An Indiana Girl/Chapter 21

When Kent left Orrig's that night he followed out, with fearful uncertainty, "Si's" meagre suggestion and went at once to the hotel.

Once in the office his fears were allayed by the absolute quiet and lack of excitement about the place. He paced up and down the small room impatiently awaiting the landlord's arrival, feeling confident that "Si" would shortly follow him.

The time moved but slowly, and he felt that he had been there hours when "Doc" happened down the stairs and discovered him. Their conversation was brief, but of the happiest sort on "Doc's" side, while Kent mostly listened. Fearful lest he might intrude Kent held against "Doc's" urging until his every doubt had been dispelled, then followed softly up to the little bed-chamber. Close to the bed he came. Millie Craig looked at him in surprise, then turned away and followed "Doc." When they were gone Virgie's eyes slowly opened, and, as he gazed into them with all the intensity of longing compassion, she smiled wanly, half-happily. His faculties rebelled against the gentle inference. His head became dizzy with the confusing truth of her sweet capitulation and his long-borne resignation. Self-condemning, self-tortured, he had believed himself outside the possibility of her graciousness. It was cruel delusion—a trick of her weakness that led her to invite him back to the deliciousness of her friendship! He was wild with restraint, while his heart expanded painfully, conspiring to delude him further. He was torn with emotion that cautioned him to be honorable, yet urged him to accept the change.

In the instant that he hesitated she moved her hand feebly toward him from where it lay on the coverlet, and in the greatest of ecstatic joys he placed his own over it, kneeling beside her. Slowly she closed her eyes again. He did not move, in fear lest she show some impatience with his grasp, and he held to the little emaciated fingers with tenderest firmness; but as the moments sped he breathed suppressedly; her respirations grew more regular, more deep. Then she slept. Oh, the beauty of it! It was true, true! The temporary hopefulness became a more assured fact. Her friendship had come again. Kent opened his eyes wildly as he looked into her sweetly-calm face. Gazing long he drank the precious truth with all the goodness, all the pleasure that this dearest of earthly things could give to him; and when "Doc" came again he found him yet on his knees, contemplating her features—all the joy he felt and longed to express shining radiantly in his face.

Admiring and believing in Kent's new sincerity and new manliness, "Doc" felt the need of giving to the young man the support of his own firm position, and in the bulletin of the last happy change he linked the circumstance of Kent's splendid achievement. That Virgie had passed the last crisis of her long, uncertain tenure to life, and was now in the pathetic beginning of surety, was, it would seem, happiness enough to cause her friends the greatest ecstasy; but to have added to this the news of her renewed friendship for Kent, and "Doc's" own statement that it was almost entirely due to the parson that her life had been spared, seemed beyond belief. A short calm succeeded the heralding of this doubly good news. Unrestrained admiration followed quickly, its impetuous generalness indicating the willingness that had long laid dormant because of the doubting. Little of the things that were said reached Kent's hearing. That a change had come he knew. The continued warmth of his reception wherever he went conveyed that to him, but he did not know for how much of this he was indebted to "Doc," who had, with astute care, admitted the people to the close understanding of their parson that he possessed, and so long as Kent did not know "Doc" enjoyed his part the better.

Events moved quickly now for Kent. He counted away the days, then the weeks, as he yearned for the time when she should be well and strong again. The plans for the new church had reached a settlement. The little community, in supposed secrecy from their parson, worked over them with the greatest interest, and when the details were all arranged they laid before him their proposition. That was a happy hour. Kent accepted their offering with delight, though he was near dumb from the gratitude which surged within him. Afterwards he thought, "Oh! if I could but have thanked them," and his silence in that time came back to worry his after-thought, though the committee said that they never saw anybody so "took in" as he was, and were satisfied as to his feelings. What he did say was that, though he was grateful, he thought that the time for a new church had not quite come, but that he would take up their plans and, after considering them, give the committee his approval and suggestions later. In the one word "later" he found refuge, for he had decided that to him it signified a time very remote from the present season, and it served the purpose well. In it the committee found no cause for displeasure, and in this then, too, they were satisfied.

