by Owen Wister
XXIX. WORD TO BENNINGTON
They kept their secret for a while, or at least they had that specialjoy of believing that no one in all the world but themselves knew thisthat had happened to them. But I think that there was one person whoknew how to keep a secret even better than these two lovers. Mrs. Taylormade no remarks to any one whatever. Nobody on Bear Creek, however, wasso extraordinarily cheerful and serene. That peculiar severity which shehad manifested in the days when Molly was packing her possessions,had now altogether changed. In these days she was endlessly kind andindulgent to her "deary." Although, as a housekeeper, Mrs. Taylorbelieved in punctuality at meals, and visited her offspring withdiscipline when they were late without good and sufficient excuse, Mollywas 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 tosay NOTHING to her?"
"George," said his mother, "when you've saved a man's life it'll be timefor you to talk."
So Molly would come in to her meals with much irregularity; and herremarks about the imperfections of her clock met with no rejoinder. Andyet one can scarcely be so severe as had been Mrs. Taylor, and becomewholly as mild as milk. There was one recurrent event that couldinvariably awaken hostile symptoms in the dame. Whenever she saw aletter arrive with the Bennington postmark upon it, she shook her fistat that letter. "What's family pride?" she would say to herself. "Taylorcould be a Son of the Revolution if he'd a mind to. I wonder if she hastold her folks yet."
And when letters directed to Bennington would go out, Mrs. Taylor wouldinspect every one as if its envelope ought to grow transparent beneathher eyes, and yield up to her its great secret, if it had one. But intruth 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 peopleoften did. Three letters were the cause of this emotion on Mrs. Taylor'spart; one addressed to Bennington, one to Dunbarton, and the third--herewas the great excitement--to Bennington, but not in the littleschoolmarm'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 toher 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 tohim, not his whole strength yet--that could come only by many milesof open air on the back of Monte; but he was strong enough now to GETstrength. 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 thedoctor's recommendation) several such little walks, beginning with afive-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 twiceas far."
"Afraid?"
"Yes. Because it means I can go to work again. This thing we have hadtogether is over."
For reply, she leaned against him.
"Look at you!" he said. "Only a little while ago you had to help mestand on my laigs. And now--" For a while there was silence betweenthem. "I have never had a right down sickness before," he presently wenton. "Not to remember, that is. If any person had told me I could ENJOYsuch a thing--" He said no more, for she reached up, and no more speechwas 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 andme, and no one else to bother with. But any longer would not be doingright 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 mightyresponsible 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 toher to-day."
"You! Write to my mother! Oh, then everything will be so different! Theywill all--" Molly stopped before the rising visions of Bennington. Uponthe fairy-tale that she had been living with her cow-boy lover broke thevoices of the world. She could hear them from afar. She could see theeyes of Bennington watching this man at her side. She could imagine theears of Bennington listening for slips in his English. There loomed uponher the round of visits which they would have to make. The ringing ofthe door-bells, the waiting in drawing-rooms for the mistress to descendand utter her prepared congratulations, while her secret eye devouredthe Virginian's appearance, and his manner of standing and sitting. Hewould be wearing gloves, instead of fringed gauntlets of buckskin. In asmooth black coat and waistcoat, how could they perceive the man he was?During those short formal interviews, what would they ever find out ofthe things that she knew about him? The things for which she was proudof him? He would speak shortly and simply; they would say, "Oh, yes!"and "How different you must find this from Wyoming!"--and then, afterthe door was shut behind his departing back they would say--He wouldbe totally underrated, not in the least understood. Why should he besubjected to this? He should never be!
Now in all these half-formed, hurried, distressing thoughts whichstreamed through the girl's mind, she altogether forgot one truth. Trueit was that the voice of the world would speak as she imagined. True itwas that in the eyes of her family and acquaintance this lover of herchoice would be examined even more like a SPECIMEN than are other loversupon these occasions: and all accepted lovers have to face this ordealof 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, themost delicious experience that we can recall in connection with ourengagement. But it didn't prove fatal. We got through it somehow. Wedined with Aunt Jane, and wined with Uncle Joseph, and perhaps had twofingers given to us by old Cousin Horatio, whose enormous fortune was ofthe greatest importance to everybody. And perhaps fragments of the otherfamily's estimate of us subsequently reached our own ears. But if achosen lover cannot stand being treated as a specimen by the otherfamily, 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 weakvessel; and Molly's jealousy of the impression which he might make uponBennington was vastly superfluous. She should have known that he wouldindeed care to make a good impression; but that such anxiety on his partwould be wholly for her sake, that in the eyes of her friends she mightstand justified in taking him for her wedded husband. So far as he wasconcerned apart from her, Aunt Jane and Uncle Joseph might say anythingthey pleased, or think anything they pleased. His character was open forinvestigation. Judge Henry would vouch for him.
