THE weeks that followed Stephen's departure held for Virginia Landray the misery of a first separation. It was the uprooting of all she had counted on as most secure and abiding. That thousands of other men had left their homes on the same errand meant nothing to her, for it was not in her nature to generalize.
Her one comfort was his letters, which reached her at short and reasonably regular intervals. He was all buoyancy and hope; he seemed to think only of the success in store for them; and he so dwelt upon this need of money, a need he magnified to himself and to her, that it was not strange she ended by having a wholly wrong and exaggerated idea of the condition of the family fortunes.
“He is doing it all for me,” she told herself with quivering lips, “and that only makes it the more wicked and monstrous! He has left his home for my sake, becauses he wishes to give me every comfort and luxury; as if I cared for anything—but him!”
Inspired by this thought, she regulated her personal expenditures with an eye to the most rigid economy. These economies of hers threatened to become a scandal and a reproach to Anna, Bushrod's wife, who, however much she regretted her husband's absence, refused to believe that any sacrifice could be made even tributary to her comfort, or could in any way lighten the sorrow and apprehension, she declared she was knowing for the first time in her married life.
But Virginia, whose faith was rather less than her affection for this cheerful sufferer, determined to propose to her that they live together at the farm, and thus save the expense of one household. She planned it all in detail. Anna could have the big front room over the parlour with the smaller one adjoining that looked out upon the west meadow. It would do admirably as a nursery for little Stephen. She grew quite excited over this project, and was on the point of driving into town to see Anna, when Anna herself in all the ingenious gaiety of new spring finery, drove into the yard.
She swept up the steps to Virginia, who had hurried to the door to receive her, adjusting her bonnet with one neatly gloved hand, and gathering up her skirts out of the way with the other; her small person radiant with grace and charm.
She seemed to be thrilling with some pleasurable excitement; and Virginia immediately thought it must be a letter from Bushrod.
“Have you heard about Mr. Tucker?” she asked quite breathlessly.
“What about Mr. Tucker?” said Virginia disappointed.
“He's dead—drowned—my dear! I hurried out to tell you, for I knew you would be interested. One always is, in these dreadful shocking tragedies.”
“Dead! Drowned!” cried Virginia in horror.
“Yes, my dear, drowned!” said Anna, with a small air of triumph.
“Oh!” cried Virginia; and added, “Poor, poor old man!”
“He was following his wife and that dreadful Captain Gibbs—it's quite settled now that she ran off with him; he tracked them half across the state, it seems.”
“But how did he lose his life?” asked Virginia.
“It seems he attempted to ford a dangerously swollen stream and was swept away; no one has the full particulars yet, but I saw Mr. Benson, and he says there is no doubt but that Mr. Tucker is dead.”
“Poor old man!” repeated Virginia pityingly.
“Well!” said Anna, “Captain Gibbs will never dare to show his face here again. They say they will tar and feather him if he does; and I think myself that would be none too good for him.”
Virginia looked inquiringly at her. She wondered if she had come merely to tell her this.
“Did Stephen ever say anything to you about his and Bush's business with Mr. Tucker—the distillery, I mean?” asked Anna.
Virginia shook her head.
“I really think it shocking the ignorance in which those men have kept us about their affairs! Just suppose anything should happen to them!”
“But nothing will,” said Virginia quickly.
“How does one know that, my dear? The papers say the cholera is at Independence.”
“Oh! Don't, Anna! How can you?” and Virginia put up her hands appealingly.
“Well, dear, one mustn't always look on the bright side: It's just as well to be serious sometimes. Goodness knows! You are always saying that I am not half serious enough, and now when I am willing to be—”
“But I never meant in this way!” cried Virginia.
“I know, dear, but there is absolutely nothing else to be serious about!”
“What do they say about Mrs. Tucker and Captain Gibbs?” asked Virginia, wishing to bring Anna back to her original theme.