Spring came quickly, and with its revivifying influence Virgie's strength returned. It was a delightful morning—that first morning that "Doc" gave his permission for her to sit up. Aunt Faribee and Millie were at once equalized in years by their motherly delight over her change. Solicitous and happy they watched her with great enjoyment. "Si" came up, half-bashful and unintrusive, smiling joyously to see her there before the window, serene and smiling contentedly. Kent also came to see her, and, while he talked restrainedly with Aunt Faribee and Millie mostly, Virgie's eyes were animated with a splendid enjoyment, and a flush suffused her wan cheeks whenever he addressed himself to her. This first visit was of necessity short, for "Doc," with precautious solicitousness, curtailed the patient's recreation to a meagre half hour; but, as her strength returned, his caution relaxed, and for many days they were left together in uninterrupted sweet communion.

It was the fourth of a series of very warm days when he came over to the hotel one afternoon. He had been reluctant to give up the reveries of dreamy heaviness that were claiming him even for so great a pleasure as that of being with her. Laziness, drowsiness and invitations to slumber were in the atmosphere. Everywhere about them new green was draping nature, and the warmth that stimulated her only enervated those who were under the spell. He shook off with effort the seductive influence of it all, and, as he became more fixed in his purpose, wandered slowly toward the hotel, living in the present deliciousness of changing surroundings, with only dull anticipation of the coming hours.

Virgie saw him from the window and smiled happily, though in the long interval of waiting for him to come upstairs to her room she partly forgot his arrival, occupying her thoughts with the red-tipped maple-tree buds that hung so as to partly screen her window. Kent stopped and talked with "Si" for a time, sitting on the door-step beside the landlord, who was taking a sun-bath, deep-seated in an old chair with rickety frame of bark-covered rusticity.

"Lazy weather, ain't it?" "Si" observed, after a long pause that had followed their greeting. Kent did not reply, and, after another interval, the host ventured again: "It's a early season. Why, I can remember when we didn't git this kind o' weather 'till early in June; but, great snakes! that's two-month yet. I don't care though; I like it better this way."

"The winters are shorter than they used to be," Kent observed.

"Your right they air, but they suits me the shorter they gits," "Si" said positively, and Kent smiled languidly, while another pause followed.

"Ain't y' goin' up? She's all alone," "Si" said after a time, and Kent arose and climbed the stairs quietly. Standing in the open doorway he leaned against the casement and watched Virgie. She was entirely unconscious of his presence, seemingly having forgotten to watch for him. Absorbed with her own reflections her face changed its studious expression frequently as he stood there, and Kent's moved in sympathy, being equally unconscious of its workings.

"Why so serious?" he asked quietly. "Have you come back to serious things so soon?" She turned her head calmly and smiled at him, undisturbed by his question, for she had expected him.

"I thought that you had forgotten to come up," she replied, "so I occupied my time with little debates within my head."

"You looked as if you were worrying. Is it good for you to have such debates?" he asked.

"Oh! I was not seriously troubled," she laughed. "Not so bad as that. I have not the energy to inflict myself with very weighty things to-day. It is too deliciously warm."

"If not serious, then I may share the thought with you?" he suggested.

"Certainly. Come over here by the window and I will show you," she said, interestedly, and when he was close by her side she asked: "If that bud can come out and reach the form it has in four or five days—you see it begins to show already the shape it will be in summer, why does it not—now listen closely—why does it not keep on growing at its present rate as the weather becomes warmer?"

Kent looked from her to the buds hanging almost within the window, then back into her face again, and, as she was evidently deeply in earnest, he smiled perplexedly, and said: "Surely you don't mean to ask me that seriously?"

"Indeed I do," she replied. "You wanted to know of what I was thinking—now answer the question yourself. Perhaps it will show you why I was serious."

