Virginian (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (41 page)

His eye dwelt awhile on the fireplace, next on the deer horns, and next it travelled toward the shelf where her books were; but it stopped before reaching them.

“Better say off the names before I look,” said he. “I’ve had a heap o’ misleading visions. And—and supposin’—if this was just my sickness fooling me some more—I’d want to die. I would die! Now we’ll see. If
Copperfield
is on the floor” (he looked stealthily to be sure that it was), “then she was readin’ to me when everything happened, and then there should be a hole in the book row, top left. Top, left,” he repeated, and warily brought his glance to the place. “Proved!” he cried. “It’s all so!”

He now noticed the miniature of Grandmother Stark. “You are awful like her,” he whispered. “You’re cert‘nly awful like her. May I kiss you too, ma’am?”

Then, tottering, he rose from his sick-chair. The Navajo blanket fell from his shoulders, and gradually, experimentally, he stood upright. Helping himself with his hand slowly along the wall of the room, and round to the opposite wall with many a pause, he reached the picture, and very gently touched the forehead of the ancestral dame with his lips. “I promise to make your little girl happy,” he whispered.

He almost fell in stooping to the portrait, but caught himself and stood carefully quiet, trembling, and speaking to himself. “Where is your strength?” he demanded. “I reckon it is joy that has unsteadied your laigs.”

The door opened. It was she, come back with his dinner.

“My Heavens!” she said; and setting the tray down, she rushed to him. She helped him back to his chair, and covered him again. He had suffered no hurt, but she clung to him; and presently he moved and let himself kiss her with fuller passion.

“I will be good,” he whispered.

“You must,” she said. “You looked so pale!”

“You are speakin’ low like me,” he answered. “But we have no dream we can wake from.”

Had she surrendered on this day to her cow-puncher, her wild man? Was she forever wholly his? Had the Virginian’s fire so melted her heart that no rift in it remained? So she would have thought if any thought had come to her. But in his arms to-day, thought was lost in something more divine.

—29—

WORD TO BENNINGTON

THEY KEPT THEIR SECRET for a while, or at least they had that special joy of believing that no one in all the world but themselves knew this that had happened to them. But I think that there was one person who knew how to keep a secret even better than these two lovers. Mrs. Taylor made no remarks to any one whatever. Nobody on Bear Creek, however, was so extraordinarily cheerful and serene. That peculiar severity which she had manifested in the days when Molly was packing her possessions had now altogether changed. In these days she was endlessly kind and indulgent to her “deary.” Although, as a housekeeper, Mrs. Taylor believed in punctuality at meals, and visited her offspring with discipline when they were late without good and sufficient excuse, Molly was now exempt from the faintest hint of reprimand.

“And it’s not because you’re not her mother,” said George Taylor, bitterly. “She used to get it, too. And we’re the only ones that get it. There she comes, just as we’re about ready to quit! Aren’t you going to say
nothing
to her?”

“George,” said his mother, “when you’ve saved a man’s life it’ll be time for you to talk.”

So Molly would come into her meals with much irregularity; and her remarks about the imperfections of her clock met with no rejoinder. And yet one can scarcely be so severe as had been Mrs. Taylor, and become wholly as mild as milk. There was one recurrent event that could invariably awaken hostile symptoms in the dame. Whenever she saw a letter arrive with the Bennington postmark upon it, she shook her fist at that letter.

“What’s family pride?” she would say to herself. “Taylor could be a Son of the Revolution
^bq
if he’d a mind to. I wonder if she has told her folks yet.”

And when letters directed to Bennington would go out, Mrs. Taylor would inspect every one as if its envelope ought to grow transparent beneath her eyes, and yield up to her its great secret, if it had one. But in truth these letters had no great secret to yield up, until one day—yes; one day Mrs. Taylor would have burst, were bursting a thing that people often did. Three letters were the cause of this emotion on Mrs. Taylor’s part; one addressed to Bennington, one to Dunbarton, and the third—here was the great excitement—to Bennington, but not in the little schoolmarm’s delicate writing. A man’s hand had traced those plain, steady vowels and consonants.

