Authors: James Gould Cozzens
At eleven o'clock the up-train got in; great locomotive gleaming wet, steam merging in the mist, all the cars dripping dirty water, windows clouded over, jewelled with drops. Out fell the mail sacks. In the lighted express car, men, keeping as dry as they could, shoved crates and bundles on to the hand trucks. Forward, the engineer, goggles in a band across his eyes, shoulder and left arm covered by a black rubber coat, had his head out, high in the cab, watching for the conductor's signals. Now the locomotive made a stupendous first effort, wheels slipping on the wet steel, steam hammering up. The train moved, groaning at every coupling; the cars began to slide by. Through the mist, back gleamed the lighted scarlet markers.
The mail-cart, covered with a tarpaulin, was trundled over to the post office. People had already begun to gather, and most of them had noticed, on the big thermometer outside the door, that the tinted alcohol had climbed the capillary bore, crossing fifty. Men, too warm in heavy coats, women, closing umbrellas as they approached Bates' counters, expressed themselves:
"Why, it's like spring —"
"Up at Truro, the snow's all gone. Not that there's much here —"
"Wouldn't surprise me if the river went to-night —"
In mud-coated knee-boots, an olive raincoat and a sodden felt hat, Mr. Snyder, from the construction camp, was talking to Mr. Bates. He wanted to get a tractor. One of the Interstate Light & Power trucks was stuck in the mess of water and deepening mud of the Cobble road. Snyder had been compelled to leave his Ford and walk in, for there was no way of getting past the obstruction.
In Mr. Bates' melancholy opinion, most tractors would be laid up still. Perhaps Weems' wrecking-car could make it.
George Weems, consulted, thought that it might be possible. "Harry's pretty handy about that kind of thing," he admitted, "but if you're really stuck on the Cobble road in a thaw like this —"
Faced with this amiable but slightly derisive patronage Snyder felt bound to explain that the situation was not so bad as it seemed. He'd seen long ago that the road would be impassable for him in the spring. His plan had been to get all the trucks out of the old barn at the foot of the hill which Mr. Harris had rented them for a garage, and bring them to town at the first sign of a thaw. Who could have foreseen anything like this yesterday?
Snyder had troubles enough, and he was close to unloading them on New York in a rage. The camp itself, he was finding now, had been built with some regard for snow and cold, but not, apparently, for any such downpour as this. The main bunk-house leaked in several places. The site drained all right, but the knoll on which the temporary buildings had been put up, denuded, showed a tendency to erode deeply on all sides. This happened to be important because the latrine shed had been placed at the edge of a particularly precipitous slope into a gully behind. The steady rainwash was already undermining its slight foundations Oddly enough, this appeared to cheer men who had nothing to do but regard the wet valley. It offered opportunity for ribaldries about themselves tumbling (the most comic situation many of them could imagine) in a heap into the latrine to be washed away with its contents. Snyder was ready to say that this was the last winter construction job he'd ever have anything to do with. He doubted if time saved half-way compensated for the annoyances and expenses. This was the sort of thing somebody who'd never been out of an office in his life thought up; and he, Snyder, was the goat.
Harry Weems appeared then in a yellow raincoat. He had been somewhat relieved to discover that Snyder was there for help, not to raise a row about any whisky which Harry might have sold his men. Sure, Harry said, they could try.
He got a set of claw chains, laid them down on the garage floor, and ran the wrecking-truck on them; struggled, with Snyder's assistance, to hook them up.
At the door, a horn rang out strident. Guy Banning's car poked its long hood in, crawled neatly past the truck and halted. "Listen, Guy," said Harry, "leave it here, will you? I got to go out for about an hour. We can tackle it after lunch."
"All right. About half-past two?"
"Sure."
Guy Banning fastened the flap and collar of a trench-coat, strolling away into the rain.
"Who's that?" asked Snyder. "Don't seem to have seen him before."
"He's down at Yale. Son of the Bannings—in the big place up the end of the green. He's got a sister you've probably seen. Nice-looking kid with a sort of thin face. Drives a Ford coupé around."
"With a red-headed girl?"
"That's right. Mr. Hoyt's daughter."
