Thrush Green (25 page)

It gave the old doctor some consolation to know that he had helped her to assure the future of her little world, and that when next May Day came the full-blooded music of Mrs. Girdle's fair would still shake the young leaves on Thrush Green and all its innocent pleasures would be there again in the capable young hands of Ben Curdle.

The thought that his own affairs too were as squarely arranged as Mrs. Curdle's own gave him a deep inner peace. He had awakened that morning with a battle to fight, and now that battle was over. Whether he had won or lost, the doctor was not sure, but now that the heat of it was over he could retire from the field with his duty well done.

The good old man slept easily.

But his wife could not sleep.

Her mind turned over the happenings of that sunlit day and refused to rest. She remembered the glory of her dewy garden, the coffee party with those dear odd creatures, the wonderful change in poor little Ruth, Ella's mishap, which had been a real blessing, for it had forced her husband to make his decision, and—last of all, to her the most poignant happening of that long crowded day—her husband's disclosure of Mrs. Curdle's doom.

She heard St. Andrew's clock chime the quarter after eleven o'clock. Would she never sleep? Carefully, she crept from the great double bed and made her way to the kitchen to warm herself some milk. Sometimes this calmed her active mind and she hoped that the old-fashioned remedy would work now.

She carried her steaming mug to the sitting room, switched on the small reading lamp and sipped slowly.

The three or four street lamps around Thrush Green had gone out at eleven o'clock, for country dwellers are early abed. Through the window she could see the dark shapes of the caravans against the starlit sky. One or two still showed lights, for the Curdles had been busy since closing time collecting their weekly wages and putting their personal belongings together ready for an early start on the morrow.

Mrs. Bailey looked with affection, and with infinite sorrow, at the ancient caravan which housed her good friend. Its old beautiful lines showed plainly against the clear night sky and its small window glowed from the lamp within. The light quivered and blurred before Mrs. Bailey's tear-filled eyes, and she turned hastily away.

There was nothing to weep about, she told herself with as much firmness as she could muster. Mrs. Curdle's long life neared its end, but her work would thrive and her family too. She would never be forgotten while they endured.

The peace of the sitting room and the comforting warmth of the milk began to soothe Mrs. Bailey. She looked at the loved things around her and suddenly realized what riches were gathered there together in one lovely drop of time.

There on the side table stood the blue and white bowl, a wedding present from a long-dead friend, filled with narcissuses which had forced their fragile beauty so recently from the dark prison house of earth to delight her. An orange, which had traveled the far seas, touched its reflection in the black polished beauty of the Chinese chest on which it stood. The chest had been brought back in a tea clipper by a sailor-great-uncle of Mrs. Bailey's, and its perfection had always stirred her. The mug from which she sipped had been a christening present to her son. That son, she remembered, who was much the same age as Mrs. Curdle's dear George would have been.

She took a deep breath and looked with new eyes at her familiar treasures. All these lovely things had come from all over the face of the earth to offer her their particular solace. Some had intrinsic beauty of their own. Some had the beauty of association and long use, but all offered comfort to her troubled heart.

Mrs. Curdle would pass, as she and her dear husband must pass before long; but the world would go on, as bright and enchanting, and as full of quiet beauty for those who used their eyes to see it, as it had always been.

Mrs. Bailey turned off the light, went quietly back to bed and composed herself to sleep.

The houses around Thrush Green now lay in darkness, crouched comfortably against the Cotswold clay like great sleeping cats, their chimneys like pricked ears. Only from two or three of the caravans that huddled together in the center of the green shone a few small lights from some humble oil lamp or candle flickering there.

Sam and Bella Curdle were thinking of their future. At one end of the caravan lay their three children in heavy slumber, and their parents spoke in low tones.

Sam's last earnings at Curdle's fair stood in a pile on the chair beside their bunk bed. Bella, already in bed, dressed in a shiny pink nightgown of gargantuan proportions, surveyed the money grimly. She had been doing her best to prize from her morose husband his plans for their future livelihood, but without success.

She watched him now, tugging his shirt moodily over his head. His face emerged, battered from the afternoon's fight which had caused his downfall, and sullen with his wife's questionings. She attacked the goaded man again in a shrill whisper.

"Well, tell us, then. What are you going to do when that little lot's gone? See us all starve?"

Sam finished undressing before he spoke. Then he answered her slowly.

"There's a farmer chap up the Nidden road wants his sugar-beet hoeing. I done it afore. We could take the caravan up that way and settle there for a bit."

"How long will that take?" asked Bella stiffly. Her pride quivered at the thought of her husband undertaking such low work. Worse was to follow.

"Three or four weeks. And you could do some too!"

Bella gasped at the shock.

"And what about the kids?" she protested.

"Won't hurt them either," said her brute of a husband. He turned out the oil lamp and clambered into bed beside her.

"And you'd get some of your fat off," said Sam savagely, hauling at the bedclothes, and adding insult to injury.

