After supper Mrs. Frisbie and Laurel had a little talk together—just a comparing of notes about Mrs. Price and a word or two about the new plant and what changes it would bring to Carrollton. Then Mrs. Frisbie spoke of her daughter away at college and of the general state of things in the world, expressing the opinion that there was no hope or no help anywhere as far as she could see and that for her part life looked pretty dreary.
So Laurel told her about the Bible study class that she was attending and invited her to go with her to the next class. To her surprise, Mrs. Frisbie accepted with alacrity, and she was surprised at the sense of pleasure it gave her to have passed on the invitation and to find it eagerly accepted. It came to her that it would be nice to help bring another troubled soul into the joy of knowing the Bible. And could it be possible also to get Mrs. Gilbert to go to the class sometime?
Thinking of these things, her excitement over the talk to which she had been an unwilling listener Saturday night passed somewhat out of her thoughts, and the importance of doing something about it did not seem nearly so insistent as it had at first. Perhaps it was all nonsense, anyway, her idea that it was of importance. And yet again and again would come the thought of those two quiet graves. Dynamite! She must tell Phil Pilgrim, though perhaps it might only distress him, and make him feel that he must have the caskets moved at once. Well, perhaps he should. But she would wait till she had word from him again, for there was no telling where he might be by this time. He had seemed to think he was to be sent away almost at once when he last wrote.
So she lay down to rest on the hard, narrow little cot in the front hall bedroom and found herself thankful for having found at least a temporary abiding place. Mrs. Gray would be home in a few days, and then perhaps she would ask her advice.
So she went to sleep with old Crimson looking down toward her and the night lights around the new half-finished plant shining in her window.
Chapter 16
Mrs. Gray did not come back to her home for three weeks. Not till her sick friend was well again and up and able to go about her home as usual. But she wrote to Laurel, and Laurel wrote to her and carried on the business of the class for her in her absence.
A letter had come from Phil Pilgrim, mailed on a train en route to a southern camp where his division was being sent for more intensive training and to pass through more selective separation. Phil wrote that an officer had questioned him most carefully about his earlier training and the line he had expected to take up. And when he had found that Pilgrim was interested in mechanical things and had also had several responsible positions in managing men, he took down the facts and told him there was a possibility that some men would be taken out of the class of privates and put where their training and inclinations would benefit the most in the war.
The conclusion was that he was more uncertain than ever where he was to be sent or what his status was to be. He still had the feeling that his destination was out of the country somewhere. But he said that was only a “hunch” and it might not mean a thing.
He expressed his entire willingness to go wherever God wanted him to be and said that the experience of those few days with her, and especially the night when they had taken the Lord for their Savior, had helped him to accept gladly whatever was ahead. If he had one wish above another, it was, of course, that he might finally be placed where he could sometimes see her. If that time ever came, he would feel that heaven had come down to earth.
It was a nice letter, but somehow it gave her a desolate sense of his being gone, perhaps forever. Now he would be in a new place with new interests, and there was no hope of his getting off for a furlough when he was so far away. Presently he would forget all about their days together, and gradually he would stop writing. That was the way those things usually worked out of course. So when she had read it through a couple of times, she sat down in her room and had a good cry. Then she remembered that they both had a Lord, and He would keep them, and perhaps someday they would meet again, in heaven anyway, and that they would remember each other.
And of course if he forgot, she would likely forget, too, though it didn’t seem that that could possibly be, ever! Well, at least she had the memory of those days and an ideal of love between man and woman that she had not thought could be possible. She was glad for that. And she had a knowledge of the Lord that she had not had before. They both had that, and they had a pledge to pray for one another. So at least they could meet before God.
She washed away her tears and set about trying to find some way that she could help those dear Gilbert people. They were sweet people, even if they were crude.
She hadn’t any idea of staying very long in that forlorn house, in that cramped up little room, and she didn’t exactly like the idea of taking the big parlor, right down among the family. So she told them she would stay there for the week at least, until she had time to look for a place nearer the school. Then she interested herself in studying Nannie and Sam and the shy, capable, little mother.
The second day, she asked Nannie to ride with her to school, and on the way they picked up Sam standing on the corner and looking wistful. “Oh, gee! Ride in that swell car! Oh boy! Sure!” he would.
So they arrived at school in state, happy and silent, and the envy of all the other pupils.
“How come?” asked an arrogant senior of Sam.
“She’s stoppin’ at our house fer a few days,” explained Sam loftily and went on his way. When the word went around, the students looked amazed, raised their eyebrows, and said, “How come?” again. Some expressed the belief to one another that the teacher wouldn’t stay at Gilberts’ long. She didn’t look the style for that old brick house.
That afternoon Sam cleared out a wide place in the old barn for Laurel’s car and offered to put it in for her. He also got a new padlock for the barn and gave her the key. He was doing his best to pay for their rides to school.
Laurel smiled at them both, and the next day, discovering that Mrs. Frisbie’s store where she worked was not far from the school, she invited her to go with them mornings.
So there began to be a pleasant little camaraderie between the four of them, though the young people never said very much on the way, just sat still looking shyly important.