“They kept on of course; isn't it scandalous! I knew that woman was no better than she should be, but Bush always wanted me to be civil on account of poor Mr. Tucker. Imagine, my dear, she was his third wife! You must admit there is a sort of levity about such marriages that prevents one being altogether serious in thinking of them; but did Stephen ever tell you anything about the distillery? Every one seems to think that all of Mr. Tucker's property will go to his wife; and I always understood that he had never finished paying for the distillery; but Mr. Benson seems to think there was a settlement just before Stephen and Bushrod started West. Did Stephen ever say anything to you about it?”
“No,” said Virginia, “or if he did, I have forgotten it. But what were those papers they had us sign just before they left, don't you remember, Anna?”
“Why, yes—I am sure that Bush told me that it had something to do with Mr. Tucker. Well, I hope they won't lose the distillery,” said Anna.
“Mr. Tucker's death will make no difference,” said Virginia. And then she outlined her plan, which Anna received coldly and with every outward evidence of disfavour.
“What, me bury myself in the country?” she cried. “And to save a few dollars? No, indeed; and I am sure Bush would not be pleased if I did. He begged me not to mope—he was always such a dear; you may feel quite sure that they are perfectly happy; men always get along very well when they are by themselves like that. I sometimes think we are of no special use to them except to keep their homes and to mother their children.”
“How is little Stephen, Anna?” Virginia asked, and a shade of constraint crept into her manner. This was one of her hidden griefs.
Her little nephew had been named in honour of his grandfather, and there could never be a son of hers who might bear that name. She never thought of this without a secret jealous pang.
“I had intended to bring him with me, but I came off in such haste—”
“If you were at the farm”—began Virginia.
“Now don't, dear,” and Anna put up her hands in pretty appeal. “I know all the many advantages of this dreadful lonely place; I spent the first year of my married life here, and I'm not likely to forget it, for I never gave Bush a moment's peace until he had bought the place in town and we had moved into it. That nearly broke up the family! General Landray—a terribly determined old man—never forgave me for that up to the very day of his death; he wanted us to stay on here. I know just what you would say, Virginia; I know all you would do for Stephen. It's such a pity you haven't children of your own.”
Virginia said nothing, but the colour came and went on her cheeks. There was a pause during which Anna moved restlessly in her chair; when Virginia was serious she was very depressing.
Anna was small and dark and pretty, and under the cloak of yielding pliant femininity hid a stout heart and certain strenuous characteristics, conspicuous among which was a really notable determination to have her own way in all small matters affecting her comfort and pleasure. Any large purpose was quite beyond her mental scope, but in the trivial doings of life, its little intrigues and sly manouvres, she was an industrious schemer for petty victories and petty spoils. These were her failings; but on the other hand her good nature rarely forsook her, and she was prolific with those kindnesses that involved no special self-denial.
When Virginia spoke again, it was still to urge the merits of the change. Anna listened patiently and when the other had finished, said, tempering her refusal with a compliment.
“I declare, I never knew you were such a manager, Virginia. You are positively clever. Candidly, dear, I couldn't think of it. It's quite awful; and it's coming summer, too, with all those frightful noisy bugs and frogs to keep one awake nights—I should positively die!”
“That's absurd, Anna,” retorted Virginia sharply. “I do wish you would be sensible, Think of the economy of the arrangement.”
“That's the very thing I refuse to think of. Do be reasonable, Virginia; what will our petty scrimpings amount to in the course of a year? And Stephen—he must be kept at school, he is awfully backward for a child of his years,” and her face assumed a pretty look of maternal anxiety. “This fall I want to enter him at Doctor Long's Academy, and if he were at the farm that would be impossible.”
“It's easy enough to find objections,” said Virginia resentfully.
“No, dear, the whole difficulty is to overcome them,” answered Anna sweetly. “If I really thought it was for the best, I would gladly sacrifice my personal preference; but I don't think it is for the best. Besides, I have asked Mr. Benson to see Doctor Long, and arrange for Stephen's admission to the Academy in the fall.”
