CHAPTER XV
ROCKPORT AND "ROCKPORT"
Glitters the dew, and shines the river, Up comes the lily and dries her bell; But two are walking apart forever, And wave their hands in a mute farewell.
--JEAN INGELOW.
The Melrose family was of old time on terms of intimacy with the houseof Baronet. It was a family with a proud lineage, wealth, and culture toits credit. Rachel had an inherited sense of superiority. Too muchstaying between the White Mountains and the Atlantic Ocean is narrowingto the mental scope. The West to her was but a wilderness whereto thebest things of life never found their way. She took everything inMassachusetts as hers by due right, much more did it seem that Kansasshould give its best to her; and withal she was a woman who delighted inconquest.
Her arrival in Springvale made a topic that was soon on everybody'stongue. In the afternoon of the day following her coming, when I went tomy father's office before starting out to the stone cabin, I foundMarjie there. I had not seen her since the party, and I went straight toher chair.
"Well, little girl, it's ten thousand years since I saw you last," Ispoke in a low voice. My father was searching for some papers in hiscabinet, and his back was toward us. "Why didn't I get a letter,dearie?"
She looked up with eyes whose brown depths were full of pain and sorrow,but with an expression I had never seen on her face before, a kind ofimpenetrable coldness. It cut me like a sword-thrust, and I bent overher.
"Oh, Marjie, my Marjie, what is wrong?"
"Here is that paper at last," my father said before he turned around.Even as he spoke, Rachel Melrose swept into the room.
"Why, Philip, I missed you after all. I didn't mean to keep you waiting,but I can never get accustomed to your Western hurry."
She was very handsome and graceful, and always at ease with me, save inour interviews alone.
"I didn't know you were coming," I said frankly; "but I want you to meetMiss Whately. This is the young lady I have told you about."
I took Marjie's hand as I spoke. It was cold, and I gave it the gentlepressure a lover understands as I presented her. She gave me a momentaryglance. Oh, God be thanked for the love-light in those brown eyes! Thememory of it warmed my heart a thousand times when long weary miles werebetween us, and a desolate sky shut down around the far desolate plainsof a silent, featureless land.
"And this is Miss Melrose, the young lady I told you of in my letter," Isaid to Marjie. A quick change came into her eyes, a look of surpriseand incredulity and scorn. What could have happened to bring all thisabout?
Rachel Melrose had made the fatal mistake of thinking that no girlreared west of the Alleghenies could be very refined or at ease orappear well dressed in the company of Eastern people. She was notprepared for the quiet courtesy and self-possession with which theKansas girl greeted her; nor had she expected, as she told meafterward, to find in a town like Springvale such good taste andexquisite neatness in dress. True, she had many little accessories of anup-to-date fashion that had not gotten across the Mississippi River toour girls as yet, but Marjie had the grace of always choosing the rightthing to wear. I was very proud of my loved one at that moment. Therewas a show of cordiality between the two; then Rachel turned to me.
"I'm going with you this afternoon. Excuse me, Miss Whately, Mr. Baronetpromised me up at Topeka to take me out to see a wonderful cottonwoodtree that he said just dwarfed the little locust there, that we went outone glorious moonlight night to see. It was a lovely stroll though,wasn't it, Philip?"
This time it was my father's eyes that were fixed upon me in surpriseand stern inquiry.
"He will believe I am a flirt after all. It isn't possible to make anyman understand how that miserable girl can control things, unless he ison the ground all the time." So ran my thoughts.
"Father, must that trip be made to-day? Because I'd rather get up aparty and go out when Miss Melrose goes."
But my father was in no mood to help me then. He had asked me to goalone. Evidently he thought I had forgotten business and constancy ofpurpose in the presence of this pretty girl.
"It must be done to-day. Miss Melrose will wait, I'm sure. It is aserious business matter--"
"Oh, but I won't, Mr. Baronet. Your son promised me to do everything forme if I would only come to Springvale; that was away last Spring, and mystay will be short at best. I must go back to-morrow afternoon. Don'trob us of a minute."
She spoke with such a pretty grace, and yet her words were so triflingthat my father must have felt as I did. He could have helped me then hadhe thought that I deserved help, for he was a tactful man. But he merelyassented and sent us away. When we were gone Marjie turned to himbravely.
