Grandmother Stark

: The Virginian

Except for its chair and bed, the cabin was stripped almost bare. Amid

its emptiness of dismantled shelves and walls and floor, only the tiny

ancestress still hung in her place, last token of the home that had

been. This miniature, tacked against the despoiled boards, and its

descendant, the angry girl with her hand on an open box-lid, made a sort

of couple in the loneliness: she on the wall sweet and serene, she by

th
box sweet and stormy. The picture was her final treasure waiting to

be packed for the journey. In whatever room she had called her own

since childhood, there it had also lived and looked at her, not quite

familiar, not quite smiling, but in its prim colonial hues delicate as

some pressed flower. Its pale oval, of color blue and rose and

flaxen, in a battered, pretty gold frame, unconquerably pervaded any

surroundings with a something like last year's lavender. Till yesterday

a Crow Indian war-bonnet had hung next it, a sumptuous cascade of

feathers; on the other side a bow with arrows had dangled; opposite had

been the skin of a silver fox; over the door had spread the antlers of

a black-tail deer; a bearskin stretched beneath it. Thus had the whole

cosey log cabin been upholstered, lavish with trophies of the frontier;

and yet it was in front of the miniature that the visitors used to stop.



Shining quietly now in the cabin's blackness this summer day, the

heirloom was presiding until the end. And as Molly Wood's eyes fell upon

her ancestress of Bennington, 1777, there flashed a spark of steel in

them, alone here in the room that she was leaving forever. She was not

going to teach school any more on Bear Creek, Wyoming; she was going

home to Bennington, Vermont. When time came for school to open again,

there should be a new schoolmarm.



This was the momentous result of that visit which the Virginian had paid

her. He had told her that he was coming for his hour soon. From that

hour she had decided to escape. She was running away from her own heart.

She did not dare to trust herself face to face again with her potent,

indomitable lover. She longed for him, and therefore she would never see

him again. No great-aunt at Dunbarton, or anybody else that knew her and

her family, should ever say that she had married below her station, had

been an unworthy Stark! Accordingly, she had written to the Virginian,

bidding him good-by, and wishing him everything in the world. As she

happened to be aware that she was taking everything in the world away

from him, this letter was not the most easy of letters to write. But

she had made the language very kind. Yes; it was a thoroughly kind

communication. And all because of that momentary visit, when he had

brought back to her two novels, EMMA and PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.



"How do you like them?" she had then inquired; and he had smiled slowly

at her. "You haven't read them!" she exclaimed.



"No."



"Are you going to tell me there has been no time?"



"No."



Then Molly had scolded her cow-puncher, and to this he had listened with

pleasure undisguised, as indeed he listened to every word that she said.



"Why, it has come too late," he had told her when the scolding was over.

"If I was one of your little scholars hyeh in Bear Creek schoolhouse,

yu' could learn me to like such frillery I reckon. But I'm a mighty

ignorant, growed-up man."



"So much the worse for you!" said Molly.



"No. I am pretty glad I am a man. Else I could not have learned the

thing you have taught me."



But she shut her lips and looked away. On the desk was a letter written

from Vermont. "If you don't tell me at once when you decide," had said

the arch writer, "never hope to speak to me again. Mary Wood, seriously,

I am suspicious. Why do you never mention him nowadays? How exciting

to have you bring a live cow-boy to Bennington! We should all come

to dinner. Though of course I understand now that many of them have

excellent manners. But would he wear his pistol at table?" So the letter

ran on. It recounted the latest home gossip and jokes. In answering it

Molly Wood had taken no notice of its childish tone here and there.



"Hyeh's some of them cactus blossoms yu' wanted," said the Virginian.

His voice recalled the girl with almost a start. "I've brought a good

hawss I've gentled for yu', and Taylor'll keep him till I need him."



"Thank you so much! but I wish--"



"I reckon yu' can't stop me lendin' Taylor a hawss. And you cert'nly'll

get sick schoolteachin' if yu' don't keep outdoors some. Good-by--till

that next time."



"Yes; there's always a next time," she answered, as lightly as she

could.



"There always will be. Don't yu' know that?"



She did not reply.



"I have discouraged spells," he pursued, "but I down them. For I've told

yu' you were going to love me. You are goin' to learn back the thing you

have taught me. I'm not askin' anything now; I don't want you to speak a

word to me. But I'm never goin' to quit till 'next time' is no more, and

it's 'all the time' for you and me."



With that he had ridden away, not even touching her hand. Long after

he had gone she was still In her chair, her eyes lingering upon his

flowers, those yellow cups of the prickly pear. At length she had

risen impatiently, caught up the flowers, gone with them to the open

window,-and then, after all, set them with pains in water.



But to-day Bear Creek was over. She was going home now. By the week's

end she would be started. By the time the mail brought him her good-by

letter she would be gone. She had acted.



To Bear Creek, the neighborly, the friendly, the not comprehending, this

move had come unlooked for, and had brought regret. Only one hard word

had been spoken to Molly, and that by her next-door neighbor and kindest

friend. In Mrs. Taylor's house the girl had daily come and gone as

a daughter, and that lady reached the subject thus:-- "When I took

Taylor," said she, sitting by as Robert Browning and Jane Austen were

going into their box, "I married for love."



"Do you wish it had been money?" said Molly, stooping to her industries.



"You know both of us better than that, child."



"I know I've seen people at home who couldn't possibly have had any

other reason. They seemed satisfied, too."



"Maybe the poor ignorant things were!"



"And so I have never been sure how I might choose."



"Yes, you are sure, deary. Don't you think I know you? And when it comes

over Taylor once in a while, and he tells me I'm the best thing in his

life, and I tell him he ain't merely the best thing but the only thing

in mine,--him and the children,--why, we just agree we'd do it all over

the same way if we had the chance."



Molly continued to be industrious.