“I should have thought you would have preferred to attend to that yourself,” said Virginia, who cherished no little resentment where the lawyer was concerned, because of the innocent part he had been forced to play in the organization of the hated company.
“He is always very kind and considerate,” murmured Anna, who by nature was a lukewarm champion.
“Is he?” said Virginia, but the look on her face was cold and repellent.
“You don't like him!”
“There is no reason why I should either like or dislike him. He is merely my husband's lawyer. So you feel, Anna, that you cannot give up the house in town?”
“Impossible, dear,” briskly. Her conviction as to what was needed for her happiness was always perfectly clear; she seldom had cause to reconsider.
Anna was now ready to return to town; Virginia urged her to stay to dinner, but she had many reasons why her presence was needed at her own home, and Virginia saw that it was useless to insist. At parting she reached up to kiss Virginia, she had to stand on tiptoe to do this, but the latter with the stateliest of inclinations presented her cheek for the caress.
“Why, I believe you are angry with me, Virginia,” she cried. “Let me look at you; yes, you are. Oh! How unfair of you, Virginia—and it is all on account of Stephen, I am sure you wouldn't have him grow up an ignoramus when he has his uncle's name, now would you?”
From her seat on the porch Virginia watched Anna drive away. She rested her chin in the palm of her hand and gazed out across the fields. She wondered if it were true, as Anna had suggested; if Stephen had wearied of the life that to her had seemed perfect in its peace and happiness.
“He didn't leave me because he would be happier away from me! he has gone to earn money for me—as if I cared for money! I hate it!”
IT was not until the morning of the third day following their arrival in Independence that the members of the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company fell in at the rear of the wagon train that since midnight had been moving in one unbroken line out from the town and its environs.
Day was just breaking when their three wagons, drawn by stout mules, wheeled briskly into place, and as the sun came up and they saw the train stretching out ahead of them, they felt afresh the inspiration of their common hope in this peaceful conquest of fortune. A wave of joyous exultation seemed to sweep along the line; whips cracked, the mounted men galloped to and fro; while out of the uncertain light beyond, as the sun crept up above the horizon, the white lurching tops of the great wagons burst into view, one by one; but growing always smaller until finally they became mere white specks, dropping back in the track of the receding mist.
For the first two hundred miles west from the Missouri the country presented vast reaches of freshest green, gently rolling and intersected at intervals by streams, along whose banks grew scattered elms and cottonwoods. Hidden away in the fertile bottoms they came upon farms or ranches, each with its patch of cultivated land; but as they advanced these became less and less frequent; the uniform view was now one wide, rolling plain, with a distant fringe of timber marking the water-courses.
Then the waves of land ceased, the soil seemed to lose its fertility; and a dead level spread before the unresisting eye. They were entering upon the region of the Platte River and the plains proper. Long ere this the slow-moving oxen had fallen to the rear of the line of white-topped wagons; the mules had outstripped them as they, in their turn, were outstripped by the mounted men. But a greater change was making itself manifest throughout the caravan. The enthusiasm of the gold-seekers was waning in the face of unlooked for hardship and suffering. The cholera had caught them as they left the Missouri, and their line of march was dotted with newly-made graves.
Then, even as Basil Landray had foretold, the faint-hearted sickened of their enterprise, and with the stricken ones who had lost friends or relatives, turned back. The fur trader, giving way to boistrous merriment, showed an inclination to chaff these as they passed; but Stephen sternly bade him keep silent.
He was finding Basil a sore trial, yet the fur trader retained a measure of his faith and confidence, for he displayed a tireless energy in the face of every difficulty. If their mules or horses strayed over night, it was usually Basil who found them in the morning; if there was a stream to be crossed, it was Basil who located the ford; if they needed game, Basil was almost certain to bring it into camp; these were real and tangible benefits which could not be overlooked.
Stephen and Bushrod discussed him privately; at first with a palpable bias in his favour, magnifying each redeeming trait; but gradually their feeling of exasperation toward him was wholly in the ascendent.
