Word To Bennington

: The Virginian

They kept their secret for a while, or at least they had that special

joy of believing that no one in all the world but themselves knew this

that had happened to them. But I think that there was one person who

knew how to keep a secret even better than these two lovers. Mrs. Taylor

made no remarks to any one whatever. Nobody on Bear Creek, however, was

so extraordinarily cheerful and serene. That peculiar severity which she
<
r /> had manifested in the days when Molly was packing her possessions,

had now altogether changed. In these days she was endlessly kind and

indulgent to her "deary." Although, as a housekeeper, Mrs. Taylor

believed in punctuality at meals, and visited her offspring with

discipline when they were late without good and sufficient excuse, Molly

was now exempt from the faintest hint of reprimand.



"And it's not because you're not her mother," said George Taylor,

bitterly. "She used to get it, too. And we're the only ones that get it.

There she comes, just as we're about ready to quit! Aren't you going to

say NOTHING to her?"



"George," said his mother, "when you've saved a man's life it'll be time

for you to talk."



So Molly would come in to her meals with much irregularity; and her

remarks about the imperfections of her clock met with no rejoinder. And

yet one can scarcely be so severe as had been Mrs. Taylor, and become

wholly as mild as milk. There was one recurrent event that could

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

a while ago. I was to have 'em ready just as soon as ever yu' asked for

'em yourself." Lin had been made a happy man some twelve months previous

to this. And now, by way of an exchange of news, he added: "We're

expectin' a little McLean down on Box Elder. That's what you'll be

expectin' some of these days, I hope."



"Yes," murmured the Virginian, "I hope so too."



"And I don't guess," said Lin, "that you and I will do much shufflin' of

other folks' children any more."



Whereupon he and the Virginian shook hands silently, and understood each

other very well.



On the day that the Virginian parted with Molly, beside the weight of

farewell which lay heavy on his heart, his thoughts were also grave with

news. The cattle thieves had grown more audacious. Horses and cattle

both were being missed, and each man began almost to doubt his neighbor.



"Steps will have to be taken soon by somebody, I reckon," said the

lover.



"By you?" she asked quickly.



"Most likely I'll get mixed up with it."



"What will you have to do?"



"Can't say. I'll tell yu' when I come back."



So did he part from her, leaving her more kisses than words to remember.



And what was doing at Bennington, meanwhile, and at Dunbarton? Those

three letters which by their mere outside had so moved Mrs. Taylor,

produced by their contents much painful disturbance.



It will be remembered that Molly wrote to her mother, and to her

great-aunt. That announcement to her mother was undertaken first. Its

composition occupied three hours and a half, and it filled eleven pages,

not counting a postscript upon the twelfth. The letter to the great-aunt

took only ten minutes. I cannot pretend to explain why this one was

so greatly superior to the other; but such is the remarkable fact. Its

beginning, to be sure, did give the old lady a start; she had dismissed

the cow-boy from her probabilities.



"Tut, tut, tut!" she exclaimed out loud in her bedroom. "She has thrown

herself away on that fellow!"



But some sentences at the end made her pause and sit still for a long

while. The severity upon her face changed to tenderness, gradually. "Ah,

me," she sighed. "If marriage were as simple as love!" Then she went

slowly downstairs, and out into her garden, where she walked long

between the box borders. "But if she has found a great love," said the

old lady at length. And she returned to her bedroom, and opened an old

desk, and read some old letters.



There came to her the next morning a communication from Bennington. This

had been penned frantically by poor Mrs. Wood. As soon as she had been

able to gather her senses after the shock of her daughter's eleven pages

and the postscript, the mother had poured out eight pages herself to the

eldest member of the family. There had been, indeed, much excuse for the

poor lady. To begin with, Molly had constructed her whole opening

page with the express and merciful intention of preparing her mother.

Consequently, it made no sense whatever. Its effect was the usual effect

of remarks designed to break a thing gently. It merely made Mrs. Wood's

head swim, and filled her with a sickening dread. "Oh, mercy, Sarah,"

she had cried, "come here. What does this mean?" And then, fortified by

her elder daughter, she had turned over that first page and found what

it meant on the top of the second. "A savage with knives and pistols!"

she wailed.



"Well, mother, I always told you so," said her daughter Sarah.



"What is a foreman?" exclaimed the mother. "And who is Judge Henry?"



"She has taken a sort of upper servant," said Sarah. "If it is allowed

to go as far as a wedding, I doubt if I can bring myself to be present."

(This threat she proceeded to make to Molly, with results that shall be

set forth in their proper place.)



"The man appears to have written to me himself," said Mrs. Wood.



"He knows no better," said Sarah.



"Bosh!" said Sarah's husband later. "It was a very manly thing to do."

Thus did consternation rage in the house at Bennington. Molly might

have spared herself the many assurances that she gave concerning

the universal esteem in which her cow-puncher was held, and the fair

prospects which were his. So, in the first throes of her despair, Mrs.

Wood wrote those eight not maturely considered pages to the great-aunt.



"Tut, tut, tut!" said the great-aunt as she read them. Her face was much

more severe to-day. "You'd suppose," she said, "that the girl had been

kidnapped! Why, she has kept him waiting three years!" And then she

read more, but soon put the letter down with laughter. For Mrs. Wood

had repeated in writing that early outburst of hers about a savage with

knives and pistols. "Law!" said the great-aunt. "Law, what a fool Lizzie

is!"



