The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains
invariably awaken hostile symptoms in the dame. Whenever she saw a
letter arrive with the Bennington postmark upon it, she shook her fist
at that letter. “What’s family pride?” she would say to herself. “Taylor
could be a Son of the Revolution if he’d a mind to. I wonder if she has
told her folks yet.”
And when letters directed to Bennington would go out, Mrs. Taylor would
inspect every one as if its envelope ought to grow transparent beneath
her eyes, and yield up to her its great secret, if it had one. But in
truth these letters had no great secret to yield up, until one day--yes;
one day Mrs. Taylor would have burst, were bursting a thing that people
often did. Three letters were the cause of this emotion on Mrs. Taylor’s
part; one addressed to Bennington, one to Dunbarton, and the third--here
was the great excitement--to Bennington, but not in the little
schoolmarm’s delicate writing. A man’s hand had traced those plain,
steady vowels and consonants.
“It’s come!” exclaimed Mrs. Taylor, at this sight. “He has written to
her mother himself.”
That is what the Virginian had done, and here is how it had come about.
The sick man’s convalescence was achieved. The weeks had brought back to
him, not his whole strength yet--that could come only by many miles
of open air on the back of Monte; but he was strong enough now to GET
strength. When a patient reaches this stage, he is out of the woods.
He had gone for a little walk with his nurse. They had taken (under the
doctor’s recommendation) several such little walks, beginning with a
five-minute one, and at last to-day accomplishing three miles.
“No, it has not been too far,” said he. “I am afraid I could walk twice
as far.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes. Because it means I can go to work again. This thing we have had
together is over.”
For reply, she leaned against him.
“Look at you!” he said. “Only a little while ago you had to help me
stand on my laigs. And now--” For a while there was silence between
them. “I have never had a right down sickness before,” he presently went
on. “Not to remember, that is. If any person had told me I could ENJOY
such a thing--” He said no more, for she reached up, and no more speech
was possible.
“How long has it been?” he next asked her.
She told him.
“Well, if it could be forever--no. Not forever with no more than this.
I reckon I’d be sick again! But if it could be forever with just you and
me, and no one else to bother with. But any longer would not be doing
right by your mother. She would have a right to think ill of me.”
“Oh!” said the girl. “Let us keep it.”
“Not after I am gone. Your mother must be told.”
“It seems so--can’t we--oh, why need anybody know?”
“Your mother ain’t ‘anybody.’ She is your mother. I feel mighty
responsible to her for what I have done.”
“But I did it!”
“Do you think so? Your mother will not think so. I am going to write to
her to-day.”
“You! Write to my mother! Oh, then everything will be so different! They
will all--” Molly stopped before the rising visions of Bennington. Upon
the fairy-tale that she had been living with her cow-boy lover broke the
voices of the world. She could hear them from afar. She could see the
eyes of Bennington watching this man at her side. She could imagine the
ears of Bennington listening for slips in his English. There loomed upon
her the round of visits which they would have to make. The ringing of
the door-bells, the waiting in drawing-rooms for the mistress to descend
and utter her prepared congratulations, while her secret eye devoured
the Virginian’s appearance, and his manner of standing and sitting. He
would be wearing gloves, instead of fringed gauntlets of buckskin. In a
smooth black coat and waistcoat, how could they perceive the man he was?
During those short formal interviews, what would they ever find out of
the things that she knew about him? The things for which she was proud
of him? He would speak shortly and simply; they would say, “Oh, yes!”
and “How different you must find this from Wyoming!”--and then, after
the door was shut behind his departing back they would say--He would
be totally underrated, not in the least understood. Why should he be
subjected to this? He should never be!
Now in all these half-formed, hurried, distressing thoughts which
streamed through the girl’s mind, she altogether forgot one truth. True
it was that the voice of the world would speak as she imagined. True it
was that in the eyes of her family and acquaintance this lover of her
choice would be examined even more like a SPECIMEN than are other lovers
upon these occasions: and all accepted lovers have to face this ordeal
of being treated like specimens by the other family. But dear me!
most of us manage to stand it, don’t we? It isn’t, perhaps, the
most delicious experience that we can recall in connection with our
engagement. But it didn’t prove fatal. We got through it somehow. We
dined with Aunt Jane, and wined with Uncle Joseph, and perhaps had two
fingers given to us by old Cousin Horatio, whose enormous fortune was of
the greatest importance to everybody. And perhaps fragments of the other
family’s estimate of us subsequently reached our own ears. But if a
chosen lover cannot stand being treated as a specimen by the other
family, he’s a very weak vessel, and not worth any good girl’s love.
That’s all I can say for him.
Now the Virginian was scarcely what even his enemy would term a weak
vessel; and Molly’s jealousy of the impression which he might make upon
Bennington was vastly superfluous. She should have known that he would
indeed care to make a good impression; but that such anxiety on his part
would be wholly for her sake, that in the eyes of her friends she might
stand justified in taking him for her wedded husband. So far as he was
concerned apart from her, Aunt Jane and Uncle Joseph might say anything
they pleased, or think anything they pleased. His character was open for
investigation. Judge Henry would vouch for him.