“He's positively servile to us,” complained Bushrod. “That's what I can't stand. If he treated us as he treats Rogers, for instance, I don't know but what I'd like him a great deal better; at least I'd have a sufficient excuse to kick him out of camp.”
“Don't you think we've allowed him to wear on us?” said Stephen. “After all, I don't know that we have any right to expect him to be different from what he is; and he certainly is the most useful member of the company; we must admit that.”
“Yes, he's handy with the stock,” said Bushrod grudgingly.
Early in June they reached Fort Laramie, where they camped with the intention of giving their teams a rest of several days. At the Fort, which had been one of the many posts of the American Fur Company, and which the government had only recently acquired by purchase, they found a detachment of Mounted Rifles, while the employees of the Company were still in camp on the river. Among these latter Basil found a number of former associates, and for a night and a day they saw nothing of him; but on the second evening he suddenly strode into camp, and flung himself down in the midst of the little group about the fire.
“I know what I reckon there's many a one would give a good deal to know,” he said jubilantly. “Steve, how'd you fancy shortening up the trail into Salt Lake? I been talking with one of the company's men who knows all the country hereabouts, and he's marked a trail for me.”
“I allowed you knew this here country yourself,” said Rogers sarcastically. “The whole of it, too.”
“I know the trail we been following, for it's the same I took when I helped fetch Brigham Young across the plains after he was run out of Illinois.”
“Which, I reckon, was a damn good job,” said Rogers.
“Which, I reckon, it was nothing of the sort,” retorted Basil quickly.
“What about the new route?” Stephen asked.
“Oh, aye. Well, coming with Brigham Young we followed the Platte clear around until we came to the head of the Sweet Water, then we struck across to the Big Sandy, and on down to Jim Bridger's trading post, pretty nearly south. But see, now—” he took up a bit of charred stick, and rising, turned to one of the wagons whose canvas side showed clearly in the light of the camp-fire. “Now, here's Fort Laramie—Fort John it was in the old days—and off here's Fort Bridger, and way round here runs the north fork of the Platte, and here the Sweet Water lets in.” He sketched rapidly, and soon the canvas was covered with a rude outline map. “Bear in mind that's the emigrant road, as they call it; now we can strike south from here and follow the Chugwater up toward its source; it runs hereaways for a matter of a hundred miles, with this range of hills to the westward of it; just here the hills break away, and the trail turns west; three day's march will bring us to the Laramie—which lets in here—eight days more will bring us off here to Bridger's Pass; and from there on, the trail is almost due west to the head waters of the Weber.”
“And we won't go near Fort Bridger at all?”
“Certain we shan't; that's north of us. When we reach the Weber we'll follow it into the valley; and if we need anything there, I reckon I'll have little enough trouble in getting what's wanted; they won't have forgotten me, or if they have, I'll jog their memories for them. What do you say?”
Stephen looked at Rogers.
“What do you think?” he asked. “He did this because it had been evident from the first that Rogers viewed the fur trader with no friendly eye, just as it was equally evident that Basil's feelings for the Californian were similarly hostile, each regarding the other as a rival in his own special field.”
“I don't know anything about this new trail,” said Rogers sullenly.
The fur trader grinned and pulled at his black beard. “No? That's odd, too. I allowed you knew the whole blame country, from hearing you talk,” he jeered.
Rogers ignored this, and addressed himself to Stephen.
“You'd better bear in mind that there'll be plenty of Indians, and instead of fifty or a hundred wagons which they daren't fool with, there'll be just three.”
“I don't need to tell Mr. Rogers that these here Indians of his will be mostly armed with bows and arrows,” said Basil scornfully, but he drew his bushy brows together and scowled at the Californian.
“No, and you don't need to Mister me,” retorted Rogers.
“Well, among friends—”
“And you don't need to make any mistake about that either,” cried Rogers quickly. “I ain't always been able to choose my company, but it's different with my friends.”
“Why, you—” Basil began, his beard quivering; but Stephen put out his hand and rested it heavily on his shoulder.
