XXVII. GRANDMOTHER STARK
Except for its chair and bed, the cabin was stripped almost bare. Amidits emptiness of dismantled shelves and walls and floor, only the tinyancestress still hung in her place, last token of the home that hadbeen. This miniature, tacked against the despoiled boards, and itsdescendant, the angry girl with her hand on an open box-lid, made a sortof couple in the loneliness: she on the wall sweet and serene, she bythe box sweet and stormy. The picture was her final treasure waiting tobe packed for the journey. In whatever room she had called her ownsince childhood, there it had also lived and looked at her, not quitefamiliar, not quite smiling, but in its prim colonial hues delicate assome pressed flower. Its pale oval, of color blue and rose andflaxen, in a battered, pretty gold frame, unconquerably pervaded anysurroundings with a something like last year's lavender. Till yesterdaya Crow Indian war-bonnet had hung next it, a sumptuous cascade offeathers; on the other side a bow with arrows had dangled; opposite hadbeen the skin of a silver fox; over the door had spread the antlers ofa black-tail deer; a bearskin stretched beneath it. Thus had the wholecosey log cabin been upholstered, lavish with trophies of the frontier;and yet it was in front of the miniature that the visitors used to stop.
Shining quietly now in the cabin's blackness this summer day, theheirloom was presiding until the end. And as Molly Wood's eyes fell uponher ancestress of Bennington, 1777, there flashed a spark of steel inthem, alone here in the room that she was leaving forever. She was notgoing to teach school any more on Bear Creek, Wyoming; she was goinghome to Bennington, Vermont. When time came for school to open again,there should be a new schoolmarm.
This was the momentous result of that visit which the Virginian had paidher. He had told her that he was coming for his hour soon. From thathour she had decided to escape. She was running away from her own heart.She did not dare to trust herself face to face again with her potent,indomitable lover. She longed for him, and therefore she would never seehim again. No great-aunt at Dunbarton, or anybody else that knew her andher family, should ever say that she had married below her station, hadbeen an unworthy Stark! Accordingly, she had written to the Virginian,bidding him good-by, and wishing him everything in the world. As shehappened to be aware that she was taking everything in the world awayfrom him, this letter was not the most easy of letters to write. Butshe had made the language very kind. Yes; it was a thoroughly kindcommunication. And all because of that momentary visit, when he hadbrought back to her two novels, EMMA and PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.
"How do you like them?" she had then inquired; and he had smiled slowlyat her. "You haven't read them!" she exclaimed.
"No."
"Are you going to tell me there has been no time?"
"No."
Then Molly had scolded her cow-puncher, and to this he had listened withpleasure undisguised, as indeed he listened to every word that she said.
"Why, it has come too late," he had told her when the scolding was over."If I was one of your little scholars hyeh in Bear Creek schoolhouse,yu' could learn me to like such frillery I reckon. But I'm a mightyignorant, growed-up man."
"So much the worse for you!" said Molly.
"No. I am pretty glad I am a man. Else I could not have learned thething you have taught me."
But she shut her lips and looked away. On the desk was a letter writtenfrom Vermont. "If you don't tell me at once when you decide," had saidthe arch writer, "never hope to speak to me again. Mary Wood, seriously,I am suspicious. Why do you never mention him nowadays? How excitingto have you bring a live cow-boy to Bennington! We should all cometo dinner. Though of course I understand now that many of them haveexcellent manners. But would he wear his pistol at table?" So the letterran on. It recounted the latest home gossip and jokes. In answering itMolly Wood had taken no notice of its childish tone here and there.
"Hyeh's some of them cactus blossoms yu' wanted," said the Virginian.His voice recalled the girl with almost a start. "I've brought a goodhawss I've gentled for yu', and Taylor'll keep him till I need him."
"Thank you so much! but I wish--"
"I reckon yu' can't stop me lendin' Taylor a hawss. And you cert'nly'llget sick schoolteachin' if yu' don't keep outdoors some. Good-by--tillthat next time."
"Yes; there's always a next time," she answered, as lightly as shecould.
"There always will be. Don't yu' know that?"
She did not reply.
"I have discouraged spells," he pursued, "but I down them. For I've toldyu' you were going to love me. You are goin' to learn back the thing youhave taught me. I'm not askin' anything now; I don't want you to speak aword to me. But I'm never goin' to quit till 'next time' is no more, andit's 'all the time' for you and me."
With that he had ridden away, not even touching her hand. Long afterhe had gone she was still in her chair, her eyes lingering upon hisflowers, those yellow cups of the prickly pear. At length she hadrisen impatiently, caught up the flowers, gone with them to the openwindow,--and then, after all, set them with pains in water.
But to-day Bear Creek was over. She was going home now. By the week'send she would be started. By the time the mail brought him her good-byletter she would be gone. She had acted.
To Bear Creek, the neighborly, the friendly, the not comprehending, thismove had come unlooked for, and had brought regret. Only one hard wordhad been spoken to Molly, and that by her next-door neighbor and kindestfriend. In Mrs. Taylor's house the girl had daily come and gone asa daughter, and that lady reached the subject thus:-- "When I tookTaylor," said she, sitting by as Robert Browning and Jane Austen weregoing into their box, "I married for love."
"Do you wish it had been money?" said Molly, stooping to her industries.
"You know both of us better than that, child."
"I know I've seen people at home who couldn't possibly have had anyother reason. They seemed satisfied, too."
"Maybe the poor ignorant things were!"
"And so I have never been sure how I might choose."
"Yes, you are sure, deary. Don't you think I know you? And when it comesover Taylor once in a while, and he tells me I'm the best thing in hislife, and I tell him he ain't merely the best thing but the only thingin mine,--him and the children,--why, we just agree we'd do it all overthe same way if we had the chance."
Molly continued to be industrious.
