The Heart Remembers

by Peggy Gaddis

  As the station wagon rattled away, Aunt Hettie sighed and shook her head.

  “I declare, it would be a right nice world if there wasn’t so many Bud Livelys in it! Folks in these parts was plum overjoyed when the Army caught him and sent him off to a camp up North. Annie and the young ’uns got a check from the government every blessed month and had everything they needed and it was plumb nice to watch ’em. But the Army didn’t keep him more’n six or seven months and sent him right back with his discharge papers. Even they wouldn’t be bothered with him, bad as they needed soldiers.”

  “From what I saw of the service, men like Bud Lively were a liability, where assets were badly needed,” Shelley admitted.

  “Men like Bud Lively are liabilities anywhere, any time, anyhow,” said Aunt Hettie grimly, as she whipped off her apron. She went on in a different tone, “I’ll be ready in a minute, child. You’ll be wanting to get to work.”

  And five minutes later, Shelley was gazing in honest awe at an ancient wreck of a car that Aunt Hettie was proudly piloting out of the barn. It was a 1929 Ford, its two front fenders fastened to the body with baling wire. It shook and shivered and protested loudly in every joint. Its tires were solid, so that every bump on the by no means smooth road was felt to an excruciating degree.

  Aunt Hettie sat bolt upright to drive, her hands gripping the wheel tightly, and drove with a concentrated attention that did not detract in the least from her feeling of delighted importance.

  “Lizzie ain’t much for looks,” she confessed. “But she gets me where I want to go and back again, and that’s what’s important to me.”

  Shelley couldn’t answer for a moment, because just then they ran over a small log at the edge of the road and Shelley went up in the air and banged her head painfully on the top of the car, biting her tongue. But Aunt Hettie was not a bit disconcerted and chattered gaily.

  “Kinda funny. Harbour Pines having a newspaper again,” she was saying cheerfully as they reached the little house and went up the walk. “I remember when the old paper shut down. Folks that run it was mighty nice. I always liked Mis’ Newton real well, and you coulda knocked me over with a feather when they carted Mr. Newton off to jail. Folks around here was mighty hard to convince that he was a thief, but I reckon them folks at the courthouse had so much evidence they just had to believe it. Always thought myself, though, that there was a heap back of the whole business that never did come out during the trial, ner afterwards.”

  Shelley lowered her head, and pretended to be estimating the work to be done, so that she could conceal the little wave of sick emotion that swept over her as she went once more into the forlorn little house.

  Chapter Five

  By the end of the week, thanks to Aunt Hettie’s unflagging zeal, and Shelley’s own undaunted courage, the little old house was shining clean inside. Bright with fresh curtains and new paint and gay with slip-covers, with bowls of flowers around and new rag rugs scattered over the floors that had been freshly painted.

  Aunt Hettie had arrived on Saturday morning with the back of faithful old Lizzie stacked with potted plants, and when Shelley had cried out in protest, albeit with delight, Aunt Hettie had brushed her aside.

  “Shucks, child, a house ain’t a home till you got some flowers growin’ around. You’ll have plenty in the garden once I find that triflin’ Mose to work on it. And I got so many potted plants I don’t scarcely know what to do with ’em. This here angel’s wing begonia’ll look right pretty here on your bookcase and I’ll put this bleedin’ heart on the table by the window. Soon’s the nights get a little warmer you can set ’em on the verandah.”

  Shelley had brought her luggage with her when she came that morning and was now definitely settled in her own little home. Selena had been polite, but had had difficulty in concealing her relief at Shelley’s departure; a relief that Shelley had felt as keenly as Selena. Aunt Hettie was going to spend the night with Shelley and was as pleased as a child at the prospect. She and Shelley were fast friends by now.

  They walked from room to room of the house, a brief journey but one that they made slowly and happily, gloating over every bit of their work that had transformed the shabby old house into cheerful, modest comfort.

  There was a shiny new oil cook-stove in the kitchen and Aunt Hettie eyed it happily.