This is what he would have said to his sweetheart had she but revealedto him her perturbations. But she did not reveal them; and they were notof the order that he with his nature was likely to divine. I do notknow what good would have come from her speaking out to him, unless thatperfect understanding between lovers which indeed is a good thing. ButI do not believe that he could have reassured her; and I am certain thatshe 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 thosefar-off voices which the world would in consequence of her news belifting presently. It came also from bidding farewell to the fairy-talewhich she must leave now; that land in which she and he had been livingclose 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
letteras he would write to her? Suppose he should misspell a word? Would notsentences from him at this time--written sentences--be a further bar tohis 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 upwardfrom the glow of her love and pride in him. Oh, if they could all onlyknow that he was like this when you understood him! She did not dare sayout to him what her fear was about this letter of his to her mother. Shedid not dare because--well, because she lacked a little faith. That isit, I am afraid. And for that sin she was her own punishment. For inthis day, and in many days to come, the pure joy of her love was vexedand clouded, all through a little lack of faith; while for him, perfectin 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' seeanything I write to other women." And he gave her one of his longkisses. "Let's get through with it together," he suggested, when theywere 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 goahaid; 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 betweenthem. Beside each of them she distributed paper enough, almost, for apresidential message. And pens and pencils were in plenty. Was this notthe headquarters of the Bear Creek schoolmarm?
"Why, aren't you going to do it in pencil first?" she exclaimed, lookingup 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 thepaper. "Oh, damnation, there's a blot!" He tore his spoiled beginning insmall 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 outof the window. She sat lost among her false starts. Had she heard himswear, she would not have minded. She rather liked it when he swore. Hepossessed that quality in his profanity of not offending by it. It isquite wonderful how much worse the same word will sound in one man'slips than in another's. But she did not hear him. Her mind was among alitter of broken sentences. Each thought which she began ran out intothe empty air, or came against some stone wall. So there she sat, hereyes now upon that inexorable blank sheet that lay before her, waiting,and now turned with vacant hopelessness upon the sundry objects in theroom. And while she thus sat accomplishing nothing, opposite to her theblack head bent down, and the steady pen moved from phrase to phrase.
She became aware of his gazing at her, flushed and solemn. That strangecolor of the sea-water, which she could never name, was lustrous in hiseyes. 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.
On it were a few words crossed out. This was all she had to show. Atthis set task in letter-writing, the cow-puncher had greatly excelledthe schoolmarm!
But that night, while he lay quite fast asleep in his bed, she waskeeping vigil in her room at Mrs. Taylor's.
Accordingly, the next day, those three letters departed for the mail,and Mrs. Taylor consequently made her exclamation, "It's come!"
On the day before the Virginian returned to take up his work at JudgeHenry's ranch, he and Molly announced their news. What Molly said toMrs. Taylor and what Mrs. Taylor said to her, is of no interest to us,though it was of much to them.
But Mr. McLean happened to make a call quite early in the morning toinquire for his friend's health.
"Lin," began the Virginian, "there is no harm in your knowing an hour orso before the rest, I am--"
"Lord!" said Mr. McLean, indulgently. "Everybody has knowed that sincethe day she found yu' at the spring."
"It was not so, then," said the Virginian, crossly.
"Lord! Everybody has knowed it right along."
"Hmp!" said the Virginian. "I didn't know this country was that rankwith gossips."
Mr. McLean laughed mirthfully at the lover. "Well," he said, "Mrs.McLean will be glad. She told me to give yu' her congratulations quitea while ago. I was to have 'em ready just as soon as ever yu' asked for'em yourself." Lin had been made a happy man some twelve months previousto this. And now, by way of an exchange of news, he added: "We'reexpectin' a little McLean down on Box Elder. That's what you'll beexpectin' some of these days, I hope."
"Yes," murmured the Virginian, "I hope so too."
"And I don't guess," said Lin, "that you and I will do much shufflin' ofother folks' children any more."
Whereupon he and the Virginian shook hands silently, and understood eachother very well.