“It’s come!” exclaimed Mrs. Taylor, at this sight. “He has written to her mother himself.”

That is what the Virginian had done, and here is how it had come about.

The sick man’s convalescence was achieved. The weeks had brought back to him, not his whole strength yet—that could come only by many miles of open air on the back of Monte; but he was strong enough now to
get
strength. When a patient reaches this stage, he is out of the woods.

He had gone for a little walk with his nurse. They had taken (under the doctor’s recommendation) several such little walks, beginning with a five-minute one, and at last to-day accomplishing three miles.

“No, it has not been too far,” said he. “I am afraid I could walk twice as far.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes. Because it means I can go to work again. This thing we have had together is over.”

For reply, she leaned against him.

“Look at you!” he said. “Only a little while ago you had to help me stand on my laigs. And now—” For a while there was silence between them. “I have never had a right down sickness before,” he presently went on. “Not to remember, that is. If any person had told me I could
enjoy
such a thing—” He said no more, for she reached up, and no more speech was possible.

“How long has it been?” he next asked her.

She told him.

“Well, if it could be forever—no. Not forever with no more than this. I reckon I’d be sick again! But if it could be forever with just you and me, and no one else to bother with. But any longer would not be doing right by your mother. She would have a right to think ill of me.”

“Oh!” said the girl. “Let us keep it.”

“Not after I am gone. Your mother must be told.”

“It seems so—can’t we—oh, why need anybody know?”

“Your mother ain’t ‘anybody.’ She is your mother. I feel mighty responsible to her for what I have done.”

“But I did it!”

“Do you think so? Your mother will not think so. I am going to write to her to-day.”

“You! Write to my mother! Oh, then everything will be so different! They will all—” Molly stopped before the rising visions of Bennington. Upon the fairy-tale that she had been living with her cow-boy lover broke the voices of the world. She could hear them from afar. She could see the eyes of Bennington watching this man at her side. She could imagine the ears of Bennington listening for slips in his English. There loomed upon her the round of visits which they would have to make. The ringing of the doorbells, the waiting in drawing-rooms for the mistress to descend and utter her prepared congratulations, while her secret eye devoured the Virginian’s appearance, and his manner of standing and sitting. He would be wearing gloves, instead of fringed gauntlets of buckskin. In a smooth black coat and waistcoat, how could they perceive the man he was? During those short formal interviews, what would they ever find out of the things that she knew about him? The things for which she was proud of him? He would speak shortly and simply; they would say, “Oh, yes!” and “How different you must find this from Wyoming!”—and then, after the door was shut behind his departing back they would say—He would be totally underrated, not in the least understood. Why should he be subjected to this? He should never be!

Now in all these half-formed, hurried, distressing thoughts which streamed through the girl’s mind, she altogether forgot one truth. True it was that the voice of the world would speak as she imagined. True it was that in the eyes of her family and acquaintance this lover of her choice would be examined even more like a
specimen
than are other lovers upon these occasions: and all accepted lovers have to face this ordeal of being treated like specimens by the other family. But dear me! most of us manage to stand it, don’t we? It isn’t, perhaps, the most delicious experience that we can recall in connection with our engagement. But it didn’t prove fatal. We got through it somehow. We dined with Aunt Jane, and wined with Uncle Joseph, and perhaps had two fingers given to us by old Cousin Horatio, whose enormous fortune was of the greatest importance to everybody. And perhaps fragments of the other family’s estimate of us subsequently reached our own ears. But if a chosen lover cannot stand being treated as a specimen by the other family, he’s a very weak vessel, and not worth any good girl’s love. That’s all I can say for him.