"And that's why," said Mrs. Taylor, "I want every girl that's anything

to me to know her luck when it comes. For I was that near telling Taylor

I wouldn't!"



"If ever my luck comes," said Molly, with her back to her friend, "I

shall say 'I will' at once."



"Then you'll say it at Bennington next week."



Molly wheeled round.



"Why, you surely will. Do you expect he's going to stay here, and you in

Bennington?" And the campaigner sat back in her chair.



"He? Goodness! Who is he?"



"Child, child, you're talking cross to-day because you're at outs with

yourself. You've been at outs ever since you took this idea of leaving

the school and us and everything this needless way. You have not treated

him right. And why, I can't make out to save me. What have you found out

all of a sudden? If he was not good enough for you, I--But, oh, it's a

prime one you're losing, Molly. When a man like that stays faithful to a

girl 'spite all the chances he gets, her luck is come."



"Oh, my luck! People have different notions of luck."



"Notions!"



"He has been very kind."



"Kind!" And now without further simmering, Mrs. Taylor's wrath boiled

up and poured copiously over Molly Wood. "Kind! There's a word you

shouldn't use, my dear. No doubt you can spell it. But more than its

spelling I guess you don't know. The children can learn what it means

from some of the rest of us folks that don't spell so correct, maybe."



"Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Taylor--"



"I can't wait, deary. Since the roughness looks bigger to you than the

diamond, you had better go back to Vermont. I expect you'll find better

grammar there, deary."



The good dame stalked out, and across to her own cabin, and left the

angry girl among her boxes. It was in vain she fell to work upon them.

Presently something had to be done over again, and when it was the box

held several chattels less than before the readjustment. She played a

sort of desperate dominos to fit these objects in the space, but here

were a paper-weight, a portfolio, with two wretched volumes that no

chink would harbor; and letting them fall all at once, she straightened

herself, still stormy with revolt, eyes and cheeks still hot from

the sting of long-parried truth. There, on her wall still, was the

miniature, the little silent ancestress; and upon this face the girl's

glance rested. It was as if she appealed to Grandmother Stark for

support and comfort across the hundred years which lay between them. So

the flaxen girl on the wall and she among the boxes stood a moment face

to face in seeming communion, and then the descendant turned again to

her work. But after a desultory touch here and there she drew a long

breath and walked to the open door. What use was in finishing to-day,

when she had nearly a week? This first spurt of toil had swept the cabin

bare of all indwelling charm, and its look was chill. Across the lane

his horse, the one he had "gentled" for her, was grazing idly. She

walked there and caught him, and led him to her gate. Mrs. Taylor saw

her go in, and soon come out in riding-dress; and she watched the girl

throw the saddle on with quick ease--the ease he had taught her. Mrs.

Taylor also saw the sharp cut she gave the horse, and laughed grimly

to herself in her window as horse and rider galloped into the beautiful

sunny loneliness.



To the punished animal this switching was new! and at its third

repetition he turned his head in surprise, but was no more heeded than

were the bluffs and flowers where he was taking his own undirected

choice of way. He carried her over ground she knew by heart--Corncliff

Mesa, Crowheart Butte, Westfall's Crossing, Upper Canyon; open land and

woodland, pines and sage-brush, all silent and grave and lustrous in the

sunshine. Once and again a ranchman greeted her, and wondered if she

had forgotten who he was; once she passed some cow-punchers with a small

herd of steers, and they stared after her too. Bear Creek narrowed, its

mountain-sides drew near, its little falls began to rush white in midday

shadow, and the horse suddenly pricked his ears. Unguided, he was taking

this advantage to go home. Though he had made but little way--a mere

beginning yet--on this trail over to Sunk Creek, here was already a

Sunk Creek friend whinnying good day to him, so he whinnied back and

quickened his pace, and Molly started to life. What was Monte doing

here? She saw the black horse she knew also, saddled, with reins

dragging on the trail as the rider had dropped them to dismount. A cold

spring bubbled out beyond the next rock, and she knew her lover's horse

was waiting for him while he drank. She pulled at the reins, but loosed

them, for to turn and escape now was ridiculous; and riding boldly round

the rock, she came upon him by the spring. One of his arms hung up to

its elbow in the pool, the other was crooked beside his head, but the

face was sunk downward against the shelving rock, so that she saw only

his black, tangled hair. As her horse snorted and tossed his head she

looked swiftly at Monte, as if to question him. Seeing now the sweat

matted on his coat, and noting the white rim of his eye, she sprang and

ran to the motionless figure. A patch of blood at his shoulder behind

stained the soft flannel shirt, spreading down beneath his belt, and the

man's whole strong body lay slack and pitifully helpless.



She touched the hand beside his head, but it seemed neither warm nor

cold to her; she felt for the pulse, as nearly as she could remember the

doctors did, but could not tell whether she imagined or not that it was

still; twice with painful care her fingers sought and waited for the

beat, and her face seemed like one of listening. She leaned down and

lifted his other arm and hand from the water, and as their ice-coldness

reached her senses, clearly she saw the patch near the shoulder she

had moved grow wet with new blood, and at that sight she grasped at the

stones upon which she herself now sank. She held tight by two rocks,

sitting straight beside him, staring, and murmuring aloud, "I must

not faint; I will not faint;" and the standing horses looked at her,

pricking their ears.



In this cup-like spread of the ravine the sun shone warmly down, the

tall red cliff was warm, the pines were a warm film and filter of green;

outside the shade across Bear Creek rose the steep, soft, open yellow

hill, warm and high to the blue, and Bear Creek tumbled upon its

sunsparkling stones. The two horses on the margin trail still looked

at the spring and trees, where sat the neat flaxen girl so rigid by the

slack prone body in its flannel shirt and leathern chaps. Suddenly her

face livened. "But the blood ran!" she exclaimed, as if to the horses,

her companions in this. She moved to him, and put her hand in through

his shirt against his heart.