"But," he protested, "it does grow larger in summer."

"Of course it does; I already knew that. But it has grown an inch in four days, say; and it will take it six months to grow two inches more. That is the problem. Why does it not continue to grow as rapidly?"

"Too much for me," he replied, looking at her in wondering admiration. "But, tell me, what made you think of it?"

"I presume that it must have been because I had nothing else with which to occupy my mind," she replied. "Can't you give me something better with which to replace it? What is the news? Tell me something. What have the folks over to your house decided to do? Martin tells me that Uncle Tipman wants Landy to come back and work for him; of course she doesn't want him to go. She said that she did not. Are you going to let him?"

"That would be news indeed," Kent smiled. "It would be news to me to know what he intended doing." Then he added more seriously, "I should dislike very much to have him go, perhaps as much as Martin would; but I fear that I am helpless in the matter."

"Why are you? Is there nothing else that you can get for him, or have you tried?"

"Tried—tried? I have tried everything that I could think of, but there seems to be no place else for him. I would do willingly all that I might be able to do for Landy, yet the outlook is anything but bright for my helping him."

"Naturally you feel interested in him after his having been with you all winter," she said thoughtfully, as she endeavored to find some suggestion.

"There is more than his having lived with me these few months to have caused me to wish him well," Kent said slowly, as, with his back toward her, he stood looking out of the window.

"On Martin's account?" Virgie asked.

"That, and still more," he replied. Then added quickly, "Landy has done me a favor beyond the power of most men to do, and he has my everlasting gratitude for it."

"Can you tell me what it is?" she asked innocently, with great interest, and, since he still remained with his back toward her and did not reply, she continued, while she watched him earnestly, "I do not want you to answer if you cannot do so willingly."

"I would like to, best in the world," he said, "but—"

"You need not seek excuses," she said quickly; "I did not mean to intrude on your confidence. I did not, honestly."

"It is not an intrusion. Perhaps it is right that you should know," Kent said; then hesitatingly went on. "I want to tell you. It is due Landy that you should know; but the best way to tell you, that's it, that's what makes me halt so."

Virgie remained silent and waited that he might shape his sentences to suit his own fancy. He gazed abstractedly from the window for a seemingly interminable time, then turned and faced her, while he leaned with his back against the wall.

"I do not want to shock you unnecessarily, and that is what makes it so difficult for me to commence. If you will prepare yourself for a pleasant surprise, first, it will make my words easier. I remember so well your complete mystification some few months ago over the departure of one man named Snellins that I hesitate in one breath to inform you that I am about to clear the circumstances of all its mystery. Yet such is the case."

"Then he is back?" she asked excitedly.

"Now there it is! Calm yourself or I shall not tell you," he said, with determination.

"But tell me—tell me?" she said. "Please don't delay so. Tell me, is he back?"

"He is here," he said. "He is here in Ashville. The fact is, he has never been away."

"And Landy?" she asked, surprised at the information. "What is Landy's connection with it?"

"Simply this. That Snellins was a very ill man when we took him in, and Landy has restored him to complete health and strength. That is Landy's connection with it."

"I don't understand," she said, with a puzzled expression; "you are so vague. Tell me more?"

"There is nothing more that I can tell," he replied evasively. "Landy has proven himself Snellins' friend when Snellins needed friendship most; that is all. Yet it is the thing that makes me wish to befriend Landy now. It is causing me to solocit your friendship for him."

"He is a dear," she said. "I shall love him for his goodness. And Martin—did she, too, have a part in it?"

"She certainly did," he replied.

"Isn't it funny," she said, "no one has ever said anything of it to me, not even Martin?"

"No one but Martin knew, and she was cautioned against speaking of it; so you must not hold her accountable."

"But I will. I shall scold the old dear dreadfully and make her or Landy, or you, or somebody bring Snell to me at once. Where is he, still at your house?"