When Sunday came, Laurel asked them if they would like to go to a little chapel with her on the other side of town, and they scurried around in a lively manner to get their Sunday work done so they could go, their mother only too eager to make it possible for them.
“We ain’t had much time yet ta think about goin’ ta church,” she explained, with a grateful smile on her face. “I’d like fer the children to go to Sunday school, but I haven’t been able to manage it yet, and they haven’t got very nice clothes to go to these big churches around here. Mebbe you wouldn’t like to take them either, they not looking very dressy.”
“Oh, my dear!” said Laurel. “They always look nice. And the people in this chapel where I go are not stylish people. They will look all right.”
So the two young people went to Mrs. Gray’s little church and sat and listened in wonder to a simple gospel, the like of which they had never heard before, for they had not been interested in the Sunday schools their mother had sent them to before, and had got out of going as much as they could. But this was different, and they took to it with eagerness.
Mrs. Frisbie, too, got interested, first in the Tuesday night Bible class and then in the chapel and, by the time Mrs. Gray returned, was counting herself a regular member. Laurel was proud of her achievements in getting them to come, and Mrs. Gray was delighted.
“But, my dear, we must find you a suitable boarding place now,” said Mrs. Gray. “I presume you are not very comfortable at a crude place like that. If I only had a little more room, I would love so to have you here, but I find my sister and her husband are planning on spending most of the winter with me, so that crowds out that idea. But I think we can find you someplace nearby.”
“Well, that’
s kind of you, but, Mrs. Gray, somehow I feel I ought to stay where I am, a little longer at least. I’m getting a sort of hold on those two children, and they were leading such starved lives, I want to show them the way to find the Lord if I can. And their mother, too. Mrs. Gray, she just lives in that dreary kitchen, making nice things for us to eat. They are very simple plain things, but they are good. Things like fried mush and bread pudding. I never dreamed they could taste as good as they do, and she is so shy and sweet. I wish you would let me take you over there to see her sometime. I know you would like her, and she would be so happy to see you. She’s another starved life. And then there are the three little children. I tell them Bible stories Sunday afternoons, and you ought to see how they enjoy it. I thought maybe I’d coax them to your Sunday school.”
Mrs. Gray looked at the girl with a tender glance. “My dear, you are growing, aren’t you? Growing in the knowledge of what the Lord wants you to do. You know, to witness for Him is the only thing we Christians are supposed to do down here, and I surely think you are witnessing. I’m so glad that Mrs. Frisbie is interested in the Bible classes, too. She has a nice face, and I must get to know her. But, my dear, isn’t it very desolate for you over in that forlorn brick house? There doesn’t seem to be anything beautiful about it, and you are one who loves beautiful things so much! There isn’t a thing that you can really enjoy.”
“Oh yes,” said Laurel eagerly, “I still have my mountain. I wouldn’t want to go anywhere away from that. It is such a wonderful mountain, and it fairly speaks to me, mornings and evenings. Even now that the leaves are falling and the branches are so many of them bare, it has a sort of suitable look for the time of year, like an older person whose hair is turning sweetly white or gray. And you ought to see the sun and moon go down behind its top. A ball of fire or a golden disk! I love to watch them sink.”
“My dear, you are a poet! But that mountain will presently be spoiled by factories and chimneys, won’t it?”
“It’s rather interesting, even that, and the trees hide it mostly. You see, I know that mountain pretty well, some parts of it. I’ve had some pleasant times up there. When I was a little girl, there was a picnic up there once that was grand! And just this fall I’ve been up twice with Phil Pilgrim. You know he used to live there.”
“Yes. I know. Do you ever hear from him now?” Mrs. Gray flashed a quick look at the girl and noticed the soft flush that crept up on her cheeks as she spoke of Pilgrim.
Laurel’s eyes brightened. “Now and then,”she said nonchalantly. “He’s just been sent to another camp, down in Alabama. He’s not sure what that means. It’s a sort of place where they select different men to go into things they are fitted for. But Phil thinks he is probably to be sent abroad or maybe to Jamaica or somewhere away from this region. But he says he is still happy in the fact that he is saved, and still grateful to you for what you did for us both that Sunday you asked us to spend the day with you. I think he is real. I don’t believe he will forget nor grow away from the Lord. I think it meant a great deal to him.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gray, “I believe he really meant it. He is that kind of a boy. He does things in a real way. I used to think so when he was a mere child and used to bring me eggs and berries. He was so manly and businesslike. I have enjoyed watching him grow up. Though, of course, I never had much opportunity to study him. I imagine he had a rather sad childhood.”
“Yes,” said Laurel, “he did, and He’s done wonders in spite of it, from all I hear.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gray. “He was famous in college for both athletics and scholarship. I often used to see his name in the paper.
Do you know if he will be coming back here on furlough soon?”
Mrs. Gray was watching Laurel covertly and noting the instant sad droop to her lips.
