An Indiana Girl/Chapter 15

It was just a month and a day from the date of Bennie's death when Virgie took up one afternoon the second of Harvey's unanswered letters, reading and re-reading it with all the zest of freedom after her penance to the baby's memory. Longing as she had to give them their deserved reply the time had seemed interminable, but she set herself to mourn the child's loss in the formality of a month's devotion, no matter if she would retain his memory throughout the years to come. The month's sacrifice appealed to her as short enough at best, and she would not break her resolve, however much Harvey's letters tempted her from her purpose. But to-day she took them back into her life with welcoming relief and set her thoughts at work forming a reply.

"You are the one person in your community who seems to know that there is more in the world than Broom County," he had written. She looked over the lines a second time. The pleasure of his having exalted her above her people was tinged with a doubt, though it served as an inspiration, and she began to write.

"DEAR MR. HARVEY:—

Your last letter has come, as well as the other about two weeks before it, but the one is so much better than the other that I am only going to answer that. I should have written sooner, and no doubt you are beginning to think that I am trying to shirk, though I am not. It was out of respect for Bennie—you know little Bennie? You may think that this is foolish, but I could not do less for the darling, and that is the reason I have not written. It is all too sorrowful to think about—our having lost first Big Ben and then his namesake so soon afterward. I will not write about either of them, for it makes me sad; but this is the reason.

"In your last letter you have so much to say about Annapolis and your dance there. Of course I would like to see Annapolis, but I hardly know what you mean by telling me to 'lookout for the brass buttons!' Soldier stories and soldiers' lives always have been fascinating to me. But I cannot believe that I could go among all the war things that you say are there and be happy, because I should be always thinking of the young men and boys who are trained to shoot and be shot. I should think they would want to dance and be gay all the time that they can to keep from worrying. Do they grow old soon? Their mothers must be nearly crazy about the little boys.

"What a good joke it is to have you think that I am the only one here who knows anything is going on outside our hills, even if it is unfair to father and—oh! lots of others, who know just what is going on, or almost know from having seen it, while I have seen absolutely nothing? Perhaps my interest has made you believe me very wise, but you must not let yourself be deceived, as I am only the more anxious because I have never known about these things, and I want to know; so I must keep asking questions to find out.

"I told father about my cousins, whom you met at the party, but he did not seem to remember them. You did not tell me anything except that they were grown young women. You know I have never seen or heard anything about any of my relatives, so I wish that you would tell me their names and what the one about my own age looks like; also all about both of them. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for writing to me of them, because I had often wondered if I did have relations like other people. It seemed so lonesome not to have any. I felt so different some way. But now I have somebody to think of all the time, and they are so much nicer than outsiders ever could be. Tell me if my uncle is a big, cross man like father—only father's not cross. And is he fat, with whiskers?

"Something that you said to me when you were here comes back to me lots of times lately. You have forgotten what it was of course, but I have not, and when I think about it I am so afraid that it may come true. You said that I would realize some time how little this place is, and that I would want to be where things are different. Those were not your words, but they are what you meant. You also said that the people were selfish and unappreciative. This last thing I will never admit, but the other—well, I hardly know. It does seem at times that I want more than there is here, and then I feel ashamed, because this life has been so good to me. I feel, too, a little sorry and quite afraid when I realize how much I am thinking of outside things and wanting to see them. But maybe my uncle and cousins will satisfy all my wants now, so that I can think of them and settle down and be sensible again. I do hope that they will. Please tell me all you can about them.

"Everything is dull and dreary here now, as it is impossible to go anywhere or have anyone come to see you. Every year winter seems to come a few days later, and this year it was after New Year's a long time before it came, but it is here now in real earnest. Everything is a foot below the snow, and cold—my gracious! it would make you shiver to look out of the window into the blue air. Warm weather seems a hundred years off. It seems terrible to have nothing to do but think quietly for so long, shut in from all the folks you know. The prospect is dreadful. I don't like it when I have nothing to occupy myself. Can you keep quiet without anything to do? I never can.

"Remember, now, I want to know about my cousins when you write again, so please do not disappoint me.

"Your friend,

"VIRGINIA BRANDT."