Next moment she had sprung up and was at his saddle, searching, then

swiftly went on to her own and got her small flask and was back beside

him. Here was the cold water he had sought, and she put it against his

forehead and drenched the wounded shoulder with it. Three times she

tried to move him, so he might lie more easy, but his dead weight was

too much, and desisting, she sat close and raised his head to let it

rest against her. Thus she saw the blood that was running from in front

of the shoulder also; but she said no more about fainting. She tore

strips from her dress and soaked them, keeping them cold and wet upon

both openings of his wound, and she drew her pocket-knife out and cut

his shirt away from the place. As she continually rinsed and cleaned

it, she watched his eyelashes, long and soft and thick, but they did not

stir. Again she tried the flask, but failed from being still too gentle,

and her searching eyes fell upon ashes near the pool. Still undispersed

by the weather lay the small charred ends of a fire he and she had made

once here together, to boil coffee and fry trout. She built another fire

now, and when the flames were going well, filled her flask-cup from the

spring and set it to heat. Meanwhile, she returned to nurse his head

and wound. Her cold water had stopped the bleeding. Then she poured

her brandy in the steaming cup, and, made rough by her desperate

helplessness, forced some between his lips and teeth.



Instantly, almost, she felt the tremble of life creeping back, and

as his deep eyes opened upon her she sat still and mute. But the gaze

seemed luminous with an unnoting calm, and she wondered if perhaps he

could not recognize her; she watched this internal clearness of his

vision, scarcely daring to breathe, until presently he began to speak,

with the same profound and clear impersonality sounding in his slowly

uttered words.



"I thought they had found me. I expected they were going to kill me."

He stopped, and she gave him more of the hot drink, which he took, still

lying and looking at her as if the present did not reach his senses. "I

knew hands were touching me. I reckon I was not dead. I knew about them

soon as they began, only I could not interfere." He waited again. "It is

mighty strange where I have been. No. Mighty natural." Then he went back

into his revery, and lay with his eyes still full open upon her where

she sat motionless.



She began to feel a greater awe in this living presence than when it

had been his body with an ice-cold hand; and she quietly spoke his name,

venturing scarcely more than a whisper.



At this, some nearer thing wakened in his look. "But it was you all

along," he resumed. "It is you now. You must not stay--" Weakness

overcame him, and his eyes closed. She sat ministering to him, and when

he roused again, he began anxiously at once: "You must not stay. They

would get you, too."



She glanced at him with a sort of fierceness, then reached for his

pistol, in which was nothing but blackened empty cartridges. She threw

these out and drew six from his belt, loaded the weapon, and snapped

shut its hinge.



"Please take it," he said, more anxious and more himself. "I ain't worth

tryin' to keep. Look at me!"



"Are you giving up?" she inquired, trying to put scorn in her tone. Then

she seated herself.



"Where is the sense in both of us--"



"You had better save your strength," she interrupted.



He tried to sit up.



"Lie down!" she ordered.



He sank obediently, and began to smile.



When she saw that, she smiled too, and unexpectedly took his hand.

"Listen, friend," said she. "Nobody shall get you, and nobody shall get

me. Now take some more brandy."



"It must be noon," said the cow-puncher, when she had drawn her hand

away from him. "I remember it was dark when--when--when I can remember.

I reckon they were scared to follow me in so close to settlers. Else

they would have been here."



"You must rest," she observed.



She broke the soft ends of some evergreen, and putting them beneath his

head, went to the horses, loosened the cinches, took off the bridles,

led them to drink, and picketed them to feed. Further still, to leave

nothing undone which she could herself manage, she took the horses'

saddles off to refold the blankets when the time should come, and

meanwhile brought them for him. But he put them away from him. He was

sitting up against a rock, stronger evidently, and asking for cold

water. His head was fire-hot, and the paleness beneath his swarthy skin

had changed to a deepening flush.



"Only five miles!" she said to him, bathing his head.



"Yes. I must hold it steady," he answered, waving his hand at the cliff.



She told him to try and keep it steady until they got home.



"Yes," he repeated. "Only five miles. But it's fightin' to turn around."

Half aware that he was becoming light-headed, he looked from the rock to

her and from her to the rock with dilating eyes.



"We can hold it together," she said. "You must get on your horse." She

took his handkerchief from round his neck, knotting it with her own, and

to make more bandage she ran to the roll of clothes behind his saddle

and tore in halves a clean shirt. A handkerchief fell from it, which

she seized also, and opening, saw her own initials by the hem. Then she

remembered: she saw again their first meeting, the swollen river, the

overset stage, the unknown horseman who carried her to the bank on his

saddle and went away unthanked--her whole first adventure on that

first day of her coming to this new country--and now she knew how her

long-forgotten handkerchief had gone that day. She refolded it gently

and put it back in his bundle, for there was enough bandage without it.

She said not a word to him, and he placed a wrong meaning upon the look

which she gave him as she returned to bind his shoulder.



"It don't hurt so much," he assured her (though extreme pain was

clearing his head for the moment, and he had been able to hold the cliff

from turning). "Yu' must not squander your pity."



"Do not squander your strength," said she.



"Oh, I could put up a pretty good fight now!" But he tottered in showing

her how strong he was, and she told him that, after all, he was a child

still.



"Yes," he slowly said, looking after her as she went to bring his horse,

"the same child that wanted to touch the moon, I guess." And during the

slow climb down into the saddle from a rock to which she helped him he

said, "You have got to be the man all through this mess."



She saw his teeth clinched and his drooping muscles compelled by will;

and as he rode and she walked to lend him support, leading her horse

by a backward-stretched left hand, she counted off the distance to him

continually--the increasing gain, the lessening road, the landmarks

nearing and dropping behind; here was the tree with the wasp-nest gone;

now the burned cabin was passed; now the cottonwoods at the ford were in

sight. He was silent, and held to the saddle-horn, leaning more and more

against his two hands clasped over it; and just after they had made the

crossing he fell, without a sound slipping to the grass, and his descent

broken by her. But it started the blood a little, and she dared not

leave him to seek help. She gave him the last of the flask and all the

water he craved.