"Judge Baronet, I think I will go home. I came in from Red Range thisnoon with the Meads. It was very warm, coming east, and I am not verywell." She was as white as marble. "I will see you again; may I?"
John Baronet was a man of deep sympathy as well as insight. He knew whythe bloom had left her cheeks.
"All right, Marjie. You will be better soon."
He had risen and taken her cold hand. There was a world of cheer andstrength in that rich resonant voice of his. "Little girl, you must notworry over anything. All the tangles will straighten for you. Bepatient, the sunshine is back of all shadows. I promised your father,Marjory, that no harm should come to you. I will keep my promise. 'Letnot your heart be troubled.'" His words were to her what the goodminister's had been to me.
In the months that came after that my father was her one strong defence.Poor Marjie! her days as well as mine were full of creeping shadows. Ihad no notion of the stories being poured into her ears, nor did I dreamof the mischief and sorrow that can be wrought by a jealous-heartedgirl, a grasping money lover, and a man whose business dealings will notbear the light of day.
It has ever been the stage-driver's province to make the town acquaintedwith the business of each passenger whom he imports or exports. Our man,Dever, was no exception. Judson's store had become the centre of all thegossip in Springvale. Judson himself was the prince of scandalmongers,who with a pretence of refusing to hear gossip, peddled it out mostindustriously. He had hurried to Mrs. Whately with the story of ourguest, and here I found him when I went to see Marjie, before I myselfknew what passenger the stage had carried up to Cliff Street.
After the party at Anderson's, Tillhurst had not lost the opportunity ofgiving his version of all he had seen and heard in Topeka. Marjielistened in amazement but sure in her trustful heart that I would makeit all clear to her in my letter. And yet she wondered why I had nevermentioned that name to her, nor given her any hint of any one with claimenough on me to keep me for two days in Topeka. After all, she didrecall the name--something forgotten in the joy and peace of that sweetafternoon out by the river in the draw where the haunted house was. HadI tried to tell her and lost my courage, she wondered. Oh, no, it couldnot be so.
The next day Marjie spent at Red Range. It was noon of the day followingRachel's arrival before she reached home. The ride in the midday heat,sympathy for Dave Mead, and the sad funeral rites in the morning,together with the memory of Tillhurst's gossip and the long time sincewe had talked with each other alone, had been enough to check even hersunny spirit. Gentle Mrs. Whately, willing to believe everybody, met herdaughter with a sad face.
"My dear, I have some unwelcome news for you," she said when Marjie wasresting in the cool sitting-room after the hot ride. "There's an oldsweetheart of Phil's came here last evening to visit him. Mr. Dever, thestage-driver, says she is the handsomest girl he ever saw. They say sheand Phil were engaged and had a falling out back East. They met again inTopeka, and Phil stayed a day or two to visit with her after thepolitical meeting was over. And now she has come down here at hisrequest to meet his folks. Marjie, daughter, you need not care. Thereare more worthy men who would be proud to marry you."
Marjie made no reply.
"Oh, daughter, he isn't worth your grief. Be strong. Your life will getinto bett
er channels now. There are those who care for you more than youdream of. And you cannot care for Phil when I tell you all I must tell."
"I will be strong, mother. What else?" Marjie said quietly. In theshadows of the room darkened to keep out the noonday heat, Mrs. Whatelydid not note the white face and the big brown eyes burning with pain.
"It's too bad, but you ought to know it. Judge Baronet's got some kindof a land case on hand. There's a fine half-section he's trying to getaway from a young man who is poor. The Judge is a clever lawyer and heis a rich man. Mr. Judson says Tell Mapleson is this young man'scounsel, and he's fighting to keep the land for its real owner. Well,Phil was strolling around until nearly morning with Lettie Conlow, andthey met this young man somewhere. He doesn't live about here. And,Marjie, right before Lettie, Phil gave him an awful beating and made himpromise never to show himself in Springvale again. You know JudgeBaronet could do anything in that court-room he wants to. He is a fineman. How your father loved him! But Phil goes out and does the dirtywork to help him win. So Amos Judson says."
"Did Amos Judson tell you all this, Mother?" Marjie asked faintly.
"Most of it. And he is so interested in your welfare, daughter."
Marjie rose to her feet. "Mother, I don't know how much truth there maybe in the circumstances, but I'll wait until somebody besides AmosJudson tells me before I accept these stories."
