CHAPTER XIV
WYOMING HOSPITALITY.
The March days came hurrying on--gray and wind-blown and showery--butrather merry for all that. All signs bore tokens of an early spring. Aflock of geese had already gone over, crows were flapping across St.Helen's snow-freed meadow, and robins and song-sparrows felt quite athome. There was a misty, indistinct blur in the tops of the mapletrees, quite as though wet buds were swelling. Under the pine trees bythe Retreat, tiny, furry heads were peeping above the needles,hepaticas just awakening. The waters of the brook, freed from ice,tore boisterously through the meadow; and along its weedy edges thewater-rats, having left their tunnels in the banks, scurried onsecret, silent errands. Everywhere there was a strange fragrance offreshly-washed things--soft brown earth, buds ready to burst, tendershoots of plants. Yes, spring was unmistakably near, and the St.Helen's girls were ready for its coming.
It was on a Saturday afternoon, the last in March, that Virginiawalked alone down the hill, through the pine woods, and across theroad to the pastures and woodlands opposite. She would have lovedcompany, but Priscilla, Lucile, and the Blackmore twins were playingtennis finals in the gym, the Seniors were enjoying an afternoon tea,Vivian was nowhere to be found, and, in the hope of persuading Dorothyto go with her, she had again interrupted a secret conference betweenDorothy and Imogene, which conferences, to the watchful and troubledVigilantes, were becoming more and more frequent. The whole campusseemed deserted, she thought, as she started from The Hermitage.Perhaps, the opening of the "Forget-me-not" soda fountain--another signof spring--accounted for that.
It was wet underfoot and gray overhead, but she did not mind. She wasbound for the pastures on the other side of the road leading toHillcrest, for there Miss Wallace had said she might even this earlyfind the mayflowers of which her mother had so often told her. As shewent along, jumping over the little spring brooks and pools in thehollows, she thought of how spring was also coming to her own dearcountry. Her father's letter that morning had told her of buddingquaking-asps, of red catkins on the cottonwoods, of green foot-hills,and of tiny yellow butter-cups and the little lavender pasque-flowers,which came first of all the spring blossoms. In a few weeks more thosefoot-hills would be gay with violets and spring beauties, anemones andshooting-stars.
She crawled between the gray, moss-covered bars of a fence whichseparated the two pastures, and went toward some deeper woodland wherepines and firs grew. Here, Miss Wallace said, she would be likely tofind them. She looked sharply for brown, clustered leaves, whichalways deceived one as to the wealth beneath them. At last on a littlemossy knoll, in a clearing among the pines, she found what she sought.Kneeling eagerly on the damp ground, she searched with careful fingersthrough the brown leaves. Green leaves revealed themselves. Shesmelled the sweetest fragrance imaginable--the fragrance of flowers andbrown earth and fresh leaves all in one. She looked beneath the greenleaves; and there, with their pale pink faces almost buried in themoss, she found the first mayflowers of the spring.
Tenderly she raised the tendrils from the moss and grass, and examinedthe tiny blossoms, in whose centers the hoar frost of winter seemed tolinger. These then were the flowers her New England mother had soloved. Years before, perhaps in this very spot, her mother had come tosearch for them. She almost hated to pluck them--they looked so cozylying there against the brown earth, but she wanted to send them toher grandmother for her mother's birthday. On other knolls and aroundthe gray pasture rocks, even at the foot of the fir trees, she foundmore buds and a few opened blossoms. Her mother had long ago taughther Whittier's "Song to the Mayflowers," and she said some of theverses which she still remembered, as she sat beneath the trees, andpulled away the dead leaves from the flowers' trailing stems.
"O sacred flowers of faith and hope, As sweetly now as then Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, In many a pine dark glen.
"Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, Unchanged, your leaves unfold, Like love behind the manly strength Of the brave hearts of old.
"So live the fathers in their sons, Their sturdy faith be ours, And ours the love that overruns Its rocky strength with flowers."
For an hour she roamed about the woods, finding evergreen to line herbox for the flowers, and some cheery partridge vine, whose greenleaves and red berries seemed quite untouched by the winter's snow. Itwas quiet in among the trees. She was glad after all that she had comealone. At school one needed to be away from the girls once in a whilejust to get acquainted with oneself.
She climbed upon a great gray rock in the open pasture, and sat therethinking of the months at St. Helen's--remembering it all from the dayshe had left her father. She was glad that she had come--glad that inher father's last letter he had said she was to return after a summerat home. Priscilla was to return, too, a Senior--perhaps, she would bemonitor like Mary--and they were to room together as they had thisyear. The Blackmore twins had petitioned for Mary and Anne's room,promising upon their sacred honor to be models of behavior; and MissKing and Miss Wallace were considering their request. Virginia didhope it would be granted, for she loved Jess and Jean clearly. Dorothywould return. Would Imogene, too, she wondered? It might be mean tohope that she would not, but she did hope that.