Much affronted, his wife turned her face to the wall. The fumes from the oil lamp crept uncomfortably about the darkness and Bella's misery grew. Two tears of self-pity rolled down to the pillow.

Bella had never liked work.

Ben Curdle heard St. Andrew's chimes ring out the half-hour as he was propping a snapshot of Molly above his bed.

He ought to be asleep, he told himself. There was plenty to do in the morning, clearing up the show and setting off on the road again, besides seeing his girl.

So much had happened that he was too excited to think of sleep.

He had accomplished the two tasks he had set himself that morning as he had rested on Thrush Green's dewy grass. He had found Molly and he had confounded his cousin Sam, the thought of whose mean treachery still made Ben's hot head throb with fury.

But more than that had happened to Ben, the full significance of which he barely realized yet. He looked back to that solemn meeting with his grandmother earlier that evening and marveled again.

She had returned from her visit to Dr. Bailey with renewed vigor. Ben had not seen her eyes so bright or her bearing so resolute for many a long month. She had closed the door of the caravan, had motioned him to sit and had taken her own majestic stance upon the red plush stool by the fire. Then she had begun to talk to him as she had never done before.

Out it had all poured. She spoke of his dear father, in words that moved him unaccountably; she spoke of her love for Ben himself, which had touched him so much that he had forgotten all embarrassment; and then she spoke of her own health and disabilities and her need for his help.

She did what Ben had never thought possible. She put into words all that that telling glance had said when they had confronted each other immediately after the fight. She spoke to him, not as one in authority, but as a partner who asked for help and knew that it could be given. Ben was accepted as joint master of the Curdle business and he vowed that he would see it thrive.

The old lady had turned to practical matters. She had shown him her rough and ready ways of calculating expenses, and had given her reasons for following certain routes year after year. She had warned him against certain districts, against unwelcoming councils and against doubtful members of the Curdle tribe itself.

Ben had listened fascinated. Much he already knew, but much he learned that night. His happiest moment had been when the old lady praised his Molly and told him that she would welcome her to the family.

But his most triumphant moment had come later, when Mrs. Curdle had put a chair beside her own at the card table, and they had sat side by side with the weekly wages arranged before them. The Curdle tribe, awaiting their rewards, had goggled at the sight.

Mrs. Curdle had presented Ben to them with much the same air as the monarch presents his prince to the people of Wales.

"Ben," she said proudly, her hawklike gaze raking the assembled company, "is my partner now. Any orders he gives are to be obeyed, as mine are."

There was a murmur of assent, for this had been long expected, and young Ben was popular.

"Won't be long," continued Mrs. Curdle, "before I'm dead and gone. Ben'll carry on for me."

Ben had gazed modestly at the green baize of the table while his grandmother spoke and had waited for her next remark.

It had come with her habitual tartness.

"Stop gawking and pay out!" she had snapped, nudging him sharply. And Ben, partner and heir, had meekly obeyed.

Now, in the stillness of his own caravan, he tried to realize his overwhelming good fortune, but it was too great to understand.

Dizzy with happiness, he flung his clothes into a corner, took a last look at Molly's photograph, turned out the light, and fell almost immediately into deep sleep.

Only one light glimmered now upon Thrush Green.

Old Mrs. Curdle had set her candle on the chair by the bed and its small flame flickered in the draft from the half-door.

The old lady leaned upon the sturdy lower half and gazed meditatively at the sleeping world about her.

The skewbald ponies were tethered nearby and she could hear them cropping steadily at the grass. Far away an owl hooted from Lulling Woods, and nearer in a garden, a lovesick cat began its banshee wailing.

The air was still and deliciously warm. Summer had begun with that sunny May day and Mrs. Curdle thought of those happy busy months which lay ahead.

Within a few hours her little home would be rumbling along the lanes again between the flowery verges and the quickening hedges.

Her mind roamed ahead visualizing the villages she knew so well, rosy-red brick ones, some with whitewashed walls and gray or golden thatch, and some, like dear Thrush Green, built of enduring Cotswold stone.

Ah, a traveling life was the best one, thought old Mrs. Curdle happily. With Ben beside her, and her fears put to rest by her old friend Dr. Bailey, she felt she could face the leisurely jolting miles of summer journeyings. All would be well.

She took a last long look at Thrush Green. The old familiar houses slept peacefully awaiting the dawn. The last light, in the doctor's sitting room, had gone out and she alone was still awake.

High above her St. Andrew's clock chimed midnight, and then the slow notes telling the passing of another day floated upon the night air.

"Twelve," counted Mrs. Curdle, straightening up. "Time I was abed."

She closed the top of the door slowly.

"I've never been to Thrush Green yet without feelin' the better for it."

She climbed heavily into bed sighing happily.

"Ah, well! I've had a good day," said Mrs. Curdle, and blew out the light.