The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains
Therefore the Eastern warblings of the Ogdens sounded doubly sweet to
Molly Wood. Such words as Newport, Bar Harbor, and Tiffany’s thrilled
her exceedingly. It made no difference that she herself had never been
to Newport or Bar Harbor, and had visited Tiffany’s more often to admire
than to purchase. On the contrary, this rather added a dazzle to the
music of the Ogdens. And Molly, whose Eastern song had been silent in
this strange land, began to chirp it again during the visit that she
made at the Sunk Creek Ranch.
Thus the Virginian’s cause by no means prospered at this time. His
forces were scattered, while Molly’s were concentrated. The girl was
not at that point where absence makes the heart grow fonder. While the
Virginian was trundling his long, responsible miles in the caboose,
delivering the cattle at Chicago, vanquishing Trampas along the
Yellowstone, she had regained herself.
Thus it was that she could tell him so easily during those first hours
that they were alone after his return, “I expect to like another man
better than you.”
Absence had recruited her. And then the Ogdens had reenforced her. They
brought the East back powerfully to her memory, and her thoughts filled
with it. They did not dream that they were assisting in any battle. No
one ever had more unconscious allies than did Molly at that time. But
she used them consciously, or almost consciously. She frequented them;
she spoke of Eastern matters; she found that she had acquaintances whom
the Ogdens also knew, and she often brought them into the conversation.
For it may be said, I think, that she was fighting a battle--nay, a
campaign. And perhaps this was a hopeful sign for the Virginian (had he
but known it), that the girl resorted to allies. She surrounded herself,
she steeped herself, with the East, to have, as it were, a sort of
counteractant against the spell of the black-haired horse man.
And his forces were, as I have said, scattered. For his promotion gave
him no more time for love-making. He was foreman now. He had said to
Judge Henry, “I’ll try to please yu’.” And after the throb of emotion
which these words had both concealed and conveyed, there came to him
that sort of intention to win which amounts to a certainty. Yes, he
would please Judge Henry!
He did not know how much he had already pleased him. He did not know
that the Judge was humorously undecided which of his new foreman’s first
acts had the more delighted him: his performance with the missionary, or
his magnanimity to Trampas.
“Good feeling is a great thing in any one,” the Judge would say; “but I
like to know that my foreman has so much sense.”
“I am personally very grateful to him,” said Mrs. Henry.
And indeed so was the whole company. To be afflicted with Dr. MacBride
for one night instead of six was a great liberation.
But the Virginian never saw his sweetheart alone again; while she was at
the Sunk Creek Ranch, his duties called him away so much that there was
no chance for him. Worse still, that habit of birds of a feather brought
about a separation more considerable. She arranged to go East with the
Ogdens. It was so good an opportunity to travel with friends, instead of
making the journey alone!
Molly’s term of ministration at the schoolhouse had so pleased Bear
Creek that she was warmly urged to take a holiday. School could afford
to begin a little late. Accordingly, she departed.
The Virginian hid his sore heart from her during the moment of farewell
that they had.
“No, I’ll not want any more books,” he said, “till yu’ come back.” And
then he made cheerfulness. “It’s just the other way round!” said he.
“What is the other way round?”
“Why, last time it was me that went travelling, and you that stayed
behind.”
“So it was!” And here she gave him a last scratch. “But you’ll be busier
than ever,” she said; “no spare time to grieve about me!”
She could wound him, and she knew it. Nobody else could. That is why she
did it.
But he gave her something to remember, too.
“Next time,” he said, “neither of us will stay behind. We’ll both go
together.”
And with these words he gave her no laughing glance. It was a look that
mingled with the words; so that now and again in the train, both came
back to her, and she sat pensive, drawing near to Bennington and hearing
his voice and seeing his eyes.
How is it that this girl could cry at having to tell Sam Bannett she
could not think of him, and then treat another lover as she treated the
Virginian? I cannot tell you, having never (as I said before) been a
woman myself.
Bennington opened its arms to its venturesome daughter. Much was made
of Molly Wood. Old faces and old places welcomed her. Fatted calves of
varying dimensions made their appearance. And although the fatted calf
is an animal that can assume more divergent shapes than any other known
creature,--being sometimes champagne and partridges, and again cake and
currant wine,--through each disguise you can always identify the same
calf. The girl from Bear Creek met it at every turn.
The Bannetts at Hoosic Falls offered a large specimen to Molly--a dinner
(perhaps I should say a banquet) of twenty-four. And Sam Bannett of
course took her to drive more than once.
“I want to see the Hoosic Bridge,” she would say. And when they reached
that well-remembered point, “How lovely it is!” she exclaimed. And as
she gazed at the view up and down the valley, she would grow pensive.
“How natural the church looks,” she continued. And then, having crossed
both bridges, “Oh, there’s the dear old lodge gate!” Or again, while
they drove up the valley of the little Hoosic: “I had forgotten it was
so nice and lonely. But after all, no woods are so interesting as
those where you might possibly see a bear or an elk.” And upon another
occasion, after a cry of enthusiasm at the view from the top of Mount
Anthony, “It’s lovely, lovely, lovely,” she said, with diminishing
cadence, ending in pensiveness once more. “Do you see that little bit
just there? No, not where the trees are--that bare spot that looks
brown and warm in the sun. With a little sagebrush, that spot would look
something like a place I know on Bear Creek. Only of course you don’t
get the clear air here.”
