OCR Text |
Show By REN AMES WILLIAMS Copyrighf WNU SERVICE CHAPTER VIII Continued "No, no," June insisted. "You were always so sweet to Mother. You and Grandma both." "It was not what we did to her," the old man said. "It was what we permitted to be done." And he asked after a moment, astonishingly: astonishing-ly: "June, will you take me some day to see the man who lives in the cabin by the pond?" "Uncle Jim?" she exclaimed, surprised sur-prised and puzzled. "You call him that?" the old man asked. "He likes me to," she confessed. "I think he is a good man," said Grandpa Hurder slowly. "I have been wrong. I mean to tell him so." June hesitated, deeply puzzled; but she only said slowly: "I don't know where he is now. He's gone." The old man looked at her, she thought, in something like dismay at this intelligence, while she explained. ex-plained. She had seen Uncle Jim at her mother's funeral, in the undertaker's undertak-er's little chapel where frugally the services were held, and again later in the cemetery. He was decently dressed, so that she hardly recognized recog-nized him in this unaccustomed sobriety so-briety of garb. She saw him watching watch-ing her, and wished to smile, but that would not under the circumstances circum-stances have been seemly. She had gone next day to his cabin in the wood, only to find it closed, ' secured; but there was a note on the door addressed to her. It promised prom-ised that he would come back soon; . but he had not yet returned . . . During the fortnight after her mother died, and for the first time in her life, June began to be happy. The girl thought this was a strange thing, a shameful thing; yet it was true. For the world began to smile, and in surprising ways. Clint was tender to her, but so were others too. The world, after her mother's death, turned in so many ways a new countenance toward to-ward June. Mrs. Bowdon gave her a heavy sympathy; Aunt Evie told her that she was a brave fine girl. Rab made her smile sometimes with a jesting word; and her cousin Asa began to pay her, with a quizzical quiz-zical light in his eye, certain mysterious mys-terious attentions. He brought home one day, smuggling it into the house at dusk, a flat parcel. "Don't open it here," he warned her. "And don't let anyone see it. Take it up to your room. Try it on. I think it will fit all right. Try it in front of your mirror. Try doing your hair some other way." The parcel, she discovered, contained con-tained a gown different from any she had ever worn before, the skirt dismayingly shorter than the ankle-length ankle-length Mrs. Bowdon's strict command com-mand had long since imposed. June was a little terrified at her own aspect as-pect in the mirror; but by and by interest banished terror. There were unseemly lumps which marred her contours here and there, but when, valorously experimenting, she removed her underclothing and put on the new dress again, these lumps had disappeared and left smooth nd gracious lines. June hugged this secret happiness tjll Asa found a chance to ask her jvhether the gown fitted. She told him then: "Yes, perfectly. I don't see how ,rou knew the size." "I've an accurate eye," he as-mircd as-mircd her. She almost laughed under her breath. "I can't imagine you going Into a store and buying things like that." He said with an amused promise tn his tones: "I'll surprise you again." And he was as good as his word, bringing her one day another parcel. When she opened this one, jihe wns enraptured; but it was hours tefore she ventured to try on, even behind the bolted door of her room, the astonishing garments therein contained; and it was days before she risked wearing some of them, soberly concealed beneath the fusty dark dress which was her usual usu-al garb in the house. She asked Asa one day why he had fetched her these secret lovely tilings; and he said with a smile in his eyes: "A girl has a right to them, June. If you ever want to impress some young man, just wear that dress." She colored richly, and wondered whether he knew about Clint, and dared not ask for fear of his reply. Yet this was a delicious fear; she hugged it rapturously. She could not wear the new dress. It would be seen. But she wore the undergarments Asa had given her. under her accustomed garb. And she saw Clint more and more often. One day they had appointed to meet by the river, and June was waiting by the knoll above the stream when the canoe appeared. She saw in a faint dismay that Clint was not alone, and thought of flight: men she recognized in Clint's pas senger the kindly old man who had come with Clint to Uncle Jim's cab in that first day. Clint, when they landed, made good-humored apologies: "Mr. Tope was bound to come along. June." he said. "I told him three's a crowd; but I couldn't get rid of him. We'll maroon him here and go on upstream, you and I." But the Inspector said, smiling at