CHAPTER VIII.
ABOUT sundown, as the people of Chesterfield say, the train drew into the village. At the station a gentleman stepped off, left his travelling-case at the hotel near, and sauntered up the street.
“Here, Bub,” he called to an urchin who, with his hands in his pockets, his legs apparently too long for his trousers, stood eyeing the stranger from the store doorway, “can you tell me if there is a person by the name of Reuben Whittaker residing in this town?”
“Guess you want—Miss Mean’s—brother Reuben—don’t you?” he replied intermittently, while severely intent upon chewing gum. “She lives—out—to the Bend.”
“Is it far?”
“Nope—not more’n—four miles. You just go straight—on, till—you get there.”
“Well, that’s quite a walk, but I guess I’ll try it. Want a nickel?”
“Nope. Pop don’t ’low—no pay for—common p’lite—says its—due our country—of her cit’zens.”
“Queer little chap, that,” mused the traveller. “Pity the rest of us don’t have more citizen politeness.” The man’s face was rather haggard. Several times as he strode along the little path, pulling at the daisies by its edge, he heaved a long sigh.
“I’ve given in so much,” he said, half aloud to himself, “she’ll have to give in the rest. How fiery I was, though! Poor little thing! Well, I’ve said it, and I’ll have to stick to it now. I suppose it is all folly my going to the house, but, Great Scott! what’s a feller going to do? I can’t sleep nights till I’ve caught a glimpse of her, anyhow. Maybe she’s ready to give in now. If she doesn’t of her own accord, it will never do for me to say anything—never. That dream I had bothers the life out of me—can’t seem to shake it off. Of course she’s all right, flying around like a butterfly this minute, most likely,” and the young man smiled rather bitterly.
He had come from the city to make sure a girl was not in trouble, but the thought of her enjoying herself made him uneasy.
From the village to the “Bend” was, as he had remarked, quite a distance. In spite of brisk walking it was nearly dark before his destination was reached.
“That must be the place,” he thought, quickening his steps as the white buildings of the Whittaker farm loomed up in the dusk.
“What in the world shall I do, now I’m here?” he asked himself, as he paused in front of the house. “If she’d only come out and take back her words it would be all right. But goodness! she’s an awful spunky little thing when she’s once under way, and it was pretty tough for her. It’s mighty certain it’s not in her line, but I needn’t have been quite so hard with her. Hang it all! what am I going to do now? What in the Dickens made me come, anyway? Only because I’m such a fool I couldn’t keep myself away.”
He stood leaning against a tree near one of the windows. The summer air was very still. Only occasionally the birds stirred in their nests abovehis head and murmured sleepily. Once some restless animal pounded the floor of the barn.
Suddenly a low strain of music startled him. Did it come from one of the open windows? Timidly soft it sounded, as though fearing to let itself be heard—weird and sad.
The man out among the shadows trembled. “Can that be she? Has she given in?”
The music grew more abandoned. In its sorrow it seemed to have forgotten its timidity. The long notes sobbed and moaned, now and then dying into quieter, more entreating tones. In their tears they paused and prayed.
The listener was a musician, and the melody reached the depths of his soul. Facing the window, he called in a broken voice, “Gertrude.”
The music instantly ceased. A glad cry rang out, “Herman! my Herman!”
In a second, the man had vaulted the low sill of the parlor window. He hurriedly glanced around the room. No musical instrument could be seen, but a trembling form was steadying itself against the casing.
“Gertie, poor little Gertie!”
A faint voice answered, “Is it true? Can it be you? O Herman!”
Again the music rang out. Triumphant peals this time, strain after strain of tumultuous joy, clearer and clearer, stronger and stronger, until the notes could hardly hold their fulness.
In the parlor Gertrude and Herman stood gazing into each other’s startled eyes.
The wild, rapturous song paused; then breaking out in steadier notes, even and rich, it gradually mellowed and hushed until it died away in a whispered breath.
“It ended like a prayer of thanksgiving,” said he.
Gertrude caught her breath. “Hush!” She buried her face in her hands, whispering, “It was. I see it all now. It must have been little Chee,—there is no one else.” Lifting her head, she added, with a strange, new light in her eyes, “Oh, Herman, she was thanking God for answering her prayer. I believe it.” And then, half choked with feeling, she told what she knew of her little Indian cousin.