“I don’t forget you,” said Sam. “Do you remember me? Or is it out of
sight out of mind?”
And with this beginning he renewed his suit. She told him that she
forgot no one; that she should return always, lest they might forget
her.
“Return always!” he exclaimed. “You talk as if your anchor was
dragging.”
Was it? At all events, Sam failed in his suit.
Over in the house at Dunbarton, the old lady held Molly’s hand and
looked a long while at her. “You have changed very much,” she said
finally.
“I am a year older,” said the girl.
“Pshaw, my dear!” said the great-aunt. “Who is he?”
“Nobody!” cried Molly, with indignation.
“Then you shouldn’t answer so loud,” said the great-aunt.
The girl suddenly hid her face. “I don’t believe I can love any one,”
she said, “except myself.”
And then that old lady, who in her day had made her courtesy to
Lafayette, began to stroke her niece’s buried head, because she more
than half understood. And understanding thus much, she asked no prying
questions, but thought of the days of her own youth, and only spoke a
little quiet love and confidence to Molly.
“I am an old, old woman,” she said. “But I haven’t forgotten about it.
They objected to him because he had no fortune. But he was brave and
handsome, and I loved him, my dear. Only I ought to have loved him more.
I gave him my promise to think about it. And he and his ship were lost.”
The great-aunt’s voice had become very soft and low, and she spoke with
many pauses. “So then I knew. If I had--if--perhaps I should have lost
him; but it would have been after--ah, well! So long as you can help
it, never marry! But when you cannot help it a moment longer, then
listen to nothing but that; for, my dear, I know your choice would be
worthy of the Starks. And now--let me see his picture.”
“Why, aunty!” said Molly.
“Well, I won’t pretend to be supernatural,” said the aunt, “but I
thought you kept one back when you were showing us those Western views
last night.”
Now this was the precise truth. Molly had brought a number of
photographs from Wyoming to show to her friends at home. These, however,
with one exception, were not portraits. They were views of scenery and
of cattle round-ups, and other scenes characteristic of ranch life. Of
young men she had in her possession several photographs, and all but one
of these she had left behind her. Her aunt’s penetration had in a way
mesmerized the girl; she rose obediently and sought that picture of
the Virginian. It was full length, displaying him in all his cow-boy
trappings,--the leathern chaps, the belt and pistol, and in his hand a
coil of rope.
Not one of her family had seen it, or suspected its existence. She now
brought it downstairs and placed it in her aunt’s hand.
“Mercy!” cried the old lady.
Molly was silent, but her eye grew warlike.
“Is that the way--” began the aunt. “Mercy!” she murmured; and she sat
staring at the picture.
Molly remained silent.
Her aunt looked slowly up at her. “Has a man like that presumed--”
“He’s not a bit like that. Yes, he’s exactly like that,” said Molly. And
she would have snatched the photograph away, but her aunt retained it.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose there are days when he does not kill
people.”
“He never killed anybody!” And Molly laughed.
“Are you seriously--” said the old lady.
“I almost might--at times. He is perfectly splendid.”
“My dear, you have fallen in love with his clothes.”
“It’s not his clothes. And I’m not in love. He often wears others. He
wears a white collar like anybody.”
“Then that would be a more suitable way to be photographed, I think. He
couldn’t go round like that here. I could not receive him myself.”
“He’d never think of such a thing. Why, you talk as if he were a
savage.”
The old lady studied the picture closely for a minute. “I think it is a
good face,” she finally remarked. “Is the fellow as handsome as that, my
dear?”
More so, Molly thought. And who was he, and what were his prospects?
were the aunt’s next inquiries. She shook her head at the answers which
she received; and she also shook her head over her niece’s emphatic
denial that her heart was lost to this man. But when their parting came,
the old lady said: “God bless you and keep you, my dear. I’ll not try to
manage you. They managed me--” A sigh spoke the rest of this sentence.
“But I’m not worried about you--at least, not very much. You have never
done anything that was not worthy of the Starks. And if you’re going
to take him, do it before I die so that I can bid him welcome for your
sake. God bless you, my dear.”
And after the girl had gone back to Bennington, the great-aunt had this
thought: “She is like us all. She wants a man that is a man.” Nor did
the old lady breathe her knowledge to any member of the family. For she
was a loyal spirit, and her girl’s confidence was sacred to her.
“Besides,” she reflected, “if even I can do nothing with her, what a
mess THEY’D make of it! We should hear of her elopement next.”
So Molly’s immediate family never saw that photograph, and never heard
a word from her upon this subject. But on the day that she left for Bear
Creek, as they sat missing her and discussing her visit in the evening,
Mrs. Bell observed: “Mother, how did you think she was?”--“I never saw
her better, Sarah. That horrible place seems to agree with her.”--“Oh,
yes, agree. It seemed to me--“--“Well?”--“Oh, just somehow that she
was thinking.”--“Thinking?”--“Well, I believe she has something on her