When the letter was finished she contemplated it with cordial disapproval, but could find no words nor thoughts for substitution. She folded the sheets together with inattentive precision, then unfolded them again, dipping the pen with quick decision to make a change that she fancied would be quite the thing, but she poised the holder above the pages a moment indecisively, and the thought was gone. Reading the last paragraph aimlessly her words influenced the trend of her thoughts. The bleakness of her surroundings pervaded her imagination, and, as she touched up the last flourish to her signature without any view toward beautifying it, she felt the desolation keenly, sighing in the regret of having finished, lonesome and unoccupied now that it was done. Arising she went to the window and breathed on the glass. Then she removed her one plain ring, making fantastic pyramids of circles into the frost in total idleness. She cleared a space with the warm palm of her hand, stooping to look out at the brilliant yet dull landscape. Everywhere was snow—the bushes were submerged, although they served to break the line of the otherwise even surface. The gate-posts were capped with loads that hung askew, and she observed them closely, attempting to find a difference in the twin garments. Turning from the window she moved a step or two, but hastened back on the instant eager and filled with surprise.

A sleigh-bell or, better, a cow-bell dignified by its present use, sounded faintly in the muffled room. Peering toward the point where the road dropped below the farm, she strained her eyes eagerly until they were blinded by the dazzling light without. She shut them tightly once or twice to ease her vision, and, hastily brushing the pane again with her hand, resumed the watching. It was not long until a vehicle came to view, and in it were discovered Landy, Mrs. George and Gyp, wound in a mountain of blankets and robes that would have made them well-nigh unrecognizable to anyone but Virgie. The horse stopped in front of the gate panting and steaming, and she left the window to go for a wrap that she might greet the visitors and bring them in. Then she paused under the inspiration of a different thought—she would let them surprise her. The happiness would be more complete, and she sat down by the table again endeavoring to control her elation.

Gyp and her mother floundered up to the door talking low but excitedly. The child, restrained by the mother, uttered words that were distinct in meaning, if not in form, to Virgie. She sat out Martin's last warning, withholding her breath expectantly and ready to greet them on the instant of their bursting in upon her. They were waiting for Landy. The pause was too prolonged. She moved just a little and then, unable to wait longer, she flew to the door, threw it open joyously and grabbed Gyp with all the impetuous gladness in her heart.

"Bless your heart!" she said, snuggling her face into the great hood Gyp wore.

"My land!" said Martin. "How you scare a body. I 'low it's us as is th' ones surprised!"

"Oh! it just seems too good to be true," she said, hugging Martin in turn, drawing them into the house and looking expectantly for Landy.

"He needn't come in. I'll explain it to y' later," Martin said, in reply to her expectant looks. "He's in a hurry, an' mebbe best go 'long 'thout stoppin'." Raising her voice she continued:

"We're all right now; you needn't t' stop. Be keerful now, an' look out fer drifts!"

Landy evidenced his understanding by at once climbing back into the sleigh-box, pulling the robe about his legs carefully and yelling "Howdy!" to Virgie's wave of the hand—"Dup!" to the horse, and "You take care yer ownse'f—I be all right!" merrily to his solicitous wife as he drove away.

"This is a perfect treat, Martin. Where did you come from, and where's Landy going? Tell me all about it this instant? I'm simply burning up with curiosity!" Virgie said disconnectedly, as she worked with Gyp's outer garments and chafed the little hands between her own.

"Landy had t' go up t' Uncle Nace Tipman's fer a couple a' days t' straighten out things fer next season. They b'n a-dickerin' back and for'ards right pert since Nace hear'n 'at me an' Landy wuz married, an' thet he wan't a-goin' away like he'd figgered on doin'."

"And you thought that you would come and spend the time with me," Virgie interrupted, "and you bundled yourselves up and came through all the cold and snow and everything away out here. And you are going to stay two days? What a visit we will have!" she broke off delightedly, as she carried Martin's woolen stockings that she had worn over her shoes, together with Gyp's clumsy arctics, out to the kitchen, setting the one pair on the oven shelf and hanging the others over the tea-towel rack back of the stove to dry. When she came back Martin was fluffing out Gyp's tightly-crimped hair, and Virgie stepped at once into her own room. Returning with a comb she sat the little girl before her on a stool and took up the hair arrangement, leaving the mother without occupation.