"And that's why," said Mrs. Taylor, "I want every girl that's anythingto me to know her luck when it comes. For I was that near telling TaylorI wouldn't!"
"If ever my luck comes," said Molly, with her back to her friend, "Ishall say 'I will' at once."
"Then you'll say it at Bennington next week."
Molly wheeled round.
"Why, you surely will. Do you expect he's going to stay here, and you inBennington?" And the campaigner sat back in her chair.
"He? Goodness! Who is he?"
"Child, child, you're talking cross to-day because you're at outs withyourself. You've been at outs ever since you took this idea of leavingthe school and us and everything this needless way. You have not treatedhim right. And why, I can't make out to save me. What have you found outall of a sudden? If he was not good enough for you, I--But, oh, it's aprime one you're losing, Molly. When a man like that stays faithful to agirl 'spite all the chances he gets, her luck is come."
"Oh, my luck! People have different notions of luck."
"Notions!"
"He has been very kind."
"Kind!" And now without further simmering, Mrs. Taylor's wrath boiledup and poured copiously over Molly Wood. "Kind! There's a word youshouldn't use, my dear. No doubt you can spell it. But more than itsspelling I guess you don't know. The children can learn what it meansfrom some of the rest of us folks that don't spell so correct, maybe."
"Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Taylor--"
"I can't wait, deary. Since the roughness looks bigger to you than thediamond, you had better go back to Vermont. I expect you'll find bettergrammar there, deary."
The good d
ame stalked out, and across to her own cabin, and left theangry girl among her boxes. It was in vain she fell to work upon them.Presently something had to be done over again, and when it was the boxheld several chattels less than before the readjustment. She played asort of desperate dominos to fit these objects in the space, but herewere a paper-weight, a portfolio, with two wretched volumes that nochink would harbor; and letting them fall all at once, she straightenedherself, still stormy with revolt, eyes and cheeks still hot fromthe sting of long-parried truth. There, on her wall still, was theminiature, the little silent ancestress; and upon this face the girl'sglance rested. It was as if she appealed to Grandmother Stark forsupport and comfort across the hundred years which lay between them. Sothe flaxen girl on the wall and she among the boxes stood a moment faceto face in seeming communion, and then the descendant turned again toher work. But after a desultory touch here and there she drew a longbreath and walked to the open door. What use was in finishing to-day,when she had nearly a week? This first spurt of toil had swept the cabinbare of all indwelling charm, and its look was chill. Across the lanehis horse, the one he had "gentled" for her, was grazing idly. Shewalked there and caught him, and led him to her gate. Mrs. Taylor sawher go in, and soon come out in riding-dress; and she watched the girlthrow the saddle on with quick ease--the ease he had taught her. Mrs.Taylor also saw the sharp cut she gave the horse, and laughed grimlyto herself in her window as horse and rider galloped into the beautifulsunny loneliness.
To the punished animal this switching was new! and at its thirdrepetition he turned his head in surprise, but was no more heeded thanwere the bluffs and flowers where he was taking his own undirectedchoice of way. He carried her over ground she knew by heart--CorncliffMesa, Crowheart Butte, Westfall's Crossing, Upper Canyon; open land andwoodland, pines and sage-brush, all silent and grave and lustrous in thesunshine. Once and again a ranchman greeted her, and wondered if shehad forgotten who he was; once she passed some cow-punchers with a smallherd of steers, and they stared after her too. Bear Creek narrowed, itsmountain-sides drew near, its little falls began to rush white in middayshadow, and the horse suddenly pricked his ears. Unguided, he was takingthis advantage to go home. Though he had made but little way--a merebeginning yet--on this trail over to Sunk Creek, here was already aSunk Creek friend whinnying good day to him, so he whinnied back andquickened his pace, and Molly started to life. What was Monte doinghere? She saw the black horse she knew also, saddled, with reinsdragging on the trail as the rider had dropped them to dismount. A coldspring bubbled out beyond the next rock, and she knew her lover's horsewas waiting for him while he drank. She pulled at the reins, but loosedthem, for to turn and escape now was ridiculous; and riding boldly roundthe rock, she came upon him by the spring. One of his arms hung up toits elbow in the pool, the other was crooked beside his head, but theface was sunk downward against the shelving rock, so that she saw onlyhis black, tangled hair. As her horse snorted and tossed his head shelooked swiftly at Monte, as if to question him. Seeing now the sweatmatted on his coat, and noting the white rim of his eye, she sprang andran to the motionless figure. A patch of blood at his shoulder behindstained the soft flannel shirt, spreading down beneath his belt, and theman's whole strong body lay slack and pitifully helpless.
She touched the hand beside his head, but it seemed neither warm norcold to her; she felt for the pulse, as nearly as she could remember thedoctors did, but could not tell whether she imagined or not that it wasstill; twice with painful care her fingers sought and waited for thebeat, and her face seemed like one of listening. She leaned down andlifted his other arm and hand from the water, and as their ice-coldnessreached her senses, clearly she saw the patch near the shoulder shehad moved grow wet with new blood, and at that sight she grasped at thestones upon which she herself now sank. She held tight by two rocks,sitting straight beside him, staring, and murmuring aloud, "I mustnot faint; I will not faint;" and the standing horses looked at her,pricking their ears.
In this cup-like spread of the ravine the sun shone warmly down, thetall red cliff was warm, the pines were a warm film and filter of green;outside the shade across Bear Creek rose the steep, soft, open yellowhill, warm and high to the blue, and Bear Creek tumbled upon itssunsparkling stones. The two horses on the margin trail still lookedat the spring and trees, where sat the neat flaxen girl so rigid by theslack prone body in its flannel shirt and leathern chaps. Suddenly herface livened. "But the blood ran!" she exclaimed, as if to the horses,her companions in this. She moved to him, and put her hand in throughhis shirt against his heart.
