_ PART III. BLOOMFIELD
CHAPTER XVII
Fate smiled. An itinerant Swiss became interested in the tea room. There were a few days of sharp bargaining and on October the fourteenth it was sold to him. The price just barely covered the indebtedness. Mary Louise made haste to send Claybrook a check for the fifteen hundred dollars plus the interest. Two days later she got the notes through the mail with no comment and she tremblingly tore them into bits and scattered the bits from her window. Then she went to the bank and took up the note for the six hundred dollars she had originally borrowed. It left her nothing, but she was free. She had lived the summer and was where she had started. A little wan, feeling a little empty, she caught the train for Bloomfield. All during the trip she gazed from the window, dizzily conscious of the shifting landscape, dimly aware of her retreat....
Miss Susan McCallum looked up from her rocking chair as Mary Louise entered the sitting room. There was no surprise in her greeting, and she suffered her cheek to be kissed in silence. Old Landy stuck his grizzled head in at the door at the unusual commotion and Mary Louise, unaccountably and suddenly touched by something subtly familiar and friendly, trilled:
"I've come to look after you, Aunt Susie. Just couldn't stay away any longer. The countryside was perfectly beautiful as I came up this morning in the train. It's the loveliest October I've ever seen. Think of being cooped up in the city this time of year."
Landy grinned and came shambling in with a greeting. Miss Susie's eyebrows went up and there was a suspicion of moisture on the lashes. "Well, you needn't have done it. Landy and I have been managing very well. But
you look a little peaked." She turned and laid her knitting on the table by her side.
"Little Missy's a sight fo' so' eyes," interjected Landy and then withdrew. Directly they could hear him authoritatively ordering someone about.
Miss Susie sighed and looked at Mary Louise. The latter was taking off her hat but she caught a hidden appeal in the pinched, weazened face that she had never before noticed. It made a sharp little tug at her heart, and throwing her hat on the table, she came over and sat on the stool at the older woman's feet.
"How long will you be with us this time?"
She reached up and took the hand and was startled at finding how hot it was. "Why--for all the time. Didn't you understand? I'm not going back at all."
A strange expression came over Miss Susie's face. It was as though she all of a sudden let down. She stared into Mary Louise's eyes and the latter waited for some characteristic outburst. But none came. Directly the old lady reached over for her knitting again and busied herself with it, bending her head over it. Mary Louise, watching her, saw her throat contract, saw her moisten her lips softly with the tip of her tongue.
Without, looking up, "What about your business? You're not leaving it for someone else to look after for you?" The tone was very low and the voice so husky that she finished the sentence with a little clearing of the throat.
"I've given it up--given it up entirely. Not a thing in the world to keep me," replied Mary Louise.
For a few moments complete silence settled down upon the room, with only the ticking of the clock on the mantel. It was dark and cool and sweet-smelling, a sort of "goodsy" smell. A blue-bottle fly began to buzz and bump against the glass of the window and now and then he would circle about the room, filling its silence with his droning. The sunlight came creeping slowly across the rag carpet, a widening orange pool, as the sun slipped around to the westward. Mary Louise could see the edge of it without turning her head. She felt suddenly guilty, as though she were in some way parading in false colours. There was an impenetrableness in the reserve.
"I just couldn't stand it any longer," she burst out. "I want to be with my people and stay with my people, and look after you and live my life as it was intended." Somehow it was not exactly what she wanted to say, not the whole truth, but as if in explanation she began to stroke her aunt's knee very softly.
"What do you plan to do?" Miss Susie looked up again and there was the same old look of withered sharpness. "There's nothing in Bloomfield, you know."
"Oh, I know. Nothing, if you mean opportunity. But everything in the way of living. We'll just rock along. I'll find something to do. Something to keep me out of mischief," she laughed. "Mr. Orpell ought to have somebody in his drug store. His soft-drink counter is atrocious. Then I can make preserves and sell 'em. I know where I can sell a lot--in the city. I just don't want to think--just rest a bit and let this blessed peace get a good hold of me again." Her voice rose sharp and eager and Miss Susie smiled a quizzical smile and the old order was again restored. A door slammed and Landy's voice came to them, this time in a wailing gospel hymn, and Mary Louise sprang to her feet. "I'll have to go get Zeke Thompson and have him fetch my trunk. There was nobody to bring it over from Guests and I didn't want to wait to hunt for someone."