"Well, Marjie, you are young. You must lean on older counsel. There isno man living as good and true as your father was to me. Remember that."
"Yes, there is," Marjie declared.
"Who is he, daughter?"
"Philip Baronet," Marjie answered proudly.
That afternoon Richard Tillhurst called and detained Marjie until shewas late in keeping her appointment with Judge Baronet. Tillhurst's taleof woe was in the main a repetition of Mrs. Whately's, but he knewbetter how to make it convincing, for he had hopes of winning the prizeif I were out of the way. He was too keen to think Judson a dangerousrival with a girl of Marjie's good sense and independence. It was withthese things in mind that Marjie had met me. Rachel Melrose had swept inon us, and I who had declared to my dear one that I should never care totake another girl out to that sunny draw full of hallowed memories forus two, I was going again with this beautiful woman, my sweetheart fromthe East. And yet Marjie was quick enough to note that I had tried toevade the company of Miss Melrose, and she had seen in my eyes the samelook that they had had for her all these years. Could I be deceiving herby putting Rachel off in her presence? She did not want to think so. HadJudge Baronet not been my father, he could have taken her into hisconfidence. She could not speak to him of me, nor could he discuss hisson's actions with her.
But love is strong and patient, and Marjie determined not to give up atthe first onslaught against it.
"I'll write to him now," she said. "There will be sure to be a letterfor me up under 'Rockport.' He said something about a letter thisafternoon, the letter he promised to write after the party atAnderson's. He couldn't be deceiving me, I'm sure. I'll tell himeverything, and if he really doesn't care for me,"--the blank of lifelay sullen and dull before her,--"I'll know it any how. But if he doescare, he'll have a letter for me all right."
And so she wrote, a loving, womanly letter, telling in her own sweet wayall her faith and the ugly uncertainty that was growing up against it.
"But I know you, Phil, and I know you are all my own." So she ended theletter, and in the purple twilight she hastened up to the cliff andfound her way down to our old shaded corner under the rock. There was noletter awaiting her. She held her own a minute and then she thrust itin.
"I'll do anything for Phil," she murmured softly. "I cannot help it. Hewas my own--he must be mine still."
A light laugh sounded on the rock above her.
"Are you waiting for me here?" a musical voice cried out. It wasRachel's voice. "Your aunt said you were gone out and would be backsoon. I knew you would like me to meet you half way. It is beautifulhere, you must love the place, but"--she added so softly that theunwilling listener did not catch her words--"it isn't so fine as our oldRockport!"
Quickly came the reply in a voice Marjie knew too well, although thetone was unlike any she had ever heard before.
"I hate Rockport; I did not tell you so when I left last Spring, but Ihated it then."
Swiftly across the listener's mind swept the memory of my words. "If youever hear me say I don't like 'Rockport' you will know I don't care foryou."
She had heard me say these words, had heard them spoken in a tone ofvehement feeling. There was no mistaking the speaker's sincerity, andthen the quick step and swing of the bushes told her I had gone. TheNeosho Valley turned black before her eyes, and she sank down on thestone shelving of the ledge.
My ride that afternoon had been a miserable one. Rachel was coy andsweet, yet cunningly bold. I felt indignant at my father for forcing hercompany on me, and I resented the circumstance that made me a victim toinjustice. I detested the beautiful creature beside me for herassumption of authority over my actions, and above all, I longed with anaching, starved heart for Marjie. I knew she had only to read my letterto understand. She might not have gone after it yet, but I could see herthat evening and all would be well.
I did not go near the old stone cabin. My father had failed to know hisson if he thought I would obey under these hard conditions. We merelydrove about beyond the draw. Then we rested briefly under the oldcottonwood before we started home.
In the twilight I hurried out to our "Rockport" to wait for Marjie. Iwas a little late and so I did not know that Marjie was then under thepoint of rock. My rudeness to Rachel was unpardonable, but she hadintruded one step too far into the sacred precincts of my life. I wouldnot endure her in the place made dear to me from childhood, byassociation with Marjie. So I rashly blurted out my feelings and lefther, never dreaming who had heard me nor what meaning my words wouldcarry.
Down at the Whately home Richard Tillhurst sat, bland and smiling,waiting for Miss Whately's return. I sat down to wait also.