So she sat down and wrote to Mrs. Wood a wholesome reply about putting

a little more trust in her own flesh and blood, and reminding her among

other things that General Stark had himself been wont to carry knives

and pistols owing to the necessities of his career, but that he had

occasionally taken them off, as did probably this young man in Wyoming.

"You had better send me the letter he has written you," she concluded.

"I shall know much better what to think after I have seen that."



It is not probable that Mrs. Wood got much comfort from this

communication; and her daughter Sarah was actually enraged by it.

"She grows more perverse as she nears her dotage," said Sarah. But the

Virginian's letter was sent to Dunbarton, where the old lady sat herself

down to read it with much attention.



Here is what the Virginian had said to the unknown mother of his

sweetheart.



MRS. JOHN STARK WOOD Bennington, Vermont.



Madam: If your daughter Miss Wood has ever told you about her saving

a man's life here when some Indians had shot him that is the man who

writes to you now. I don't think she can have told you right about

that affair for she is the only one in this country who thinks it was

a little thing. So I must tell you it, the main points. Such an action

would have been thought highly of in a Western girl, but with Miss

Wood's raising nobody had a right to expect it.



"Indeed!" snorted the great-aunt. "Well, he would be right, if I had not

had a good deal more to do with her 'raising' than ever Lizzie had." And

she went on with the letter.



I was starting in to die when she found me. I did not know anything

then, and she pulled me back from where I was half in the next world.

She did not know but what Indians would get her too but I could not make

her leave me. I am a heavy man one hundred and seventy-three stripped

when in full health. She lifted me herself from the ground me helping

scarce any for there was not much help in me that day. She washed my

wound and brought me to with her own whiskey. Before she could get me

home I was out of my head but she kept me on my horse somehow and talked

wisely to me so I minded her and did not go clean crazy till she had got

me safe to bed. The doctor says I would have died all the same if she

had not nursed me the way she did. It made me love her more which I did

not know I could. But there is no end, for this writing it down makes me

love her more as I write it.



And now Mrs. Wood I am sorry this will be bad news for you to hear. I

know you would never choose such a man as I am for her for I have got

no education and must write humble against my birth. I wish I could make

the news easier but truth is the best.



I am of old stock in Virginia. English and one Scotch Irish grandmother

my father's father brought from Kentucky. We have always stayed at the

same place farmers and hunters not bettering our lot and very plain. We

have fought when we got the chance, under Old Hickory and in Mexico and

my father and two brothers were killed in the Valley sixty-four. Always

with us one son has been apt to run away and I was the one this time. I

had too much older brothering to suit me. But now I am doing well being

in full sight of prosperity and not too old and very strong my health

having stood the sundries it has been put through. She shall teach

school no more when she is mine. I wish I could make this news easier

for you Mrs. Wood. I do not like promises I have heard so many. I will

tell any man of your family anything he likes to ask one, and Judge

Henry would tell you about my reputation. I have seen plenty rough

things but can say I have never killed for pleasure or profit and am not

one of that kind, always preferring peace. I have had to live in places

where they had courts and lawyers so called but an honest man was all

the law you could find in five hundred miles. I have not told her about

those things not because I am ashamed of them but there are so many

things too dark for a girl like her to hear about.



I had better tell you the way I know I love Miss Wood. I am not a boy

now, and women are no new thing to me. A man like me who has travelled

meets many of them as he goes and passes on but I stopped when I came

to Miss Wood. That is three years but I have not gone on. What right has

such as he? you will say. So did I say it after she had saved my life.

It was hard to get to that point and keep there with her around me all

day. But I said to myself you have bothered her for three years with

your love and if you let your love bother her you don't love her like

you should and you must quit for her sake who has saved your life. I did

not know what I was going to do with my life after that but I supposed

I could go somewhere and work hard and so Mrs. Wood I told her I would

give her up. But she said no. It is going to be hard for her to get used

to a man like me--



But at this point in the Virginian's letter, the old great-aunt could

read no more. She rose, and went over to that desk where lay those faded

letters of her own. She laid her head down upon the package, and as her

tears flowed quietly upon it, "O dear," she whispered, "O dear! And this

is what I lost!"



To her girl upon Bear Creek she wrote the next day. And this word from

Dunbarton was like balm among the harsh stings Molly was receiving. The

voices of the world reached her in gathering numbers, and not one of

them save that great-aunt's was sweet. Her days were full of hurts; and

there was no one by to kiss the hurts away. Nor did she even hear from

her lover any more now. She only knew he had gone into lonely regions

upon his errand.



That errand took him far:-- Across the Basin, among the secret places

of Owl Creek, past the Washakie Needles, over the Divide to Gros Ventre,

and so through a final barrier of peaks into the borders of East Idaho.

There, by reason of his bidding me, I met him, and came to share in a

part of his errand.



It was with no guide that I travelled to him. He had named a little

station on the railroad, and from thence he had charted my route by

means of landmarks. Did I believe in omens, the black storm that I set

out in upon my horse would seem like one to-day. But I had been living

in cities and smoke; and Idaho, even with rain, was delightful to me.



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