The Nymph and the Lamp (49 page)

Isabel sat back in the chair. Her eyes closed. “And that was it? There was nothing else? It seems strange. After all, Matthew had ceased to love me by then. And Sargent—Sargent just had a sort of calf love, not the sort of thing that disturbs a woman's dreams. You were the only one really in love with me, Greg. Why should that distress me so? Why was I so frightened and so sad?”

She got up and looked out of the west window. The firework display was now at its height. The whole sky over the Fair Grounds was in eruption with explosive stars, with balls of fire, red, blue and green, that arose and sank in beautiful parabolas and suddenly perished, with fountains and falling curtains of glittering tinsel. Against this blaze the roofs and treetops of Kingsbridge were in sharp black silhouette.

Skane lit another cigarette. “My dear girl,” he said vigorously, “take a look at yourself as you were then; a hypersensitive young woman, used to the matter-of-fact bustle of the city, suddenly dumped into that weird environment of sand and sea and spooks; you were lonely, you felt that you weren't loved, that you'd ruined your life and there was no escape. Why wouldn't you feel scared? Why wouldn't you feel some sort of doom closing in? Eh? But my dear Isabel you're not on Marina now. You've got away from all that. You're in the midst of good sane things and people and you've nothing but your own happiness to think about. Why spoil it with a lot of morbid speculation about what's past?”

He tossed the cigarette into one of Mrs. Hallett's best vases and crossed the carpet swiftly to the brooding figure at the window. Isabel felt his arms slipped about her waist from behind, his lips against her ear.

“Look here, darling, when you think of Marina think of those very sweet afternoons we had together, those rides when we put the station behind us and could be ourselves, in love. Surely you can't forget all that?”

“No.”

“Then come to Montreal with me—let me take care of you, amuse you, make love to you. We're not a pair of silly kids, you and I. We're old enough to know our own minds and to realize that life is short. We're in the thirties—the best time of life. Let's make the most of it. Surely you don't want to go on trying to be a career woman in a tank town in the apple belt?”

“Why not?” she said in a hard voice, gazing into the night. “It's all very well to talk in that romantic fashion, Greg. All I know about love is that it made me miserable. And I've been quite happy without it, here in this tank town, as you call it.”

Skane tightened his grasp and kissed her cheek. She turned her face away; but her heart was a small quick drum beating the retreat, she felt the old insidious languor, the familiar urge to have done with thinking and give in. Skane really loved her, he had come all this way to find her, why deny him any longer? Outside the pane there was a stir of the night wind in the orchard branches. A dead leaf blew against the glass. The fireworks had ceased and now she noticed that the glow of the Fair itself had subsided. Intuitively she looked towards the road and saw the small yellow flicker of a buggy lamp.

“Let me go,” she said quickly. “Here come the Halletts, and the blinds are up.”

“Damn!”

Skane released her and they moved to widely separated chairs with a swift and guilty air. It was a little ridiculous and Skane laughed. But his laugh could not conceal his chagrin and Isabel could not resist a mischievous glance. She said in a shaking voice, “Please remember that I'm Miss Jardine and I've never been further than Halifax in my life.”

“And that's where I met you?”

“Yes. And you mustn't stay after Mr. Hallett's put up the horse. They'll want to go to bed, and so shall I.” Skane gave her a comical look of reproach. “When may I see you again?”

She considered a moment. “I always go to church with them on Sunday mornings. I'll ask Mrs. Hallett if you may come to tea in the afternoon, and I'll phone you at the hotel.”

The front door opened and Mrs. Hallett bustled in, throwing a naive inquisitive glance at Skane and crying, “Why didn't you make a fire? That young man looks chilled. It's quite frosty tonight. And you missed the fireworks. My dear, they were wonderful.”

