The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains

a strange feeling. To her Vermont mind no suspicion of the truth would come naturally. But suspicion began to come when she returned from her ride. For, entering the cabin of the Taylors’, she came upon several people who all dropped their talk short, and were not skilful at resuming it. She sat there awhile, uneasily aware that all of them knew something which she did not know, and was not intended to know. A thought pierced her--had anything happened to her lover? No; that was not it. The man she had met on horseback spoke of her having company soon again. How soon? she wondered. He had been unable to say when he should return, and now she suddenly felt that a great silence had enveloped him lately: not the mere silence of absence, of receiving no messages or letters, but another sort of silence which now, at this moment, was weighing strangely upon her. And then the next day it came out at the schoolhouse. During that interval known as recess, she became aware through the open window that they were playing a new game outside. Lusty screeches of delight reached her ears. “Jump!” a voice ordered. “Jump!” “I don’t want to,” returned another voice, uneasily. “You said you would,” said several. “Didn’t he say he would? Ah, he said he would. Jump now, quick!” “But I don’t want to,” quavered the voice in a tone so dismal that Molly went out to see. They had got Bob Carmody on the top of the gate by a tree, with a rope round his neck, the other end of which four little boys were joyously holding. The rest looked on eagerly, three little girls clasping their hands, and springing up and down with excitement. “Why, children!” exclaimed Molly. “He’s said his prayers and everything,” they all screamed out. “He’s a rustler, and we’re lynchin’ him. Jump, Bob!” “I don’t want--” “Ah, coward, won’t take his medicine!” “Let him go, boys,” said Molly. “You might really hurt him.” And so she broke up this game, but not without general protest from Wyoming’s young voice. “He said he would,” Henry Dow assured her. And George Taylor further explained: “He said he’d be Steve. But Steve didn’t scare.” Then George proceeded to tell the schoolmarm, eagerly, all about Steve and Ed, while the schoolmarm looked at him with a rigid face. “You promised your mother you’d not tell,” said Henry Dow, after all had been told. “You’ve gone and done it,” and Henry wagged his head in a superior manner. Thus did the New England girl learn what her cow-boy lover had done. She spoke of it to nobody; she kept her misery to herself. He was not there to defend his act. Perhaps in a way that was better. But these were hours of darkness indeed to Molly Wood. On that visit to Dunbarton, when at the first sight of her lover’s photograph in frontier dress her aunt had exclaimed, “I suppose there are days when he does not kill people,” she had cried in all good faith and mirth, “He never killed anybody!” Later, when he was lying in her cabin weak from his bullet wound, but each day stronger beneath her nursing, at a certain word of his there had gone through her a shudder of doubt. Perhaps in his many wanderings he had done such a thing in self-defence, or in the cause of popular justice. But she had pushed the idea away from her hastily, back into the days before she had ever seen him. If this had ever happened, let her not know of it. Then, as a cruel reward for his candor and his laying himself bare to her mother, the letters from Bennington had used that very letter of his as a weapon against him. Her sister Sarah had quoted from it. “He says with apparent pride,” wrote Sarah, “that he has never killed for pleasure or profit.’ Those are his exact words, and you may guess their dreadful effect upon mother. I congratulate you, my dear, on having chosen a protector so scrupulous.” Thus her elder sister had seen fit to write; and letters from less near relatives made hints at the same subject. So she was compelled to accept this piece of knowledge thrust upon her. Yet still, still, those events had been before she knew him. They were remote, without detail or context. He had been little more than a boy. No doubt it was to save his own life. And so she bore the hurt of her discovery all the more easily because her sister’s tone roused her to defend her cow-boy. But now! In her cabin, alone, after midnight, she arose from her sleepless bed, and lighting the candle, stood before his photograph. “It is a good face,” her great-aunt had said, after some study of it. And these words were in her mind now. There his likeness stood at full length, confronting her: the spurs on the boots, the fringed leathern chaparreros, the coiled rope in hand, the pistol at hip, the rough flannel shirt, and the scarf knotted at the throat--and then the grave eyes, looking at her. It thrilled her to meet them, even so. She could read life into them. She seemed to feel passion come from them, and then something like reproach. She stood for a long while looking at him, and then, beating her hands together suddenly, she blew out her light and went back into bed, but not to sleep. “You’re looking pale, deary,” said Mrs. Taylor to her, a few days later. “Am I?” “And you don’t eat anything.” “Oh, yes, I do.” And Molly retired to her cabin. “George,” said Mrs. Taylor, “you come here.” It may seem severe--I think that it was severe. That evening when Mr. Taylor came home to his family, George received a thrashing for disobedience. “And I suppose,” said Mrs. Taylor to her husband, “that she came out just in time to stop ’em breaking Bob Carmody’s neck for him.” Upon the day following Mrs. Taylor essayed the impossible. She took herself over to Molly Wood’s cabin. The girl gave her a listless greeting, and the dame sat slowly down, and surveyed the comfortable