Revived, he managed to smile. "Yu' see, I ain't worth keeping."



"It's only a mile," said she. So she found a log, a fallen trunk, and he

crawled to that, and from there crawled to his saddle, and she marched

on with him, talking, bidding him note the steps accomplished. For the

next half-mile they went thus, the silent man clinched on the horse, and

by his side the girl walking and cheering him forward, when suddenly he

began to speak:-- "I will say good-by to you now, ma'am."



She did not understand, at first, the significance of this.



"He is getting away," pursued the Virginian. "I must ask you to excuse

me, ma'am."



It was a long while since her lord had addressed her as "ma'am." As she

looked at him in growing apprehension, he turned Monte and would have

ridden away, but she caught the bridle.



"You must take me home," said she, with ready inspiration. "I am afraid

of the Indians."



"Why, you--why, they've all gone. There he goes. Ma'am--that hawss--"



"No," said she, holding firmly his rein and quickening her step. "A

gentleman does not invite a lady to go out riding and leave her."



His eyes lost their purpose. "I'll cert'nly take you home. That sorrel

has gone in there by the wallow, and Judge Henry will understand." With

his eyes watching imaginary objects, he rode and rambled and it was now

the girl who was silent, except to keep his mind from its half-fixed

idea of the sorrel. As he grew more fluent she hastened still more,

listening to head off that notion of return, skilfully inventing

questions to engage him, so that when she brought him to her gate

she held him in a manner subjected, answering faithfully the shrewd

unrealities which she devised, whatever makeshifts she could summon to

her mind; and next she had got him inside her dwelling and set him down

docile, but now completely wandering; and then--no help was at hand,

even here. She had made sure of aid from next door, and there she

hastened, to find the Taylor's cabin locked and silent; and this meant

that parents and children were gone to drive; nor might she be luckier

at her next nearest neighbors', should she travel the intervening mile

to fetch them. With a mind jostled once more into uncertainty, she

returned to her room, and saw a change in him already. Illness had

stridden upon him; his face was not as she had left it, and the whole

body, the splendid supple horseman, showed sickness in every line

and limb, its spurs and pistol and bold leather chaps a mockery of

trappings. She looked at him, and decision came back to her, clear and

steady. She supported him over to her bed and laid him on it. His head

sank flat, and his loose, nerveless arms stayed as she left them. Then

among her packing-boxes and beneath the little miniature, blue and

flaxen and gold upon its lonely wall, she undressed him. He was cold,

and she covered him to the face, and arranged the pillow, and got from

its box her scarlet and black Navajo blanket and spread it over him.

There was no more that she could do, and she sat down by him to wait.

Among the many and many things that came into her mind was a word he

said to her lightly a long while ago. "Cow-punchers do not live long

enough to get old," he had told her. And now she looked at the head upon

the pillow, grave and strong, but still the head of splendid, unworn

youth.



At the distant jingle of the wagon in the lane she was out, and had met

her returning neighbors midway. They heard her with amazement, and came

in haste to the bedside; then Taylor departed to spread news of the

Indians and bring the doctor, twenty-five miles away. The two women

friends stood alone again, as they had stood in the morning when anger

had been between them.



"Kiss me, deary," said Mrs. Taylor. "Now I will look after him--and

you'll need some looking after yourself."



But on returning from her cabin with what store she possessed of lint

and stimulants, she encountered a rebel, independent as ever. Molly

would hear no talk about saving her strength, would not be in any room

but this one until the doctor should arrive; then perhaps it would be

time to think about resting. So together the dame and the girl rinsed

the man's wound and wrapped him in clean things, and did all the little

that they knew--which was, in truth, the very thing needed. Then they

sat watching him toss and mutter. It was no longer upon Indians or

the sorrel horse that his talk seemed to run, or anything recent,

apparently, always excepting his work. This flowingly merged with

whatever scene he was inventing or living again, and he wandered

unendingly in that incompatible world we dream in. Through the medley of

events and names, often thickly spoken, but rising at times to grotesque

coherence, the listeners now and then could piece out the reference from

their own knowledge. "Monte," for example, continually addressed, and

Molly heard her own name, but invariably as "Miss Wood"; nothing less

respectful came out, and frequently he answered some one as "ma'am."

At these fragments of revelation Mrs. Taylor abstained from speech, but

eyed Molly Wood with caustic reproach. As the night wore on, short lulls

of silence intervened, and the watchers were deceived into hope that the

fever was abating. And when the Virginian sat quietly up in bed, essayed

to move his bandage, and looked steadily at Mrs. Taylor, she rose

quickly and went to him with a question as to how he was doing.



"Rise on your laigs, you polecat," said he, "and tell them you're a

liar."



The good dame gasped, then bade him lie down, and he obeyed her with

that strange double understanding of the delirious; for even while

submitting, he muttered "liar," "polecat," and then "Trampas."



At that name light flashed on Mrs. Taylor, and she turned to Molly; and

there was the girl struggling with a fit of mirth at his speech; but the

laughter was fast becoming a painful seizure. Mrs. Taylor walked Molly

up and down, speaking mmediately to arrest her attention.



"You might as well know it," she said. "He would blame me for speaking

of it, but where's the harm all this while after? And you would never

hear it from his mouth. Molly, child, they say Trampas would kill him if

he dared, and that's on account of you."



"I never saw Trampas," said Molly, fixing her eyes upon the speaker.



"No, deary. But before a lot of men--Taylor has told me about

it--Trampas spoke disrespectfully of you, and before them all he made

Trampas say he was a liar. That is what he did when you were almost

a stranger among us, and he had not started seeing so much of you. I

expect Trampas is the only enemy he ever had in this country. But he

would never let you know about that."