Next moment she had sprung up and was at his saddle, searching, thenswiftly went on to her own and got her small flask and was back besidehim. Here was the cold water he had sought, and she put it against hisforehead and drenched the wounded shoulder with it. Three times shetried to move him, so he might lie more easy, but his dead weight wastoo much, and desisting, she sat close and raised his head to let itrest against her. Thus she saw the blood that was running from in frontof the shoulder also; but she said no more about fainting. She torestrips from her dress and soaked them, keeping them cold and wet uponboth openings of his wound, and she drew her pocket-knife out and cuthis shirt away from the place. As she continually rinsed and cleanedit, she watched his eyelashes, long and soft and thick, but they did notstir. Again she tried the flask, but failed from being still too gentle,and her searching eyes fell upon ashes near the pool. Still undispersedby the weather lay the small charred ends of a fire he and she had madeonce here together, to boil coffee and fry trout. She built another firenow, and when the flames were going well, filled her flask-cup from thespring and set it to heat. Meanwhile, she returned to nurse his headand wound. Her cold water had stopped the bleeding. Then she pouredher brandy in the steaming cup, and, made rough by her desperatehelplessness, forced some between his lips and teeth.
Instantly, almost, she felt the tremble of life creeping back, andas his deep eyes opened upon her she sat still and mute. But the gazeseemed luminous with an unnoting calm, and she wondered if perhaps hecould not recognize her; she watched this internal clearness of hisvision, scarcely daring to breathe, until presently he began to speak,with the same profound and clear impersonality sounding in his slowlyuttered words.
"I thought they had found me. I expected they were going to kill me."He stopped, and she gave him more of the hot drink, which he took, stilllying and looking at her as if the present did not reach his senses. "Iknew hands were touching me. I reckon I was not dead. I knew about themsoon as they began, only I could not interfere." He waited again. "It ismighty strange where I have been. No. Mighty natural." Then he went backinto his revery, and lay with his eyes still full open upon her whereshe sat motionless.
She began to feel a greater awe in this living presence than when ithad been his body with an ice-cold hand; and she quietly spoke his name,venturing scarcely more than a whisper.
At this, some nearer thing wakened in his look. "But it was you allalong," he resumed. "It is you now. You must not stay--" Weaknessovercame him, and his eyes closed. She sat ministering to him, and whenhe roused again, he began anxiously at once: "You must not stay. Theywould get you, too."
She glanced at him with a sort of fierceness, then reached for hispistol, in which was nothing but blackened empty cartridges. She threwthese out and drew six from his belt, loaded the weapon, and snappedshut its hinge.
"Please take it," he said, more anxious and more himself. "I ain't worthtryin' to keep. Look at me!"
"Are you giving up?" she inquired, trying to put scorn in her tone. Thenshe seated herself.
"Where is the sense in both of us--"
"You had better save your strength," she interrupted.
He tried to sit up.
"Lie down!" she ordered.
He sank obediently, and began to smile.
When she saw that, she smiled too, and unexpectedly took his hand."Listen, friend," said she. "Nobody shall get you, and nobody shall getme. Now t
ake some more brandy."
"It must be noon," said the cow-puncher, when she had drawn her handaway from him. "I remember it was dark when--when--when I can remember.I reckon they were scared to follow me in so close to settlers. Elsethey would have been here."
"You must rest," she observed.
She broke the soft ends of some evergreen, and putting them beneath hishead, went to the horses, loosened the cinches, took off the bridles,led them to drink, and picketed them to feed. Further still, to leavenothing undone which she could herself manage, she took the horses'saddles off to refold the blankets when the time should come, andmeanwhile brought them for him. But he put them away from him. He wassitting up against a rock, stronger evidently, and asking for coldwater. His head was fire-hot, and the paleness beneath his swarthy skinhad changed to a deepening flush.
"Only five miles!" she said to him, bathing his head.
"Yes. I must hold it steady," he answered, waving his hand at the cliff.
She told him to try and keep it steady until they got home.
"Yes," he repeated. "Only five miles. But it's fightin' to turn around."Half aware that he was becoming light-headed, he looked from the rock toher and from her to the rock with dilating eyes.
"We can hold it together," she said. "You must get on your horse." Shetook his handkerchief from round his neck, knotting it with her own, andto make more bandage she ran to the roll of clothes behind his saddleand tore in halves a clean shirt. A handkerchief fell from it, whichshe seized also, and opening, saw her own initials by the hem. Then sheremembered: she saw again their first meeting, the swollen river, theoverset stage, the unknown horseman who carried her to the bank on hissaddle and went away unthanked--her whole first adventure on thatfirst day of her coming to this new country--and now she knew how herlong-forgotten handkerchief had gone that day. She refolded it gentlyand put it back in his bundle, for there was enough bandage without it.She said not a word to him, and he placed a wrong meaning upon the lookwhich she gave him as she returned to bind his shoulder.
"It don't hurt so much," he assured her (though extreme pain wasclearing his head for the moment, and he had been able to hold the clifffrom turning). "Yu' must not squander your pity."
"Do not squander your strength," said she.
"Oh, I could put up a pretty good fight now!" But he tottered in showingher how strong he was, and she told him that, after all, he was a childstill.
"Yes," he slowly said, looking after her as she went to bring his horse,"the same child that wanted to touch the moon, I guess." And during theslow climb down into the saddle from a rock to which she helped him hesaid, "You have got to be the man all through this mess."
She saw his teeth clinched and his drooping muscles compelled by will;and as he rode and she walked to lend him support, leading her horseby a backward-stretched left hand, she counted off the distance to himcontinually--the increasing gain, the lessening road, the landmarksnearing and dropping behind; here was the tree with the wasp-nest gone;now the burned cabin was passed; now the cottonwoods at the ford were insight. He was silent, and held to the saddle-horn, leaning more and moreagainst his two hands clasped over it; and just after they had made thecrossing he fell, without a sound slipping to the grass, and his descentbroken by her. But it started the blood a little, and she dared notleave him to seek help. She gave him the last of the flask and all thewater he craved.