"Tell me something?" she said eagerly. "Not a word have I heard from town for a week. What's going on? Anybody sick or married, or anything, since I was among all of you last?" Then to Gyp, "You sit right still, young lady, until I come back!" as she arose and made a trip to the cupboard. Gyp's face brightened expectantly. Returning she handed the child a large piece of gingerbread and resumed her pleasure task, tying the short ribbons into dainty bows.

"They be nothin' new much," said Mrs. George, assuming to be disinterested, but secretly elated with her opportunity for gossip. "The Craigs is sick—all 'cept Millie, an' th' postoffice has a'most b'n runnin' itse'f. They've got the croup mostly. It do beat me th' trouble they're allus a-havin' an' th' way that Millie Craig carries on 'sif her pa hadn't 'nough t' pester th' life outen him as 'tis. How's your pa?" she asked abruptly.

"Father? Oh! he's well. He is somewhere about out in the yard now. But tell me more of Millie. What has she been doing lately?"

"Oh, it's that Fisher young man. Their carryin's-on is scand'lous. Thet girl is a caution! Why, when the Craigs's twins hed diphtheria, there wuz no keepin' her away from other folks's young 'uns, an' I'll swan t' goodness it wuz her 'at give it t' nearly every child in th' hull neighborhood. Mostly ever'body knows how they air cuttin' their didos, an' ef her pa gets hold onto it he'll cut up his ownse'f a bit."

Virgie smiled amusedly, for she was not so far behind events as she had supposed, being thoroughly conversant with the Fisher-Craig subject of gossip, as Millie had told her its deepest import two months before Ashville awakened to an observance of the happenings right under their noses, so to speak.

"My!" she ejaculated encouragingly.

"It's outrageous!" Martin resumed warmly, drawing Gyp to the hearth and brushing the crumbs from her dress into the fire. "On'y yestiddy they wuz out galavantin' aroun' with his pa's best geldin', gettin' theirselves all wet an' near killin' th' horse. Sister Callum seen their goin's-on, an' she told me she wuz a-goin' t' tell Martha Craig jest what she thought. It's nothin' but keerlessness. Wonder t' me Millie ain't caught her death o' cold a'ready."

"What, if Millie's mother knew where she was, Martin, and said that she might go with Kenneth. Do you think that she would want Mrs. Callum's interference?"

"You don't 'low she did, do y'?" Mrs. George asked surprised, but alert for further information.

"I would feel safe in saying that she did," Virgie replied without further commitment. "Ken Fisher is a good boy, and there can be no harm in his and Millie's friendship. They have been almost brought up together, so why should they not grow to be better friends and more constant companions?"

"Y' don't mean t' tell me? Well, my land!" Martin said explosively; "so that's it, is it? That Callum woman tries to spoil ever'thin' she sets her eyes on," she ended, shirking entirely the responsibility, and Virgie laughed appreciatively at her cleverness in withdrawing her late avowal of disapproval.

They talked then on other things, Virgie confessing reluctantly to her correspondence with Harvey, knowing so well Martin's propensities for news-spreading, though unashamed to have her friends know of it if from a reliable source. Brandt came in, and, seeing the garments in the kitchen, hastened to learn who his callers might be. He greeted Martin with happy dignity and Gyp with a fatherly kiss, removing his coat, which Virgie insisted on taking, talking cheerily to them during the operation.

"How are you, Martin?" he said, as he drew Gyp between his knees and held his cold fingers against her cheek.

"Middlin'," she replied. "H' ar' you?"

"Never better," he laughed. "To what circumstance are we indebted for this welcome visit?" he asked, as Virgie came and sat on the floor beside him, resting her arm on his knee.

"Landy went up t' Uncle Nace's an' jest dropped us out here," she said, attempting to be humorous, but not quite succeeding, as she was always more or less confused in his presence, his language being at times incomprehensible—his sentences complex.

"Up to Tipman's, is it? I hope that he will get back there again this spring."