The August evening was dry and the day's hot air was rippling now into aslight breeze. The shadows deepened and the twilight had caught its lastfaint glow, when Marjie, white and cold, came slowly up the walk. Herbrown hair lay in little curls about her temples and her big dark eyeswere full of an utterable sorrow. I hurried out to the gate to meet her,but she would have passed by me with stately step.
"Marjie," I called softly, holding the gate.
"Good-evening, Philip. Please don't speak to me one word." Her voice waslow and sweet as of yore save that it was cold and cutting.
She stood beside me for a moment. "I cannot be detained now. You willfind your mother's ring in a package of letters I shall send youto-morrow. For my sake as well as for your own, please let this matterend here without any questions."
"But I will ask you questions," I declared.
"Then they will not be answered. You have deceived me and been untrue tome. I will not listen to one word. You may be very clever, but Iunderstand you now. This is the end of everything for you and me." Andso she left me.
I stood at the gate only long enough to hear her cordial greeting ofTillhurst. My Marjie, my own, had turned against me. The shadows of thedeepening twilight turned to horrid shapes, and all the purple richnesswith that deep crimson fold low in the western sky became a chill gloombordered on the horizon by the flame of hate. So the glory of a worldgone wrong slips away, and the creeping shadows are typical only ofpain and heartache.
I turned aimlessly away. I had told Marjie she was the light of my life:I did not understand the truth of the words until the light went out.Heavily, as I had staggered toward her mother's house on the night whenI was sure Jean Pahusca had stolen her, I took my way now into thegathering shadows, slowly, to where I could hear the Neosho whisperingand muttering in the deep gloom.
It comes sometimes to most of us, the wild notion that life, the gift ofGod alone, is a cheap thing not worth
the keeping, and the impulse tofling it away uprears its ugly suggestion. Out in a square of light bythe ford I saw Dave Mead standing, looking straight before him. Thesorrows of the day were not all mine. I went to him, and we stood theresilent together. At length we turned about in a purposeless way towardthe open West Prairie. How many a summer evening we had wandered here!How often had our ponies come tramping home side by side, in the dayswhen we brought the cows in late from the farthest draw! It seemed likeanother world now.
"Phil, you are very good to me. Don't pity me! I can't stand that." Wenever had a tenor in our choir with a voice so clear and rich as his.
"I don't pity you, Dave, I envy you." I spoke with an effort. "You havenot lost, you have only begun a long journey. There is joy at the end ofit."
"Oh, that is easy for you to say, who have everything to make youhappy."
"I? Oh, Dave! I have not even a grave." The sudden sense of loss, drivenback by the thought of another's sorrow, swept over me again. It washis turn now to forget himself.
"What is it, Phil? Have you and Marjie quarrelled? You never were meantfor that, either of you. It can't be."
"No, Dave. I don't know what is wrong. I only wish--no, I don't. It ishard to be a man with the heart of a boy still, a foolish boy withfoolish ideals of love and constancy. I can't talk to-night, Dave, onlyI envy you the sure possession, the eternal faith that will never belost."
He pressed my hand in his left hand. His right arm had had only alimited usefulness since the night he tried to stop Jean Pahusca down bythe mad floods of the Neosho. I have never seen him since we parted onthe prairie that August evening. The next day he went to Red Range tostay for a short time. By the end of a week I had left Springvale, andwe are to each other only boyhood memories now.
Out on the open prairie, where there was room to think and be alone, Iwent to fight my battle. There was only a sweep of silver sky above meand a sweep of moonlit plain about me. Dim to the southwest crept thedark shadow of the wooded Fingal's Creek Valley, while against thehorizon the big cottonwood tree was only a gray blur. The mind can actswiftly. By the time the moon had swung over the midnight line I hadmapped out my course. And while I seemed to have died, and another beinghad my personality, with only memory the same in both, I rose up armedin spirit to do a man's work in the world. But it cost me a price. Ihave been on a battle field with a thousand against fifty, and I was oneof the fifty. Such a strife as I pray Heaven may never be in our landagain. I have looked Death in the face day after day creeping slowly,surely toward me while I must march forward to meet it. Did the strugglethis night out on the prairie strengthen my soul to bear it all, Iwonder.
The next morning a package addressed in Marjie's round girlish hand wasput before me. Forgetful of resolve, I sent back by its bearer animploring appeal for a chance to meet her and clear up the terriblemisunderstanding. The note came back unopened. I gave it with the bundleto Aunt Candace.
