CHAPTER XVIII
"I'll tell you what I'd do 'bout it, if I was you," said Shorty Smith tothe twins, several days later, as he handed back a folded sheet ofpaper. "I'd git your teacher to read that there letter. There'ssomething in it she ought to know 'bout. Better not tell her first whereyou got it. Let on you don't know where it come from. There's somethin'there she'll like to hear 'bout, that you kids ain't old enough tounderstand."
"Oh, is that so!" interposed Dan.
"I ain't a-goin' to tell you nothin' about it, but like enough she will,an'll thank you fer givin' it to her," said Shorty.
"If that writin' wasn't so funny I'd make it out myself," replied thesoft-voiced twin, "fer I think you're jobbin' us, Shorty."
"No, I ain't," he replied. "An' I'll back up my friendship fer you bygivin' you this!" He took from his pocket a silver dollar and handed itto the boy, who pocketed it, and, followed by his brother, walked awaywithout another word.
Shorty Smith also walked away, in the opposite direction, without aword, but he chuckled to himself, and his mood was exceedingly jubilant.
"She done us all right, an' may play the devil yet, but I'll git in alittle work, er my name ain't Shorty Smith!" Such was the substance ofhis thoughts during the next few days.
That afternoon Hope stood in the doorway of the school-house, watchingher little brood of pupils straggling down the hill.
Louisa, who came daily to be with her beloved friend, had started homewith the two eldest Harris girls, for Hope, in her capacity of teacher,occasionally found work to detain her for a short time after the othershad gone. This teaching school was not exactly play, after all.
The twins lingered behind, seemingly engaged in a quiet discussion.Finally they came back to the door.
"Here's somethin' for you to read," said the soft-voiced boy, handingher a folded paper, while Dave leaned against the building with an uglyscowl on his face.
"To read," asked Hope, turning it over in her hand. "Who wrote it, andwhere did you get it?" She stepped out of the doorway onto the greengrass beside them.
"Read it," said the breed boy. "It's somethin' you ought to know."
"Something I ought to know? But who wrote it?" insisted the girl.
"A woman, I reckon," replied the boy. "You just read it, an' then you'llknow all about it."
Hope laughed, and slowly opened the much soiled, creased missive. "Whydidn't you tell me at once that it was for me?" she asked.
The writing was in a bold, feminine back-hand, and held her attentionfor a moment. The thought occurred to her that Clarice might havewritten from the ranch, but there was something unfamiliar about it.She looked first at the signature. "Your repentant Helene," it wassigned. Helene,--who was Helene, she wondered; then turned the paperover. "My darling Boy," it started. In her surprise she said the wordsaloud.
"Why, that's not for me! Where did you boys get this letter? Now tellme!" She was very much provoked with them.
The soft-voiced twin smiled.
"I thought you'd like to know what was in it," he remarked, in evidentearnestness.
"That doesn't answer my question," she said with some impatience."_Where_ did you get it?"
"We found it," replied Dave gruffly, still scowling.
"And you boys bring a letter to _me_ that was intended for someone else,and _expect_ me to _read_ it!" She folded it up and handed it back tothe boy. "Go and give that to whom it belongs, and remember it's verywrong to read another person's letter. Tell me where you got it. Iinsist upon knowing."
"Oh, we just found it up on the hill last night," replied thesoft-voiced twin evasively.
"Why don't you tell her the whole shootin' match!" roared the bluntDave. "You're a dandy! We found it up in the spring coulee last nightnear where Mr. Livingston's sheep're camped. He was up there beforedark, cuttin' 'em out. This here letter dropped out of his pocket whenhe threw his coat on a rock up there, an' so Dan an' me an' Shorty Smithcame along an' picked it up."
"Mr. Livingston's," said Hope, suddenly feeling oddly alarmed. "Not_his_--you must be mistaken! Why, it began--it was too--_informal_--evenfor a sister, and he has no sister, he told me so!"
"It's for him all right, for here's the envelope." Dan took it from hispocket and handed it to her. It left no room for doubt. It was directedto him, and bore an English postmark. He had no sister. Then it must befrom his sweetheart--and he told her he had no sweetheart. A sudden painconsumed her.
"I reckon it's from his wife," said the soft-voiced twin.
"He has no wife," said Hope quietly.
"Oh, yes, he has! That's what they say," declared the boy.
"They lie," she replied softly. "I _know_ he has no wife."
"I'll bet you he left her in England," said the boy. "That's what themen say."
"Your repentant Helene," repeated the girl over and over to herself.
Suddenly suspicion, jealousy, rage, entered her heart, setting her brainon fire. She turned to the boy like a fury. "Give me that letter!"
Frightened beyond speech by the storm in her black eyes, he handed it toher and watched her as with a set face and strangely brilliant eyes shebegan to read. Every word branded itself upon her heart indelibly.
* * * * *
MY DARLING BOY: Can it be that you actually refuse to allow me to comethere? Admitting I have wronged you in the past, can you not in yourgreatness of heart find forgiveness for a weak woman--a pleadingwoman----
* * * * *
There at the foot of the first page the girl stopped, a sudden terrorcoming over her.