"No," whispered Molly; "I did not know."



"Steve!" the sick man now cried out, in poignant appeal. "Steve!" To the

women it was a name unknown,--unknown as was also this deep inward tide

of feeling which he could no longer conceal, being himself no longer.

"No, Steve," he said next, and muttering followed. "It ain't so!" he

shouted; and then cunningly in a lowered voice, "Steve, I have lied for

you."



In time Mrs. Taylor spoke some advice.



"You had better go to bed, child. You look about ready for the doctor

yourself."



"Then I will wait for him," said Molly.



So the two nurses continued to sit until darkness at the windows

weakened into gray, and the lamp was no more needed. Their patient was

rambling again. Yet, into whatever scenes he went, there in some guise

did the throb of his pain evidently follow him, and he lay hitching his

great shoulder as if to rid it of the cumbrance. They waited for the

doctor, not daring much more than to turn pillows and give what other

ease they could; and then, instead of the doctor, came a messenger,

about noon, to say he was gone on a visit some thirty miles beyond,

where Taylor had followed to bring him here as soon as might be. At this

Molly consented to rest and to watch, turn about; and once she was over

in her friend's house lying down, they tried to keep her there. But the

revolutionist could not be put down, and when, as a last pretext, Mrs.

Taylor urged the proprieties and conventions, the pale girl from Vermont

laughed sweetly in her face and returned to sit by the sick man. With

the approach of the second night his fever seemed to rise and master

him more completely than they had yet seen it, and presently it so raged

that the women called in stronger arms to hold him down. There were

times when he broke out in the language of the round-up, and Mrs. Taylor

renewed her protests. "Why," said Molly "don't you suppose I knew they

could swear?" So the dame, in deepening astonishment and affection, gave

up these shifts at decorum. Nor did the delirium run into the intimate,

coarse matters that she dreaded. The cow-puncher had lived like his

kind, but his natural daily thoughts were clean, and came from the

untamed but unstained mind of a man. And toward morning, as Mrs. Taylor

sat taking her turn, suddenly he asked had he been sick long, and looked

at her with a quieted eye. The wandering seemed to drop from him at a

stroke, leaving him altogether himself. He lay very feeble, and inquired

once or twice of his state and how he came here; nor was anything left

in his memory of even coming to the spring where he had been found.



When the doctor arrived, he pronounced that it would be long--or very

short. He praised their clean water treatment; the wound was fortunately

well up on the shoulder, and gave so far no bad signs; there were not

any bad signs; and the blood and strength of the patient had been as

few men's were; each hour was now an hour nearer certainty, and

meanwhile--meanwhile the doctor would remain as long as he could. He had

many inquiries to satisfy. Dusty fellows would ride up, listen to him,

and reply, as they rode away, "Don't yu' let him die, Doc." And Judge

Henry sent over from Sunk Creek to answer for any attendance or medicine

that might help his foreman. The country was moved with concern and

interest; and in Molly's ears its words of good feeling seemed to unite

and sum up a burden, "Don't yu' let him die, Doc." The Indians who had

done this were now in military custody. They had come unpermitted from

a southern reservation, hunting, next thieving, and as the slumbering

spirit roused in one or two of the young and ambitious, they had

ventured this in the secret mountains, and perhaps had killed a trapper

found there. Editors immediately reared a tall war out of it; but from

five Indians in a guard-house waiting punishment not even an editor

can supply spar for more than two editions, and if the recent alarm

was still a matter of talk anywhere, it was not here in the sick-room.

Whichever way the case should turn, it was through Molly alone (the

doctor told her) that the wounded man had got this chance--this good

chance, he related.



And he told her she had not done a woman's part, but a man's part, and

now had no more to do; no more till the patient got well, and could

thank her in his own way, said the doctor, smiling, and supposing things

that were not so--misled perhaps by Mrs. Taylor.



"I'm afraid I'll be gone by the time he is well," said Molly, coldly;

and the discreet physician said ah, and that she would find Bennington

quite a change from Bear Creek.



But Mrs. Taylor spoke otherwise, and at that the girl said: "I shall

stay as long as I am needed. I will nurse him. I want to nurse him. I

will do everything for him that I can!" she exclaimed, with force.



"And that won't be anything, deary," said Mrs. Taylor, harshly. "A year

of nursing don't equal a day of sweetheart."



The girl took a walk,--she was of no more service in the room at

present,--but she turned without going far, and Mrs. Taylor spied her

come to lean over the pasture fence and watch the two horses--that one

the Virginian had "gentled" for her, and his own Monte. During this

suspense came a new call for the doctor, neighbors profiting by his

visit to Bear Creek; and in his going away to them, even under promise

of quick return, Mrs. Taylor suspected a favorable sign. He kept his

word as punctually as had been possible, arriving after some six hours

with a confident face, and spending now upon the patient a care not

needed, save to reassure the bystanders. He spoke his opinion that all

was even better than he could have hoped it would be, so soon. Here was

now the beginning of the fifth day; the wound's look was wholesome, no

further delirium had come, and the fever had abated a degree while he

was absent. He believed the serious danger-line lay behind, and (short

of the unforeseen) the man's deep untainted strength would reassert

its control. He had much blood to make, and must be cared for during

weeks--three, four, five--there was no saying how long yet. These next

few days it must be utter quiet for him; he must not talk nor hear

anything likely to disturb him; and then the time for cheerfulness and

gradual company would come--sooner than later, the doctor hoped. So

he departed, and sent next day some bottles, with further cautions

regarding the wound and dirt, and to say he should be calling the day

after to-morrow.



Upon that occasion he found two patients. Molly Wood lay in bed at Mrs.