"Keep this for me, auntie, dear," I said, and my voice trembled. Shetook it from my hand.
"All right, Phil, I'll keep it. You are not at the end of things,dearie. You are only at the beginning. I'll keep this. It is onlykeeping, remember." She pointed to a stain on the unopened note, theround little blot only a tear can make. "It isn't yours, I know."
It was the first touch of comfort I had felt. However slender thethread, Hope will find it strong to cling to. Rachel's visit ended thatday. Self-centred always, she treated me as one who had been foolish,but whom she considered her admirer still. It was not in her nature tobe rejected. She shaped things to fit her vanity, and forgot what couldnot be controlled. I refused to allow myself to be alone with her again.Nobody was ever so tied to a woman's presence as I kept myself by AuntCandace so long as I remained in the house.
My father, I knew, was grieved and indignant. With all my fair promisesand pretended loyalty I seemed to be an idle trifler. How could myrelation to Lettie Conlow be explained away in the light of this visitfrom a handsome cultured young lady, who had had an assurance of welcomeor she would not have come. He loved Marjie as the daughter of hisdearest friend. He had longed to call her, "daughter," and I hadfoolishly thrown away a precious prize.
Serious, too, was my reckless neglect of business. I had disregarded hisrequest to manage a grave matter. Instead of going alone to the cabin, Ihad gone off with a pretty girl and reported that I had found nothing.
"Did you go near the cabin?" He drove the question square at me, and Ihad sullenly answered, "No, sir." Clearly I needed more discipline thanthe easy life in Springvale was giving me. I went down to the office inthe afternoon, hoping for something, I hardly knew what. He was alone,and I asked for a few words with him. Somehow I seemed more of a man tomyself than I had ever felt before in his presence.
"Father," I began. "When the sea did its worst for you--fifteen yearsago--you came to the frontier here, and somehow you found peace. Youhave done your part in the making of the lawless Territory into alaw-abiding State, this portion of it at least. The frontier moveswestward rapidly now."
"Well?" he queried.
"I have lost--not by the sea--but, well, I've lost. I want to go to thefrontier too. I must get away from here. The Plains--somewhere--may helpme."
"But why leave here?" he asked. After all, the father-heart wasyearning to keep his son.
"Why did you leave Massachusetts?" I could not say Rockport. I hated thesound of the name.
"Where will you go, my boy?" He spoke with deepest sorrow, and lovemingled in his tones.
"Out to the Saline Country. They need strong men out there. I must havebeen made to defend the weak." It was not a boast, but the frankexpression of my young manhood's ideal. "Your friend Mr. Morton urged meto come. May I go to him? It may be I can find my place out in thattreeless open land; that there will come to me, as it came to you, thehelp that comes from helping others."
Oh, I had fought my battle well. I was come into a man's estate now andhad put away childish things.
My father sitting before me took both my hands in his.
"My son, you are all I have. You cannot long deceive me. I have trustedyou always. I love you even unto the depths of disgrace. Tell me truly,have you done wrong? I will soon know it. Tell me now."
"Father," I held his hands and looked steadily into his eyes. "I have noact to conceal from you, nor any other living soul. I must leave herebecause I cannot stay and see--Father, Marjie is lost to me. I do notknow why."
"Well, find out." He spoke cheerily.
"It is no use. She has changed, and you know her father's firmness. Sheis his mental image."
"There is no stain somewhere, no folly of idle flirtation, no weakness?I hear much of you and Lettie."
"Father, I have done nothing to make me ashamed. Last night when Ifought my battle to the finish, for the first time in my life I knew mymother was with me. Somehow it was her will guiding me. I know my place.I cannot stay here. I will go where the unprotected need a strength likemine."
The stage had stopped at the courthouse door, and Rachel Melrose ran upthe steps and entered the outer office. My father went out to meet her.
"Are you leaving us?" he asked kindly.
"Yes, I had only a day or two that I could spend here. But where isPhilip?"
John Baronet had closed his door behind him. I thanked him fervently inmy heart for his protection. How could I meet this woman now? And yetshe had seemed only selfishly mischievous, and I must not be a coward,so I came out of the inner room at once. A change swept over her facewhen I appeared. The haughty careless spirit gave place to gentleness,and, as always, she was very pretty. Nothing of the look or manner waslost on John Baronet, and his pity for her only strengthened his opinionof my insincerity.