This is what he would have said to his sweetheart had she but revealed
to him her perturbations. But she did not reveal them; and they were not
of the order that he with his nature was likely to divine. I do not
know what good would have come from her speaking out to him, unless that
perfect understanding between lovers which indeed is a good thing. But
I do not believe that he could have reassured her; and I am certain that
she could not have prevented his writing to her mother.
“Well, then,” she sighed at last, “if you think so, I will tell her.”
That sigh of hers, be it well understood, was not only because of those
far-off voices which the world would in consequence of her news be
lifting presently. It came also from bidding farewell to the fairy-tale
which she must leave now; that land in which she and he had been living
close together alone, unhindered, unmindful of all things.
“Yes, you will tell her,” said her lover. “And I must tell her too.”
“Both of us?” questioned the girl.
What would he say to her mother? How would her mother like such a letter
as he would write to her? Suppose he should misspell a word? Would not
sentences from him at this time--written sentences--be a further bar to
his welcome acceptance at Bennington?
“Why don’t you send messages by me?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “She is not going to like it, anyway,” he answered.
“I must speak to her direct. It would be like shirking.”
Molly saw how true his instinct was here; and a little flame shot upward
from the glow of her love and pride in him. Oh, if they could all only
know that he was like this when you understood him! She did not dare say
out to him what her fear was about this letter of his to her mother. She
did not dare because--well, because she lacked a little faith. That is
it, I am afraid. And for that sin she was her own punishment. For in
this day, and in many days to come, the pure joy of her love was vexed
and clouded, all through a little lack of faith; while for him, perfect
in his faith, his joy was like crystal.
“Tell me what you’re going to write,” she said.
He smiled at her. “No.”
“Aren’t you going to let me see it when it’s done?”
“No.” Then a freakish look came into his eyes. “I’ll let yu’ see
anything I write to other women.” And he gave her one of his long
kisses. “Let’s get through with it together,” he suggested, when they
were once more in his sick-room, that room which she had given to him.
“You’ll sit one side o’ the table, and I’ll sit the other, and we’ll go
ahaid; and pretty soon it will be done.”
“O dear!” she said. “Yes, I suppose that is the best way.”
And so, accordingly, they took their places. The inkstand stood between
them. Beside each of them she distributed paper enough, almost, for a
presidential message. And pens and pencils were in plenty. Was this not
the headquarters of the Bear Creek schoolmarm?
“Why, aren’t you going to do it in pencil first?” she exclaimed, looking
up from her vacant sheet. His pen was moving slowly, but steadily.
“No, I don’t reckon I need to,” he answered, with his nose close to the
paper. “Oh, damnation, there’s a blot!” He tore his spoiled beginning in
small bits, and threw them into the fireplace. “You’ve got it too full,”
he commented; and taking the inkstand, he tipped a little from it out
of the window. She sat lost among her false starts. Had she heard him
swear, she would not have minded. She rather liked it when he swore. He
possessed that quality in his profanity of not offending by it. It is
quite wonderful how much worse the same word will sound in one man’s
lips than in another’s. But she did not hear him. Her mind was among a
litter of broken sentences. Each thought which she began ran out into
the empty air, or came against some stone wall. So there she sat, her
eyes now upon that inexorable blank sheet that lay before her, waiting,
and now turned with vacant hopelessness upon the sundry objects in the
room. And while she thus sat accomplishing nothing, opposite to her the
black head bent down, and the steady pen moved from phrase to phrase.
She became aware of his gazing at her, flushed and solemn. That strange
color of the sea-water, which she could never name, was lustrous in his
eyes. He was folding his letter.
“You have finished?” she said.
“Yes.” His voice was very quiet. “I feel like an honester man.”
“Perhaps I can do something to-night at Mrs. Taylor’s,” she said,
looking at her paper.
On it were a few words crossed out. This was all she had to show. At
this set task in letter-writing, the cow-puncher had greatly excelled
the schoolmarm!
But that night, while he lay quite fast asleep in his bed, she was
keeping vigil in her room at Mrs. Taylor’s.
Accordingly, the next day, those three letters departed for the mail,
and Mrs. Taylor consequently made her exclamation, “It’s come!”
On the day before the Virginian returned to take up his work at Judge
Henry’s ranch, he and Molly announced their news. What Molly said to
Mrs. Taylor and what Mrs. Taylor said to her, is of no interest to us,
though it was of much to them.
But Mr. McLean happened to make a call quite early in the morning to
inquire for his friend’s health.
“Lin,” began the Virginian, “there is no harm in your knowing an hour or
so before the rest, I am--”
“Lord!” said Mr. McLean, indulgently. “Everybody has knowed that since
the day she found yu’ at the spring.”
“It was not so, then,” said the Virginian, crossly.
“Lord! Everybody has knowed it right along.”
“Hmp!” said the Virginian. “I didn’t know this country was that rank
with gossips.”
Mr. McLean laughed mirthfully at the lover. “Well,” he said, “Mrs.
McLean will be glad. She told me to give yu’ her congratulations quite