room. “A very nice home, deary,” said she, “if it was a home. But you’ll fix something like this in your real home, I have no doubt.” Molly made no answer. “What we’re going to do without you I can’t see,” said Mrs. Taylor. “But I’d not have it different for worlds. He’ll be coming back soon, I expect.” “Mrs. Taylor,” said Molly, all at once, “please don’t say anything now. I can’t stand it.” And she broke into wretched tears. “Why, deary, he--” “No; not a word. Please, please--I’ll go out if you do.” The older woman went to the younger one, and then put her arms round her. But when the tears were over, they had not done any good; it was not the storm that clears the sky--all storms do not clear the sky. And Mrs. Taylor looked at the pale girl and saw that she could do nothing to help her toward peace of mind. “Of course,” she said to her husband, after returning from her profitless errand, “you might know she’d feel dreadful. “What about?” said Taylor. “Why, you know just as well as I do. And I’ll say for myself, I hope you’ll never have to help hang folks.” “Well,” said Taylor, mildly, “if I had to, I’d have to, I guess.” “Well, I don’t want it to come. But that poor girl is eating her heart right out over it.” “What does she say?” “It’s what she don’t say. She’ll not talk, and she’ll not let me talk, and she sits and sits.” “I’ll go talk some to her,” said the man. “Well, Taylor, I thought you had more sense. You’d not get a word in. She’ll be sick soon if her worry ain’t stopped someway, though.” “What does she want this country to do?” inquired Taylor. “Does she expect it to be like Vermont when it--” “We can’t help what she expects,” his wife interrupted. “But I wish we could help HER.” They could not, however; and help came from another source. Judge Henry rode by the next day. To him good Mrs. Taylor at once confided her anxiety. The Judge looked grave. “Must I meddle?” he said. “Yes, Judge, you must,” said Mrs. Taylor. “But why can’t I send him over here when he gets back? Then they’ll just settle it between themselves.” Mrs. Taylor shook her head. “That would unsettle it worse than it is,” she assured him. “They mustn’t meet just now.” The Judge sighed. “Well,” he said, “very well. I’ll sacrifice my character, since you insist.” Judge Henry sat thinking, waiting until school should be out. He did not at all relish what lay before him. He would like to have got out of it. He had been a federal judge; he had been an upright judge; he had met the responsibilities of his difficult office not only with learning, which is desirable, but also with courage and common sense besides, and these are essential. He had been a stanch servant of the law. And now he was invited to defend that which, at first sight, nay, even at second and third sight, must always seem a defiance of the law more injurious than crime itself. Every good man in this world has convictions about right and wrong. They are his soul’s riches, his spiritual gold. When his conduct is at variance with these, he knows that it is a departure, a falling; and this is a simple and clear matter. If falling were all that ever happened to a good man, all his days would be a simple matter of striving and repentance. But it is not all. There come to him certain junctures, crises, when life, like a highwayman, springs upon him, demanding that he stand and deliver his convictions in the name of some righteous cause, bidding him do evil that good may come. I cannot say that I believe in doing evil that good may come. I do not. I think that any man who honestly justifies such course deceives himself. But this I can say: to call any act evil, instantly begs the question. Many an act that man does is right or wrong according to the time and place which form, so to speak, its context; strip it of its surrounding circumstances, and you tear away its meaning. Gentlemen reformers, beware of this common practice of yours! beware of calling an act evil on Tuesday because that same act was evil on Monday! Do you fail to follow my meaning? Then here is an illustration. On Monday I walk over my neighbor’s field; there is no wrong in such walking. By Tuesday he has put up a sign that trespassers will be prosecuted according to law. I walk again on Tuesday, and am a law-breaker. Do you begin to see my point? or are you inclined to object to the illustration because the walking on Tuesday was not WRONG, but merely ILLEGAL? Then here is another illustration which you will find it a trifle more embarrassing to answer. Consider carefully, let me beg you, the case of a young man and a young woman who walk out of a door on Tuesday, pronounced man and wife by a third party inside the door. It matters not that on Monday they were, in their own hearts, sacredly vowed to each other. If they had omitted stepping inside that door, if they had dispensed with that third party, and gone away on Monday sacredly vowed to each other in their own hearts, you would have scarcely found their conduct moral. Consider these things carefully,--the sign-post and the third party,--and the difference they make. And now, for a finish, we will return to the sign-post. Suppose that I went over my neighbor’s field on Tuesday, after the sign-post was put up, because I saw a murder about to be committed in the field, and therefore ran in and stopped it. Was I doing evil that good might come? Do you not think that to stay out and let the murder be done would have been the evil act in this case? To disobey the sign-post was RIGHT; and I trust that you now perceive the same act may wear as many different hues of right or wrong as the rainbow, according to the atmosphere in which it is done. It is not safe to say of any man, “He did evil that good might come.” Was the thing that he did, in the first place, evil? That is the question.