Taylor's, filled with apology and indignation. With little to do, and

deprived of the strong stimulant of anxiety and action, her strength

had quite suddenly left her, so that she had spoken only in a sort of

whisper. But upon waking from a long sleep, after Mrs. Taylor had taken

her firmly, almost severely, in hand, her natural voice had returned,

and now the chief treatment the doctor gave her was a sort of scolding,

which it pleased Mrs. Taylor to hear. The doctor even dropped a phrase

concerning the arrogance of strong nerves in slender bodies, and of

undertaking several people's work when several people were at hand to do

it for themselves, and this pleased Mrs. Taylor remarkably. As for the

wounded man, he was behaving himself properly. Perhaps in another week

he could be moved to a more cheerful room. Just now, with cleanliness

and pure air, any barn would do.



"We are real lucky to have such a sensible doctor in the country," Mrs.

Taylor observed, after the physician had gone.



"No doubt," said Molly. "He said my room was a barn."



"That's what you've made it, deary. But sick men don't notice much."



Nevertheless, one may believe, without going widely astray, that

illness, so far from veiling, more often quickens the perceptions--at

any rate those of the naturally keen. On a later day--and the interval

was brief--while Molly was on her second drive to take the air with Mrs.

Taylor, that lady informed her that the sick man had noticed. "And I

could not tell him things liable to disturb him," said she, "and so

I--well, I expect I just didn't exactly tell him the facts. I said yes,

you were packing up for a little visit to your folks. They had not seen

you for quite a while, I said. And he looked at those boxes kind of

silent like."



"There's no need to move him," said Molly. '"It is simpler to move

them--the boxes. I could take out some of my things, you know, just

while he has to be kept there. I mean--you see, if the doctor says the

room should be cheerful--"



"Yes, deary."



"I will ask the doctor next time," said Molly, "if he believes I

am--competent to spread a rug upon a floor." Molly's references to

the doctor were usually acid these days. And this he totally failed to

observe, telling her when he came, why, to be sure! the very thing!

And if she could play cards or read aloud, or afford any other light

distractions, provided they did not lead the patient to talk and tire

himself, that she would be most useful. Accordingly she took over the

cribbage board, and came with unexpected hesitation face to face again

with the swarthy man she had saved and tended. He was not so swarthy

now, but neat, with chin clean, and hair and mustache trimmed and

smooth, and he sat propped among pillows watching for her.



"You are better," she said, speaking first, and with uncertain voice.



"Yes. They have given me awdehs not to talk," said the Southerner,

smiling.



"Oh, yes. Please do not talk--not to-day."



"No. Only this"--he looked at her, and saw her seem to shrink--"thank

you for what you have done," he said simply.



She took tenderly the hand he stretched to her; and upon these terms

they set to work at cribbage. She won, and won again, and the third time

laid down her cards and reproached him with playing in order to lose.



"No," he said, and his eye wandered to the boxes. "But my thoughts get

away from me. I'll be strong enough to hold them on the cyards next

time, I reckon."



Many tones in his voice she had heard, but never the tone of sadness

until to-day.



Then they played a little more, and she put away the board for this

first time.



"You are going now?" he asked.



"When I have made this room look a little less forlorn. They haven't

wanted to meddle with my things, I suppose." And Molly stooped once

again among the chattels destined for Vermont. Out they came; again the

bearskin was spread on the floor, various possessions and ornaments went

back into their ancient niches, the shelves grew comfortable with books,

and, last, some flowers were stood on the table.



"More like old times," said the Virginian, but sadly.



"It's too bad," said Molly, "you had to be brought into such a looking

place."



"And your folks waiting for you," said he.



"Oh, I'll pay my visit later," said Molly, putting the rug a trifle

straighter.



"May I ask one thing?" pleaded the Virginian, and at the gentleness of

his voice her face grew rosy, and she fixed her eyes on him with a sort

of dread.



"Anything that I can answer," said she.



"Oh, yes. Did I tell yu' to quit me, and did yu' load up my gun and

stay? Was that a real business? I have been mixed up in my haid."



"That was real," said Molly. "What else was there to do?"



"Just nothing--for such as you!" he exclaimed. "My haid has been mighty

crazy; and that little grandmother of yours yondeh, she--but I can't

just quite catch a-hold of these things"--he passed a hand over

his forehead--"so many--or else one right along--well, it's all

foolishness!" he concluded, with something almost savage in his tone.

And after she had gone from the cabin he lay very still, looking at the

miniature on the wall.



He was in another sort of mood the next time, cribbage not interesting

him in the least. "Your folks will be wondering about you," said he.



"I don't think they will mind which month I go to them," said Molly.

"Especially when they know the reason."



"Don't let me keep you, ma'am," said he. Molly stared at him; but he

pursued, with the same edge lurking in his slow words: "Though I'll

never forget. How could I forget any of all you have done--and been? If

there had been none of this, why, I had enough to remember! But please

don't stay, ma'am. We'll say I had a claim when yu' found me pretty well

dead, but I'm gettin' well, yu' see--right smart, too!"



"I can't understand, indeed I can't," said Molly, "why you're talking

so!"



He seemed to have certain moods when he would address her as "ma'am,"

and this she did not like, but could not prevent.



"Oh, a sick man is funny. And yu' know I'm grateful to you."



"Please say no more about that, or I shall go this afternoon. I don't

want to go. I am not ready. I think I had better read something now."



"Why, yes. That's cert'nly a good notion. Why, this is the best show

you'll ever get to give me education. Won't yu' please try that EMMA

book now, ma'am? Listening to you will be different." This was said with

softness and humility.



Uncertain--as his gravity often left her--precisely what he meant by

what he said, Molly proceeded with EMMA, slackly at first, but soon with

the enthusiasm that Miss Austen invariably gave her. She held the volume

and read away at it, commenting briefly, and then, finishing a chapter

of the sprightly classic, found her pupil slumbering peacefully. There

was no uncertainty about that.