“Go on, Basil,” he said quietly. “How about grass and water?”
“There's enough of both,” he answered moodily, with eyes still fixed on Rogers.
“But is the road possible for wagons?”
The fur trader grinned arrogantly. “It ain't a road, it's just something between a scent and a trail,” he turned to his map again. “We'll strike water here, and here, and all along here, and where there's water there's grass. You'll admit, Mr. Rogers, the emigrant road is a pretty round about way to Salt Lake, if there's anything nearer.”
“I'm not disputing the distances,” said Rogers reluctantly, for he felt that the leadership of the company was passing from him. “But I don't like the risks of getting caught up with by the Indians.”
“We'll think about it over night,” said Stephen. “We shan't leave here until day after to-morrow, and, in the meantime, I'd like to see your friend.”
“All right,” said Basil, “That's fair enough. I'll fetch him round in the morning and you can talk with him.”
The result of this was, that when the Landrays left Fort Laramie they turned to the south instead of to the west, and followed down the Chugwater.
“It's a mistake,” Rogers said sadly to Walsh. “It's too much of a risk to run to save a few days. It's a big mistake.”
Even Basil seemed to recognize that a caution greater than they had yet shown was now necessary; for he instructed his companions not, on any account, to leave the close proximity of the wagons, while their mules were no longer turned loose at night to graze, but were tied to the wagons instead, and grass cut for them.
At his request Stephen had bought a horse for him before leaving Fort Laramie, and he usually rode in advance of the company, alert and vigilant; sometimes Stephen or Bushrod rode with him on the saddle horses they had brought from the Missouri. Occasionally they encountered small roving bands of Indians, to whom Basil made protestations of friendship and trifling gifts, but he refused to allow them to enter the camp on any pretext.
Rogers, who was not beyond a certain fairness, admitted that the fur trader's presence was of supreme value, and he surprised the others by the unquestioning obedience he yielded him in all matters that bore upon their safety. His condition had steadily improved since leaving Missouri, he now insisted upon doing his share of guard duty, from which he had formerly been exempt, and Basil declared him the most trustworthy member of the party.
“I don't have to stir about when it's his watch,” he told Bushrod. “He don't go to sleep like Walsh and Bingham, who have to be kicked awake every now and then, and he don't take the flapping of the wagon canvases for Indians like Dunlevy does. I reckon he's been a man in his day.”
But beyond the Chugwater an incident occurred which effectually destroyed the apparent good feeling that had prevailed since they left Fort Laramie. They had camped for the night at the head of a small stream, and not far from a sparse growth of cottonwoods, whither Basil had gone with Rogers and Dunlevy to bring in a supply of firewood. Benny, near the wagons which had been drawn together in the form of a triangle, had already started a fire of dry twigs against the return of the choppers. Not far off the others of the party with their hunting-knives were busy cutting grass for the mules and horses.
Suddenly, coming from the cottonwoods, Stephen caught the sound of angry voices. First it was Rogers's voice, high pitched and bitter with the ready rancour of ill-health; a pause succeeded, and then Basil seemed to answer him, but in a more moderate tone. Stephen, suspending his work, glanced at Bushrod in mute inquiry, and at that moment Dunlevy stepped out of the wood.
“Landray!” he called loudly. “You and your brother had better come here.”
The two men dropped their knives, and strode toward him in haste.
“Basil must let Rogers alone,” said Bushrod. “Can't he see the man's sick and to be pitied?”
They had entered the woods, and now they came out upon its furthest margin and upon a surprising group. Rogers, pale and shaking with rage, Basil very red in the face, and three figures on horseback. One of these was a white man, a tall fellow in a ragged uniform, which they recognized as that of the Mounted Rifles; his two companions were wrapped in gaudy blankets, their long rifles resting across the horns of their saddles. Stephen and Bushrod instantly divined that they were half-breeds, while the likeness they bore each other was sufficiently marked to indicate that they were brothers. Their glance was fixed on the fur trader, but the stoical composure they maintained told nothing of what was passing in their minds. The white man, too, was preserving a strictly impartial silence.