the girl on the bank above him: "I suspected that Clint was up to something, some-thing, coming out here so much. How are you? I met you one day, remember?" She did remember, and she said so, conscious already of that feeling feel-ing of liking and trust which Tope could when he chose inspire. But she said to Clint: "I can't go up the river today. I have to be back soon. Grandpa Bowdon isn't well today. to-day. They might need me. But we can sit here for a while." She tried to recall, afterward, whether Tope had asked her any questions that day; but she could not be sure of a single direct inquiry. in-quiry. Yet she had found herself telling him about the night her mother died; about the anagrams, "I'm excited," she confessed. and her mother's headache, and the fact that there was no milk in the ice-chest, so that Aunt Evie had to go next door everything. Tope nodded, and Clint came to her side. "I'll walk a little way with you," he said. So she bade Tope good-by, uncertainly, and she and Clint went up the slope together. togeth-er. When they were out of hearing, she said with something like a shudder: shud-der: "I'd almost forgotten about that night." She looked at Clint squarely. square-ly. "Clint, what is it? What did he want? Who is he?" But Clint told her reassuringly: "He's all right. A fine old fellow." The young man chuckled. "You see, he married Miss Moss, and I guess she sent him out to look you over, June. She's almost like my own mother, you know." He was able in the end to reassure reas-sure her. Before they parted, still out of sight of the houses on the hill, they planned to meet next morning at Uncle Jim's cabin In the wood. Then she told him good-by, good-by, and saw something in his eyes, and guessed what was in his mind; and she wa'ted, gracious and consenting. con-senting. But in the end he only clasped her hand and said: "In the morning, then!" She went away from him up the slope, smiling to herself. It had been easy to read the impulse in his eyes; she had seen and welcomed wel-comed it. She had belonged to him in her thoughts long ago. Yet she could smile now at his restraint, sure of him as she was of herself. Their hour would come. When she reached the house, it was to learn that Grandpa Bowdon had died half an hour before. CHAPTER IX June, to her own astonishrrient, wept for Grandpa Bowdon as she had not wept for her mother. His going touched her deeply; and she went to her room and stayed there for a while alone. Then Asa knocked at her door, and when she opened, he knew how to comfort her. "He was ready to go, June," he said. "Don't feel badly. And it was just like snapping a string. No hurt, no pain." And he bade her come downstairs. "The old folks need you," he urged. "You and Rab and I, we've got to carry them over the hump, you know." She wished suddenly, desperately, to see Clint, to be with him now; but since she could not, she smiled at Asa, and dried her tears, and went down with him, her head high and steady. Through the rest of that afternoon and evening, she carriea her share of the burden here . . . The appointed hour was not yet come next morning, when June slipped away to the woods to meet Clint; but he would have seen the report of Mr. Bowdon's death, would know she needed him. When she enme through the sunlit woods, up the pnih to the cabin on the knoll, he was there as she expected. ex-pected. He saw her approaching and was swift to meet her. June stood still as he drew near, and she was trembling and shaken. He came toward her, his hands outstretched; out-stretched; and without knowing how, or caring, she was in his arms and happy there. "I shouldn't have stayed with you, yesterday," she said, after a long time. "I might have seen him again, if I'd come home." He urged: "June, June, you couldn't have helped. And you liked being with me, were happy. That's what he'd have wanted for you." "I never was really afraid before," be-fore," she whispered. "Not for myself. my-self. But I am now, Clint. Oh, I am now. Afraid for me and you." "I'm going to take you away," he cried. "Away from all this here!" "You can't," she protested. "Grandpa and Grandma Hurder they just have to have me there." Yet she agreed by and by to meet him that night, after the others should all be abed. They had supper before dark, in June's kitchen. Rab had stayed with Grandma Bowdon while Aunt Evie ate her supper; but when his mother relieved him, he came back, and June served him, and he said approvingly: "You're carrying a load, June. Good lass. I wish I could give you a hand." "It's a woman's business," she told him. "You do more with them, keep them going." "I've got to leave them tonight," he confessed. "I'm due in court in Providence in the morning. It's just an appearance, but the judge down there is a crank. And I have to see my client tonight." When he had finished, he went home with Uncle Justus; but