She skipped over to the table and picked up her hat again. Already she felt better--warmed and comforted. She paused for a moment, standing in front of Miss Susie, looking down at her as she sat there knitting placidly away with the fine firm lines about her mouth. "You won't mind if I go with him, will you? There's an excess baggage charge that I can't trust Zeke with, and I'll not be long."
"No, of course not. Since when have I been that I couldn't be left alone?" But she smiled and Mary Louise, rushing to her, kissed her again, rapturously upon the cheek, turned and whirled toward the door where she paused for a wave of the hand before plunging forth on her errand.
The sound of the door closing behind her sobered her for a moment. Here she was, gone again. Would she never be content to settle down? But the wine of the autumnal weather came mounting to her head and as she opened the front gate and struck out up the street she raised her face, drinking it in.
The rows of maples had been touched by the frost and were flaming scarlet and crimson. Over beyond, across the street, between the houses where a pasture land stretched down to the creek, the beeches were golden and rustling and shimmering in the mellow sunlight. There was a delicious tang in the air one moment and a soft mellow touch of indolent fruition the next. An automobile went scuttling across Main Street at the intersection, seeking its way westward, leaving a cloud of dust that hung lazily golden ere it settled. Even the dust was fragrant. The old tavern was quite deserted; the same green shutter hung by one hinge, and as she passed the town hall or meeting house she could hear the click of a typewriter through an open window, an incongruous touch of modernity in an otherwise immaculate antique setting. The sun was warm and came filtering through the shade to splotch the uneven brick pavement, bringing out its homely roughness in minute detail. She felt as if she recognized each upturned brick, and the worn patch of yellow earth where a grass plot was meant to be, up to the edge of the gnarled root of the oak stump that had been struck by lightning, was just as it had always been. She and Joe Hooper had played marbles there until he had grown too big to be playing marbles with girls. Queer little ecstatic sensations they were.
She crossed the square. A solitary man was walking on the other side of the street, away from her. He was carrying three long poles over his shoulder and he walked stiffly and with a slight limp. He wore a suit of dusty blue "unionalls" and a battered felt hat. Curious that she should notice such things. A "Ford" backed away from the curbing, wheeled and went rattling around the corner down the road toward Guests. And then the street and the square and the whole town were quiet again, as deserted as a street or a town on canvas.
She walked swiftly, but not too swiftly to catch up every sign of home. Her mind was aflood with impressions. What a narrow escape she had had. An exultant thought like a song arose in her. She had ventured forth, had had her taste, and it had cost her nothing. The city had not caught her even though it had reached forth strong, prehensile fingers. She knew now what she wanted, had the strength, the zest. And it was October and fair, and smiling.
Suddenly she ran almost headlong into Mrs. Mosby. That good lady came precipitately out of Orpell's Drug Store, and she was wearing her white ruching and her bangles and a trim little widow's bonnet with a semi-circle of black veil hanging down behind and accentuating the prim whiteness of her face.
Mrs. Mosby's was not a face to betray emotion; it was a well-behaved, studiously composed face. And her voice was level as she took Mary Louise by both hands.
"Well, my dear," she said. "What brings you here? I've heard you're an awfully busy woman. Hope there's nothing wrong at home."
"No," replied Mary Louise. Somehow she could never get it out of her head whenever she spoke to Mrs. Mosby that it was not still as a little girl to a personage--a personage to whom restraint and deference were due. "I'm not so busy as all that."
"Oh, but you are. I've heard all about you. We're very proud of you, my dear. Very. You've been doing so well--oh, I've heard--and your striking out into business quite alone was about the most courageous thing I know of. Why, the mere thought of such a thing takes my breath away."
"But I'm not doing it any more. And there's nothing courageous in that," smiled Mary Louise.