Rogers was saying: “I got as much to say about this as any one.”
Basil lowered at him with sour hatred. “You? Who the hell are you? You ain't got a dollar in the outfit!”
“I got what counts for money,” answered Rogers, and shook his fist in Basil's face.
“What's the matter, Basil?” demanded the Landrays in a breath.
The fur trader smiled rather sheepishly. “It's this fool, Rogers,” he began sullenly.
“Oh, go to hell!” interrupted Rogers. He pointed to the three silent figures on horseback and cried fiercely: “This half-breed outfit's his!”
“Easy!” said the uniformed stranger, with a light, good-natured laugh. “I'm no half-breed, and I'm just mighty glad to see you white folks!”
“And who are you?” demanded Stephen.
“It's too bad, Cap, but I came off in such a hurry I clean left my kyards behind, but if you'll take my word for it, Raymond's my name.” He leaned slightly toward Stephen as he spoke, with an air of winning candour. “I'm real put out that yonder party's so upset.” He spoke with grave concern. “Yes, sir, real put out.”
“But who are you? And what are you doing here?”
“Raymond's my name, Cap,” repeated the stranger affably. “Like I should spell it for you?”
“Where's his rifle, why ain't he armed, and how does it come he knows your cousin?” cried Rogers.
“Party's eyesight ain't a failing him yet,” murmured the stranger in a tone of caressing confidence to Stephen. “Well,” he added, “since you seem to object to us, me and my friends here'll just cut loose.”
“No you don't, Raymond!” cried Basil angrily.
“See you in Salt Lake,” said Raymond, gathering up his reins. “Enquire for me.”
“I'll see you all the way there, too,” retorted Basil with an oath. He spoke sharply to the half-breeds, who at once closed up, one on each side of Raymond. The latter dropped back in his saddle, relaxing his hold on the bridle rein. Stephen regarded him in silence for a moment.
“Didn't I see you at Fort Laramie?” he asked.
The stranger, still smiling, nodded, and raising his hand to the corner of his mouth spat decorously back of it.
“In the colonel's quarters, was it not?” said Stephen sternly.
“The blamed old tarrapin was snapping away at me right lively;” he was still smiling pleasantly. He gestured slightly with his hand. “Out here, me and him would have had some sort of a falling out I reckon, but back yonder I had to swallow what he said, though his words were choky enough. Them army men's real candid.”
“I believe you had attempted to desert,” said Stephen, with illy-concealed disgust.
“Well, you might call it an attempt. I reckon the colonel counts it more then that. I held the lead for more than a hundred miles, and I reckon I'd be holding it yet only my hoss went lame. It was the best hoss the colonel owned, too.” His smile never lost a certain amiability; it seemed to spring from the unperverted innocence of his nature.
“How did you get here?” demanded Stephen.
“Ask him. He done it,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of Basil. Stephen turned to the fur trader.
“What have you to say about this?” he asked gravely.
“He's all right. I'll vouch for him and the half-breeds,” he said.
“That isn't what I want to know. I want to know how he happens to be here,” insisted Stephen.
“I fixed that with the half-breeds,” and Basil laughed.
“You mean you got them to break jail for him?”
“What the devil difference does it make?”
“The man's a deserter, and the part you have played in releasing him—”
“What odds does it make to you?” retorted Basil. Then he moderated his tone. “Oh, come now, Steve, what's the use of your sweating about this? Louis and Baptiste here will help with the stock; Raymond's all right, too. They're three mighty good men to have about.”
But now Rogers broke in with objections. “It's right enough for the rest of you. But my wife was killed by the Indians. These are half-breeds, but I got no more use for half-breeds than whole breeds. They're all one to me.”
“Yes,” said Basil roughly, “you'd have used your rifle on Louis there. Lucky for you I saw you getting ready to shoot.”
“I may have a chance to use it on him yet,” answered Rogers, and he directed a volley of abuse at the fur trader. The latter flushed hotly.