"Used to see them on the Cobble road. Let's go."
Driving in the rain, Harry Weems said: "Wet on the hill?"
"Wet enough. Listen: do you know the ground up there?"
"I guess so."
"Well, listen: where does that little brook right behind us come out?"
"Damned if I know. Probably down at Bull's pond. Why?"
"Well, I wondered. Afraid we might be polluting it. You never know in the country who uses what for drinking water."
"Nobody drinks out of brooks around here."
2
Although the rain had lasted all day Sunday, and looked as if it might last for ever, Monday morning was beautifully clear and warm. Virginia Banning, awakening, could feel the changed air on her face— soft, mild and fresh. Lying still, she could see the sunlight on the sodden limbs and ruddy twigs of the maples, and behind them, sky brilliantly blue. At the head of the flag-pole by the tennis-court, a flag which must be new lifted out, straightening exquisitely sharp and clean stripes; a ripple of vivid red; a swelling and swaying of the blue field with immaculate stars. Larry had apparently decided to consider to-day Washington's birthday; apparently, too, he was pleased with the world. She could hear the scratch of a rake on a path, and Larry whistling with a clear and sweet skill:
Sometimes I'm happy
—
The danger of dying if she could not go to Paris was suddenly remote; and this irritated her vaguely—as though the vanity of ridiculous existence would not even allow her a quality as solid as prolonged disappointment. She just felt tranquil. Down by the stables, Samson barked, one mild, friendly boom. She would, she decided, get Guy to take her driving.
Throwing off the covers, she sat a moment on the edge of the bed, looking at the bright flag and the marvellous sky. She stood up then; walked barefoot to the bathroom door, and hit the back of her hand against it. Getting no response, she opened it. The door beyond was open too and she could see the sunlight on the floor of Guy's room. He was knotting a necktie in front of the mirror, and he half turned.
"Listen," he said, "you can't get a bath."
"Has the damn electric heater broken down again?"
"No, but wait till you see the water. It's mostly mud."
She turned on a faucet. "It's not so bad."
"Well, it was practically black a minute ago."
"Well, it's not now."
"Let it run a minute and see."
"I am. It's getting better. Take me out in your car this morning, will you?"
"What for?"
"Don't, then." '
"Where do you want to go?"
"I don't want to go anywhere. Can't you just drive?"
"I suppose so."
"Well, will you?"
"Maybe. But I'll tell you right now I'm not going to let you drive. You did something to the steering-gear when you swiped it Friday."
"Couldn't I even drive it with you there?"
"No."
"Gosh, you're a hog, Guy!" She closed the door, shot the bolt on it, and pulled her pyjamas off. He came close to the door and said something, obviously annoyed; but she turned on the shower, satisfied. He was probably mad enough to take her just in order not to let her drive.
Mrs. Banning was glad that it was clear. Leroy Getchell, the Principal of the New Winton school, assisted by Miss Kiernan, who taught the fifth grade, had been working for over three weeks on
Washington's Vision, a Patriotic Pageant.
Some of the more essential costumes had been rented from a New York firm. Those less essential had been made at home. Into learning lines and rehearsals a good deal of time and effort had gone. Mr. Ingraham, who conducted manual training classes in the basement, had built the set to go on the platform in the assembly hall. Lester Dunn had been persuaded to do the wiring for only what the materials cost him. If it had continued to rain, both attendance and enthusiasm would have suffered.
Beyond underwriting, as she always did, most of the actual costs, Mrs. Banning hadn't really done much about it herself; but she liked things, over which a lot of trouble had been taken, to go well. Mr. Getchell was her strongest ally on the School Committee. Since he was very energetic about such entertainments, she would do everything she could, in loyal exchange for his help in dealing with Henry Harris and his deadlocking combination with Mr. Lane and Mr. Ordway— the one because of a sour and obtuse miserliness; the other because of his liking for his position as representative at Hartford and willingness to arrange any sort of minor deal or compromise with the Democrats to keep it safe. Thus, there might always be three against her. Miss Kimball, the Librarian, could be counted on to do as Mrs. Banning wanted. Mr. Getchell, as Chairman, had two votes; but Henry Harris had cleverly—that was in the guise of being cautious with public money—forced into the rules of procedure a requirement that all financial matters should be approved by at least a two-thirds vote. This completely counteracted the Chairman's advantage, since there were seven votes, and four would never be quite two-thirds of seven. Almost any subject of importance either clearly was, or could be so presented as to seem, a matter of finances; so progress, except in directions approved by Henry Harris, was uncertain. —, Henry Harris was not interested in entertainments— presumably because there was nothing for him in them.
