its upstairs hall and where it's buying its special garden seed.

Then the whole town wakes up and comes outdoors to work and talk.

There are fences to be mended and gardens to be planted and houses to be cleaned and all the winter happenings to be gone over. All the doctor cases have to be discussed critically and the winter invalids, strong once again, come out to visit one another and compare notes.

Letters from special relatives and former Green Valley souls are pa.s.sed around and read and all new photographs and the winter's crop of fancy work exhibited and carefully examined.

Everybody talks so much that n.o.body listens very carefully, only half hearing things. And when the spring madness and gladness begin to settle and people start to repeat the things they only half heard strange and weird tales are at times the result. And from these spring still more fantastic rumors and versions that ripple over Green Valley like waves of suns.h.i.+ne or cloud shadows, sometimes causing much joy and merriment and sometimes considerable worry and uneasiness.

And all these rumors come eventually to Uncle Tony's where they are solemnly examined, edited and frequently so enhanced and touched up in color and form as to sound almost new. Then they are sent out again to begin life all over. Many of them die but some live on and on, and after a sufficient test of time become a part of the town chronicles.

Everybody, of course, takes a hand at helping a yarn get from house to house but n.o.body makes such a specialty of this sort of social work as f.a.n.n.y Foster. There are some Green Valley folks who attribute f.a.n.n.y's up and down thinness to this wearing industry yet both men and women are always glad to see her and her reports always drive blue cares away and provoke ripples of sunny laughter.

Everybody in town has tried their hand at hating f.a.n.n.y and despising her and ignoring her and putting her in her place. But everybody has long ago given it up. Stylish and convention-loving newcomers are always disgusted and keep her at arm's length. But sooner or later such people break an arm or a leg right in the midst of strawberry canning maybe and it so happens that n.o.body sees them do this but f.a.n.n.y. And when this does happen they don't even have to mortify themselves by calling her. She just comes of her own accord, forgetting the cruel snubbings. She fixes that stand-offish person as comfortable as can be, makes them laugh even, and telephones to the doctor. Then she rolls up her sleeves and without so much as an ap.r.o.n has those strawberries scientifically canned and that messy kitchen beautifully clean.

And the curious, the pitifully, laughably incomprehensible part of it is that in her own house f.a.n.n.y absolutely never can seem to take the least interest. Her own dishes are always standing about unwashed.

Her kitchen is spoken of in horrified whispers; her children, b.u.t.tonless, garterless, mealless, stray about in all sorts of improper places and weather. The whole town is home to them but they generally feel happiest at Grandma Wentworth's. She sets them down in her kitchen to a hot meal and then makes them sew on their b.u.t.tons under her watchful eye. Sooner or later, usually later, f.a.n.n.y comes as instinctively as her children to Grandma's door to report Green Valley doings.

This particular spring things promised to be unusually lively. But the rains, though gentle, had been persistent and f.a.n.n.y was a full two weeks behind with her news schedule. But if late, her report was thorough. She dropped wearily into Grandma's soft cus.h.i.+oned kitchen rocker, slipped her cold feet without ceremony into the warm stove oven and began:

"Good land! I never see such a town and such people and such weather!

Jim Tumley's drunk again and as sick as death and Mary's crying over him as usual and blaming the hotel crowd. She says he's a good man and don't care for liquor at all and that their liking to hear him sing ain't no reason for getting him drunk and a poor way of showing their thanks and appreciation, and that they all know that he can't stand it, him being weak in the stomach that way, like all the Tumleys. Mary's just about ready to give up everything and everybody, she's that discouraged.