A Letter With A Moral
: The VirginianThe letter which the Virginian wrote to Molly Wood was, as has been
stated, the first that he had ever addressed to her. I think, perhaps,
he may have been a little shy as to his skill in the epistolary art, a
little anxious lest any sustained production from his pen might contain
blunders that would too staringly remind her of his scant learning. He
could turn off a business communication about steers or stock cars, or
and a clearness that led the Judge to confide three-quarters of such
correspondence to his foreman. "Write to the 76 outfit," the Judge would
say, "and tell them that my wagon cannot start for the round-up until,"
etc.; or "Write to Cheyenne and say that if they will hold a meeting
next Monday week, I will," etc. And then the Virginian would write such
communications with ease.
But his first message to his lady was scarcely written with ease. It
must be classed, I think, among those productions which are styled
literary EFFORTS. It was completed in pencil before it was copied in
ink; and that first draft of it in pencil was well-nigh illegible with
erasures and amendments. The state of mind of the writer during its
composition may be gathered without further description on my part from
a slight interruption which occurred in the middle.
The door opened, and Scipio put his head in. "You coming to dinner?" he
inquired.
"You go to hell," replied the Virginian.
"My links!" said Scipio, quietly, and he shut the door without further
observation.
To tell the truth, I doubt if this letter would ever have been
undertaken, far less completed and despatched, had not the lover's heart
been wrung with disappointment. All winter long he had looked to that
day when he should knock at the girl's door, and hear her voice bid him
come in. All winter long he had been choosing the ride he would take
her. He had imagined a sunny afternoon, a hidden grove, a sheltering
cleft of rock, a running spring, and some words of his that should
conquer her at last and leave his lips upon hers. And with this
controlled fire pent up within him, he had counted the days, scratching
them off his calendar with a dig each night that once or twice snapped
the pen. Then, when the trail stood open, this meeting was deferred,
put off for indefinite days, or weeks; he could not tell how long.
So, gripping his pencil and tracing heavy words, he gave himself what
consolation he could by writing her.
The letter, duly stamped and addressed to Bear Creek, set forth upon
its travels; and these were devious and long. When it reached its
destination, it was some twenty days old. It had gone by private hand
at the outset, taken the stagecoach at a way point, become late in
that stagecoach, reached a point of transfer, and waited there for the
postmaster to begin, continue, end, and recover from a game of poker,
mingled with whiskey. Then it once more proceeded, was dropped at
the right way point, and carried by private hand to Bear Creek. The
experience of this letter, however, was not at all a remarkable one at
that time in Wyoming.
Molly Wood looked at the envelope. She had never before seen the
Virginian's handwriting She knew it instantly. She closed her door and
sat down to read it with a beating heart.
SUNK CREEK RANCH, May 5, 188-
My Dear Miss Wood: I am sorry about this. My plan was different. It was
to get over for a ride with you about now or sooner. This year Spring is
early. The snow is off the flats this side the range and where the
sun gets a chance to hit the earth strong all day it is green and has
flowers too, a good many. You can see them bob and mix together in the
wind. The quaking-asps down low on the South side are in small leaf and
will soon be twinkling like the flowers do now. I had planned to take a
look at this with you and that was a better plan than what I have got to
do. The water is high but I could have got over and as for the snow on
top of the mountain a man told me nobody could cross it for a week yet,
because he had just done it himself. Was not he a funny man? You ought
to see how the birds have streamed across the sky while Spring was
coming. But you have seen them on your side of the mountain. But I can't
come now Miss Wood. There is a lot for me to do that has to be done and
Judge Henry needs more than two eyes just now. I could not think much of
myself if I left him for my own wishes.
But the days will be warmer when I come. We will not have to quit by
five, and we can get off and sit too. We could not sit now unless for a
very short while. If I know when I can come I will try to let you know,
but I think it will be this way. I think you will just see me coming for
I have things to do of an unsure nature and a good number of such. Do
not believe reports about Indians. They are started by editors to keep
the soldiers in the country. The friends of the editors get the hay and
beef contracts. Indians do not come to settled parts like Bear Creek is.
It is all editors and politicianists.
Nothing has happened worth telling you. I have read that play Othello.
No man should write down such a thing. Do you know if it is true? I have
seen one worse affair down in Arizona. He killed his little child as
well as his wife but such things should not be put down in fine language
for the public. I have read Romeo and Juliet. That is beautiful language
but Romeo is no man. I like his friend Mercutio that gets killed. He
is a man. If he had got Juliet there would have been no foolishness and
trouble.
Well Miss Wood I would like to see you to-day. Do you know what I think
Monte would do if I rode him out and let the rein slack? He would come
straight to your gate for he is a horse of great judgement. ("That's the
first word he has misspelled," said Molly.) I suppose you are sitting
with George Taylor and those children right now. Then George will get
old enough to help his father but Uncle Hewie's twins will be ready for
you about then and the supply will keep coming from all quarters all
sizes for you to say big A little a to them. There is no news here. Only
calves and cows and the hens are laying now which does always seem news
to a hen every time she does it. Did I ever tell you about a hen Emily
we had here? She was venturesome to an extent I have not seen in other
hens only she had poor judgement and would make no family ties. She
would keep trying to get interest in the ties of others taking charge
of little chicks and bantams and turkeys and puppies one time, and she
thought most anything was an egg. I will tell you about her sometime.
She died without family ties one day while I was building a house for
her to teach school in. ("The outrageous wretch!" cried Molly! And her
cheeks turned deep pink as she sat alone with her lover's letter.)
I am coming the first day I am free. I will be a hundred miles from you
most of the time when I am not more but I will ride a hundred miles for
one hour and Monte is up to that. After never seeing you for so long I
will make one hour do if I have to. Here is a flower I have just been
out and picked. I have kissed it now. That is the best I can do yet.
Molly laid the letter in her lap and looked at the flower. Then suddenly
she jumped up and pressed it to her lips, and after a long moment held
it away from her.
"No," she said. "No, no, no." She sat down.
It was some time before she finished the letter. Then once more she got
up and put on her hat.
Mrs. Taylor wondered where the girl could be walking so fast. But she
was not walking anywhere, and in half an hour she returned, rosy with
her swift exercise, but with a spirit as perturbed as when she had set
out.
Next morning at six, when she looked out of her window, there was Monte
tied to the Taylor's gate. Ah, could he have come the day before, could
she have found him when she returned from that swift walk of hers!
More
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