Tomorrow About This Time (31 page)

On the whole she worked things pretty well and came off with four wash silks, which by the aid of the saleswoman she had persuaded her father were now taking the place of ginghams, several crèpe de chines, a couple of linens, and a one-piece serge that cost twice as much as any dress she had ever owned before. If she was going to have to be severe and plain, by all means let it be on the severity of elegant simplicity. After a sumptuous repast at an irreproachable tearoom at which she ordered everything on the menu that captured her fancy—from lobster salad to café frappe—she carried her exhausted parent home triumphantly and spent the afternoon making little alterations in her purchases. He had selected them himself, hadn’t he? Well, then he couldn’t possibly find fault with anything about them. He would never know what she had done to them.

Life settled down quietly. Patterson Greeves got out some of his notes and began to put his papers away in the desk. Silver had sent word that she was spending the day at the Flats. There was nothing to hurt or annoy. He reflected that both Lizette Weldon and several of the Vandemeeters had appeared at their front windows or gates when he and Athalie had driven away and again when they returned. Surely Athalie’s escapade would be forgotten if all went on in the conventional manner. Surely he might relax a little now.

From the region of the kitchen there floated from time to time spicy suggestive odors.

And the next day was the Sabbath.

Chapter 23

M
ary Truman called for Athalie Greeves to take her to Sunday school.

She did not want to go. She had told all the girls at the school picnic the day before that she didn’t intend to do it. She had cried for two hours and begged both father and mother to let her off, but they had insisted, and so with her neat blue serge suit and her blue straw sailor, her hair tied with a fresh ribbon, and her hands and feet encased in simple girlish fittings, she reluctantly swung the Greeves’s gate open and slowly made her way up the path.

It was early. The first bell had only begun to ring. Mrs. Truman had insisted that she must give the stranger plenty of time to get ready. She had also, unknown to her daughter, telephoned Mr. Greeves that Mary was coming.

Patterson Greeves, having come down to breakfast in much better frame of mind than since he had returned to Silver Sands, had forgotten entirely that it was the Sabbath day or that there was such a thing as Sunday school to be dealt with. Indeed, left to himself he might have been persuaded to forget it altogether for this time, but when Mrs. Truman offered an escort he jumped at it eagerly, and Athalie heard herself promised as a new scholar in the class with “that frumpy little Truman girl.”

However, Athalie was going to be a good sport. When her father turned from the telephone and informed her that she must get ready for Sunday school she looked up with just a flicker of a gasp and stared, but that was all. Quite like a lady she arose from the table and went to her room. When she came down dressed in her brown tweed suit, gloves, hat, and shoes as she had dressed the day before for her trip to the city, her father looked her over almost with approval, and when he saw her go down the path beside Mary Truman he sighed with relief. Perhaps she was going to be amenable to reason after all.

Mindful of her triple promise to her father Athalie was quite polite, but in a lofty way, like a lion condescending to walk with a lamb.

“So kind of you to come for me,” she said haughtily. “I never went to Sunday school before in my life. What do they do?”

“You—never went—to
Sunday school?”
Mary paused in horrified astonishment. “Why! Where have you lived? Didn’t they
have
any Sunday school?”

“Why, I really don’t know. I never inquired. Perhaps they had, but nobody said anything about it. I’m curious to see it! Is it as dull as day school?”

“Oh, day school isn’t dull! We have lovely times. Silver Sands is said to have the best school in Silver County. We have the darlingest teachers! And debating society! And contests and athletics! Oh, it’s great! I feel dreadfully when I’m sick and have to miss a day. I haven’t missed a day now in two years, not since I had the measles.”

“Dear me!” said Athalie. “I should think you’d be bored to death!

Do all those girls you brought to see me go to Sunday school?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Everybody goes to Sunday school in Silver Sands. Most of them go to our church. Only Emily Bragg, she’s a Methodist, but they have a nice Sunday school, too, only not so large. I was allowed to go with her once when she was going to speak on Children’s Day. We have a lovely teacher. Her name’s Pristina Appleby. She lives right across the street from you. She tells us very interesting things about the pyramids and the tablets they’ve dug up and things like that, you know. Sometimes she brings us pictures to help understand the lesson.”

“Lesson? Do you have lessons? Mercy! I hate lessons.”

“Oh, you won’t hate this,” laughed Mary. “She just talks. We call her Miss Prissie!”

“Oh! And this Miss Pussy! Is she an old maid?”

“Miss
Prissie
, I said. No, oh no, she isn’t an old maid. Her aunts are that. She has three aunts and a grandmother and a great-grandmother, and they all live together in that brick house across the street from you.”

“Oh! I hadn’t noticed. Then she’s a young girl.”

“Well, not exactly young. She’s not as young as your sister. I think
she’s
lovely. We girls are all crazy about her. I’m so sorry you couldn’t have come to the fudge party the other night. We had such fun. Your sister was wonderful! She started all the games—”

Athalie’s face darkened, but she kept her stiffly polite manner, a trifle more haughty perhaps.

“Yes, it was a pity!” she drawled. “Is this your church? What are they ringing that bell for?”

“Why, for Sunday school.”

“Oh! I thought somebody might be dead! I’ve read of that! You never can tell what curious thing they may do in a strange place, you know.”

Mary started to giggle and then looked at her questioningly and grew red instead. Was this rude girl trying to make fun of her again?

“Especially in the country,” added Athalie.

Mary said no more. Other girls and boys were standing around the entrance as they went up the path. Athalie stared at everyone as if she had come to a show and that was what was expected of her. Bannard came down the street from the other direction and lifted his hat gravely to Athalie. She dimpled and smiled.