Revived, he managed to smile. "Yu' see, I ain't worth keeping."
"It's only a mile," said she. So she found a log, a fallen trunk, and hecrawled to that, and from there crawled to his saddle, and she marchedon with him, talking, bidding him note the steps accomplished. For thenext half-mile they went thus, the silent man clinched on the horse, andby his side the girl walking and cheering him forward, when suddenly hebegan to speak:-- "I will say good-by to you now, ma'am."
She did not understand, at first, the significance of this.
"He is getting away," pursued the Virginian. "I must ask you to excuseme, ma'am."
It was a long while since her lord had addressed her as "ma'am." As shelooked at him in growing apprehension, he turned Monte and would haveridden away, but she caught the bridle.
"You must take me home," said she, with ready inspiration. "I am afraidof the Indians."
"Why, you--why, they've all gone. There he goes. Ma'am--that hawss--"
"No," said she, holding firmly his rein and quickening her step. "Agentleman does not invite a lady to go out riding and leave her."
His eyes lost their purpose. "I'll cert'nly take you home. That sorrelhas gone in there by the wallow, and Judge Henry will understand." Withhis eyes watching imaginary objects, he rode and rambled and it was nowthe girl who was silent, except to keep his mind from its half-fixedidea of the sorrel. As he grew more fluent she hastened still more,listening to head off that notion of return, skilfully inventingquestions to engage him, so that when she brought him to her gateshe held him in a manner subjected, answering faithfully the shrewdunrealities which she devised, whatever makeshifts she could summon toher mind; and next she had got him inside her dwelling and set him downdocile, but now completely wandering; and then--no help was at hand,even here. She had made sure of aid from next door, and there shehastened, to find the Taylor's cabin locked and silent; and this meantthat parents and children were gone to drive; nor might she be luckierat her next nearest neighbors', should she travel the intervening mileto fetch them. With a mind jostled once more into uncertainty, shereturned to her room, and saw a change in him already. Illness hadstridden upon him; his face was not as she had left it, and the wholebody, the splendid supple horseman, showed sickness in every lineand limb, its spurs and pistol and bold leather chaps a mockery oftrappings. She looked at him, and decision came back to her, clear andsteady. She supported him over to her bed and laid him on it. His headsank flat, and his loose, nerveless arms stayed as she left them. Thenamong her packing-boxes and beneath the little miniature, blue andflaxen and gold upon its lonely wall, she undressed him. He was cold,and she covered him to the face, and arranged the pillow, and got fromits box her scarlet and black Navajo blanket and spread it over him.There was no more that she could do, and she sat down by him to wait.Among the many and many things that came into her mind was a word hesaid to her lightly a long while ago. "Cow-punchers do not live longenough to get old," he had told her. And now she looked at the head uponthe pillow, grave and strong, but still the head of splendid, unwornyouth.
At the distant jingle of the wagon in the lane she was out, and had mether returning neighbors midway. They heard her with amazement, and camein haste to the bedside; then Taylor departed to spread news of theIndians and bring the doctor, twenty-five miles away. The two womenfriends stood alone again, as they had stood in the morning when angerhad been between them.
"Kiss me, deary," said Mrs. Taylor. "Now I will look after him--andyou'll need some looking after yourself."
But on returning from her cabin with what store she possessed of lintand stimulants, she encountered a rebel, independent as ever. Mollywould hear no talk about saving her strength, would not be in any roombut this one until the doctor should arrive; then perhaps it would betime to think about resting. So together the dame and the girl rinsedthe man's wound and wrapped him in clean things, and did all the littlethat they knew--which was, in truth, the very thing needed. Then theysat watching him toss and mutter. It was no longer upon Indians orthe sorrel horse that his talk seemed to run, or anything recent,apparently, always excepting his work. This flowingly merged withwhatever scene he was inventing or living again, and he wanderedunendingly in that incompatible world we dream in. Through the medley ofevents and names, often thickly spoken, but rising at times to grotesquecoherence, the listeners now and then could piece out the reference fromtheir own knowledge. "Monte," for example, continually addressed, andMolly heard her own name, but invariably as "Miss Wood"; nothing lessrespectful came out, and frequently he answered some one as "ma'am."At these fragments
of revelation Mrs. Taylor abstained from speech, buteyed Molly Wood with caustic reproach. As the night wore on, short lullsof silence intervened, and the watchers were deceived into hope that thefever was abating. And when the Virginian sat quietly up in bed, essayedto move his bandage, and looked steadily at Mrs. Taylor, she rosequickly and went to him with a question as to how he was doing.
"Rise on your laigs, you polecat," said he, "and tell them you're aliar."
The good dame gasped, then bade him lie down, and he obeyed her withthat strange double understanding of the delirious; for even whilesubmitting, he muttered "liar," "polecat," and then "Trampas."
At that name light flashed on Mrs. Taylor, and she turned to Molly; andthere was the girl struggling with a fit of mirth at his speech; but thelaughter was fast becoming a painful seizure. Mrs. Taylor walked Mollyup and down, speaking mmediately to arrest her attention.
"You might as well know it," she said. "He would blame me for speakingof it, but where's the harm all this while after? And you would neverhear it from his mouth. Molly, child, they say Trampas would kill him ifhe dared, and that's on account of you."
"I never saw Trampas," said Molly, fixing her eyes upon the speaker.
"No, deary. But before a lot of men--Taylor has told me aboutit--Trampas spoke disrespectfully of you, and before them all he madeTrampas say he was a liar. That is what he did when you were almosta stranger among us, and he had not started seeing so much of you. Iexpect Trampas is the only enemy he ever had in this country. But hewould never let you know about that."
