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The Voice of the People, a novel by Ellen Glasgow |
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Book 2. A Rainy Season - Chapter 4 |
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_ BOOK II. A RAINY SEASON CHAPTER IV At last the rains were over. The sun came out again, and with it the growth of the season burst into abundance. There were bird-notes on the air, fragrance in the stillness, bloom on the trees. In the thicket dogwood massed itself in clouds of dead-white stars, like an errant trail from the Milky Way, lighting the wooded twilight. Wild azalea, so deeply rose that the hue seemed of the blood, wafted its sharp, unearthly scent across the underbrush to the road. The woods were vocal with the mating songs of their winged inhabitants. The music of the thrush welled from the sheer forceful joy of living. "It is good--good--good to be a lover!" he sang again and again with amorous repetition and a full-throated flourish of improvisation. In the pauses of the thrush sounded the cheery whistle of the redbird, the crying of the catbird, the liquid tones of the song sparrow, and the giddy exclamations of the pewee. Sometimes an oriole darted overhead in a royal flash of black and yellow, a robin stood in the road and delivered a hearty invitation, or a hawk flew past, pursued by martins. With the spring planting came a chance of outdoor work, and Nicholas would sometimes rise at dawn and do a piece of ploughing before breakfast. He had driven the team out one morning across the brown, bare earth, which the plough had ripped open in a jagged track, when something in the silence and the scents of nature smote him suddenly as with a vital force. Dropping the reins to the ground, he threw back his head and breathed a keen, quick sense of exaltation. A warm mist, sweet and fresh as the breath of a cow, overhung hill and field, road and meadow. In a black-browed cedar tree a mocking-bird was singing. With a sudden shout Nicholas voiced the glorification of toil--of honest work well done. He felt with the force of a revelation that to throw up the clods of earth manfully is as beneficent as to revolutionise the world. It was not the matter of the work, but the mind that went into it, that counted--and the man who was not content to do small things well would leave great things undone. The beasts before him did not shirk their labour because it was clay and not gold dust that trailed behind the plough; why should he? And where was happiness if it sprung not from the soil? Where contentment if it dwelt not near to Nature? For what was better than these things--the clear air of sunrise, the keen, sweet smell of the fertile earth, the relaxation of tired muscles? Why should he, who had been born to the soil, struggle forth to alien ends as a sightless earthworm to the harrow's teeth? On his way in from the fields he stopped an instant at the gate of the barnyard to look at the red-and-white cow that was licking her little, tottering calf. Some rollicking lambs were skipping near a dignified group of ewes, that looked on with half-fearful, half-disapproving faces. At the pump he saw his stepmother filling a water bucket, and he took it from her hands. "I reckon it is too heavy for you to carry," he said timidly. "'Tain't much to tote," returned Marthy Burr opposingly. "If I'd never had nothin' more'n that to bear I'd have as straight a back as yo' pa's got. 'Tain't the water buckets as bends a woman, nohow; it's the things as the Lord lays on extry." She relinquished the bucket and followed Nicholas resentfully to the house. "I never did care 'bout havin' folks come 'round interferin' with my burdens," she murmured half-aggrievedly. "I ain't done for yet, an' when I is I reckon I'll know it as soon as anybody--lessen it's yo' pa, who's got powerful sharp eyes at seein' the failin's of other people--an' powerful dull ones when it comes to recognisin' his own." Then she set about preparing breakfast, and Nicholas flung himself into a chair on the porch. Nannie, a pretty, auburn-haired girl, was grinding coffee in a small mill, and he looked at her thoughtfully; then Jubal came out, whittling a stick, and he turned his gaze inquiringly upon him. "What would you like to do in the world, Jubal?" he asked, "best of all?" Jubal looked up in perplexity, his fat forehead wrinkling. "You ain't countin' in eatin', I s'pose?" he replied doubtfully. Nicholas shook his head. "No, leave out eating," he said. "An' the splittin' open of that durn livered Spike Turner?" "Yes, that too." Jubal whittled slowly, his forehead wrinkling more deeply. "Then I don't know whether it's to give ma a rest or to own Billy Flinders's coon dog, Boss," he said. Nicholas laughed for an instant, but the laugh softened into a smile. At the table he asked his stepmother and Sairy Jane about the spring chickens, and they answered with