The Pastures of Heaven (18 page)

“Goin' into the valley, ma'am?”

“Oh—yes, yes I am.”

“Well, get in, then. Needn't be scared. I'm Pat Humbert. I got a place in the Pastures.”

Molly surveyed the grimy man and acknowledged his introduction. “I'm the new schoolteacher. I mean, I think I am. Do you know where Mr. Whiteside lives?”

“Sure, I go right by there. He's clerk of the board. I'm on the school board myself, you know. We wondered what you'd look like.” Then he grew embarrassed at what he had said, and flushed under his coating of dirt. “ 'Course I mean what you'd be like. Last teacher we had gave a good deal of trouble. She was all right, but she was sick—I mean, sick and nervous. Finally quit because she was sick.”

Molly picked at the fingertips of her gloves. “My letter says I'm to call on Mr. Whiteside. Is he all right? I don't mean that. I mean—is he—what kind of a man is he?”

“Oh, you'll get along with him all right. He's a fine old man. Born in that house he lives in. Been to college, too. He's a good man. Been clerk of the board for over twenty years.”

When he put her down in front of the big old house of John Whiteside, she was really frightened. “Now it's coming,” she said to herself. “But there's nothing to be afraid of He can't do anything to me.” Molly was only nineteen. She felt that this moment of interview for her first job was a tremendous inch in her whole existence.

The walk up to the door did not reassure her, for the path lay between tight little flower beds hedged in with clipped box, seemingly planted with the admonition, “Now grow and multiply, but don't grow too high, nor multiply too greatly, and above all things, keep out of this path!” There was a hand on those flowers, a guiding and a correcting hand. The large white house was very dignified. Venetian blinds of yellow wood were tilted down to keep out the noon sun. Halfway up the path she came in sight of the entrance. There was a veranda as broad and warm and welcoming as an embrace. Through her mind flew the thought, “Surely you can tell the hospitality of a house by its entrance. Suppose it had a little door and no porch.” But in spite of the welcoming of the wide steps and the big doorway, her timidities clung to her when she rang the bell. The big door opened, and a large, comfortable woman stood smiling at Molly.

“I hope you're not selling something,” said Mrs. Whiteside. “I never want to buy anything, and I always do, and then I'm mad.”

Molly laughed. She felt suddenly very happy. Until that moment she hadn't known how frightened she really was. “Oh, no,” she cried. “I'm the new schoolteacher. My letter says I'm to interview Mr. Whiteside. Can I see him?”

“Well, it's noon, and he's just finishing his dinner. Did you have dinner?”

“Oh, of course. I mean, no.”

Mrs. Whiteside chuckled and stood aside for her to enter. “Well, I'm glad you're sure.” She led Molly into a large dining room, lined with mahogany, glass-fronted dish closets. The square table was littered with the dishes of a meal. “Why, John must have finished and gone. Sit down, young woman. I'll bring back the roast.”

“Oh, no. Really, thank you, no, I'll just talk to Mr. Whiteside and then go along.”

“Sit down. You'll need nourishment to face John.”

“Is—is he very stem, with new teachers, I mean?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Whiteside. “That depends. If they haven't had their dinner, he's a regular bear. He shouts at them. But when they've just got up from the table, he's only just fierce.”

Molly laughed happily. “You have children,” she said. “Oh, you've raised lots of children—and you like them.”

Mrs. Whiteside scowled. “One child raised me. Raised me right through the roof. It was too hard on me. He's out raising cows now, poor devils. I don't think I raised him very high.”

When Molly had finished eating, Mrs. Whiteside threw open a side door and called, “John, here's someone to see you.” She pushed Molly through the doorway into a room that was a kind of library, for big bookcases were loaded with thick, old comfortable books, all filigreed in gold. And it was a kind of a sitting room. There was a fireplace of brick with a mantel of little red tile bricks and the most extraordinary vases on the mantel. Hung on a nail over the mantel, slung really, like a rifle on a shoulder strap, was a huge meerschaum pipe in the Jaegar fashion. Big leather chairs with leather tassels hanging to them, stood about the fireplace, all of them patent rocking chairs with the kind of springs that chant when you rock them. And lastly, the room was a kind of an office, for there was an old-fashioned roll-top desk, and behind it sat John Whiteside. When he looked up, Molly saw that he had at once the kindest and the sternest eyes she had ever seen, and the whitest hair, too. Real blue-white, silky hair, a great duster of it.

“I am Mary Morgan,” she began formally.

“Oh, yes, Miss Morgan, I've been expecting you. Won't you sit down?”

She sat in one of the big rockers, and the springs cried with sweet pain. “I love these chairs,” she said. “We used to have one when I was a little girl.” Then she felt silly. “I've come to interview you about this position. My letter said to do that.”

“Don't be so tense, Miss Morgan. I've interviewed every teacher we've had for years. And,” he said, smiling, “I still don't know how to go about it.”

“Oh—I'm glad, Mr. Whiteside. I never asked for a job before. I was really afraid of it.”

“Well, Miss Mary Morgan, as near as I can figure, the purpose of this interview is to give me a little knowledge of your past and of the kind of person you are. I'm supposed to know something about you when you've finished. And now that you know my purpose, I suppose you'll be self-conscious and anxious to give a good impression. Maybe if you just tell me a little about yourself, everything'll be all right. Just a few words about the kind of girl you are, and where you came from.”

Molly nodded quickly. “Yes, I'll try to do that, Mr. Whiteside,” and she dropped her mind back into the past.

“Well, to begin with, we were very poor,” Molly said to John Whiteside. “I guess we were really poverty-stricken. I had two brothers a little older than I. My father was a traveling salesman, but even so, my mother had to work. She worked terribly hard for us.”

“Wait till you see,” their father cried. “Wait till you see what I brought you. It's a secret now. ” And when the hysteria had quieted a little he carried his suitcase out on the porch and opened
it.
There were presents such as no one had ever seen, mechanical toys unknown before—tin bugs that crawled, dancing wooden niggers and astounding steam shovels that worked in sand. There were superb glass marbles with bears and dogs right in their centers. He had something for everyone, several things for everyone. It was all the great holidays packed into one.

“As far as my home life went,” Miss Morgan said, “I guess I almost didn't have any father. He was able to get home very seldom from his business trips.”

John Whiteside nodded gravely.

Molly's hands rustled in her lap and her eyes were dim.

“Poor Tom!” he said. “Molly, you must remember never to say anything to Tom about it, and never to look at him as though you remembered.” He threw a gunny sack over the puppy. “We must have a funeral,” he said. “Did I ever tell you about the Chinese funeral I went to, about the colored paper they throw in
the air, and the little fat roast pigs on the grave?” Joe edged in closer, and even Molly's eyes took on a gleam of interest. “Well,
it was this way....
”