“Come aside, you two,” said Stephen, nodding to his brother and the fur trader. “Now,” he said, when they were out of ear shot of the others, “am I to understand, Basil, that you induced those halfbreeds to liberate that man?”
“You've got the idea exactly. See here, Steve, Raymond's a friend of mine; his father's one of the big men in Salt Lake. Raymond and the old man never got along any too well, and a while back Raymond joined the army. He knew that would make the old man hop and swear, but he found he'd rather overdone the business, and, naturally, he tried to cut loose from the whole thing. He deserted, and was fetched back; that's when you saw him. I heard he was in the guard-house and managed to see him; and he offered me five hundred dollars if I'd help him out and get him into the valley where all the soldiers in the United States can't touch him. As he ain't any money, and as he's pretty slippery, I just had the two half-breeds bring him along so I'd have him where I could keep my hands on him. They're to get half the money, you see.”
Stephen had regarded the fur trader in blank astonishment while he explained the part he had had in the deserter's release. Now he turned to Bushrod, who burst out laughing.
“This is a unique adventure for two law-abiding citizens.”
“What would you do?” asked Stephen.
“Do?” cried Bushrod. “Send the miserable rascal back, with our compliments to his colonel.”
“Try it!” said Basil, sullenly.
“Well, and what if we do try it?” said Bushrod, flushing angrily at the other's tone and manner.
“Try it!” repeated Basil doggedly.
But Stephen shook his head slowly. “We're two hundred miles from Fort Laramie,” he said.
“You can keep on. I'll take him back myself, and join you in Salt Lake,” said Bushrod.
“No, if one goes back, all must go back.”
“Well, then, none will go, Steve, you know that.”
“But what about the two half-breeds and the deserter?” asked Stephen, with a troubled frown.
“I expect they'll accompany us into Salt Lake,” said Bushrod, with a shrewd smile. Then he turned on his cousin.
“We'll dispense with you when we reach Salt Lake, do you hear?”
That night the two Indians and the deserter hobbled their horses and went into camp on the edge of the cottonwoods, and within a stone's throw of the wagons.
AS Anna turned from the lane into the public road she met a cart which held a man and a woman. They were on the point of entering the lane as she left it. She smiled and nodded gaily to the man; then she stared hard at his companion. She wondered whom it could be that Mr. Benson had with him, and what he was doing there. Then she regretted she had been in such haste to leave Virginia.
“I am always doing the most stupid things,” she said with a sigh. “I've almost a mind to turn back and pretend I've forgotten something. I wonder if I haven't?” but a hasty search revealed that her purse and handkerchief were in her pocket, and so, perforce, she continued on her way into town.
Meanwhile the cart had kept on up the lane toward the house. “That was Mrs. Bushrod Landray,” Benson explained. “I might have taken you to her, but I think you will prefer to meet her sister.”
When they reached the horse-block by the front steps, Benson climbed briskly down from the cart and turned to assist his companion to alight; but he saw that she hesitated. His glance was full of sympathy.
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Walsh,” he said gently, and his whole manner was the extreme of kindness; then his face brightened. “Perhaps you'd rather I saw her first alone; I can just as well as not. It will save you all explanation. If you don't mind sitting here—” Mrs. Walsh hesitated. “I hardly like to ask so much of you, you have been more than kind already.”
“You must regard me merely as your intermediary. We lawyers are accustomed to execute all kinds of commissions.” and he handed her the reins.
“But not always for such an unprofitable client, Mr. Benson,” she answered gravely.
“Sometimes the mere ability to serve carries its own recompense, Mrs. Walsh. The idea of any other would degrade the service,” and he made her a formal little bow. Then he turned away and went slowly up the steps.
He had not seen Virginia since the day he had driven out to the farm to consult Stephen about the renewal of the note. Virginia herself answered his knock, but her beautiful face was impassive and calm, and her glance strayed on beyond him to the woman in the cart. He felt a sudden sense of exultation in her presence, and the blood mounted warmly to his cheek. He half extended his hand, but while he hesitated, Virginia drew back a step, it might have been unconsciously, and his hand fell at his side.