"No," whispered Molly; "I did not know."
"Steve!" the sick man now cried out, in poignant appeal. "Steve!" To thewomen it was a name unknown,--unknown as was also this deep inward tideof feeling which he could no longer conceal, being himself no longer."No, Steve," he said next, and muttering followed. "It ain't so!" heshouted; and then cunningly in a lowered voice, "Steve, I have lied foryou."
In time Mrs. Taylor spoke some advice.
"You had better go to bed, child. You look about ready for the doctoryourself."
"Then I will wait for him," said Molly.
So the two nurses continued to sit until darkness at the windowsweakened into gray, and the lamp was no more needed. Their patient wasrambling again. Yet, into whatever scenes he went, there in some guisedid the throb of his pain evidently follow him, and he lay hitching hisgreat shoulder as if to rid it of the cumbrance. They waited for thedoctor, not daring much more than to turn pillows and give what otherease they could; and then, instead of the doctor, came a messenger,about noon, to say he was gone on a visit some thirty miles beyond,where Taylor had followed to bring him here as soon as might be. At thisMolly consented to rest and to watch, turn about; and once she was overin her friend's house lying down, they tried to keep her there. But therevolutionist could not be put down, and when, as a last pretext, Mrs.Taylor urged the proprieties and conventions, the pale girl from Vermontlaughed sweetly in her face and returned to sit by the sick man. Withthe approach of the second night his fever seemed to rise and masterhim more completely than they had yet seen it, and presently it so ragedthat the women called in stronger arms to hold him down. There weretimes when he broke out in the language of the round-up, and Mrs. Taylorrenewed her protests. "Why," said Molly, "don't you suppose I knew theycould swear?" So the dame, in deepening astonishment and affection, gaveup these shifts at decorum. Nor did the delirium run into the intimate,coarse matters that she dreaded. The cow-puncher had lived like hiskind, but his natural daily thoughts were clean, and came from theuntamed but unstained mind of a man. And toward morning, as Mrs. Taylorsat taking her turn, suddenly he asked had he been sick long, and lookedat her with a quieted eye. The wandering seemed to drop from him at astroke, leaving him altogether himself. He lay very feeble, and inquiredonce or twice of his state and how he came here; nor was anything leftin his memory of even coming to the spring where he had been found.
When the doctor arrived, he pronounced that it would be long--or veryshort. He praised their clean water treatment; the wound was fortunatelywell up on the shoulder, and gave so far no bad signs; there were notany bad signs; and the blood and strength of the patient had been asfew men's were; each hour was now an hour nearer certainty, andmeanwhile--meanwhile the doctor would remain as long as he could. He hadmany inquiries to satisfy. Dusty fellows would ride up, listen to him,and reply, as they rode away, "Don't yu' let him die, Doc." And JudgeHenry sent over from Sunk Creek to answer for any attendance or medicinethat might help his foreman. The country was moved with concern andinterest; and in Molly's ears its words of good feeling seemed to uniteand sum up a burden, "Don't yu' let him die, Doc." The Indians who haddone this were now in military custody. They had come unpermitted froma southern reservation, hunting, next thieving, and as the slumberingspirit roused in one or two of the young and ambitious, they hadventured this in the secret mountains, and perhaps had killed a trapperfound there. Editors immediately reared a tall war out of it; but fromfive Indians in a guard-house waiting punishment not even an editorcan supply spar for more than two editions, and if the recent alarmwas still a matter of talk anywhere, it was not here in the sick-room.Whichever way the case should turn, it was through Molly alone (thedoctor told her) that the wounded man had got this chance--this goodchance, he related.
And he told her she had not done a woman's part, but a man's part, andnow had no more to do; no more till the patient got well, and couldthank her in his own way, said the doctor, smiling, and supposing thingsthat were not so--misled perhaps by Mrs. Taylor.
"I'm afraid I'll be gone by the time he is well," said Molly, coldly;and the discreet physician said ah, and that she would find Benningtonquite a change from Bear Creek.
But Mrs. Taylor spoke otherwise, and at that the girl said: "I shallstay as long as I am needed. I will nurse him. I want to nurse him. Iwill do everything for him that I can!" she exclaimed, with force.
"And that won't be anything, deary," said Mrs. Taylor, harshly. "A yearof nursing don't equal a day of sweetheart."
The girl took a walk,--she was of no more service in the room atpresent,--but she turned without going far, and Mrs. Taylor spied hercome to lean over the pasture fence and watch the two horses--that onethe Virginian had "gentled" for her, and his own Monte. During thissuspense came a new call for the doctor, neighbors profiting by hisvisit to Bear Creek; and in his going away to them, even under promiseof quick return, Mrs. Taylor suspected a favorable sign. He kept hisword as punctually as had been possible, arriving after some six hourswith a confident face, and spending now upon the patient a care notneeded, save to reassure the bystanders. He spoke his opinion that allwas even better than he could have hoped it would be, so soon. Here wasnow the beginning of the fifth day; the wound's look was wholesome, nofurther delirium had come, and the fever had abated a degree while hewas absent. He believed the serious danger-line lay behind, and (shortof the unforeseen) the man's deep untainted strength would reassertits control. He had much blood to make, and must be cared for duringweeks--three, four, five--there was no saying how long yet. These nextfew days it must be utter quiet for him; he must not talk nor hearanything likely to disturb him; and then the time for cheerfulness andgradual company would come--sooner than later, the doctor hoped. Sohe departed, and sent next day some bottles, with further cautionsregarding the wound and dirt, and to say he should be calling the dayafter to-morrow.