CHAPTER 35

The Sunday morning service was remarkable for two things. The Reverend Palliser, contrary to all precedent, said not a word about the vanities and indecencies of the Fair, and instead devoted his sermon to the joys of a bountiful harvest and the beauties of the countryside, clear evidence of God's smile on a people who while not deserving it could at least appreciate its magnificence. He quoted from the Scriptures and the poets and was very eloquent.

The other phenomenon was the appearance of a tall and handsome stranger, walking down the aisle to the Hallett pew and saying “Do you mind?” in a clear voice to that odd person Miss Jardine. Her face had turned scarlet but she appeared to know him, she had moved over to make a place for him, and they had shared a hymnbook and sung together very nicely. When the collection was taken he had placed a five-dollar banknote in the plate beside Miss Jardine's modest envelope. They made a good-looking couple when they stood together for the hymns, and after the service everyone asked everyone else who he was.

Isabel, surprised by his uninvited presence but accepting it with all the nonchalance she could muster, knowing how the tongues would wag, had not forgiven Skane when he came on Mrs. Hallett's own invitation to the Hallett house for tea that afternoon. But he carried off the tea as he had carried off the visit to church, with a pleasant assurance that disarmed her and enraptured the Halletts. There was no denying Gregory Skane's charm. He talked with animation to Mrs. Hallett about the legends of the valley and especially of Kingsbridge, which he had studied apparently in a copy of the
History at Duke
County
at the hotel. He talked to Hallett about the problems of an orchardist as if he had lived in the valley all his life. And when they asked him about himself, as they had been itching to do, he entranced them with tales of his life at sea, the pleasant side of it, with excellent word-sketches of queer out-of-the-way ports, and the humors and problems of his radio business in Montreal.

He included Isabel in these conversations with remarks given particularly to her, and with a swift and intimate smile. The evening flew. The Halletts sat lost in these glimpses of a world unknown to them. When Skane left at eleven o'clock, long past the bedtime of that well-ordered house, Mrs. Hallett turned to Isabel and sighed gustily.

“What an interesting man! So polite and nice—and so goodlooking. He seems quite fond of you.”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Hallett gave her a quizzical look. “Is he staying long?”

“I really don't know.”

“It seems to me,” Mrs. Hallett said slyly, “that he's come to Kingsbridge a-purpose to see you. Confess now, aren't you a bit fond of him too?”

“Yes.”

“I could tell by the way you looked at each other, and the way you blushed in church. I hope you won't mind me saying this, but it looks to me as if you two'd had a tiff and that's why you came back to Kingsbridge. Isn't that it? Well, I understand. A woman's got to keep her pride where a man's concerned. And you've made him come to you. That's as it should be. And now I suppose…”

Isabel was moving towards the stairs. She called over her shoulder, “You mustn't suppose too much, Mrs. Hallett. I'm not nearly so romantic as you think.” The romantic Mrs. Hallett said no more. It seemed to her that beneath the sensible Miss Jardine was a rather willful minx, and she was indignant. You expected a girl of thirty to be womanly. And at thirty, when a charming and prosperous suitor like this appeared upon the scene, you expected her to be very womanly indeed.

On the following morning the fine fall weather broke. A hurricane had crept out of the Gulf of Mexico, leaped upon Florida, scourged the Bahamas, frightened the tourists of Bermuda, and now followed the Gulf Stream into northern latitudes, giving New England and Nova Scotia a lash of its tail. It began with a gray scud moving up the sky and then a drizzle of rain. An uncertain wind stirred out of the southeast and set up a shudder in the autumn leaves. The rain changed to heavy drops, to a torrent that drummed on the roofs and set all the eaves-spouts gushing. Then in the midst of this downpour a mighty wind rushed along the valley. The orchards, the woods along the mountain slopes, bent before the thrust of it like so much grass. The brooks, already raised by the first autumn rains, became red cataracts surging through the fields. The air was thick with flying leaves of all colors, like drops of paint flicked from an enormous brush. Shingles took wings, apples showered, chimneys toppled, sheds collapsed, half a dozen fine old elms that had stood for generations went down before the blast, tearing up lawns and taking with them a tangle of telephone wires.