"Good-bye, Philip. We shall meet again soon, I hope. Good-bye, JudgeBaronet." Her voice was soft and full of sadness. She smiled upon usboth and turned to go.
My father led her down the courthouse steps and helped her into thestage. When he came back I did n
ot look up. There was nothing for me tosay. Quietly, as though nothing had occurred, he took up his work, hisface as impenetrable as Jean Pahusca's.
My resemblance to my mother is strong. As I bent over his desk to gatherup some papers for copying, my heavy dark hair almost brushed his cheek.I did not know then how his love for me was struggling with his sense ofduty.
"I have trusted him too much, and given him too free a rein. He doesn'tknow yet how to value a woman's feelings. He must learn his lesson now.But he shall not go away without my blessing."
So he mused.
"Philip," his voice was as kind as it was firm, "we shall see what thedays will bring. Your mother's spirit may be guiding you, and yourfather's love is always with you. Whatever snarls and tangles havegotten into your threads, time and patience will straighten andunravel. Whatever wrong you may have done, willingly or unwillingly,you must make right. There is no other way."
"Father," I replied in a voice as firm as his own. "Father, I have doneno wrong."
Once more he looked steadily into my eyes and through them down into myvery soul. "Phil, I believe you. These things will soon pass away."
In the early twilight I went for the last time to "Rockport." There aresadder things than funeral rites. The tragedies of life do not alwaysring down the curtain leaving the stage strewn with the forms of theslain. Oftener they find the living actor following his lines and doinghis part of the play as if all life were a comedy. The man of sixtyyears may smile at the intensity of feeling in the boy of twenty-one,but that makes it no easier for the boy. I watched the sun go down thatnight, and then I waited through the dark hour till the moon, now pastthe full, should once more illumine the Neosho Valley. Although I havealways been a lover of nature, that sunset and the purple twilightfollowing, the darkness of the early evening hour and the gloriousmoonrise are tinged with a sorrow I have never quite lost even in thehappier years since then. I sat alone on the point of rock. At last theimpulse to go down below and search for a letter from Marjie overcameme, although I laughed bitterly at the folly of such a notion. In thecrevice where her letter had been placed for me the night before, Ifound nothing. What a different story I might have to tell had I gonedown at sunset instead of waiting through that hour of darkness beforethe moon crept above the eastern horizon line! And yet I believe that inthe final shaping-up the best thing for each one comes to all of us.Else the universe is without a plan and Love unwavering and eternal isonly a vagary of the dreamer.
Early the next morning I left Springvale, and set my face to thewestward, as John Baronet had done a decade and a half before, to beginlife anew where the wilderness laps the frontier line. My father held myhand long when I said good-bye, and love and courage and trust were allin that hand-clasp.
"You'll win out, my boy. Keep your face to the light. The world has noplace for the trifler, the coward, or the liar. It is open to homesteadclaims for all the rest. You will not fail." And with his kiss on myforehead he let me go.
* * * * *
Anything is news in a little town, and especially interesting in thedull days of late Summer. The word that I had gone away started fromConlow's shop and swept through the town like a prairie fire through agrassy draw.
No one man is essential to any community. Springvale didn't need me somuch as I needed it. But when I left it there were many more than Ideserved who not only had a good word for me; they went further, anddemanded that good reason for my going must be shown, or somebody wouldbe made to suffer. Foremost among these were Cam Gentry, Dr. Hemingway,and Cris Mead, president of the Springvale Bank, the father of Bill andDave. Of course, the boys, the blessed old gang, who had played togetherand worked together and been glad and sorry with each other down theyears, the boys were loyal to the last limit.
But we had our share of gossips who had a tale they could unfold--adreadful tale! Beginning with my forging my father's name to get moneyto spend on Rachel Melrose and other Topeka girls, and to pay debts Ihad contracted at Harvard, on and on the tale ran, till, by the time theFingal's Creek neighborhood got hold of the "real facts," it developedthat I had all but murdered a man who stood in the way of a rich fee myfather was to get out of a land suit somewhere; and lastly came anominous shaking of the head and a keeping back of the "worst truth,"about my gay escapades with girls of shady reputation whom I haddeceived, and cruelly wronged, trusting to my standing as a rich man'sson to pull me through all right.