Mrs. Mosby looked puzzled.
"It's a fact. I've given it all up. Just got home to-day. And I'm going to settle down again with you all and be just folks."
The mask again slipped over Mrs. Mosby's countenance. "Quite as courageous a thing to do as the other," she went on evenly. "Just to give up your splendid opportunity to come back and accept your duties here--well, I think it highly commendable." She was not to be robbed of her chance to be agreeable. "Your aunt Susan is, I trust, not unwell?"
"Oh, about the same, thank you, Mrs. Mosby." She wanted to ask about Joe, something in the rapprochement giving rise to thoughts of him, but she realized that Mrs. Mosby was doubtless entirely out of touch with her graceless nephew and would invent some mere plausibility. So she inquired instead after Mr. Fawcette.
"Brother is not so well. Poor soul, he suffers terribly with his rheumatism." Mrs. Mosby lapsed into thoughtfulness and Mary Louise murmured her sympathy.
A moment of this and Mrs. Mosby recovered herself and held out her hand again.
"You must come and see me now--real often. I'm so much alone. Such a lot you must have to tell me and I want to hear it all." She took her prim, precise departure conscious of her graciousness.
On her way, in the opposite direction, Mary Louise suffered another qualm, a feeling of insincerity. She was gathering credit that really was undeserved. Her return would doubtless be labelled in Bloomfield as a bit of pretty sacrifice. And the place was a very refuge. The sun dipped as she walked along, so that the tip of it reddened the ridge poles of the houses and the sky was as blue as indigo. She passed an open lot where weeds abounded and in the weeds the blackbirds were chattering noisily. At her approach they flew up in a black swarm to refuge in an old apple tree in the rear of the lot. On the ground near the sidewalk was an old wagon bed that had been there for years--she tried to remember how long. There were decided compensations in coming home.
She found Zeke sitting on his doorstep, his chin on his hands, busily strengthening his restful philosophy. She quickly bargained with him and he hurried away to get out his old carry-all. When he found that she followed him, and found in addition that she intended accompanying him, his pleasure was quite evident.
"Wait, Mis' Ma'y, ontil I gits a rag and wipes off de seat," he said at the door of the shed.
She could not help feeling a bit self-conscious as she sat by Zeke's side and went rattling along the street, down into the square, into the very centre of Bloomfield life. But she held her head jauntily aloft and wondered if she were being noticed and being talked about. They met no one. They took the open road and the afternoon settled down upon her like a blessing. On either side of the road great patches of red and yellow streaked the hills, and the fields were taking on a soft golden brown, and soft purple mists gathered in the valleys blending in subtle fashion with the foreground. In spite of the riot of colour, the land was wrapped in a calm dignity. It wore its glories well. In the bits of woodland, through which the road occasionally digressed, there was a strong odour of beech and buckeye and there was a fragrant dampness rising.
The thought of Claybrook came into her mind. She could not quite make up her mind about Claybrook. She felt momentarily sorry for him, regretted that their friendship had come to its abrupt close. And yet there was no reason why she should feel sorry for him, he had so much of everything. But he and his world were woven out of different fabric from this world about her. She could not keep one and still have the other. Anyway, she had made up her mind. She had escaped; her feeling was one of definite escape. She banished the thought of him.
She got her trunk and Zeke loaded it upon the car where it threatened to crush its way through bottom, springs, frame, and all. She observed it skeptically but Zeke was quite brisk and cheerful about it. She bought a "Courier" from the station agent and with it in her hand climbed back into her seat and felt content, now that she had her goods about her and was about to go home again.
Zeke started to crank the car when he took one reassuring look about to see if everything was all right. Not being quite satisfied with the way the trunk was riding, he departed to look for a bit of rope with which to lash it into place. While she waited, she opened up the paper in her lap and looked idly at the first page.
Instantly something caught her eye; she started and then felt suddenly weak. She read on for a moment and then closed the paper and let it fall into her lap and stared off at the blue hills that rimmed the horizon. The station at Guests was about a half mile from the town and the road was quite deserted, with only the sound of someone moving a trunk around in the baggage room behind her. A flock of birds went winging across the sky and dipped down into a patch of red-and-gold woodland. She picked up the paper again and read some more.