“I’m afraid not,” said the girl. “He had a very decided feeling when he went away that he might never come back. He seems to think he is to be sent abroad. I don’t know why. I think perhaps some officer suggested that he should apply for something in the line of his recent studies, but he didn’t say what. I have an idea it was something that had to do with engineering. He didn’t say much about it.”
“Well, I’m sorry he had to go away. I was hoping he would be around here occasionally this winter.”
“Yes, so was I,” said Laurel, with a quickly suppressed sigh. “But I’m glad he knows the Lord.”
“Oh yes!” said the older woman. Then the subject was changed and not mentioned again that day, but Mrs. Gray had a very good idea that those two young people were most congenial.
“This war!” she said to herself. “What terrible things it is doing to young people today!”
Sam was getting very close with his teacher, talking quite readily now, bringing out all the news he learned on his paper route and in his goings here and there. And Nannie was beginning to study her teacher’s garments and the way she arranged her hair, and doing her best to torture her straight locks into natural-looking waves, until Laurel took pity on her and showed her how to shampoo her hair and put it up in curlers and then to arrange it simply and softly about her face so that it would be pretty. The child had no idea how to make herself not only tidy but attractive.
Sam came in to dinner one night and announced excitedly, “They been having a time up to the plant taday. They arrested two men and got two more under suspicion.”
The men looked up sharply and frowned at Sam, and Laurel looked up startled.
“What happened?” she asked. “Why did they arrest them?” It was the first time she had realized that the plant was in shape for any of the troubles that had been plotted that night when she had been listening. Perhaps she ought to have written Pilgrim about it before. She had so hoped he would be coming back before he went so far away, or at least before he went farther. But she hadn’t had a letter for several days and she was afraid he had gone.
Her eyes were on Sam. He forgot about the assembled family, who were always critical when he tried to talk, and went on with his story. “Why, ya see, they been missin’ dynamite. Whole lots of it. At first it was only a stick or two, and they thought they had miscounted I guess or something like that, and then there was more and more gone, and they tried to check on the men, and at last they thought they had ’em. There’s a guy up there named Winter. It was his business ta keep tabs on that dynamite, and he found how it was disappearing and he bagan ta watch, and now he’s caught some, and he thinks he’s got some others.”
“Who did they arrest, Sam?” asked Laurel. “Did you happen to hear their names? Was it anybody from the village?”
“No, they were all foreigners, I guess. At least the two arrested ones were. A coupla guys came here from somewhere across the water a little while ago. They claim they was born here, but this Winter says not. The names were Gratz and Schmidt. They don’t sound like very American names.”
Suddenly Sam’s father spoke. “Sam, who told you all that stuff?”
“Why it was Joseph Wilmer told me when we were walking down to the newspaper office to get our papers this morning. You know his route is next to mine, and we often go together.”
“How would Joseph Wilmer know anything about what happened at the plant last night?”
“Why, his father works up at the plant, Dad, and he’s on the night shift, ya know. He told Joe this morning just before I met him.”
“Well, Sam, you haven’t any business to repeat things you hear like that. This is war times, you know, and it’s important to keep these things quiet,” said his father. “Now while there’s so much talk about fifth columnists, people ought to keep their mouths shut. You can’t tell who’s an enemy and will report things, and you can’t tell what’s important to the enemy. Just you don’t repeat these things anymore, see? And if Joseph Wilmer tries to tell you anything more that happened at the plant, you tell him you don’t want to listen to him. His dad ought to know better than to tell such things out where his kids will hea
r, and I don’t want my son repeating them. Do you hear, Sam? That’s a command.”
“Yessir,” said Sam, subsiding into his habitual silence.
The two men at the table frowned and bristled. “That ain’t nothing, Gilbert,” said one of them, “everybody in town knows all about that dynamite been missing. I heard it a week ago. They just found out who they think it is taday.”
“It doesn’t make any difference, Hyers,” said Sam’s father. “I don’t want my son telling tales like that. It’s none of his business to report what happens at the plant, especially when he doesn’t work there and hasn’t any right to be hanging around there. You can’t tell how soon something like that might get hanged on some kid that had nothing to do with it.”
“I know,” said Sam, suddenly rousing to the conversation. “I heard Harry Wickers and Joe Landers found a stick of dynamite up in a field across the road from the plant, and they was throwing stones at it and trying to make it explode, and the night watchman at the plant just caught ’em in time and stopped ’em. I think they oughtta tell all the kids how dangerous that is, don’t you?”
The talk merged into a discussion of the rules about the plant and whether they were being carried out carefully, but Laurel heard no more. She was torturing herself with anxiety lest she had not done her duty with regard to what she had overheard on the porch and whether she ought to have reported it to someone at once.
She slept very little that night and in the morning got up with the determination to write a letter to Phil Pilgrim and tell him all about it. She would ask him if there was someone up here she ought to tell and ask him please to telegraph her at once. And then in the meantime, she must tell somebody here, too, if possible. Sam said Bruce Winter was looking after that dynamite, but somehow she didn’t trust Bruce Winter. Was that silly? She might only be giving evidence to the wrong side by giving it to him, and yet, if he was in charge—!
CRIMSON MOUNTAIN Page 20