"You couldn't be doing a healthier thing for him, deary," said Mrs.

Taylor. "If it gets to make him wakeful, try something harder." This was

the lady's scarcely sympathetic view.



But it turned out to be not obscurity in which Miss Austen sinned.



When Molly next appeared at the Virginian's threshold, he said

plaintively, "I reckon I am a dunce." And he sued for pardon. "When I

waked up," he said, "I was ashamed of myself for a plumb half-hour." Nor

could she doubt this day that he meant what he said. His mood was again

serene and gentle, and without referring to his singular words that had

distressed her, he made her feel his contrition, even in his silence.



"I am right glad you have come," he said. And as he saw her going to the

bookshelf, he continued, with diffidence: "As regyards that EMMA book,

yu' see--yu' see, the doin's and sayin's of folks like them are above

me. But I think" (he spoke most diffidently), "if yu' could read me

something that was ABOUT something, I--I'd be liable to keep awake." And

he smiled with a certain shyness.



"Something ABOUT something?" queried Molly, at a loss.



"Why, yes. Shakespeare. HENRY THE FOURTH. The British king is fighting,

and there is his son the prince. He cert'nly must have been a jim-dandy

boy if that is all true. Only he would go around town with a mighty

triflin' gang. They sported and they held up citizens. And his father

hated his travelling with trash like them. It was right natural--the boy

and the old man! But the boy showed himself a man too. He killed a big

fighter on the other side who was another jim-dandy--and he was sorry

for having it to do." The Virginian warmed to his recital. "I understand

most all of that. There was a fat man kept everybody laughing. He was

awful natural too; except yu' don't commonly meet 'em so fat. But the

prince--that play is bed-rock, ma'am! Have you got something like that?"



"Yes, I think so," she replied. "I believe I see what you would

appreciate."



She took her Browning, her idol, her imagined affinity. For the pale

decadence of New England had somewhat watered her good old Revolutionary

blood too, and she was inclined to think under glass and to live

underdone--when there were no Indians to shoot! She would have joyed to

venture "Paracelsus" on him, and some lengthy rhymed discourses; and she

fondly turned leaves and leaves of her pet doggerel analytics. "Pippa

Passes" and others she had to skip, from discreet motives--pages which

he would have doubtless stayed awake at; but she chose a poem at length.

This was better than Emma, he pronounced. And short. The horse was a

good horse. He thought a man whose horse must not play out on him would

watch the ground he was galloping over for holes, and not be likely to

see what color the rims of his animal's eye-sockets were. You could not

see them if you sat as you ought to for such a hard ride. Of the next

piece that she read him he thought still better. "And it is short," said

he. "But the last part drops."



Molly instantly exacted particulars.



"The soldier should not have told the general he was killed," stated the

cow-puncher.



"What should he have told him, I'd like to know?" said Molly.



"Why, just nothing. If the soldier could ride out of the battle all shot

up, and tell his general about their takin' the town--that was being

gritty, yu' see. But that truck at the finish--will yu' please say it

again?"



So Molly read:--



"'You're wounded! 'Nay,' the soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said,

'I'm killed, sire!' And, his chief beside,

Smiling the boy fell dead."



"'Nay, I'm killed, sire,'" drawled the Virginian, amiably; for (symptom

of convalescence) his freakish irony was revived in him. "Now a man

who was man enough to act like he did, yu' see, would fall dead without

mentioning it."



None of Molly's sweet girl friends had ever thus challenged Mr.

Browning. They had been wont to cluster over him with a joyous awe that

deepened proportionally with their misunderstanding. Molly paused to

consider this novelty of view about the soldier. "He was a Frenchman,

you know," she said, under inspiration.



"A Frenchman," murmured the grave cowpuncher. "I never knowed a

Frenchman, but I reckon they might perform that class of foolishness."



"But why was it foolish?" she cried.



"His soldier's pride--don't you see?"



"No."



Molly now burst into a luxury of discussion. She leaned toward her

cow-puncher with bright eyes searching his; with elbow on knee and hand

propping chin, her lap became a slant, and from it Browning the poet

slid and toppled, and lay unrescued. For the slow cow-puncher unfolded

his notions of masculine courage and modesty (though he did not deal in

such high-sounding names), and Molly forgot everything to listen to him,

as he forgot himself and his inveterate shyness and grew talkative to

her. "I would never have supposed that!" she would exclaim as she heard

him; or, presently again, "I never had such an idea!" And her mind

opened with delight to these new things which came from the man's mind

so simple and direct. To Browning they did come back, but the Virginian,

though interested, conceived a dislike for him. "He is a smarty," said

he, once or twice.



"Now here is something," said Molly. "I have never known what to think."



"Oh, Heavens!" murmured the sick man, smiling. "Is it short?"



"Very short. Now please attend." And she read him twelve lines about

a lover who rowed to a beach in the dusk, crossed a field, tapped at a

pane, and was admitted.



"That is the best yet," said the Virginian. "There's only one thing yu'

can think about that."



"But wait," said the girl, swiftly. "Here is how they parted:--



"Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,

And the sun looked over the mountain's rim--

And straight was a path of gold for him,

And the need of a world of men for me."



"That is very, very true," murmured the Virginian, dropping his eyes

from the girl's intent ones.



"Had they quarrelled?" she inquired.



"Oh, no!"



"But--"



"I reckon he loved her very much."



"Then you're sure they hadn't quarrelled?"



"Dead sure, ma'am. He would come back afteh he had played some more of

the game."



"The game?"



"Life, ma'am. Whatever he was a-doin' in the world of men. That's a

bed-rock piece, ma'am!"



"Well, I don't see why you think it's so much better than some of the

others."



"I could sca'cely explain," answered the man. "But that writer does know

something."



"I am glad they hadn't quarrelled," said Molly, thoughtfully. And she

began to like having her opinions refuted.