Kent nodded affirmatively.

"Umm!" she mused audibly. "I don't think that you have been a bit nice to me. Now that is how I feel about it, if you would like to know!" and Kent laughed light-heartedly. Resuming she said, "How wonderful that you had been able to keep this so secret! Did—did he know?" she asked, referring to her father for the first time since his death, and her voice caught on the pronoun, as she feared Kent would not understand. Again Kent nodded in the affirmative. "Then I am simply overwhelmed at your long and successful secrecy from me! Was it that you thought me unworthy of your confidence—or—or" And again her words halted as she became confused. "Or did you not wish me to come to him?"

"You came to the parsonage when Bennie was ill," he said, simply.

"I do not understand at all. Tell me; tell your reasons, for you must have had them?"

"I thought that the telling you my goodness, would affect you beyond further inquiry, but, since it has not, I am unprepared for your question. I must, however, refuse to be catechised further," he said, with assumed gayety, that was at once transparent and futile; and, realizing this, continued: "Candidly, I ought not to tell you. Please let that suffice, and some day you will learn the rest; but just now it is best that you should not know."

Virgie looked at him in astonishment. This unmovable firmness was so unlike the old days, when he had ever a ready answer to all her questions. It was a phase for which she was unprepared. Then, too, he had given an explanation of his stand to the limit of his possibilities without subterfuge or quibbling. This was a surprise to her, for through his changes she had not known the gradual raise from insincerity to frankness, and, coming upon the latter in its forceful, unmovable position, her usual attitude of assurance with him found itself balked and rebounding.

"I suppose that I must be satisfied," she said finally. Her curiosity was in nowise allayed, yet she was secretly pleased with his evidence of strength.

"For the present at least," he supplemented quietly. "All that I have told you, though, should be enough news for one day at least, shouldn't it?"

She shook her head negatively with a pretty smile, and he was forced to laugh at the persistency conveyed.

"Well, it is all that you will get anyway," he said, to which she poised her lips and shrugged her shoulders with an assumption of indifference that meant that she was not the least satisfied.

Kent smiled approvingly at her sweet childishness, and led the conversation to trivial things. Martin came in later, interrupting their desultory talk with fussy solicitousness. The young people were visibly disturbed by her advent, since their moods had settled naturally into spiritless yet blissful quietude. Their conversation had come to broken pauses between unenlivening platitudes. The sense of sweet companionship had served for enough enjoyment, and it was this that the innocent Martin had so effectually disturbed; but Martin did not know, nor did their partial indifference serve to enlighten her. With customary importance she assumed at once the head of the conversation, and permitted her garrulousness full sway. Virgie, ever considerate, loaned first a kind consideration, and later her whole interest; but the parson could not bring himself out of the late mood, and eventually, as Martin indicated her permanency, he withdrew with just the least resentment expressed in his tones at his departure.

"What has Landy decided to do, Martin?" Virgie asked seriously, breaking in upon her running comments.

"Goin' back t' Nance Tipman's, I 'low," she replied dejectedly, at once becoming grave and turning silent.

"I have been thinking," Virgie began. Then said, "If you will pull me back out of the sun please, dear?" Afterwards resuming, "There, thank you! I have been thinking that, if it were not for your leaving him alone there, that you and Landy and Gyp might come out to my house when I am stronger." She hesitated for an instant, then began again rapidly without the hesitancy that had punctuated her former words. "I shall need someone, and Landy is just the one that I should like best, if you could go with him. There is all the place to care for, and it will need a man, and the housework will be more than I can do just yet. Oh, if you could come, Martin, how splendid it would be for all of us! This warm air and sunshine makes me wild to be back with my garden and chickens and things; and you, Martin—how you would enjoy it! Everything your own way, you know; that is, until I become strong enough to boss about," she laughed happily. "Landy would be better off with us than anywhere else he could go. It would be so nice for all of us—except—except him," she ended.