  “Now, ain’t that a fine stove? My, it certainly would seem like a treat to just strike a match, turn up a wick and start cooking, instead of having to chop wood and kindlin’ and build fires and wait for the stove to get hot,” she said happily, and Shelley laughed and hugged her.

  Sunday she and Aunt Hettie went to church, and Aunt Hettie saw to it that Shelley met everybody, including the gracious old minister. There was a pleasant, friendly buzzing about the newspaper, and when she went to bed that night, Shelley felt that she had made a most excellent start, both in her secret purpose and in her public enterprise.

  Now that the house was clean and shining, and the new equipment she had ordered for the newspaper plant would be arriving soon, she set about getting the office cleaned and ready. As she walked in on Monday morning, she was startled to see doors and windows wide, and through a thick cloud of dust she saw a strange man busily wielding a broom.

  “Oh, good morning,” he greeted her politely, pausing in his labors. “If you’ve brought us some business, we’re very grateful, but it will be at least a week before we’re ready.”

  “I’m Shelley Kimbrough.”

  “Oh, forgive me. My new boss! Editor and publisher of the Harbour Pines Journal, of course. My mistake. I was expecting somebody older and—er—much less decorative. Permit me to introduce myself,” said the man. “Philip Foster Esquire—printer extraordinary—who would like to be your staff. Together, I think we could stand this hick village—oh, forgive me, of course I mean this—er—charming little town on its ear—in a perfectly nice way, of course.”

  Shelley blinked, but laughed, for the man was disarmingly friendly and attractive.

  “But I don’t understand, Mr.—Foster? Who engaged you?” she asked, puzzled.

  His smile was oddly charming. He was too thin, too gaunt, with eyes almost feverishly bright. But he was obviously an educated man; despite his worn, shabby garments his bearing was that of a gentleman.

  “Well, strictly speaking, nobody hired me, Miss Kimbrough,” he admitted, smiling hopefully. “I heard in Atlanta that the Journal was going to be revived, and since I’m fond of this part of the country, and being out of employment, I decided to take a chance that the somewhat misguided lady who had acquired said Journal might not yet have found herself a printer. So I blew in and went to work—hopefully. But say the word and I’ll blow out—with no hard feelings.”

  He presented her a worn wallet, in which she found the credentials that attested to his training and his standing with the union.

  “I’m afraid the wages won’t be much, not right at first,” she warned him.

  “My needs are few and modest,” he assured her, and some of his light humor faded. “There’s a small shed-room at the back there. Sort of stockroom, I suppose, but there’s an Army cot there. I’ll pick up a ten-cent-store mirror in which I can see to shave my whiskers, and I’ll need only a bit over for food—and—one more thing.”

  He hesitated a moment, and now every trace of humor was gone from his eyes, and he looked older, thinner, almost bitter.

  “Of course, that one other thing requires explanation,” he went on grimly. “You may as well know in the very beginning, Miss Kimbrough, that I’m a confirmed alcoholic. It’s a sort of occupational disease suffered by most tramp-printers of my sort. To put it plainly, once the paper has been ‘put to bed’ for the weekly issue, and my responsibility until next press-day has ended, I ask the single pleasure of steeping myself in strong drink. Brutally, to get stinkin’ drunk and stay that way until I am needed again.”

  Shelley’s eyes were wide and she could only say, “Oh!”

  The m
an nodded and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

  “Quite,” he agreed politely. “If you prefer not to have such a one as I on your pay-roll, you have only to say the word. But I would like to assure you, on my word of—I could scarcely say honor, could I?”

  “Why not?”

  His eyes widened and his brows went up a little.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly, with a little bow. “Then I shall say it. On my word of honor, I shall never let you down. I shall be sober, industrious, a busy little beaver until after the paper goes to press on Wednesday and is ready for Thursday’s distribution; I shall be as sober as the proverbial judge.”