Now the Virginian was scarcely what even his enemy would term a weak vessel; and Molly’s jealousy of the impression which he might make upon Bennington was vastly superfluous. She should have known that he would indeed care to make a good impression; but that such anxiety on his part would be wholly for her sake, that in the eyes of her friends she might stand justified in taking him for her wedded husband. So far as he was concerned apart from her, Aunt Jane and Uncle Joseph might say anything they pleased, or think anything they pleased. His character was open for investigation. Judge Henry would vouch for him.

This is what he would have said to his sweetheart had she but revealed to him her perturbations. But she did not reveal them; and they were not of the order that he with his nature was likely to divine. I do not know what good would have come from her speaking out to him, unless that perfect understanding between lovers which indeed is a good thing. But I do not believe that he could have reassured her; and I am certain that she could not have prevented his writing to her mother.

“Well, then,” she sighed at last, “if you think so, I will tell her.”

That sigh of hers, be it well understood, was not only because of those far-off voices which the world would in consequence of her news be lifting presently. It came also from bidding farewell to the fairy-tale which she must leave now; that land in which she and he had been living close together alone, unhindered, unmindful of all things.

“Yes, you will tell her,” said her lover. “And I must tell her too.”

“Both of us?” questioned the girl.

What would he say to her mother? How would her mother like such a letter as he would write to her? Suppose he should misspell a word? Would not sentences from him at this time—written sentences—be a further bar to his welcome acceptance at Bennington?

“Why don’t you send messages by me?” she asked him.

He shook his head. “She is not going to like it, anyway,” he answered. “I must speak to her direct. It would be like shirking.”

Molly saw how true his instinct was here; and a little flame shot upward from the glow of her love and pride in him. Oh, if they could all only know that he was like this when you understood him! She did not dare say out to him what her fear was about this letter of his to her mother. She did not dare because—well, because she lacked a little faith. That is it, I am afraid. And for that sin she was her own punishment. For in this day, and in many days to come, the pure joy of her love was vexed and clouded, all through a little lack of faith; while for him, perfect in his faith, his joy was like crystal.

“Tell me what you’re going to write,” she said.

He smiled at her. “No.”

“Aren’t you going to let me see it when it’s done?”

“No.” Then a freakish look came into his eyes. “I’ll let yu’ see anything I write to other women.” And he gave her one of his long kisses. “Let’s get through with it together,” he suggested, when they were once more in his sick-room, that room which she had given to him. “You’ll sit one side o’ the table, and I’ll sit the other, and we’ll go ahaid; and pretty soon it will be done.”

“O dear!” she said. “Yes, I suppose that is the best way.”

And so, accordingly, they took their places. The inkstand stood between them. Beside each of them she distributed paper enough, almost, for a presidential message. And pens and pencils were in plenty. Was this not the headquarters of the Bear Creek schoolmarm?

“Why, aren’t you going to do it in pencil first?” she exclaimed, looking up from her vacant sheet. His pen was moving slowly, but steadily.

“No, I don’t reckon I need to,” he answered, with his nose close to the paper. “Oh, damnation, there’s a blot!” He tore his spoiled beginning in small bits, and threw them into the fireplace. “You’ve got it too full,” he commented; and taking the inkstand, he tipped a little from it out of the window. She sat lost among her false starts. Had she heard him swear, she would not have minded. She rather liked it when he swore. He possessed that quality in his profanity of not offending by it. It is quite wonderful how much worse the same word will sound in one man’s lips than in another’s. But she did not hear him. Her mind was among a litter of broken sentences. Each thought which she began ran out into the empty air, or came against some stone wall. So there she sat, her eyes now upon that inexorable blank sheet that lay before her, waiting, and now turned with vacant hopelessness upon the sundry objects in the room. And while she thus sat accomplishing nothing, opposite to her the black head bent down, and the steady pen moved from phrase to phrase.

She became aware of his gazing at her, flushed and solemn. That strange color of the sea-water, which she could never name, was lustrous in his eyes. He was folding his letter.

“You have finished?” she said.

“Yes.” His voice was very quiet. “I feel like an honester man.”

“Perhaps I can do something to-night at Mrs. Taylor’s,” she said, looking at her paper.