Marjie was the last one in Springvale to be told of my suddenleave-taking. The day had been intolerably long for her, and the eveningbrought an irresistible temptation to go up to our old playground.Contrary to his daily habit my father had passed the Whately house onhis way home, and Marjie had seen him climb the hill. I was as like himin form as Jean Pahusca was like Father Le Claire. Six feet and twoinches he stood, and so perfectly proportioned that he never lookedcorpulent. I matched him in height and weight, but I had not his finebearing, for I had seen no military service then. I do not marvel thatSpringvale was proud of him, for his character matched the graces Naturehad given him.
As Marjie watched him going the way I had so often taken, her resolve toforget what we had been to each other suddenly fell to pieces. Herfeelings could not change at once. Mental habits are harder to break upthan physical appetites. For fourteen years my loved one had known me,first as her stanch defender in our plays, then as her boy sweetheartand lastly as her lover and betrothed husband. Could twenty-four hoursof distrust and misunderstanding displace these fourteen years of happythinking? And so after sunset Marjie went up the slope, hardly knowingwhy she should do so or what she would say to me if she should meet methere. It was a poor beginning for the new life she had carefully mappedout, but impulse was stronger than resolve in her just then. Just at thesteep bend in the street she came face to face with Lettie Conlow. Thelatter wore a grin of triumph as the two met.
"Good-evening, Marjie. I s'pose you've heard the news?"
"What news?" asked Marjie. "I haven't heard anything new to-day."
"Oh, yes, you have, too. You know all about it; but I'd not care if Iwas you."
Marjie was on her guard in a moment.
"I don't care for what I don't know, Lettie," she replied.
"Nor what you do, neither. I wouldn't if I was you. He ain't worth it;and it gives better folks a chance for what they want, anyhow."
Lettie's low brows and cunning black eyes were unendurable to the girlshe was tormenting.
"Well, I don't know what you are talking about," and Marjie would havepassed on, but Lettie intercepted her.
"You know that rich Melrose girl's gone back to Topeka?"
"Oh, yes," Marjie spoke indifferently; "she went last evening, I wastold."
"Well, this morning Phil Baronet went after her, left Springvale forgood and all. O'mie says so, and he knows all Phil knows. Marjie, she'srich; and Phil won't marry nobody but a rich girl. You know you ain'tgot what you had when your pa was alive."
Yes, Marjie knew that.
"Well he's gone anyhow, and I don't care."
"Why should you care?" Marjie could not help the retort. She was stungto the quick in every nerve. Lettie's face blazed with anger.
"Or you?" she stormed. "He was with me last. I can prove it, and a lotmore things you'd never want to hear. But you'll never be his girlagain."
Marjie turned toward the cliff just as O'mie appeared through the bushesand stepped behind Lettie.
"Oh, good-evening, lovely ladies; delighted to meet you," he hailedthem.
Marjie smiled at him, but Lettie gave a sudden start.
"Oh, O'mie, what are you forever tagging me for?" She spoke angrily andwithout another word to Marjie she hurried down the hill.
"I tag!" O'mie grinned. "I'd as soon tag Satan, only I've just got to doit." But his face changed when he turned to Marjie. "Little girl, Ioverheard the lady. Lovely spirit that! I just can't help dancin'attendance on it. But, Marjie, I've come up here, knowin' Phil ha
d goneand wasn't in my way, 'cause I wanted to show you somethin'. Yes, he'sgone. Left early this mornin'. Never mind that, right now."
He led the way through the bushes and they sat down together. I cannotsay what Marjie thought as she looked out on the landscape I had watchedin loneliness the night before. It was O'mie, and not his companion, whotold me long afterwards of this evening.
"I thought you were away on a ten days' vacation, O'mie. Dever said youwere." She could not bear the silence.
"I'm on a tin days' vacation, but I'm not away, Marjie, darlin'," O'miereplied.
"Oh, O'mie, don't joke. I can't stand it to-night." Her face was whiteand her eyes were full of pain.
"Indade, I'm not jokin'. I came up here to show you somethin' and totell you somethin'."
He took an old note book from his pocket and opened it to where a fewbrown blossoms lay flatly pressed between the leaves.
"Thim's not pretty now, Marjie, but the day I got 'em they was daintyan' pink as the dainty pink-cheeked girl whose brown curls they waswreathed about. These are the flowers Phil Baronet put on your hair outin the West Draw by the big cottonwood one April evenin' durin' the war;the flowers Jean Pahusca kissed an' throwed away. But I saved 'embecause I love you, Marjie."