His bandages, becoming a little irksome, had to be shifted, and this

turned their discourse from literature to Wyoming; and Molly inquired,

had he ever been shot before? Only once, he told her. "I have been

lucky in having few fusses," said he. "I hate them. If a man has to be

killed--"



"You never--" broke in Molly. She had started back a little. "Well," she

added hastily, "don't tell me if--"



"I shouldn't wonder if I got one of those Indians," he said quietly.

"But I wasn't waitin' to see! But I came mighty near doing for a white

man that day. He had been hurtin' a hawss."



"Hurting?" said Molly.



"Injurin.' I will not tell yu' about that. It would hurt yu' to hear

such things. But hawsses--don't they depend on us? Ain't they somethin'

like children? I did not lay up the man very bad. He was able to travel

'most right away. Why, you'd have wanted to kill him yourself!"



So the Virginian talked, nor knew what he was doing to the girl. Nor

was she aware of what she was receiving from him as he unwittingly spoke

himself out to her in these Browning meetings they had each day. But

Mrs. Taylor grew pleased. The kindly dame would sometimes cross the

road to see if she were needed, and steal away again after a peep at the

window. There, inside, among the restored home treasures, sat the two:

the rosy alert girl, sweet as she talked or read to him; and he, the

grave, half-weak giant among his wraps, watching her.



Of her delayed home visit he never again spoke, either to her or to Mrs.

Taylor; and Molly veered aside from any trend of talk she foresaw was

leading toward that subject. But in those hours when no visitors

came, and he was by himself in the quiet, he would lie often sombrely

contemplating the girl's room, her little dainty knickknacks, her home

photographs, all the delicate manifestations of what she came from and

what she was. Strength was flowing back into him each day, and Judge

Henry's latest messenger had brought him clothes and mail from Sunk

Creek and many inquiries of kindness, and returned taking the news of

the cow-puncher's improvement, and how soon he would be permitted the

fresh air. Hence Molly found him waiting in a flannel shirt of highly

becoming shade, and with a silk handkerchief knotted round his throat;

and he told her it was good to feel respectable again.



She had come to read to him for the allotted time; and she threw around

his shoulders the scarlet and black Navajo blanket, striped with its

splendid zigzags of barbarity. Thus he half sat, half leaned, languid

but at ease. In his lap lay one of the letters brought over by the

messenger: and though she was midway in a book that engaged his full

attention--DAVID COPPERFELD--his silence and absent look this morning

stopped her, and she accused him of not attending.



"No," he admitted; "I am thinking of something else."



She looked at him with that apprehension which he knew.



"It had to come," said he. "And to-day I see my thoughts straighter than

I've been up to managing since--since my haid got clear. And now I

must say these thoughts--if I can, if I can!" He stopped. His eyes were

intent upon her; one hand was gripping the arm of his chair.



"You promised--" trembled Molly.



"I promised you should love me," he sternly interrupted. "Promised that

to myself. I have broken that word."



She shut DAVID COPPERHEAD mechanically, and grew white.



"Your letter has come to me hyeh," he continued, gentle again.



"My--" She had forgotten it.



"The letter you wrote to tell me good-by. You wrote it a little while

ago--not a month yet, but it's away and away long gone for me."



"I have never let you know--" began Molly.



"The doctor," he interrupted once more, but very gently now, "he gave

awdehs I must be kept quiet. I reckon yu' thought tellin' me might--"



"Forgive me!" cried the girl. "Indeed I ought to have told you sooner!

Indeed I had no excuse!"



"Why, should yu' tell me if yu' preferred not? You had written. And you

speak" (he lifted the letter) "of never being able to repay kindness;

but you have turned the tables. I can never repay you by anything! by

anything! So I had figured I would just jog back to Sunk Creek and let

you get away, if you did not want to say that kind of good-by. For I saw

the boxes. Mrs. Taylor is too nice a woman to know the trick of lyin',

and she could not deceive me. I have knowed yu' were going away for good

ever since I saw those boxes. But now hyeh comes your letter, and it

seems no way but I must speak. I have thought a deal, lyin' in this

room. And--to-day--I can say what I have thought. I could not make you

happy." He stopped, but she did not answer. His voice had grown softer

than whispering, but yet was not a whisper. From its quiet syllables she

turned away, blinded with sudden tears.



"Once, I thought love must surely be enough," he continued. "And

I thought if I could make you love me, you could learn me to be

less--less-more your kind. And I think I could give you a pretty good

sort of love. But that don't help the little mean pesky things of day by

day that make roughness or smoothness for folks tied together so awful

close. Mrs. Taylor hyeh--she don't know anything better than Taylor

does. She don't want anything he can't give her. Her friends will do for

him and his for her. And when I dreamed of you in my home--" he closed

his eyes and drew a long breath. At last he looked at her again. "This

is no country for a lady. Will yu' forget and forgive the bothering I

have done?"



"Oh!" cried Molly. "Oh!" And she put her hands to her eyes. She had

risen and stood with her face covered.



"I surely had to tell you this all out, didn't I?" said the cow-puncher,

faintly, in his chair.



"Oh!" said Molly again.



"I have put it clear how it is," he pursued. "I ought to have seen from

the start I was not the sort to keep you happy."



"But," said Molly--"but I--you ought--please try to keep me happy!" And

sinking by his chair, she hid her face on his knees.



Speechless, he bent down and folded her round, putting his hands on the

hair that had been always his delight. Presently he whispered:-- "You

have beat me; how can I fight this?"



She answered nothing. The Navajo's scarlet and black folds fell over

both. Not with words, not even with meeting eyes, did the two plight

their troth in this first new hour. So they remained long, the fair head

nesting in the great arms, and the black head laid against it, while

over the silent room presided the little Grandmother Stark in her frame,

rosy, blue, and flaxen, not quite familiar, not quite smiling.



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