"_What have I done!_" she cried, crushing the letter in her hand. "_Whathave I done!_" Hysterically she began tearing it into small pieces,throwing them upon the ground.
"Now we can't give it back to him," deplored the twin, recovering fromhis fright.
"What have I done?" repeated the girl again, softly. Then in an agony ofremorse she went down upon her knees in the cool grass and picked upeach tiny scrap of paper, putting it all back into the envelope. Shestood for a moment looking down the long green slope below, shamed,disgusted--a world of misery showing in her dark eyes. "You're a mightyfine specimen of womanhood!" she exclaimed aloud; then turning aboutsuddenly became aware that her small audience was watching her with someinterest.
"You boys get on your ponies and go right straight home!" she exclaimedin a burst of temper. "You're very bad, both of you, and I've a goodnotion to punish you!" She went into the school-house and slammed thedoor, while the twins lost no time in leaving the premises. Not far awaythey met old Jim McCullen.
"Where's your teacher?" he asked, stopping his horse in the road.
"She's back there," said the soft-voiced twin, pointing toward theschool-house. "But you'd better stay away, for she's got blood in hereye to-day!"
"No wonder, you young devils!" laughed Jim, riding on.
He knocked at the school-house door and, receiving no answer, walked in.
"Oh, Jim!" exclaimed the girl, rising from the small table at the end ofthe room. "I thought it was some of the children returning. I'm awfullyglad to see you! You've been gone an age. Come, sit down here in thischair, I'm afraid those seats aren't large enough for you."
"I'll just sit on this here recitation bench," replied Jim, "that's whatyou call it, ain't it? I want to see how it feels to be in school again.I reckon it'll hold me all right."
He seated himself with some care, while the teacher sank back at hertable.
"You don't seem very pert-lookin', Hopie," he continued, noticing hermore carefully. "What's the matter?"
She looked down at her papers, then up at him with something of a smile.
"I'm twenty years old," she replied, "and I don't know as much as I didten years ago."
"You know too much," replied McCullen. "You know too much to be happy,an' you think too much. You wasn't happy at home, so you come up here,an' now your gittin' the same way here. You'll have to gi
t married,Hopie, an' settle down; there ain't no other way."
"Mercy!" exclaimed the girl, "that would settle me sure enough! What ahorrible proposition to consider! Just look at my mother--beset withnervousness and unrest; look at that poor Mrs. Cresmond and a dozenothers--perfect slaves to their husbands. Look at Clarice--she neverknew a moment's happiness until Henry Van Rensselaer died! Yes, I thinkmarriage _settles_ a girl all right! What terrible mismated failures onevery hand! It's simply appalling, Jim! I've never yet known oneperfectly happy couple, and how any girl who sees this condition abouther, everywhere, can dream her own ideal love dream, picture her idealman, and plan and believe in an ideal life, while she herself issurrounded by such pitiful object-lessons, is a wonder!"
"I ain't much of a philosopher," said old Jim, "but it's always been mynotion that most wimmen _don't_ see what's goin' on around 'em. Theythink their own troubles is worse'n anybody's an' 're so taken upwhinin' over 'em that their view is somewhat obstructed. Take theclear-headed person that _can_ see, an' they ain't a-goin' to run intoany matrimonial fire, no more'n I'm goin' to head my horse over acut-bank. They're goin' straight after the happiness they know exists,an' they ain't goin' to make no mistake about it neither, if they've gotany judgment, whatever."
"What made my mother marry my father?" asked the girl, lifting up herhead and facing old Jim squarely. "That's the worst specimen ofill-assorted marriages I know of."
Jim McCullen looked perplexed for an instant.
"I don't think that was in the beginning," he replied thoughtfully, "butyour mother got to hankerin' after her city life, her balls an' theatersan' the like o' that. After she got a fall from her horse an' couldn'tride no more she didn't seem to take interest in anything at the ranch,an' kept gettin' more nervous all the time. I reckon her health hadsomething to do with it, an' then she got weaned from the ranch, bein'away so much. It wasn't her life any more."
"And now even her visits there are torture to her," said Hope bitterly."She is drunk with the deadly wine of frivolous uselessness--society!"Then sadly, "What a wealth of happiness she might have possessed hadshe chosen wisely!"
"But she was like a ship without a rudder; she didn't have no one toguide her, an' now she thinks she's happy, I reckon," remarked McCullen,adding, after a pause, "If she thinks at all!"
"And poor Clarice was a baby when _she_ married," mused the girl.
"And that Cresmond woman always was a blame fool," concluded Jim. "Sothere's hope for you yet, don't you reckon there is? That reminds me,here's a letter from O'Hara. There's a nice fellow for you, Hopie."
"Yes, he's a good boy, Larry is," she remarked absently, taking theletter he handed to her.
"Why, he says he is coming over here to stay awhile with Sydney, and hehopes I won't be----" She smiled a little and tucked the letter in herbelt. "That'll keep," she said. "Come on, I'm going over to camp withyou, Jim."
Hope Hathaway: A Story of Western Ranch Life Page 18