And they came, later in the morning. The sheriff, apologetically, lifting his old felt hat and bowing respectfully to Hannah.
But there weren’t many questions.
Merely the hour that Rowan had gone away, and whether he had a gun, and might they go up to his room and look around?
They were polite and kindly with it all. They were neighbors she had known for years. They spoke as if it were a mere form they were going through. They said Rowan’s father had told them to come and look around. But something clutched at Hannah’s heart, something seemed grasping her throat, and she couldn’t get a deep breath. She answered their questions with serenity and wondered how she was able to go through with it. They went upstairs and looked around, but they didn’t stay long. Hannah gave them a swift survey as they came down. They explained that they were looking for a certain kind of gun. Was she sure Rowan had no gun? And they looked at her sharply as she answered.
But Hannah could smile at that.
No, he never had a gun. She knew he wanted one, but for her sake he didn’t get it. She was afraid of guns. Guns went off when you didn’t expect them to and she didn’t like to have them around. They had never had a gun in the house except an old revolutionary one that Charles’s great-great grandfather had used in the war. It was up in the attic behind a trunk. Would they like her to get it?
They smiled sheepishly and went out to look around in the garage. They stopped again at the door to apologize again. They said Charles had suggested that they come and look, but Hannah knew that somebody else must have suggested first that there was possible reason for looking, or Charles never would have said it. The very attitude of the sheriff implied that! someone, perhaps all of them, had suspected Rowan, her boy, of complicity in this awful deed, which would perhaps turn out to be murder!
Father in heaven, I’m putting my trust in You! breathed Hannah softly in her heart and turned her quiet eyes on the man who questioned her.
“No, Mr. Turner, I’m quite sure Rowan never had a gun hidden in the garage nor anywhere else. You are welcome to search all you want to.”
Soon after they were gone the telephone rang. It was Charles.
“That you, Hannah? Did Hop Turner come over there to look around?”
“Yes,” said Hannah. “They’ve just gone.”
“Well, you needn’t worry. I wanted them to look around for themselves. I knew you’d understand. I tried to let you know they were coming, but something came up here that I couldn’t telephone any sooner. Sorry you had to be worried.”
“I wasn’t worried, Charles.” Her voice was strong and cheery.
“That’s right. That’s my girl!” said Charles with relief in his voice. “I knew I could trust you not to fret. You see, this thing is from the Lord somehow, and we’ve got to go through it triumphantly. I suppose it’s one of our testings.”
“Yes, Charles, I thought about that,” said Hannah. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right!” was the hearty response. “But I’ve got to stay around here most of the day, and maybe into the night awhile. Being a director of the bank isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. They’ve been pretty hard hit.”
“Oh, you mean money!” said Hannah in a tone as if that meant very little now. “You mean you may have to give up everything we own? But I won’t mind that!”
“Well, Hannah, it may not come to that! But, of course, if it did, I know you’d take it like a soldier. However, we haven’t gone as far as that. We’ve got to see how things come out. We’ve got to catch the thieves first. But I can’t talk over the telephone. You just pray, Hannah. Any word from Rowan yet?”
“No,” confidently.
“Well, that’s all right,” said Charles. “He’ll come sooner or later and have an explanation. Now, you take things easy, Hannah. I may not be home till late tonight. I’ll get a bite to eat down at the grocery. We’re going over books and things.”
“Books?” said Hannah, startled. “Is there something wrong with the books?”
“We’re making sure about everything, Hannah. Now, don’t you go to getting up things to worry about.”
“No, I won’t!” said Hannah. “But, Charles, you think maybe—?” Her voice trailed off in a worried little sigh.
“No, I don’t think anything except that it’s all going to be right in His good time. Now, Hannah, you pray!”
Hannah turned from the phone with a sigh and looked around her. Something she must do to keep her hands busy and her mind from dwelling on possibilities. She could go through the trunks in the attic, of course, and sort out things to send to Myra. Or she could clean the cellar. That was an idea. Clean the cellar!