From the rock where she sat a portion of the Hillcrest road wasvisible. She was still thinking of Imogene and Dorothy, when a red anda white sweater appeared on the distant road moving in the directionof St. Helen's. "Dorothy and Imogene on the way home from Hillcrest,"she thought to herself. They were walking very close together,apparently reading something, for Virginia could see something whiteheld between them. All at once they stopped, looked up and down theroad, and then disappeared among the bushes that edged the roadside.Virginia was about to call them, thinking perhaps they had seen her,and were coming through the pastures to where she was; but before shehad time even to call, they reappeared, and walked more hurriedlytoward the school. This time they were not close together, and thepaper had disappeared.
The founder of the Vigilantes, perplexed by this strange behavior, didnot move until the two girls had turned into the driveway of St.Helen's. Then she jumped from the rock. She would go back across thepastures to the gate which she had entered, then turn down the roadand investigate. She felt like a true Vigilante, indeed! Something wasin the air! She had felt it the moment she discovered Imogene andDorothy in secret conference. Perhaps, in the roadside bushes shewould find the solution. Had the girls been Mary and Anne, Virginiawould never have questioned. Moreover, she would have felt like a spyin suspecting their behavior. But Imogene had long given good causefor righteous suspicion; and were not the Vigilantes pledged to guardagainst evil-doers?
She hurried across the pastures. The sun, which had been out of sightall day, now at time of setting shone out clear and bright and wasreflected in every little pool. She reached the gate, closed it behindher, and was about to turn down the road, when she saw sitting on arock by St. Helen's gate a weary, worn-looking woman with a child.Something in the woman's expression made Virginia forget the errandupon which she was bent. She looked more than discouraged--almostdesperate. The little girl by her side sat upon a shabby satchel, andregarded her mother with sad, questioning eyes. There was somethingabout them so lonely and pathetic that Virginia's eyes filled withquick tears. She crossed the road and went up to them.
"Are--are you in any trouble?" she asked hesitatingly. "Can I helpyou?"
The woman in turn hesitated before she answered. But this young ladywas apparently not like the two who had passed her but a momentbefore. She looked at her little girl, whose tired eyes were red fromcrying. Then she answered Virginia.
"I'm in a deal of trouble," she said slowly. "I've been sick, andwe've spent our money; and because we were three months back on therent, we were turned out this morning. I'm looking for work--any kindwill do--and I came to Hillcrest because I was hoping to get it at theschool there. I've heard tell of how Miss King is very kind; but thetwo y
oung ladies, who passed here just a few minutes ago, said therewas no work there at all. I guess they didn't have much time for thelikes of me. Do you go there, too?"
"Yes," said Virginia. "But they don't know whether there's any work ornot at St. Helen's. I don't know either; but I know Miss King wouldlike to find some for you if she could. Anyway, I want you to come toour cottage to supper with me. You are my guests--you and--what is thelittle girl's name?"
"Mary. And I'm Mrs. Michael Murphy. But, miss, you don't mean come tosupper with you? You see, we ain't fit."
"Yes, you are perfectly fit. Saturday night no one dresses up. Pleasecome, and then you can see Miss King after supper. You'd like to come,wouldn't you, Mary?"
Poor little Mary cared not for etiquette. Besides, she was plainlyhungry. She pulled her mother's dress.
"Please go, mother. Please!"
Virginia smiled at her eagerness. "Of course you'll come, Mrs. Murphy.My name's Virginia--Virginia Hunter. Let me help with your satchel,please. Come on, Mary."
With one hand she helped Mrs. Murphy with the satchel, while she gavethe other to Mary, and they started up the hill--Virginia never oncethinking that her new friends would not be as welcome guests as thosewho were often bidden to The Hermitage, Mary, untroubled byconventions and happy at the thought of supper, Mrs. Michael Murphy,secretly troubled, but compelled to snatch at any hope of work.
"You're not from these parts, I take it from your talk," Mrs. Murphyremarked as they neared the campus.
"No, I'm from Wyoming. It's a long way from here."
"You're sure--I'm afraid--the ladies at your cottage mightn't like Maryand me coming this way."
"Please don't think that, Mrs. Murphy," Virginia reassured her. "We'realways allowed to invite guests to supper. It's quite all right,truly."