If they had entertainments, it would be on the trifling funds of the Parent-Teacher Association, with Mrs. Banning making up the deficits more or less anonymously. She could not, for instance, have the ice-cream sent up from Sansbury charged to herself. That was patronage too direct, and would cause grumbling about what was good enough for the ladies of the association was good enough and so on. The proper procedure was to charge it to the association and inconspicuously contribute to the treasury a sum to cover it.
A person less instictively generous or less resolute in good works might have washed her hands of the whole affair long ago; but Mrs. Banning felt that difficulties only emphasized duty. Deserting someone who tried as hard as Mr. Getchell to have things go smoothly; or leaving a poor faithful creature like Miss Kimball (her father was Ralph Kimball, the station agent, and a very plain person indeed; making her cultural triumphs the more impressive and deserving of support) un-encouraged, was just as impossible as failing to support Doctor Wyck's zeal in schooling the scanty, once carelessly low church congregation of St. Matthias's in what he called Catholic Practice.
The entertainment was to take place at two o'clock. Neither Virginia nor Guy was going to be available. Guy couldn't be expected to go, and Virginia would probably have been so bored and rude to both parents and teachers that her absence might be just as well. She had gone driving with Guy, and telephoned from Litchfield that they wouldn't be back for luncheon. Mr. Banning had spent the morning considering his crocuses, likely to be open very shortly if weather like this continued; and helping Larry saturate with boiling water a thoughtfully compounded mixture of loam and rotten leaf-mould and sand in the dozen cold frames on the sunny side of the stables. Cheered at the prospects of early planting, he voluntarily said that he would go.
There were at least thirty cars down by the school- house, and many people moving about. Mr. Ingraham, Scout-master as well as Manual Training Instructor, was running in and out in his uniform, which was a good deal too small for him. This, with the solemnity he showed in exchanging three-fingered salutes with little boys whose similar uniforms were somewhat too big, gave him a slightly idiotic air, but he was very cheerful and enthusiastic. His troop, of all heights and sizes, mostly needing hair-cuts and busy blowing their noses, looked, if not very military, highly pleased with their work of showing cars where to park and acting as ushers to their indulgent parents. It did seem as though everyone were enjoying it, and Mrs. Banning got out of the car contentedly. She even sàid good afternoon to Mr. Harris, who had put on a starched collar and smiled at her with warmest malevolence, removing his hat. Doctor Wyck, walking down from the rectory, joined her at once, and so did Miss Kimball. Pete Andrews, who must have been sitting in something like tar and wore a thick mat of yellow hair well down his neck under his campaign hat, managed to find them four seats in a row facing the extemporized stage.
Shortly before three o'clock the shades were all pulled down and the curtains dragged apart. Someone had forgotten to turn on the stage lights, but this was hastily remedied, and the audience saw, surprised, an illuminated section of forest at the extreme right. Since most of the stage was still in darkness it might be supposed that something else had gone wrong, but, as no consternation arose behind the scenes, it was agreeably accepted.
Into the light came now Ronald Fell, a cocked hat on his head, clad in the hypothetical buff and blue of the Continental Army. This was perhaps an anachronism, for where Washington, the Young Surveyor, could have got such a uniform was not clear; but at least everyone knew who Ronald was supposed to be. He was immediately followed by the Vogel twins. Their faces had been stained brown and they were closely wrapped in Navajo blankets, indicating clearly that they were Indians. Having, for reasons presently to become apparent, got as far on to the stage as he could, Ronald stopped suddenly, causing the agitated Vogel twins to recoil. With exaggerated feeling, he stretched and yawned. He faced about then and said: "Twenty long and weary miles have we journeyed to-day, my brothers. Let us lie down here under the pines and sleep, for night has fallen."