She took three steps toward the cellar door and paused. Suppose those men should come back and find her cleaning the cellar! Might they not suspect her of clearing out something that she didn’t want seen? No, best leave everything just as it was. It would be wisest to be seen going about her daily tasks as if nothing had happened. There were the yellow tomatoes glowing on the vines waiting to be picked! This would be the very day to make her yellow tomato preserves! Of course she hadn’t intended to do it for three or four days yet, until she got her shelves cleaned in the cellar to receive them, but yellow tomato preserves were the very thing to be made today while her mind was upset. They required attention and skill and would be quite disarming if anyone came in. Hannah hated the thought of prying neighbors asking questions. She desired to keep her affairs to herself, and whatever anxieties she might have to bear, to bear them unannounced.
She took her sunbonnet and a bright new preserving kettle and went to the garden, carrying a little wooden stool along to sit on as she picked down the row.
Down across the hollow in full sight of the tomato patch lived Widow Lamb, in a ramshackle cabin of three rooms and a leaky roof. Her cow had a habit of getting into the corn field and feasting now and then, just as Widow Lamb had a habit of getting into her neighbor’s affairs and feasting her dreary soul on rare tidbits that were not meant for her.
And it wasn’t long before Widow Lame came over.
Hannah Parsons had filled two large baskets with the clear yellow globules and taken them into the kitchen. She had washed them and put a large kettle full of them over the fire, and on the big white polished kitchen table she had spread out the other ingredients for her preserves. The big gray sugar jar, the ginger jar, the spices, the measuring cups and spoons, were all there at hand, and arranged along the wide oilcloth-covered shelf that ran from sink to stove were shining jars, and rings and covers lying in bowls of hot water; two long silver spoons to put in the jars so the hot stuff wouldn’t break the jars when it was poured in, soup plates to put beneath the jars lest a drop should be spilled, though Hannah Parsons never spilled a drop when she was filling her jars. Everything was ready when the knock came at the door, and Hannah started a little. She had been almost happy for the moment thinking of everything she would need, trying to keep her mind busy so she wouldn’t have to remember the robbery, and Rowan, her boy, away—where?
But instantly it all came back of course. Who was this now? The sheriff again? Or perhaps some other official to question her?
But she wiped her hands on the roller towel and tried to walk calmly to the door, though her heart was beating wildly. One thing she had resolved, that whoever came or whatever she was asked, she would not appear frightened. She would present to her suspicious public, if that was really what they were, a front of absolute trust in her son. And nobody, just nobody should be able to make her wince or flinch. God was over all this and it was going to be made plain, and Rowan was going to be justified before his hometown sometime—God’s time.
So she put a comfortable smile on her face and opened the door. It was a relief to see only Widow Lamb. Of course if had been inevitable that she would come. Nothing grave or merry, of sickness or sorrow or festive occasion had passed without a visit of investigation from Mrs. Lamb.
“Good morning
,” she said, her quick little eyes darting about the big inviting kitchen and searching the shadowy doorway of the dining room. “I’ve just run up to see if I could borrow a sprig of parsley for my soup. Mine didn’t do so well this summer, and the last of it is gone. Somehow I don’t think soup is so tasty without parsley.”
“Of course!” said Hannah Parsons heartily. “Come right in and sit down. I have some fresh picked in my ice box, just brought it in a few minutes ago.”
She set forth a rush-bottomed chair and was conscious as she stepped into her pantry to get the parsley, that her visitor went to the chair by way of the side of the kitchen next to the dining room, and paused long enough by the doorway to scan that room with a quick glance. Hannah was glad she had set the table for three as usual, in spite of the fact that she dared not hope that Rowan would be back for lunch. She knew her caller would take that in, and she could see it in her yes that she had, as she came back with the parsley. Mrs. Lamb settled down in the chair and prepared to have a chat.