Martin sniffled with emotion that was so mixed by joy, gratitude, anticipated happiness and regret at leaving Kent that she knew not why she was tearful. The future seemed to have opened to her all of its greatest blessings, and she could have distilled just now their sweetest essence but for the one fact of having to gain this happiest of arrangements for most of those dear to her at the expense of the parson, who held in her heart quite as large a place as any of the others.

"I'd hate t' leave the parson," she said.

"I would hate to have you," Virgie replied. "But with all of you staying there now it would be too much of a burden, Landy and you and Gyp, as well as Ben."

"Snellins!" Martin ejaculated in great surprise. "How did you know?" she asked.

"He told me," Virgie answered quietly.

"The parson told you? My land! I didn't 'low he would," she said, with strange feelings of released constraint and glad opportunity. "Did he say he was right enough to be about soon?"

"He said that Landy had about cured him," Virgie replied.

"So he did, partly. Got him so's he's knowin' again," she said proudly. "But, ef it wan't for the parson, I want t' tell y' there'd never been the chance," she ended in double loyalty.

"Knowin'?" Virgie asked innocently.

"Yes mum, knowin'. He's got so 'at he knows all of us at the house, an' mostly those 'at goes by outside, though we does have t' keep him out o' sight from them fer a spell yit. That's what the parson says; so's nobody'll guess that he's ever been outen his mind."

"Was he so bad as that?" Virgie asked, deeply moved.

"Yes, an' almost worse," Martin replied, giving her voice all the inflections of awfulness possible, and filled with delight at being permitted to talk about him.

"There wuz a time we thought he'd be took down; he got so low. It wuz a sight o' work t' keep him from sickness. But we done it."

"And, then, he was not sick?" Virgie questioned further, in great surprise.

"No, of course not. We never let him get—not sick. Yet he—was—out—of—— "

"Oh! Martin, surely Ben was not—he did not—" And then she stopped, struck dumb with horror at the possibility that occurred by reason of the only evident conclusion.

"No—not crazy," Martin replied in quick alarm, fearing that she might have made an error. The parson said, "Not crazy; only what he called demented."

Virgie sat motionless, her eyes closed, her face ashen. Martin, now truly alarmed, drew closer, but stood without touching her. "I thought you knowed," she said tremulously in weak apology.

"I did know, but not that," Virgie replied, her voice so low and suppressed with horror that Martin scarcely caught her words. After a time she opened her eyes and, with an effort at self-control, said: "He told me that Ben had been ill, and I naturally thought of bodily illness. Tell me more, Martin; tell me all?" she ended feverishly, as she nerved herself for the details.

"I've told y' all now," Martin replied insecurely. "He wuz the one 'at found Snell when his trouble 'd come, an' he took him home an' took keer of him. Afterwards he let Landy he'p, an' Landy's got him t' knowin' again. That's all, 'cept 'at Snell's a'most as right ez he ever wuz, an' jest because the parson's been so wonderful kind."

Becoming more encouraged by Virgie's growing interest and animation she talked on, and on and on, with graphic enthusiasm until nearly all of the details of that trying time had been narrated. When she had talked herself out her listener's face was all aglow from gratitude and admiration for those who had been so kind. Martin lost none of the evident change, and the happiness infected her to the point of jubilant triumph, Kent's part profiting greatly by her enthusiasm. But when the time came for her to leave Virgie was without words to express the sweet contentment and joy that glowed within her. It was too like an unreal thing to admit of description. Revelations in the present hour were rushing over her with confusing goodness. The past seemed full of misjudgments of her own, and out of the lovely truths she had just learned she found examples for measuring the other and more sinister mysteries and perplexities. Her mind and heart were chaos. She would think, she would rejudge—she would take a new and better measurement of past events. Therefore, she let Martin go with but an abstracted "Good bye!" And when Aunt Faribee came with her lunch she was still thinking dreamily, covering old unhappinesses with gentle imaginings.