On the day that the Virginian parted with Molly, beside the weight offarewell which lay heavy on his heart, his thoughts were also grave withnews. The cattle thieves had grown more audacious. Horses and cattleboth were being missed, and each man began almost to doubt his neighbor.
"Steps will have to be taken soon by somebody, I reckon," said thelover.
"By you?" she asked quickly.
"Most likely I'll get mixed up with it."
"What will you have to do?"
"Can't say. I'll tell yu' when I come back."
So did he part from her, leaving her more kisses than words to remember.
And what was doing at Bennington, meanwhile, and at Dunbarton? Thosethree letters which by their mere outside had so moved Mrs. Taylor,produced by their contents much painful disturbance.
It will be remembered that Molly wrote to her mother, and to hergreat-aunt. That announcement to her mother was undertaken first. Itscomposition occupied three hours and a half, and it filled eleven pages,not counting a postscript upon the twelfth. The letter to the great-aunttook only ten minutes. I cannot pretend to explain why this one wasso greatly superior to the other; but such is the remarkable fact. Itsbeginning, to be sure, did give the old lady a start; she had dismissedthe cow-boy from her probabilities.
"Tut, tut, tut!" she exclaimed out loud in her bedroom. "She has thrownherself away on that fellow!"
But some sentences at the end made her pause and sit still for a longwhile. The severity upon her face changed to tenderness, gradually. "Ah,me," she sighed. "If marriage were as simple as love!" Then she wentslowly downstairs, and out into her garden, where she walked longbetween the box borders. "But if she has found a great love," said theold lady at length. And she returned to her bedroom, and opened an olddesk, and read some old letters.
There came to her the next morning a communication from Bennington. Thishad been penned frantically by poor Mrs. Wood. As soon as she had beenable to gather her senses after the shock of her daughter's eleven pagesand the postscript, the mother had poured out eight pages herself to theeldest member of the family. There had been, indeed, much excuse for thepoor lady. To begin with, Molly had constructed her whole openingpage with the express and merciful intention of preparing her mother.Consequently, it made no sense whatever. Its effect was the usual effectof remarks designed to break a thing gently. It merely made Mrs. Wood'shead swim, and filled her with a sickening dread. "Oh, mercy, Sarah,"she had cried, "come here. What does this mean?" And then, fortified byher elder daughter, she had turned over that first page and found whatit meant on the top of the second. "A savage with knives and pistols!"she wailed.
"Well, mother, I always told you so," said her daughter Sarah.
"What is a foreman?" exclaimed the mother. "And who is Judge Henry?"
"She has taken a sort of upper servant," said Sarah. "If it is allowedto go as far as a wedding, I doubt if I can bring mysel
f to be present."(This threat she proceeded to make to Molly, with results that shall beset forth in their proper place.)
"The man appears to have written to me himself," said Mrs. Wood.
"He knows no better," said Sarah.
"Bosh!" said Sarah's husband later. "It was a very manly thing to do."Thus did consternation rage in the house at Bennington. Molly mighthave spared herself the many assurances that she gave concerningthe universal esteem in which her cow-puncher was held, and the fairprospects which were his. So, in the first throes of her despair, Mrs.Wood wrote those eight not maturely considered pages to the great-aunt.
"Tut, tut, tut!" said the great-aunt as she read them. Her face was muchmore severe to-day. "You'd suppose," she said, "that the girl had beenkidnapped! Why, she has kept him waiting three years!" And then sheread more, but soon put the letter down with laughter. For Mrs. Woodhad repeated in writing that early outburst of hers about a savage withknives and pistols. "Law!" said the great-aunt. "Law, what a fool Lizzieis!"
So she sat down and wrote to Mrs. Wood a wholesome reply about puttinga little more trust in her own flesh and blood, and reminding her amongother things that General Stark had himself been wont to carry knivesand pistols owing to the necessities of his career, but that he hadoccasionally taken them off, as did probably this young man in Wyoming."You had better send me the letter he has written you," she concluded."I shall know much better what to think after I have seen that."
It is not probable that Mrs. Wood got much comfort from thiscommunication; and her daughter Sarah was actually enraged by it."She grows more perverse as she nears her dotage," said Sarah. But theVirginian's letter was sent to Dunbarton, where the old lady sat herselfdown to read it with much attention.
Here is what the Virginian had said to the unknown mother of hissweetheart.