  “I’d hope to pick up some job-printing work to help with the expenses,” Shelley pointed out quietly.

  Philip Foster grinned at her.

  “Then you are an incurable little optimist, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  Once more Philip Foster studied her curiously and hesitated.

  “Since I’m not yet officially on the pay-roll—indeed, may well never be!—I suppose I may risk being presumptuous enough to ask you a frank question; which is—why in blazes you ever thought of starting a newspaper in this place, of all others in the wide world?”

  Shelley colored but met his eyes straightly.

  “Because I’ve always wanted a country weekly, and I haven’t money enough to buy a big, already established one, and I haven’t had much experience in running a paper and I thought it would be wise to start small and hope to build big.”

  “And the other, the real reason, of course, is none of my business so let’s forget I asked you,” Philip finished for her pleasantly. “Right. Now, shall I continue to shove this mound of dust and debris around until I lose it? Or have I lost a job before I got it?”

  Shelley laughed warmly.

  “By all means let’s lose the trash; I’m very glad to have you here.”

  “Thanks,” said Philip quietly, the deep sincerity of his voice adding emphasis to the word, as he fell to again on the task of cleaning.

  She could not but wonder about him as they worked, making the barn-like room ready for the new equipment, getting the two battered, ink-stained desks cleared of their accumulation of old papers and trash.

  Who was this Philip Foster? A journeyman printer, of course; one of those men who are experts in their field, yet find the daily grind unbearable unless the scene is changed frequently and usually for no better reason than boredom. He would knock about the country as long as his money lasted; stopping off to pick up a job somewhere, holding it until once more the devil of restlessness harried him into moving on—and on—and on. A well educated man who could exert a certain amount of debonair charm; a man who seemed quite content to be a tramp, except when necessity forced him to earn money enough for his simple wants. His humor was wry, but not malicious. He interested her, amused her, aroused her curiosity. And she mentally crossed her fingers for whatever their future relationship as employer and employee might bring about.

  A few days later, the arrival of the truck bearing the first pieces of equipment brought about the shop a swarm of the idly curious, out of which they were able to pick up the extra labor so badly needed to set up and arrange the machinery. Shelley realized immediately that she could safely leave all the technical details to Philip and so was deeply relieved. And by the end of the week, she knew they could safely promise the publication of the first week’s issue for the following Friday.

  When the last small task had been attended to and the old place was neat and shining and its new equipment looked brave and promising, Philip smiled wryly at Shelley.

  “And now that we are ready to start work and you won’t be needing me for the next two or three days, I have a date with a celebration,” he told her quite formally. But there was a look in his eyes that made her sick with pity.

  Shelley said impulsively, “Must you, Philip?”

  “Afraid I must, Boss Lady,” he said curtly, settled his battered hat at a defiantly jaunty angle and swung out of the place, hurrying toward town and the one liquor store the place possessed.

  She was bitterly sorry for him. Yet she had come to know in the few short days they had worked together that he was gripped and ridden by “black devils” whose savagery she could only guess at, appalled. And wisely she knew better than to attempt anything in the nature of a protest which, of course, would have availed her nothing, anyway.

  He was a man in his late thirties, perhaps a little older. This was not a new way of life for him. In it she sensed the explanation of the waste of a really brilliant man and a deeply trained skill that might easily have led him to the top of his profession, but for the “black devils.”

  She locked up and made her way back to the house in the thickening twilight. The weather had been beautiful for the past two weeks, but today the skies had been lowering and sullen, with frequent lashing rain. The people said there was a “nor’easter” blowing on the coast forty miles away and it might easily last several days.

  The wind that mourned through the pines tonight had an eery quality. The night was very dark, as she went busily about preparing her supper. So dark that it seemed to press against the window-panes, as though trying to force its way in and vanquish its ancient enemy, the yellow lamp-light.

  She put on the lights all over the little house, for added comfort against the howking wind and the close darkness. In the living room she knelt and set a match to the fire already laid on the hearth; and then she put her supper on a tray and took it in to the living room, and curled up comfortably in a deep chair, suddenly conscious of an aching weariness.