She shivered and bent her head.
"Oh, not like thim two ornery tramps who had these blossoms 'fore I got'em, but like I'd love a sister, if I had one; like Father Le Claireloves me. D'ye see?"
"You are a dear, good brother, O'mie," Marjie murmured, without liftingher head.
"Oh, yis, I'm all av that an' more. Marjie, I'm goin' to kape theseflowers till--well, now, Marjie, shall I tell you whin?"
"Yes, O'mie," Marjie said faintly.
"Well, till I see the pretty white veil lifted fur friends to kiss thebride an' I catch the scent av orange blossoms in thim soft littlewaves." He put his hand gently on her bowed head. "I'll get to do it,too," he went on, "not right away, but not fur off, nather; an' it won'tbe a little man, ner a rid-headed Irishman, ner a sharp-nosedschool-teacher; but--Heaven bless an' kape him to-night!--it'll be abig, broad-shouldered, handsome rascal, whose heart has niver changedan' niver can change toward you, little sister, 'cause he's hisfather's own son--lovin', constant, white an' clane through an' through.Be patient. It's goin' to be all right for you two." He closed the bookand put it back in its place. "But I mustn't stay here. I've got to tagLettie some more. Her an' some others. That's what my tin days'vacation's fur, mostly." And O'mie leaped through the bushes and wasgone.
The twilight was deepening when Marjie at last roused herself.
"I'll go down and see if he did get my letter," she murmured, taking herway down the rough stair. There was no letter in the crevice where shehad placed it securely two nights before. Lifting her face upward sheclasped her hands in sorrow.
"He took it away, but he did not come to me. He knows I love him." Thenremembering herself, "I would not let him speak. But he said he hated'Rockport.' Oh, what can it all mean? How could he be so good to me andthen deceive me so? Shall I believe Lettie, or O'mie?"
Kneeling there in the deep shadows of the cliff-side with the Neoshogurgling darkly below her, and the long shafts of pink radiance from thehidden sunset illumining the sky above her, Marjie prayed for strengthto bear her burden, for courage to meet whatever must come to her, andfor the assurance of divine Love although now her lover, as well as herfather, was lost to her. The simple pleading cry of a grief-strickenheart it was. Heaven heard that prayer, and Marjie went down the hillwith womanly grace and courage and faith to face whatever must befallher in the new life opening before her.
In the days that followed my little girl was more than ever the idol ofSpringvale. Her sweet, sunny nature now had a new beauty. Her sorrow shehid away so completely there were few who guessed what her thoughtswere. Lettie Conlow was not deceived, for jealousy has sharp eyes. O'mieunderstood, for O'mie had carried a sad, hungry heart underneath hishappy-go-lucky carelessness all the years of his life. Aunt Candace wasa woman who had overcome a grief of her own, and had been cheery andbright down the years. She knew the mark of conquest in the face. Andlastly, my father, through his innate power to read human nature,watched Marjie as if she were his own child. Quietly, too, so quietlythat nobody noticed it, he became a guardian over her. Where she wentand what she did he knew as well as Jean Pahusca, watching in the lilacclump, long ago. For fourteen years he had come and gone to our house onCliff Street up and down the gentler slope two blocks to the west ofWhately's. Nobody knew, until it had become habitual, when he changedhis daily walk homeward up the steeper climb that led him by Marjie'shouse farther down the street. Nobody realized, until it was too commonfor comment, how much a part of all the social life of Springvale myfather had become. He had come to Kansas a widower, but gossip long agogave up trying to do anything with him. And now, as always, he was awelcome factor everywhere, a genial, courteous gentleman, whose dignityof character matched his stern uprightness and courage in civic matters.Among all the things for which I bless his memory, not the least of themwas this strong, unostentatious guardianship of a girl when her need forprotection was greatest, as that Winter that followed proved.
I knew nothing of all this then. I only knew my loved one had turnedagainst me. Of course I knew that Rachel was the cause, but I could notunderstand why Marjie would listen to no explanation, why she shouldturn completely from me when I had told her everything in the letter Iwrote the night of the party at Anderson's. And now I was many milesfrom Springvale, and the very thought of the past was like aknife-thrust. All my future now looked to the Westward. I longed foraction, for the opportunity to do something, and they came swiftly, theopportunity and the action.