surprised eagerness. "I am going to mark the lambs to-morrow," he said. "They're a nice lot." And he added: "Some day I'll take the farm and make it pay." "I don't see what you want to go steppin' in yo' pa's shoes for," put in Marthy Burr. "When toes have got p'inted down-hill they ain't goin' no other way. Don't you come back to raisin' things on this land. I ain't never seen nothin' thrive on it yet, cep'n weeds, an' the Lord knows they warn't planted." Nicholas shook his head. "Why, look at Turner," he said. "His land is as poor as this, and he makes an easy living." "A Turner ain't a Burr," returned his stepmother with uncompromising logic, "an' a Burr ain't a Turner. Whar the blood runs the man follows, an' yours ain't runnin' towards the farm. Jeb Turner can fling a handful of corn in poor groun', an' thar'll come up a cornfield, an' yo' pa may plant with the sweat of his brow an' the groanin' of his spirit, an' the crows git it. A farmer's got to be born, same as a fool. You can't make a corn pone out of flour dough by the twistin' of it." "That's so," admitted Amos Burr, laying down his knife and meeting his wife's eyes. "That's so. You can't make a corn pone out of flour dough, noways you turn it." "Perhaps I'll try some day," said Nicholas with a laugh; and he rose and went out of the house. When he had reached the little gate he heard a voice behind him, and turned to find his half-sister Nannie, her cheeks flushed like a damp, wild rose above her faded dress. "I want you to bring me something from the store, Nick," she stammered. "I want a blue ribbon for my hair, it's--it's so worrisome." She shook her auburn locks, and Nicholas realised suddenly that she must be very good to look at--to men who were only in a Scriptural sense her brothers. He felt a vague pride in her. "Why, of course I will," he answered. "Blue let it be." And he opened the gate and went on his way, leaving Nannie, still flushed, in the path. When he took down Jerry Pollard's shutters a half-hour later he stood for an instant looking thoughtfully down upon the assortment in the window. Then he leaned over and conscientiously set upright a blue-glass vase before going behind the counter to unpin the curtains hanging across the dry-goods shelves. After breakfast Bessie Pollard came in and stood with her elbow resting on the showcase as she flirted a small feather duster. She had just released her hair from curl paper, and it hung in golden ringlets over her forehead. Her face was ripe and red, like a well-sunned peach, and the firm curves of her bosom swelled the gathers of her gown. "You look real spry this morning," she said coquettishly; but he turned from her in sudden distaste. Her tawdry refinement irritated the more serious manner of his mood. Presently she went back to her dusting, and he completed his daily setting to rights of the shop before he drew up to the desk and made out the bills that were due for the month. It was not until some hours later that he looked up upon hearing a step on the threshold. At first he stood up mechanically at the sight of a girl in a riding-habit. Then he started and drew back, for the girl lifted her head, and he saw that it was Eugenia Battle. In the same glance he saw also that there was a keen surprise in her face. "Why, Nick Burr!" she said breathlessly. She tripped over her long riding-skirt and caught it hastily in one hand; in the other she carried a small switch. She had grown tall and straight, and her hair was gathered up from her shoulders. For a moment they were both silent. In Eugenia's face the surprise gave place to gladness, and the warmth of her personality gathered to her eyes. She held out her ungloved hand. "Why, Nick Burr!" she said again. But Nicholas looked at her in silence. All the dogged bitterness of the last six months welled to his lips--all his new-found philosophy evaporated at the sting of wounded pride. He remembered with a start the gray road on the afternoon in November, the sullen cast of the sky, the hopeless trend of the wind among the trees, the leaping of the light into Eugenia's face. She laughed now as she had laughed then--a hearty little burst of surprise in the suddenness of the meeting. He turned quickly from the outstretched hand. "What can I do for you?" he asked, and his tone was like Jerry Pollard's. Eugenia's hand fell to her side, closing upon the folds of her skirt. She caught her lip between her teeth with a petulant twitch. Then she came forward and laid a small brown bit of cloth upon the counter. "A spool of silk this shade," she said briskly. "Please match it very carefully." Nicholas pulled open the small drawers containing the silk, and compared the sample with the row of spools. He made his selection, showing it to Eugenia before wrapping it in brown paper. "Is that all?" he asked grimly. Eugenia nodded. He gave her the spool, and she lifted her skirt and went out of the shop. A