“So he goes to Sunday school, too!” she remarked complacently.

“Why, yes of course,” said Mary somewhat shortly. “He’s the minister. Why shouldn’t he come!” She was getting tired of the publicity of escorting this strange girl. She wished Sunday school were well over.

Athalie was much entertained all through Sunday school. She stared at everybody’s clothes, kept her eyes wide open during prayer watching the contortion of the superintendent’s lips as he prayed. The other girls, dully devout, stole curious glances at her between their fingers. Her conduct of the day before had been carefully discussed at the dinner tables and a general taboo placed upon her as far as an associate for daughters was concerned. To find her in Sunday school was therefore a surprise. The more so as a rumor had been started by Pristina Appleby’s essay at the club that Patterson Greeves was one of the new thinkers and had left the faith of his fathers to wander in dangerous speculations.

But when Sunday school was out there was Patterson Greeves coming up the walk with Silver by his side, her sweet face smiling to everyone, her smile almost like a ray of sunshine, her eyes as blue as the dress she wore and the little hat with its black feather. Athalie stood by the door with Mary Truman and watched them approach, noted her father’s fine presence with pride, heard the whispered remarks about him, then heard: “Isn’t she sweet!” and saw that all eyes were directed toward Silver. The sullen fires came back to her eyes. She looked around like a hunted thing, and for an instant thought of bolting straight through the graveyard. Then her father’s grave glance was upon her pleasantly, and her face lit up. He was not displeased with her then. She experienced a sudden surprised pleasure in it. Fiercely did she desire to belong to someone, to have someone care for her, to be able to please. All her life she had met with impatience and curbing. This father she had come determined to win to herself or die in the attempt. Deeply had she longed for a home and parents like other girls and had not had them. Perhaps she had, down deep in her heart, the thought that maybe somehow she might draw hers together. All her young life she had showered upon her selfish mother a degree of devotion, one might almost say adoration such as few real mothers get, and it had only returned upon itself in bitterness. The mother had regarded her lightly, tolerantly, cheerfully, yet if that mother had asked of her any sacrifice, no matter how great, the fierce young soul would have given it, gladly, freely. So now Athalie regarded her father with eyes of pride and of possession.

Another face just then picked itself out from the throng of churchgoers, a young face, strong and manly, vaguely familiar. He was standing under the willow tree near the gravestones, bare headed, cleanly shaven, neat and trim in a much brushed suit, talking to a group of other boys. Presently they sauntered over toward the steps nodding to the girls who came by, calling out a pleasant word. Mary Truman stepped down below Athalie and spoke:

“Why, hello, Barry. Where were you Friday night? Didn’t Mr. Bannard give you my invitation to the fudge party?”

Barry turned quickly and pleasantly. “Sorry, Mary, I didn’t get home till late. Had an errand that kept me. Hear you had a great time. Save some fudge for me?”

Then he lifted his eyes and recognized Athalie. He did not speak. It was rather a lighting of the eyes, a pleasant understanding that gave her heart that warm glow, and she knew him for her captor of the midnight ride. After that Athalie was satisfied to stay and see this thing called church through to the finish.

Oh, she had been to church before of course. At school those things were compulsory. But there was something about this church, like a big family gathering of people who all liked each other and enjoyed being there that was new to the girl. She stared around and wondered at it. Funny old women in strange bonnets, coats that were antique of cut; a few of recognized culture and education, though that counted very little as yet with Athalie; one or two with stylish clothes. She watched the Vandemeeter tribe file into the pew, Grandma, first, slowly with a cane, Mother just behind, Henrietta helping Grandma, Maria in the same black broadcloth coat and black felt hat with the coque feather band she had worn for the last seven years. Maria was never one to put on summer clothes until summer was really there. Harriet and Cordelia with pink velvet roses wreathed around their last year’s dyed straws. She eyed them curiously. Each a replica of the other in a different stage of life. What tiresome people. How did they endure life? She noted Grandma’s bent head, Mother’s closed eyes, the squarely folded handkerchiefs, the little tremble of the feathered bonnet when Henrietta handed Grandma the hymnbook. Everything was strange and unusual to Athalie. She wondered why such common people want to
be
, why they seemed to take an
interest
in being. Why did her father stay in a place like this when there were cities where things were going on, wild, merry life for which she thirsted?

She was surprised to see Barry sitting in the back row of the choir. How strange for a boy like that to be willing to waste his time this way!

Suddenly Bannard’s voice arrested her attention. He was telling a story, though he seemed to have a small leather book open in his hand as if he was about to read. He painted a picture with his words. She forgot the sunny church with its bright carpet and unfashionable congregation. She was seeing a walled city in a strange land, under a blazing sky with hungry faces looking out from little slits of windows in towers and turrets, and an army camped around on every hand. They had been there days and days and had starved out the stronghold. The people were reduced to eating loathsome things. An ass’s head, something that would not be thought of as food at another time, sold for about forty dollars, coarse chickpeas were selling at a prohibitive price. Even the king and his court were starving.

The king was walking on the wall, visiting his sentries. You could see his face, lined with anxiety, as he shaded his eyes and looked out across the sea of enemies’ tents. There was no sign of discouragement on the part of that enemy. They had come to stay until the city surrendered. They knew it would not be long. They had spies who had discovered its state. They were well supplied with food themselves and had nothing to do but eat and drink and make merry until they had worn out the resources of the people and there was nothing left for them but to surrender. The king sighed and passed on; as he went someone reached out and caught his robe with clawlike hands, a woman from the doorstep of one of the little hovels on the wall. There were deep hollows under her eyes and in her cheeks. She looked more like a skeleton than a woman. “Help!” she cried. “Help, my lord, O king!”