  She lost track of time. There wasn’t any reason to hurry. She ate her supper leisurely and at last rose to take the tray back to the kitchen. The hall was dark, because with lights in the living room and kitchen, she had not set one there.

  She finished in the kitchen, turned out the light and came back into the little hall that ran through the house. And at the door of the living room, still in the shadows of the hall, she paused, transfixed, staring at one of the windows, incredulous, too startled to be frightened.

  She was quite certain that her imagination was playing her tricks and that she wasn’t really seeing the white, ghostly thing that hovered close to one of the living room windows, as though peering in. It was not until Shelley caught the glimmer of light against those peering eyes that the full horror of that moment struck her. For while the shining eyes glimmered in the light, the thing had no face! Only the eyes, shining like an animal’s eyes, were visible above and beneath a glimmer of misty white.

  For a moment sheer primitive terror clutched her throat. The darkness pressing close to the windows, the misty swaying filmy white thing seeming to float there, faceless, though with shining, cat-like eyes, the mournful soughing of the wind in the pines, the rattle of a loose shutter somewhere—

  It was the ordinary everyday sound of a horn on a passing car that broke the paralysis of shock and horror that held Shelley. At the sound of the horn, the misty thing wavered and drew back, and the shining, hideous eyes were gone, and Shelley flung herself across the living room, fumbling with the catch of the window to open it. But there was nothing to be seen in the darkness; no sound save the wind in the pines. The rain was coming down again, and lashing her in the face as she stood at the open window.

  She made herself close the window at last, and stood for a little, her face in her hands, trembling so that she could barely stand. And then she made a terrific effort to pull herself together.

  “Don’t be a goop, Shelley Kimbrough! There’s no such thing as a ghost. And even if there were ghosts, they’d have no reason to haunt me here. This is my home. I have every right to be here.”

  Outside, the thick darkness pressed close and the humming of the rain was like a drumming on the roof, and the wind whined. But there was no white, misty thing clinging to the window. There was only darkness.

  She drew a long shudderi
ng breath and suddenly, even while she still scolded herself furiously, she was across the room, putting out the lights, drawing the curtains close. She made herself go across the hall to her bedroom and search it thoroughly, trying to laugh at herself as she looked under the bed and in the shallow closet. But ignominiously, once she was safely in bed, she drew the covers over her head and it was a long time before she finally managed to fall asleep.

  Chapter Six

  In the morning, with the “nor’easter” dying down and a thin, watery sunlight trying to find its way through the clouds, she could laugh at herself; almost convince herself that the whole thing had been a trick of her imagination—some flicker of light and shadow, maybe. Yet no matter how she argued she could not quite argue herself out of remembering the cat-like shimmer of those awful eyes!

  She was at the office shortly before noon when Aunt Hettie parked her ancient Lizzie at the curb and came swiftly up the walk to the shop.

  “Well, sir, I run into some people that was in town for the day yesterday,” she announced importantly, “and I brought you a list of ’em and the news from their part of the section. Who’s been where, and who’s visitin’ who, and the new babies out over the community. Seein’ as folks gets a sight of pleasure out of seein’ their names in print, I thought maybe you could find room to print some of these.”

  “Aunt Hettie, you’re a lamb! It’s exactly what we need to give the ‘personal’ touch, and the Journal has to lean heavily on the personal touch! You must help me round up some correspondents in the vicinity, so we can have a local ‘gossip column.’ ”

  Aunt Hettie was pleased and excited and they discussed it for a few minutes, and then Aunt Hettie laughed.

  “And there’s something else I know you won’t want to publish,” she added. “Old Minnie-Ola, the kunjur-woman, came to my house this morning wanting a set of my Buff Orpington eggs and my, my, what a tale she had. ’Course, I don’t pay much attention to old Minnie-Ola, but there’s a heap o’ folks that do.”