Isabel was blown and drenched when she reached Markham's store, and she found the girl clerks huddled together about the stove and twittering like wet sparrows. She took off her hat and raincoat and stood for a time with the others, warming her wet legs. When she entered the little office Mr. Markham greeted her with his usual crisp good morning, and he arose and shut the door.

“Well,” he announced dourly, “the wind's in the east.”

“Yes, and very wet.”

“I don't mean the weather,” Markham said, coming slowly to her desk. “I mean the wind up the street. The bank. They've clamped right down. No more money for anything. I must close up the cannery tomorrow.”

“I see.” She thought for a moment or two. “That means laying off all the hands, doesn't it?”

She flicked over the leaves of her cashbook to see if there was money to pay them.

“Got enough?”

“Yes. They were paid on Saturday, of course. It means two days' wages.”

The old man fiddled with a letter basket on her desk. “Seems a pity, all those people out of work. No use dwelling on that, I suppose. If only I could sell the pulpwood! That's all cash outlay. With that turned back to money I could handle the apple crop and keep the cannery going and settle with the bank—I could do everything! Trouble is, everything's happening at once. I'm caught like one of those old-time sailing ships—in a hurricane with all my canvas up. Too eager! Too eager! But how was I—how was anybody to know that a storm like this would come up out of nowhere?”

Isabel thought of Brockhurst and his quip about the Bible and the
Courier.

“You know what it means?” Markham added.

“I'm afraid so, yes.”

“I think I can salvage the store out of the mess,” the old tired voice went on, “but that's about all. That and my house. Think of it! Right back where I started fifty years ago. Don't seem possible.”

“I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Markham.”

“My dear, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blest be the name of the Lord. I wish I could say the same for the bank. I guess the bank's got its own troubles though. You can close up that control ledger. There won't be any more entries—there's nothing left to control. Just the store books from now on.” He looked up at her earnest face. “I want you to know, Miss Jardine, that whatever happens you'll have your job. You're a good girl. Faithful. Hardworking. Smart head on your shoulders. This'll all blow over, by and by. The valley's still here. Soil's as good as ever. Pulp mills'll want wood after another year. World's got to have food and newspapers. Um!” He walked over to his own desk and sat down heavily.

Isabel blinked back tears. “Mr. Markham,” she said without turning her head.

“Yes?”

“What I'd be doing for you after this, any girl in the store could do, couldn't she?”

“I suppose so. But look here…”

“You're awfully kind, Mr. Markham. But, you see, something's happened to me, too. A man wants to marry me.”

“Gracious, girl, you make it sound like a calamity. It's not that schoolmaster?”

“No, an old friend—from Montreal. You must have noticed him in church on Sunday, morning.”

“Ah! So I did. Nice clean-looking chap.”

“Mr. Markham, if I decide to marry him he'll want me to go back to Montreal with him. And if I do—you won't feel that I'm running away just when things are bad?”

She turned and met the gaze of the old gray eyes. Mr. Markham smiled in a weary fashion, as if she were talking about teacups during an earthquake. He made a gesture. “My dear, if you think the chap's good enough for you, take him. Be sure, that's all. We'd all miss you very much—goes without saying—but nothing here's half as important as a husband. When will you know?”

She considered, as if it were a matter of careful calculation.

“By tomorrow night.”

The storm blew itself away, leaving a drenched and tousled valley in its wake. Towards noon on Tuesday the overcast broke in the west and within an hour a pallid sunshine fell upon the countryside. The “late” orchards, still unpicked, had been stripped of their fruit; but the great change in the landscape was the face of the long hills, where the gaudy autumn foliage had been erased by the great wind like so much colored chalk from a blackboard. Isabel phoned Skane at the hotel, and at two o'clock she picked him up with the Markham car. She wore her tweeds and tam, for there was a damp chill in the air in spite of the sun. Skane got in beside her murmuring, “Nice car. Yours?”