"Oh! he'll get back all right," she said confidently. "It's jest th' terms thet their hagglin' over."

"So that is the trouble. They should be able to arrange that," he said, turning Gyp around and lifting her to his other knee, opposite Virgie.

"What!" he said suddenly, looking from the pin the child had at her throat down into his daughter's face, then back again, and becoming appallingly agitated.

"What, father?" Virgie asked excitedly.

"Where did you find it, you minx?" he said, unclasping the pin and looking at it reverently.

"Me? I didn't find it," she said, but he gave no heed to her words in his completely absorbed examination.

"It was your mother's last trinket," he said finally, in a qualm of tender emotion, without raising his eyes. "I thought that I had hidden it securely."

Gyp looked from the pair to her mother, fearful and almost moved to tears. Martin was suddenly speechless and consumed with a dread lest he should call forth an explanation from the child.

He lifted his head at last and a forgiving smile was spreading over his face. He would chide them gently, if at all, for their sacrilege, for his heart was tender now, influenced by the token.

Virgie repeated timidly: "I did not find it, father!"

"Where then—how, tell me; how came this baby by it?" he asked in pained agitation.

Virgie turned toward Martin helplessly, and her father followed her gaze for enlightenment.

She sat under their scrutiny with ill-concealed resolutions passing through her mind. She could not lie outright in her daughter's presence, and to tell the truth might provoke him to a surprised confession of the donor's present whereabouts or condition. Her mind was sorely perplexed.

"Come, Martin, tell me?" he said, impatiently.

"He gave it to her," she answered shortly, endeavoring to warn him; but, too agitated to discern the hidden meaning, he would be persistent.

"Who did?" he asked.

"Why, the man Brother Bennie spoke about," Gyp supplied quickly, feeling that she had now the solution of one of her own troublesome problems.

Martin frowned down her elation instantly.

Virgie remembered then the two instances in which the baby-boy had insisted on his having seen a mysterious man leave the pin with his mother.

"Why need there be any mystery about it, Martin? If you will I know you can explain how you come to have it. Surely it is not as bad as it looks?" Virgie said.

Mrs. George was frightened by these kind words, that held an imputation of guilt, and the tears came to her eyes all too readily. Gyp, in sympathy, began a dolorous wailing. Brandt grew stern and half-suspicious.

"It—was—Snellins," she finally confessed, breaking down completely.

"What! Snellins?" he asked, his composure shattered into fear, pity and sorrow. "That must have been the beginning of the end," he concluded, retrospectively—unconsciously.

Virgie was alert at his first words, eager at the last ones, looking from one to the other in open-eyed wonder, feeling the bond of understanding that existed between the two.

"Ben, father! Where is he—do you know?" she asked, seeking his eyes. "Ah! you do know. I see that you do, and Martin does also. Why do you keep it from me? So he is in trouble? Tell me—you must tell me!"

He laid his hand gently on her head, looking the refusal into her eyes that he could not speak; then he turned slowly away from her pained humiliation on finding herself an alien to the secret.

Later he endeavored to restore good cheer, infusing as best he could, while himself under the weight of sadness, a little of the thoughts commonplace. His guests responded quite readily, relieved at his newer and less stern attitude. But Virgie could scarcely bring herself to the revival of easy conversation with that mystery still dragging after her thoughts.

In the evening she left them to their own ways. They watched her withdraw, filled with regret and alarm lest their further discourse would be heavy without her, and their fears were amply realized.

Her appearance the next morning was watched for eagerly by both father and visitors, and she relieved them instantly on the commencement of her talk. Her words had the hard ring of gold; yet they were gold in warmth of color. It was as if she were coining the atmosphere into words, each one bright and valuable, even though a hard resolve sounded through them. The night, alone—un-trusted with a secret that she could not fathom—was indeed hard, but the day that followed was infinitely harder, though she held to her resolve and filled it for those about her with a part of the radiance that symbolized her calmer, more natural self.

When Landy came for his loved ones they greeted him with all the joy of unburdened hearts, reviewing their pleasures for his happiness; crying their farewells merrily, leaving so filled with radiant elation that they missed entirely a thought of the sorrow they had innocently planted to grow and throb long after they were gone.