MRS. JOHN STARK WOOD Bennington, Vermont.
Madam: If your daughter Miss Wood has ever told you about her savinga man's life here when some Indians had shot him that is the man whowrites to you now. I don't think she can have told you right aboutthat affair for she is the only one in this country who thinks it wasa little thing. So I must tell you it, the main points. Such an actionwould have been thought highly of in a Western girl, but with MissWood's raising nobody had a right to expect it.
"Indeed!" snorted the great-aunt. "Well, he would be right, if I had nothad a good deal more to do with her 'raising' than ever Lizzie had." Andshe went on with the letter.
I was starting in to die when she found me. I did not know anythingthen, and she pulled me back from where I was half in the next world.She did not know but what Indians would get her too but I could not makeher leave me. I am a heavy man one hundred and seventy-three strippedwhen in full health. She lifted me herself from the ground me helpingscarce any for there was not much help in me that day. She washed mywound and brought me to with her own whiskey. Before she could get mehome I was out of my head but she kept me on my horse somehow and talkedwisely to me so I minded her and did not go clean crazy till she had gotme safe to bed. The doctor says I would have died all the same if shehad not nursed me the way she did. It made me love her more which I didnot know I could. But there is no end, for this writing it down makes melove her more as I write it.
And now Mrs. Wood I am sorry this will be bad news for you to hear. Iknow you would never choose such a man as I am for her for I have gotno education and must write humble against my birth. I wish I could makethe news easier but truth is the best.
I am of old stock in Virginia. English and one Scotch Irish grandmothermy father's father brought from Kentucky. We have always stayed at thesame place farmers and hunters not bettering our lot and very plain. Wehave fought when we got the chance, under Old Hickory and in Mexico andmy father and two brothers were killed in the Valley sixty-four. Alwayswith us one son has been apt to run away and I was the one this time. Ihad too much older brothering to suit me. But now I am doing well beingin full sight of prosperity and not too old and very strong my healthhaving stood the sundries it has been put through. She shall teachschool no more when she is mine. I wish I could make this news easierfor you Mrs. Wood. I do not like promises I have heard so many. I willtell any man of your family anything he likes to ask one, and JudgeHenry would tell you about my reputation. I have seen plenty roughthings but can say I have never killed for pleasure or profit and am notone of that kind, always preferring peace. I have had to live in placeswhere they had courts and lawyers so called but an honest man was allthe law you could find in five hundred miles. I have not told her aboutthose things not because I am ashamed of them but there are so manythings too dark for a girl like her to hear about.
I had better tell you the way I know I love Miss Wood. I am not a boynow, and women are no new thing to me. A man like me who has travelledmeets many of them as he goes and passes on but I stopped when I cameto Miss Wood. That is three years but I have not gone on. What right hassuch as he? you will say. So did I say it after she had saved my life.It was hard to get to that point and keep there with her around me allday. But I said to myself you have bothered her for three years withyour love and if you let your love bother her you don't love her likeyou should and you must quit for her sake who has saved your life. I didnot know what I was going to do with my life after that but I supposedI could go somewhere and work hard and so Mrs. Wood I told her I wouldgive her up. But she said no. It is going to be hard for her to get usedto a man like me--
But at this point in the Virginian's letter, the old great-aunt couldread no more. She rose, and went over to that desk where lay those fadedletters of her own. She laid her head down upon the package, and as hertears flowed quietly upon it, "O dear," she whispered, "O dear! And thisis what I lost!"
To her girl upon Bear Creek she wrote the next day. And this word fromDunbarton was like balm among the harsh stings Molly was receiving. Thevoices of the world reached her in gathering numbers, and not one ofthem save that great-aunt's was sweet. Her days were full of hurts; andthere was no one by to kiss the hurts away. Nor did she even hear fromher lover any more now. She only knew he had gone into lonely regionsupon his errand.
That errand took him far:-- Across the Basin, among the secret placesof Owl Creek, past the Washakie Needles, over the Divide to Gros Ventre,and so through a final barrier of peaks into the borders of East Idaho.There, by reason of his bidding me, I met him, and came to share in apart of his errand.
It was with no guide that I travelled to him. He had named a littlestation on the railroad, and from thence he had charted my route bymeans of landmarks. Did I believe in omens, the black storm that I setout in upon my horse would seem like one to-day. But I had been livingin cities and smoke; and Idaho, even with rain, was delightful to me.