half an hour later he stopped in again. June was washing the last dishes. ' "Father's gone to sleep in his chair," he told her, smiling. "He'll wake up and put himself to bed by and by. I'm going over to say good night to Mother and Grandma." Grand-ma." June nodded, intent upon the dishes, intent upon her own thoughts. It was half after seven. Clint had said he would be waiting, a little distance down the road, at eight; but she had no hope of coming com-ing to him so soon. Grandpa and Grandma Hurder were in the sitting-room; and once she looked in on them. They had not heard her approach; and Grandpa Hurder was just leaning over to pat Grandma's hand where it lay on the arm of the chair; June watched and her throat swelled with tears unshed. And then Asa came in. "Any water hot, June?" he asked. "I've got to have a cup of tea." He sat down while she put the kettle on the stove, talked to her casually till it boiled. She found a tea-ball; and he brought a milk-bottle half empty from the ice-chest, ice-chest, and poured a little milk into the cup. "There isn't any cream," she said. "I'm sorry." "Milk's all right if you use enough of it," he assured her, smiling in that dry way he had. "That's the way with most things, June. Too little's starvation; too much is as bad. But enough's all right." He drank in little sips, watching her. "You're like a rosebud, swelling as it gets ready to bloom." And he declared: "Hey, you're blushing, child. High time you heard some pretty things about yourself, your-self, if your own cousin can make you blush with a compliment." He put his arm around her, kissed her cheek. "How about this Jervies fellow?" fel-low?" He saw her start with dismay, j and laughed, and promised: "I won't say a word." He disappeared. Later Aunt Evie came into the kitchen. "Those old folks won't I sleep a wink," she said gently. "I'm going to give them some milk." She saw the bottle where Asa had left it, and poured the milk into a stew-pan, stew-pan, scratched a match. June was suddenly cold with remembered re-membered terror. She told herself she was a fool, a fool, a fool. People had drunk warm milk before! Rab came in from out of doors, wet with the increasing rain; he crossed to where Aunt Evie stood by the stove and embraced her. " 'Night, Mother," he said. "I'll be back by noon tomorrow." "The funeral is at four," she told him evenly. "I know," he assented. "I'll be here." He grinned at June. "Good night, kid." Aunt Evie poured the milk into two glasses, and June went with her into the other room. The girl was full of a great tenderness ten-derness for these old folk. Under Aunt Evie's calm insistence they sipped their milk obediently; they set the empty glasses by; they lay down to sleep like children, side by side. June took the glasses, started toward to-ward the kitchen to wash them. Behind Be-hind her she heard Aunt Evie say: "No. I'll leave the windows closed. It might rain in. And you don't need any air. You'll be asleep so soon." She was always thus calmly bent upon having her own way; when she came back into the kitchen, she looked at the girl keenly. "You all right, June?" she asked. "Oh, yes," June told her guardedly. guard-edly. "You must go to bed," Aunt Evie directed. "As soon as you are done here. Good night, child." Her bands flying, she slipped out of her clothes, changed swiftly into the dress Asa secretly had given her. She stood for a few minutes before the mirror, busy with her hair. At last she was satisfied. Some one radiant and lovely looked back at her from the mirror there. She turned out the light at last, and in the darkness descended to the lower hall. She found a heavy coat and drew it on, then opened the front door. A gust of rain wet her cheek, and she remembered another night when she had thus gone running to meet Clint. But then she did not know he was waiting. It was deeply contenting content-ing to be sure tonight that he would meet her, here. "Darling! You're shaking all over!" "I'm excited," she confessed, laughing softly. "I never did this before, and I've got a new dress on." He kissed her again, and she confessed: "And I thought of the night Mother died. It rained then too, remember. So I was scared." "Not scared now," he urged, and held her close. "Never with you," she promised him. So presently he put the car in motion, allowing it to coast silently down the hill. Another car overtook them from behind and passed at speed. Neither Clint nor June would remember, re-member, afterward, much about the motion-picture they saw that evening. eve-ning. In the dim obscurity of the theater, their eyes were much more often turned toward each other than toward the screen. And after a time Clint whispered: "Are you liking lik-ing this? I think it's dull." She smiled at him. "I don't think it's dull," she said. "You see, it's almost the first one I ever saw." (TO BE CONTINUED) |