Upon that occasion he found two patients. Molly Wood lay in bed at Mrs.Taylor's, filled with apology and indignation. With little to do, anddeprived of the strong stimulant of anxiety and action, her strengthhad quite suddenly left her, so that she had spoken only in a sort ofwhisper. But upon waking from a long sleep, after Mrs. Taylor had takenher firmly, almost severely, in hand, her natural voice had returned,and now the chief treatment the doctor gave her was a sort of scolding,which it pleased Mrs. Taylor to hear. The doctor even dropped a phraseconcerning the arrogance of strong nerves in slender bodies, and ofu
ndertaking several people's work when several people were at hand to doit for themselves, and this pleased Mrs. Taylor remarkably. As for thewounded man, he was behaving himself properly. Perhaps in another weekhe could be moved to a more cheerful room. Just now, with cleanlinessand pure air, any barn would do.
"We are real lucky to have such a sensible doctor in the country," Mrs.Taylor observed, after the physician had gone.
"No doubt," said Molly. "He said my room was a barn."
"That's what you've made it, deary. But sick men don't notice much."
Nevertheless, one may believe, without going widely astray, thatillness, so far from veiling, more often quickens the perceptions--atany rate those of the naturally keen. On a later day--and the intervalwas brief--while Molly was on her second drive to take the air with Mrs.Taylor, that lady informed her that the sick man had noticed. "And Icould not tell him things liable to disturb him," said she, "and soI--well, I expect I just didn't exactly tell him the facts. I said yes,you were packing up for a little visit to your folks. They had not seenyou for quite a while, I said. And he looked at those boxes kind ofsilent like."
"There's no need to move him," said Molly. '"It is simpler to movethem--the boxes. I could take out some of my things, you know, justwhile he has to be kept there. I mean--you see, if the doctor says theroom should be cheerful--"
"Yes, deary."
"I will ask the doctor next time," said Molly, "if he believes Iam--competent to spread a rug upon a floor." Molly's references tothe doctor were usually acid these days. And this he totally failed toobserve, telling her when he came, why, to be sure! the very thing!And if she could play cards or read aloud, or afford any other lightdistractions, provided they did not lead the patient to talk and tirehimself, that she would be most useful. Accordingly she took over thecribbage board, and came with unexpected hesitation face to face againwith the swarthy man she had saved and tended. He was not so swarthynow, but neat, with chin clean, and hair and mustache trimmed andsmooth, and he sat propped among pillows watching for her.
"You are better," she said, speaking first, and with uncertain voice.
"Yes. They have given me awdehs not to talk," said the Southerner,smiling.
"Oh, yes. Please do not talk--not to-day."
"No. Only this"--he looked at her, and saw her seem to shrink--"thankyou for what you have done," he said simply.
She took tenderly the hand he stretched to her; and upon these termsthey set to work at cribbage. She won, and won again, and the third timelaid down her cards and reproached him with playing in order to lose.
"No," he said, and his eye wandered to the boxes. "But my thoughts getaway from me. I'll be strong enough to hold them on the cyards nexttime, I reckon."
Many tones in his voice she had heard, but never the tone of sadnessuntil to-day.
Then they played a little more, and she put away the board for thisfirst time.
"You are going now?" he asked.
"When I have made this room look a little less forlorn. They haven'twanted to meddle with my things, I suppose." And Molly stooped onceagain among the chattels destined for Vermont. Out they came; again thebearskin was spread on the floor, various possessions and ornaments wentback into their ancient niches, the shelves grew comfortable with books,and, last, some flowers were stood on the table.
"More like old times," said the Virginian, but sadly.
"It's too bad," said Molly, "you had to be brought into such a lookingplace."
"And your folks waiting for you," said he.
"Oh, I'll pay my visit later," said Molly, putting the rug a triflestraighter.
"May I ask one thing?" pleaded the Virginian, and at the gentleness ofhis voice her face grew rosy, and she fixed her eyes on him with a sortof dread.
"Anything that I can answer," said she.
"Oh, yes. Did I tell yu' to quit me, and did yu' load up my gun andstay? Was that a real business? I have been mixed up in my haid."
"That was real," said Molly. "What else was there to do?"
"Just nothing--for such as you!" he exclaimed. "My haid has been mightycrazy; and that little grandmother of yours yondeh, she--but I can'tjust quite catch a-hold of these things"--he passed a hand overhis forehead--"so many--or else one right along--well, it's allfoolishness!" he concluded, with something almost savage in his tone.And after she had gone from the cabin he lay very still, looking at theminiature on the wall.
He was in another sort of mood the next time, cribbage not interestinghim in the least. "Your folks will be wondering about you," said he.
"I don't think they will mind which month I go to them," said Molly."Especially when they know the reason."
"Don't let me keep you, ma'am," said he. Molly stared at him; but hepursued, with the same edge lurking in his slow words: "Though I'llnever forget. How could I forget any of all you have done--and been? Ifthere had been none of this, why, I had enough to remember! But pleasedon't stay, ma'am. We'll say I had a claim when yu' found me pretty welldead, but I'm gettin' well, yu' see--right smart, too!"
"I can't understand, indeed I can't," said Molly, "why you're talkingso!"
He seemed to have certain moods when he would address her as "ma'am,"and this she did not like, but could not prevent.
"Oh, a sick man is funny. And yu' know I'm grateful to you."
"Please say no more about that, or I shall go this afternoon. I don'twant to go. I am not ready. I think I had better read something now."
"Why, yes. That's cert'nly a good notion. Why, this is the best showyou'll ever get to give me education. Won't yu' please try that EMMAbook now, ma'am? Listening to you will be different." This was said withsoftness and humility.
Uncertain--as his gravity often left her--precisely what he meant bywhat he said, Molly proceeded with EMMA, slackly at first, but soon withthe enthusiasm that Miss Austen invariably gave her. She held the volumeand read away at it, commenting briefly, and then, finishing a chapterof the sprightly classic, found her pupil slumbering peacefully. Therewas no uncertainty about that.