The "Courier" made no specialty of scare headlines or red type. Its most sensational news rarely ever rated more than single-column type, or at most two columns. The article that caught her attention was the usual one concerning misappropriation of public funds, malfeasance of office, bribery, and the like--a drab sort of story. The public had been "bilked" again. It sounded quite matter of fact. Involved were the city engineer and one J. K. Thompson, Contractor, and J. F. Claybrook, lumber man and dealer, all in collusion. All this was in the headlines--in neat, modest type. Below came the bald facts stating the amounts of money involved which somehow she did not notice and a somewhat cynically weary paragraph at the end remarking that the people were having quite too much of this sort of thing and that the courts should recognize their full duty.
So that was where the new car and the trip to California was to come from. Perhaps that was where the fifteen hundred dollars had come from, too. But she had paid it back. She had just barely shaken the bird-catcher's lime from her wings. She shivered and closed the paper again.
When Zeke returned with the rope she smiled at him.
"Let's hurry back," she said.
On the way back to Bloomfield she had no eyes for the beauties of the fast-falling October evening. But in a little while she began to feel warmer inside. At least she had shaken the dust of the city from her feet, the city where everyone wore a mask--of honesty and sobriety and right living--and lived otherwise. No wonder they called it a melting pot. She would be content from henceforth to live where the air and the living were cleaner and purer.
So absorbed was she that she did not realize that Zeke had taken another route home. When she noticed, she remarked on it.
"Hit's a shoht cut," explained Zeke. "You said you wanted to get home quick."
She smiled at his responsiveness.
They came suddenly around a bend in the road upon a gang of men, road mending. There was a huge concrete mixer and she wondered at the sight of it, a new sign of progress for Bloomfield. There was a stretch of loose rock and a wooden bar blocking the road. Zeke muttered his dismay but did not stop. They rolled right up to the barrier. A man in khaki breeches and flannel shirt and high lace boots came and waved them back.
"You'll have to turn around," he called out cheerily, and she saw that it was Joe Hooper. As though in answer to the obvious question he added, as he in turn recognized her, "Like a bad penny--I'm turning up again."
She looked at him and stared. His face was very red and somehow he looked quite natural, more so than in his city clothes.
"What in the world?" she said.
He had come quite close and she could see he was smiling. That baffling, uncertain look had left his face and there was something open about it.
"Got a man's job again," he said, still smiling.
"And you're going to be in this part of the country?"
"Till the job's finished," he replied. "And there's quite a lot of it, too. County's got a prosperous streak on. Means to have some real roads. It's about time."
Zeke was slowly backing the car preparatory to turning around.
"I'm back home now, myself," she called and reddened at once at her unnecessary confidence. What did he care where she was? But as they turned slowly in the narrow road she added, "Come and see me," and waved to him and wondered if he would.
It was growing dusk as they came again to Bloomfield and a chill was settling down. The lights in the windows glowed cheerily against the purple twilight and in one kitchen someone was frying potato cakes. The odour was symbolical of hot suppers, and summer's passing, and home, and warmth, and cheer.
She tipped Zeke a quarter even before he lugged her trunk through the kitchen door, and then she went briskly in.
"Supper ready, Zenie?" she called.
Zenie turned slowly around and looked at her from the biscuit board. She smiled wearily. "No'm. Not jes' yet it ain'. Terectly."
Mary Louise looked at her watch. It was a quarter past six. She came to a sudden decision.
"Zenie," she said.
Zenie looked up hopefully.
"I guess we'll not be needing you any more after this week."
A slow, incredulous look met her. "Yas'm?"
"You can go back and look after that husband of yours."
"Yas'm? He gettin' erlong all right."
"I don't know, Zenie. You never can tell," Mary Louise went on, maliciously enjoying the havoc she was spreading. "I'll pay you for the week. You can leave whenever you want to. But let's have supper right away." And she walked resolutely through the kitchen into a darkened house, burning her bridges behind her. _