Part 32 (1/2)
Mrs. Darby paused, and a smile lighted her wrinkled face.
”To think of that girl just shouldering her burden and walking off with it. If she isn't Brother Jim over again! Never writing a word of complaint. Oh, Jerry! Jerry! I'll make it up to you to-morrow.”
To Jerusha Darby money made up for everything. She sat long in the rose-arbor, thinking, maybe, of the years when Jerry's children and her children's children would dominate the Winnowoc countryside as they of the Swaim blood had always done. And then, because she was tired, and the afternoon suns.h.i.+ne was warm, and her willow rocking-chair was very comfortable--she fell asleep.
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”Went just like her brother, the late Jeremiah Swaim,” the papers said, the next evening.
Instead of the lawyer, it was the undertaker who came to officiate. And the last will and testament, and the too-late evidence of a forgiving good-will, all were impossible henceforth and forever.
The estate of the late Jerusha Darby, relict of the late Cornelius Darby, no will of hers having been found, pa.s.sed, by agreement under law, to a distant relative of the late Cornelius, which relative being Eugene Wellington, whose knowledge of the said possible conditions of inheritance he had held in his possession for three years, since the day he accidentally found them among the private papers of his late uncle, knowing the while that any sudden notion of the late Jerusha might result in putting her possessions, by her own signature, where neither Jerry, as her favorite and heir apparent, nor himself, as heir-in-law without a will, could inherit anything. Truly Gene had had a bothersome time of it for three years, and he congratulated himself on having done well--excellently well, indeed. Truly only the good little snakes ever entered that ”Eden” in the Winnowoc Valley in Pennsylvania.
XVII
THE FLESH-POTS OF THE WINNOWOC
The glory of that third springtime was on the Kansas prairies and in the heart of a man and a maid, the best of good fellows each to the other, who rode together far along their blossomy trails. The eyes of the man were on the future and in his heart there was only one wish--that the good-fellows.h.i.+p would soon end in the realization of his heart's desire.
The eyes of the maid were closed to the future. For her, too, there was only one wish--that this kind of comrades.h.i.+p might go on unchanged indefinitely. To Jerry no trouble seemed quite so big when Joe was with her, and little foxes sought their holes when he came near. If the spring work had not grown so heavy late in May, and Joe could have come to town oftener, and one teacher had not fallen sick, and Clare Lenwell hadn't been so stubborn, and if Stellar Bahrr had held her tongue--But why go on with ifs? All these conditions did exist. What might have been without them no man knoweth.
One of the humanest traits of human beings is to believe what is pleasant to believe, and to doubt and question what would be an undesirable fact. Jerry Swaim, clinging ever to a memory of what might have been, building a pretty love dream, it is true, to be acted out some far-away time by a young farmer and his neighbor in the Sage Brush Valley, listened to Stellar Bahrr's version of Thelma Ekblad's shopping mission, held back the tears that burned her eyeb.a.l.l.s for a moment, and then, being human, voted the whole thing as impossible, if not as malicious as any of Stellar Bahrr's stories. Indeed, Thelma Ekblad was now, as she had always been, the very least of Jerry's troubles.
The school row, that had become the community fuss, culminated in the superintendent putting upon his teachers the responsibility of settlement.
If they were willing to concede to the foolish demands of the cla.s.s, led by Clare Lenwell, and grant full credits in their branches of study, he would abide by their decision. The easiest way, after all, to quiet the thing, he said, might be to let the young folks have their way this time, and do better with the cla.s.s next year. They could begin in time with them. As if Solomon himself could ever foresee what trivial demand and stubborn claim will be the author and finisher of the disturbance from year to year in the town's pride and glory--the high-school Senior cla.s.s, and its Commencement affairs. The final vote to break the tie and make the verdict was purposely put on Jerry Swaim, who had more influence in the high school than the superintendent himself. Jerry protested, and asked for a more just agreement, finally spending a whole afternoon with Clare Lenwell in an effort to induce him to be a gentleman, offering, in return, all fairness and courtesy.
Young Lenwell's head was now too large for his body. He was the hero of the hour. Rule or ruin rested on this young Napoleon of the Sage Brush, divinely ordained to free the downtrodden youths of America from the iron heel and galling chains with which the faculty of the average American high school enthralls and degrades--and so forth, world without end.
This at least was Clare Lenwell's att.i.tude from one o'clock P.M. to five o'clock P.M. of an unusually hot June day. At the stroke of five Jerry rose, with calm face, but a dangerously square chin, saying, in an untroubled tone:
”You may as well go. Good afternoon.”
Young Lenwell walked out, the c.o.c.k of the hour--until the next morning.
Then all of the Seniors were recorded as having received full credits for graduation from all of the faculty--except one pupil, who lacked one teacher's signature. Clare Lenwell was held back by Miss Swaim, teacher of the mathematics department.
The earthquake followed.
In the session of the school board on the afternoon of Commencement Day Junius Brutus Ponk, who presided over the meeting, sat ”as firm as Mount Olympus, or Montpelier, Vermont,” he said, afterward; ”the uncle Lenwell suffered eruption, Vesuviously; and the third man of us just cowed down, and shriveled up, and tried to slip out in the hole where the electric-light wire comes through the wall. But I fetched him back with a b.u.t.ton-hook, knowin' he'd get lost in that wide pa.s.sageway and his remains never be recovered to his family.”
It was not, however, just a family matter now among the Lenwells. In the presence of the superintendent and Mrs. Bahrr, Miss Swaim was called to trial by her peers--the board of education. In this executive session, whose proceedings were not ever to be breathed--for York Macpherson would have the last man of them put in jail, he was that influential--_Other Things Were Made Known_--Things that, after the final settlement, became in time common property, and so forgotten.
Herein Stellar Bahrr's three years of pent-up anger at last found vent.
She had been preparing for this event. She had adroitly set the trap for the first difficulty, that had its start in the Lenwell family, while she was doing their spring sewing. Incessantly and insidiously she laid her mines and strung her wires and stored her munitions, determined to settle once for all with the pretty, stuck-up girl who had held a whip over her for three whole years.
Charges were to be brought against Miss Swaim of a _serious_ character, and she was to be tried and condemned in _secret session_ and allowed to _leave_ the town _quietly_. _Nothing_ would be said _aloud_ until she was _gone_.
In despair, Ponk sought York Macpherson two hours before the trial began.
”There's two against me. And no matter what I _say_, they'll outvote me.