"You couldn't be doing a healthier thing for him, deary," said Mrs.Taylor. "If it gets to make him wakeful, try something harder." This wasthe lady's scarcely sympathetic view.
But it turned out to be not obscurity in which Miss Austen sinned.
When Molly next appeared at the Virginian's threshold, he saidplaintively, "I reckon I am a dunce." And he sued for pardon. "When Iwaked up," he said, "I was ashamed of myself for a plumb half-hour." Norcould she doubt this day that he meant what he said. His mood was againserene and gentle, and without referring to his singular words that haddistressed her, he made her feel his contrition, even in his silence.
"I am right glad you have come," he said. And as he saw her going to thebookshelf, he continued, with diffidence: "As regyards that EMMA book,yu' see--yu' see, the doin's and sayin's of folks like them are aboveme. But I think" (he spoke most diffidently), "if yu' could read mesomething that was ABOUT something, I--I'd be liable to keep awake." Andhe smiled with a certain shyness.
"Something ABOUT something?" queried Molly, at a loss.
"Why, yes. Shakespeare. HENRY THE FOURTH. The British king is fighting,and there is his son the prince. He cert'nly must have been a jim-dandyboy if that is all true. Only he would go around town with a mightytriflin' gang. They sported and they held up citizens. And his fatherhated his travelling with trash like them. It was right natural--the boyand the old man! But the boy showed himself a man too. He killed a bigfighter on the other side who was another jim-dandy--and he was sorryfor having it to do." The Virginian warmed to his recital. "I understandmost all of that. There was a fat man kept everybody laughing. He wasawful natural too; except yu' don't commonly meet 'em so fat. But theprince--that play is bed-rock, ma'am! Have you got something like that?"
"Yes, I think so," she replied. "I believe I see what you wouldappreciate."
She took her Browning, her idol, her imagined affinity. For the paledecadence of New England
had somewhat watered her good old Revolutionaryblood too, and she was inclined to think under glass and to liveunderdone--when there were no Indians to shoot! She would have joyed toventure "Paracelsus" on him, and some lengthy rhymed discourses; and shefondly turned leaves and leaves of her pet doggerel analytics. "PippaPasses" and others she had to skip, from discreet motives--pages whichhe would have doubtless stayed awake at; but she chose a poem at length.This was better than Emma, he pronounced. And short. The horse was agood horse. He thought a man whose horse must not play out on him wouldwatch the ground he was galloping over for holes, and not be likely tosee what color the rims of his animal's eye-sockets were. You could notsee them if you sat as you ought to for such a hard ride. Of the nextpiece that she read him he thought still better. "And it is short," saidhe. "But the last part drops."
Molly instantly exacted particulars.
"The soldier should not have told the general he was killed," stated thecow-puncher.
"What should he have told him, I'd like to know?" said Molly.
"Why, just nothing. If the soldier could ride out of the battle all shotup, and tell his general about their takin' the town--that was beinggritty, yu' see. But that truck at the finish--will yu' please say itagain?"
So Molly read:--
"'You're wounded! 'Nay,' the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said, 'I'm killed, sire!' And, his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead."
"'Nay, I'm killed, sire,'" drawled the Virginian, amiably; for (symptomof convalescence) his freakish irony was revived in him. "Now a manwho was man enough to act like he did, yu' see, would fall dead withoutmentioning it."
None of Molly's sweet girl friends had ever thus challenged Mr.Browning. They had been wont to cluster over him with a joyous awe thatdeepened proportionally with their misunderstanding. Molly paused toconsider this novelty of view about the soldier. "He was a Frenchman,you know," she said, under inspiration.
"A Frenchman," murmured the grave cow-puncher. "I never knowed aFrenchman, but I reckon they might perform that class of foolishness."
"But why was it foolish?" she cried.
"His soldier's pride--don't you see?"
"No."
Molly now burst into a luxury of discussion. She leaned toward hercow-puncher with bright eyes searching his; with elbow on knee and handpropping chin, her lap became a slant, and from it Browning the poetslid and toppled, and lay unrescued. For the slow cow-puncher unfoldedhis notions of masculine courage and modesty (though he did not deal insuch high-sounding names), and Molly forgot everything to listen to him,as he forgot himself and his inveterate shyness and grew talkative toher. "I would never have supposed that!" she would exclaim as she heardhim; or, presently again, "I never had such an idea!" And her mindopened with delight to these new things which came from the man's mindso simple and direct. To Browning they did come back, but the Virginian,though interested, conceived a dislike for him. "He is a smarty," saidhe, once or twice.
"Now here is something," said Molly. "I have never known what to think."
"Oh, Heavens!" murmured the sick man, smiling. "Is it short?"
"Very short. Now please attend." And she read him twelve lines abouta lover who rowed to a beach in the dusk, crossed a field, tapped at apane, and was admitted.
"That is the best yet," said the Virginian. "There's only one thing yu'can think about that."
"But wait," said the girl, swiftly. "Here is how they parted:--
"Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain's rim-- And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me."
"That is very, very true," murmured the Virginian, dropping his eyesfrom the girl's intent ones.
"Had they quarrelled?" she inquired.
"Oh, no!"
"But--"
"I reckon he loved her very much."
"Then you're sure they hadn't quarrelled?"
"Dead sure, ma'am. He would come back afteh he had played some more ofthe game."
"The game?"
"Life, ma'am. Whatever he was a-doin' in the world of men. That's abed-rock piece, ma'am!"
"Well, I don't see why you think it's so much better than some of theothers."
"I could sca'cely explain," answered the man. "But that writer does knowsomething."
"I am glad they hadn't quarrelled," said Molly, thoughtfully. And shebegan to like having her opinions refuted.