“What you doing?” she asked, peering inquisitively toward the table and then rising and lifting the lid of the preserve kettle to look within. “My goodness. Yellow tomats already? Why, I didn’t know they were ripe enough for preserving.”
“Yes,” said Hannah with satisfaction, “they were lovely. I thought I’d get at it early. There’s always so much pickling and preserving this time of year.”
The guest stepped over to the table and picked up a plump yellow tomato.
“Seems ’zif they might a waited a wee bit, just a few days yet,” she said, studying Hannah Parsons’s face.
“Well, perhaps they might,” agreed Hannah presently, “but it suited me to do them today so I picked them.”
“You’re making an awful lot,” said the visitor.
“Yes, I usually make a good deal. Rowan is very fond of them, and his father isn’t far behind in the amount he can eat. They do like spreadings on their bread. And then I always send some down to Myra, too.”
The Widow Lamb surveyed her narrowly.
“H’m! You’re expecting Rowan to be with you this winter, are you?”
“Well, so far as we know now that is the plan. He did talk of taking a post graduate course at the college, but I guess he’s about given it up. He seems to think he wants to get to work.”
“Didn’t he go off yesterday? I thought I saw him drive out early in the morning.”
“Yes,” said Hannah patiently, “he went over to Bainbridge to see a car he heard about. He thought he might like to trade his for it.”
“Oh, and he hasn’t come back yet, has he?”
“Oh yes,” said Rowan’s mother pleasantly, “he came back last night. Excuse me, I’m afraid that kettle is going to boil over.”
“Why, I didn’t see him come,” said Widow Lamb. “I watched out the window till dark and I didn’t see him come.”
“Oh, can you see as far as our drive from your house?” asked Hannah innocently.
“Why, of course I can. I don’t know what I’d do for company if it wasn’t for watching my neighbors. I can see Whitney’s house, and even a piece of Carroll’s house beyond, especially in winter when the leaves are off the trees. I can tell what time their lights go out every night. And Jason Whitney’s window is right in line with my bedroom window. I can always tell when Jason comes home late—or when he don’t come home at all. I’m a real light sleeper you know, living alone as I do. I suppose it’s a kind of self-protection keeps me wakeful. And Jason Whitney’s light shines right into my eyes. Do you know, last night he never came home at all!”
“Oh, I don’t see how you could tell that,” said Hannah calmly. “He might have slept in some other room, or he might have even undressed in the dark if he came home late. Young folks do things like that sometimes.”
“Oh, nothing like that in the Whitney house,” said Widow Lamb with a dolorous shake of her head. “Nathan Whitney knows what goes on in his house. You can tell a lot about your neighbors, if you’re used to their ways, even by when their lights go off and on. What time did you say it was that Rowan got home?”
“Why, I guess I didn’t say,” Hannah said, smiling. “I didn’t take notice of the clock.”
“Was Jason Whitney with him?”
“Why, no, I don’t think so,” said Hannah. “He didn’t say anything about his being along.”
“Well, you know what they’re saying about Jason this morning, don’t you?”
“Why, no,” said Hannah cheerily, “I hadn’t heard anybody say anything. But then you know people always will be talking. I wouldn’t bother about gossip, Mrs. Lamb.”
“Well, Hannah Parsons, there are some things one better bother about.” She lowered her voice to a shrill whisper. “They’re saying that Jason knew more’n a little about that robbery in the bank last night! They say he was with the Rowley crowd, and some folks think it was him did the shooting! They say he had a gun that the bullet they took out of Sam Paisley’s side would fit!”
Hannah Parsons laughed.
“Oh, the idea!” she flouted gently. “That’s ridiculous! Jason is a high-spirited boy, I know, but it’s absurd anybody would say a thing like that about him. Why, he’s often been over here. We’re very fond of Jason. He would no more break into a bank or shoot Sam Paisley than I would, Lizzie Lamb, and you know it. I don’t think people ought to repeat foolish talk like that.”