moment more, and she passed the door swiftly on the brown mare. Nicholas closed the drawer and laid the torn sheet of wrapping paper back in its place. A little girl came in for a card of hooks and eyes for her mother, a dressmaker, and he gave them to her and dropped the nickel in the till. When she went out he followed her to the door and stood looking out into the gray dust of the street. Across the way a lady was gathering roses from a vine that clambered over her piazza, and the sunlight struck straight at her gracious figure. From afar off came the sound of children laughing. Down the street several mild-eyed Jersey cows were driven by a little negro to the court-house green. In a near tree a wood-bird sang a score of dreamy notes. Gradually the quiet of the scene wrought its spell upon him--the insistent languor drugged him like a narcotic. On the wide, restless globe there is perhaps no village of three streets, no settlement that has been made by man, so utterly the cradle of quiescence. From the listless battlefields, where grass runs green and wild, to the little whiter washed gaol, where roses bloom, it is a petrified memory, a perennial day dream. The lady across the street passed under her rose vine, her basket filled with creamy clusters. The cows filed lazily on the court-house green. The wood-bird in the near tree sang over its dreamy notes. The clear black shadows in the street lay like full-length figures across the vivid sunlight. The bitterness passed slowly from his lips. He turned, and was reentering the shop, when his name was called sharply. "Why, Nick Burr!" The words were Eugenia's, but the voice was Tom Bassett's. He had come up suddenly with the judge, and as Nicholas turned he caught his hand in a hearty grasp. "Well, I call this luck!" he cried. "I say, Nick, you haven't grown bald since I saw you. Do you remember the time you shaved every strand of hair off your head so we'd stop calling you 'Carrotty'?" "I remember you called me 'Baldy,'" said Nicholas, running his hand through his thick, red hair. Then he looked at the judge. "I hope you are well, sir," he added. The judge bowed with his fine-flavoured courtesy. "As I trust you are," he returned graciously. "Well, all I've got to say," put in Tom, as his father finished, "is that it's a shame--a confounded shame. What good will Nick's brains do him in old Pollard's store? Old Pollard's a skinflint, anyway, and he cuffed me once when I was a small chap." Nicholas glanced back uncertainly into the shop. "Oh, he isn't so bad when you know him," he said. "Most folks aren't." "He seems to value Nicholas's services," added the judge politely. Nicholas flushed. "I don't know about that," he returned awkwardly. "I know one thing, though," said Tom with slow wrath, "and that is that I'm not green enough to be fooled by Nick Burr, if other people are. Father told me last night that it was Nick's own choice that took him to Jerry Pollard's. Choice, the Dickens! Why, it's those blasted people of his that put him here." Tom was very red in the face, so was Nicholas. They looked at the judge, and the judge looked back at them with a humorous twinkle in his eyes. "My dear Tom," he said at last, "I never gave you credit for being a Solomon, but some day your wit may put your father to shame." Then he held out his hand to Nicholas. "When you're a little older, my boy," he remarked, "you may learn that, though an old fool may be the biggest fool, he's not the only one. Come to see us when you feel like it, eh, Tom?" They passed on together, and Nicholas stood looking after them until a man came in to exchange a pair of shoes. "They're a leetle too skimpy 'cross the toes," he said deprecatingly. "The heels air first-rate, but the toes sorter seem to be made fur a three-toed somebody. 'Tain't as if I could jest set aroun' in 'em, of course; then they'd be a fine fit, but when I go ter stan' up they pinches." Nicholas gave him a larger size and put the box back upon the shelf. He was thinking of Tom Bassett and the twinkle in the judge's eyes, and he did not hear the man's rambling speech. It seemed to him that his friendship with Tom and his father had been restored--that he might once more go freely in and out of the judge's house. When the day was over he walked slowly homeward along the deserted road, his mind still busy with recollections of the morning. Yes, life was decidedly endurable at worst. If he might not become celebrated, he might at least become content. He was _not_ Tom Bassett, but he had Tom Bassett's friendship. He would live a simple life in his own class among his own people, and he would grow to be respected by those who were above him. He had entered the wood, when he remembered suddenly that he had forgotten the ribbon for his sister Nannie. He turned quickly and retraced his steps through the thickening twilight. _ |
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