His bandages, becoming a little irksome, had to be shifted, and thisturned their discourse from literature to Wyoming; and Molly inquired,had he ever been shot before? Only once, he told her. "I have beenlucky in having few fusses," said he. "I hate them. If a man has to bekilled--"
"You never--" broke in Molly. She had started back a little. "Well," sheadded hastily, "don't tell me if--"
"I shouldn't wonder if I got one of those Indians," he said quietly."But I wasn't waitin' to see! But I came mighty near doing for a whiteman that day. He had been hurtin' a hawss."
"Hurting?" said Molly.
"Injurin.' I will not tell yu' about that. It would hurt yu' to hearsuch things. But hawsses--don't they depend on us? Ain't they somethin'like children? I did not lay up the man very bad. He was able to travel'most right away. Why, you'd have wanted to kill him yourself!"
So the Virginian talked, nor knew what he was doing to the girl. Norwas she aware of what she was receiving from him as he unwittingly spokehimself out to her in these Browning meetings they had each day. ButMrs. Taylor grew pleased. The kindly dame would sometimes cross theroad to see if she were needed, and steal away again after a peep at thewindow. There, inside, among the restored home treasures, sat the two:the rosy alert girl, sweet as she talked or read to him; and he, thegrave, half-weak giant among his wraps, watching her.
Of her delayed home visit he never again spoke, either to her or to Mrs.Taylor; and Molly veered aside from any trend of talk she foresaw wasleading toward that subject. But in those hours when no visitorscame, and he was by himself in the quiet, he would lie often sombrelycontemplating the girl's room, her little dainty knickknacks, her homephotographs, all the delicate manifestations of what she came from andwhat she was. Strength was flowing back into him each day, and JudgeHenry's latest messenger had brought him clothes and mail from SunkCreek and many inquiries of kindness, and returned taking the news ofthe cow-puncher's improvement, and how soon he would be permitted thefresh air. Hence Molly found him waiting in a flannel shirt of highlybecoming shade, and with a silk handkerchief knotted round his throat;and he told her it was good to feel respectable again.
She had come to read to him for the allotted time; and she threw aroundhis shoulders the scarlet and black Navajo blanket, striped with itssplendid zigzags of barbarity. Thus he half sat, half leaned, languidbut at ease. In his lap lay one of the letters brought over by themessenger: and though she was midway in a book that engaged his fullattention--DAVID COPPERFIELD--his silence and absent look this morningstopped her, and she accused him of not attending.
"No," he admitted; "I am thinking of something else."
She looked at him with that apprehension which he knew.
"It had to come," said he. "And to-day I see my thoughts straighter thanI've been up to managing since--since my haid got clear. And now Imust say these thoughts--if I can, if I can!" He stopped. His eyes wereintent upon her; one hand was gripping the arm of his chair.
"You promised--" trembled Molly.
"I promised you should love me," he sternly interrupted. "Promised thatto myself. I have broken that word."
She shut DAVID COPPERFIELD mechanically, and grew white.
"Your letter has come to me hyeh," he continued, gentle again.
"My--" She had forgotten it.
"The letter you wrote to tell me good-by. You wrote it a little whileago--not a month yet, but it's away and away long gone for me."
"I have never let you know--" began Molly.
"The doctor," he
interrupted once more, but very gently now, "he gaveawdehs I must be kept quiet. I reckon yu' thought tellin' me might--"
"Forgive me!" cried the girl. "Indeed I ought to have told you sooner!Indeed I had no excuse!"
"Why, should yu' tell me if yu' preferred not? You had written. And youspeak" (he lifted the letter) "of never being able to repay kindness;but you have turned the tables. I can never repay you by anything! byanything! So I had figured I would just jog back to Sunk Creek and letyou get away, if you did not want to say that kind of good-by. For I sawthe boxes. Mrs. Taylor is too nice a woman to know the trick of lyin',and she could not deceive me. I have knowed yu' were going away for goodever since I saw those boxes. But now hyeh comes your letter, and itseems no way but I must speak. I have thought a deal, lyin' in thisroom. And--to-day--I can say what I have thought. I could not make youhappy." He stopped, but she did not answer. His voice had grown softerthan whispering, but yet was not a whisper. From its quiet syllables sheturned away, blinded with sudden tears.
"Once, I thought love must surely be enough," he continued. "AndI thought if I could make you love me, you could learn me to beless--less--more your kind. And I think I could give you a pretty goodsort of love. But that don't help the little mean pesky things of day byday that make roughness or smoothness for folks tied together so awfulclose. Mrs. Taylor hyeh--she don't know anything better than Taylordoes. She don't want anything he can't give her. Her friends will do forhim and his for her. And when I dreamed of you in my home--" he closedhis eyes and drew a long breath. At last he looked at her again. "Thisis no country for a lady. Will yu' forget and forgive the bothering Ihave done?"
"Oh!" cried Molly. "Oh!" And she put her hands to her eyes. She hadrisen and stood with her face covered.
"I surely had to tell you this all out, didn't I?" said the cow-puncher,faintly, in his chair.
"Oh!" said Molly again.
"I have put it clear how it is," he pursued. "I ought to have seen fromthe start I was not the sort to keep you happy."
"But," said Molly--"but I--you ought--please try to keep me happy!" Andsinking by his chair, she hid her face on his knees.
Speechless, he bent down and folded her round, putting his hands on thehair that had been always his delight. Presently he whispered:-- "Youhave beat me; how can I fight this?"
She answered nothing. The Navajo's scarlet and black folds fell overboth. Not with words, not even with meeting eyes, did the two plighttheir troth in this first new hour. So they remained long, the fair headnesting in the great arms, and the black head laid against it, whileover the silent room presided the little Grandmother Stark in her frame,rosy, blue, and flaxen, not quite familiar, not quite smiling.