“Well, I thought I ought to tell you,” said the Widow Lamb offendedly. “Jason working in the bank and all, the way he did, and just the day he was dismissed! And your Rowan going around with him as much as he does, and sometimes going around with that low-down Rowley crowd—I thought you ought to be told!”
For an instant Hannah’s eyes flashed at her caller. Then she laughed again.
“Well, Mrs. Lamb,” she said amusedly, “now you’ve got it off your mind suppose we talk about something else. Taste this preserve. Do you think it has enough ginger in it?”
The Widow Lamb took a good spoonful of the translucent preserve offered and smacked her lips.
“It’s not so bad, is it?” she said. “Not that I’m overly fond of yellow tomats myself, but this seems to be real tasty. Well, now you speak of it, it might stand just a dear little bit more ginger, and cinnamon, too. Let me have another taste. I wasn’t thinking of cinnamon when I was tasting the last.”
But finally the Widow Lamb went home bearing two hastily filled jars of preserve in a grape basket, and Hannah drew a sigh of relief.
All the afternoon they kept coming, neighbors who were curious, and neighbors who were anxious for Hannah and wanted to see if he was worrying, and she met them all with a smile and sent them away with a pint jar of her delicious preserve, until they didn’t know what to think.
And in between her callers Hannah Parsons would slip away to her bedroom and kneel beside her bed for a few minutes’ look up into the face of her heavenly Father, a breath of other-world air, and a bit of strengthening for the hard way she must go.
Then after the dusk came down, Joyce Whitney stole across the meadows like a wraith and slipped into the kitchen, her white face staring out of the shadows of the night when she opened the door. Her eyes were large with trouble, and Hannah Parsons turned from the stove where she was preparing a nice little supper in case either of her two dear men-folk came home, and took the girl close to her heart, folding her in loving hungry arms.
Chapter 4
Joyce Whitney had had a hard day. Beginning with the early morning when her father had raved about the house like a madman, there had been trouble and turmoil every hour. Nathan Whitney took himself off to the village to discover for himself just what had happened. He returned within the hour to question his womenfolk sternly and irascibly concerning every move that had been made the day before, especially anything that had to do with Jason, and then to shout orders at them all concerning what they were and what they were not to say when people came. They were all relieved when he went away
again and his wife turned back to her own perplexities. For of all days for it to happen, this was the day when it was her yearly turn to entertain the bridge club, and they would begin to arrive by two o’clock.
Joyce always hated the event. It had happened three times in the past. Joyce didn’t play bridge and wouldn’t learn, which was another grievance that her stepmother had against her. But just because of this lack in her, her stepmother demanded twice as much service from her. There were the bridge tables to get ready, the sandwiches to make, the cakes to cut, and the parlor and the sitting room and the bedrooms must be in perfect order. Mrs. Whitney was proud of her big house and liked to show it off.
Joyce had just finished arranging a little side table with coffee cups and silver and a sugar bowl filled with loaf sugar when her father came rampaging in again. He flung his hat gustily down right in the midst of it all, jostling off a fine old china cup until it rolled from the edge and crashed in fragments on the floor, scattering lumps of sugar here and there. Then he let out a roar.
“What is all this tomfoolery getting in my way? Teacups in the parlor at a time like this! What do you think you are doing, I should like to know?”
He glared at his wife and then at Joyce who stood white and silent behind her stepmother.
His wife bristled and puffed up like a turkey cock.
“This is the day for my bridge club!” she said haughtily. “It is my turn to entertain them. What are you doing home at this hour of the day anyway? You are very much in the way!”
She stooped to pick up her precious cup and he glared at her.
“Indeed!” he said. “I’m in the way, am I? In my own house I’m in the way! Well, I like that! and you are presuming to go ahead and entertain your bridge club when my only son is in danger of being tried for murder, are you? Well, you’ll find yourself mistaken. You’ll entertain no bridge club in my house today! I didn’t marry you to have you entertain the bridge club. Get this trash out of my way, and tell those gossiping old women there’ll be no entertainment for them here today!”