But Mrs. Murphy in her secret heart was not assured. She looked reallyfrightened as they neared The Hermitage; but Virginia, talking withMary, did not notice, nor did she heed the astonished and somewhatamused looks of the girls whom they passed.
The supper-bell was ringing just as they opened the door, and steppedinto the living-room. Mary and Anne were at the piano, and Virginiabeckoned to them, and introduced her new friends. The surprised Maryand Anne managed to bow and smile; and were frantically searching fortopics of conversation, when the girls began to come down-stairs, justas Miss Wallace, with Miss King, who was staying to supper, opened thedoor of Miss Wallace's room.
Poor Mrs. Michael Murphy was perhaps the most uncomfortable of themall, for the others were mainly surprised. The girls stared, Imogeneand Dorothy giggled audibly, Miss King looked puzzled, Miss Wallacesympathetic. Virginia could not understand the manifest surprise,mingled with disapproval, on the faces around her. Could she have doneanything wrong? They certainly would not think so, if they knew.
"Mary," she said, "will you please introduce my friends to the girls,while I speak a moment with Miss King and Miss Wallace?"
Mary, who began to see through the situation, managed to introduce thepainfully embarrassed Mrs. Murphy and shy little Mary to girls who,with the exception of Imogene, responded civilly enough. Cordialitycertainly was lacking, but that was largely due to surprise.Meanwhile, Virginia had explained matters to Miss King and MissWallace, who, when they heard the story, lost their momentaryastonishment in sympathy. Of course such a proceeding was slightly outof the course of ordinary events at The Hermitage; but Virginia'sthoughtfulness, though perhaps indiscreet, was not at the present tobe criticised. They came forward and shook hands heartily with theguests, much to Virginia's comfort. It must be all right after all,she concluded.
Mrs. Murphy laid off her hat and shawl, Virginia took Mary's coat andhood, and the family and guests passed to the supper table.Conversation languished that evening. The girls talked amongthemselves, but only infrequently. Even Miss Wallace and Miss Kingapparently found it difficult to think of topics for generalconversation. But Virginia, true to her duties as hostess, chattedwith Mrs. Michael Murphy until the embarrassed, troubled little womanpartially regained her composure. As for little Mary, she was fullyoccupied in devouring the first square meal she had had for days.
But Virginia was not unconscious of the atmosphere. Something waswrong. Perhaps, after all, Mrs. Murphy had been right when she saidthe ladies of The Hermitage mightn't like to have her and Mary comingthis way. She could not understand it. At home in Wyoming the strangerwas always made a friend, and the unfortunate a guest. Hospitality wasthe unwritten law of the land.
She was rather glad when supper was over. The girls immediately wentup-stairs, only Mary, Anne, and Priscilla lingering to say good-nightto her guests. Virginia stayed upon Miss King's invitation, for sheand Miss Wallace were to talk with Mrs. Murphy concerning work at St.Helen's. Little Mary, tired out but satisfied, fell asleep, her headin Virginia's lap. To Virginia's joy, and to the unspeakable gratitudeof Mrs. Michael Murphy, whom the world had used none too kindly, MissKing decided that St. Helen's needed just such a person to dorepairing and mending; and Mrs. Murphy, her face bright withthankfulness, was installed that very evening in her new andcomfortable quarters.
An hour later, Virginia, the supper table atmosphere almost forgottenin her glad relief over Mrs. Murphy's immediate future, ran up-stairsand down the hall to her own room. The door opposite opened a little,and some one said in a biting voice:
"I suppose, Miss Hunter, we entertain Wyoming cow-boys before long?"
In Virginia's eyes gleamed a dangerous light, but she answeredquietly:
"I'm afraid not, Miss Meredith. The Wyoming cow-boys whom I know areaccustomed to eat with ladies."
Still, her delight over Mrs. Murphy's freedom from care could notquite banish the feeling of puzzled sadness with which she wrote thesewords in her "Thought Book":
"The world is a very strange place. God may be no respecter ofpersons, but people are. It is a very sad thing to be obliged tobelieve, but I am afraid it is true."
The next morning the two Vigilantes, obtaining permission to walk tochurch a little earlier than the others, stopped by the roadside atthe spot where yesterday Virginia had noted suspicious behavior, andthoroughly investigated. A rough path had apparently been recentlybroken through the alders. At the end of the path by the fence stood abig, white birch, and on the smooth side of the birch farthest fromthe road were many pin-pricks. One pin remained in the tree, and itstill held a tiny scrap of white paper, apparently the corner of asheet, the rest of which had been hurriedly torn away. The Vigilantes,thinking busily, went on to church. It is needless to say that theyfound it difficult to listen to the morning's sermon.