“Will you grant me a moment in private, Mrs. Landray?” he said deferentially, for even when he came to have the feeling for her that was neither hate nor love, but some part of each, he still paid her this tacit homage; his manner never altered.
Virginia looked at him in surprise, but said: “Certainly, will you come into the library, Mr. Benson?” The conscious severity of her manner toward him did not relax.
This call was quite incomprehensible to her. She acknowledged, however, that to gratify a reasonable curiosity on this point she must sacrifice the opportunity to show her just indignation at the part she still believed he had played in sending her husband West. She led the way down the hall and into the library, where she silently motioned him to a chair. He seated himself and carefully placed his hat and gloves on the floor at his feet. While he was thus engaged her calm eyes were fixed upon him, their look grave and inquiring; and he experienced somewhat the same feeling he had known some five years before when he faced his first judge and jury; there were the same dry lips and parched throat, the same wonder in his heart if anything would come of it when he opened his lips to speak. He knew that his task would not be lightened by any word of hers.
“It's rather a difficult matter that brings me here,” he began haltingly. “I should not have ventured on this errand had it not been that the need was very urgent. You will remember that when your husband went West he took with him a young man by the name of Walsh?”
It was an unlucky start, for Virginia's face hardened perceptibly. He was immediately conscious of this, even while he did not divine the reason for it. He bit his lip, angry with himself that he had not first made his appeal to her pity. Then his pride came to the rescue; this was not the first hostile judge he had confronted.
“Walsh was only recently married when he joined the company; he was a stranger here, but, I believe, a man of excellent antecedents; however, the really serious part of it is, that his wife is quite alone and entirely friendless.”
“I have no patience with him for leaving her,” said Virginia.
“It is hard to condone,” admitted the lawyer.
“It seems to me, Mr. Benson, that since he was too careless to think of his wife's happiness himself, some friend should have reminded him of his duty.”
“I am aware his judgment in the matter may readily be called into question, Mrs. Landray, but I suppose he expects to make his fortune.” He was bent on agreeing with her. He felt her anger but was unable to determine a motive for it.
“And so make amends for all his selfishness? As if he ever could,” cried Virginia in a tone of keen exasperation.
Benson picked up his hat and smoothed the crown nervously. Her manner was inexplicable.
“I wonder you did not advise him as to his duty,” added Virginia.
“I, Mrs. Landray? Why, I never spoke ten words to the man in my life until the day before the company left; then he came to my office and placed one or two small matters of business in my hands.”
“Oh,” said Virginia haughtily. “Your advice was reserved for your friends and clients.”
“Really, Mrs. Landray,” answered Benson quietly, “I am very unfortunate in that I seem to have offended you, but I assure you I am quite in the dark as to what my misdeeds are.”
But Virginia was in no mood to explain; indeed, she considered him quite unworthy of any such frankness, which would have argued an intimacy she did not admit.
“Just now you were speaking to me of Mrs. Walsh,” she said, with a swift change of position, and with a polite if passive interest. “What more have you to tell me of her?”
“While I quite agree with you that Walsh was singularly negligent of her happiness in going West, and in leaving her here among strangers, still the fact remains he did go, but that's not the worst of it. It seems—and Mrs. Walsh told me this with the greatest reluctance—it seems that the money he had put aside for her support in his absence has been lost in some speculation of his brother's, in whose hands the money was left. As nearly as I can gather, Mrs. Walsh is absolutely penniless. She has appealed to me for advice, and I am quite at a loss to know what to suggest; I suppose she can secure employment here of some sort.” Benson paused, and rubbed his chin reflectively and a trifle ruefully. “The whole matter is rather out of my line; but she is so manifestly a lady that I should say it narrowed her chances very materially; naturally, too, she is crushed and humiliated by the whole circumstance, and is hardly able to think for herself. I hoped—I thought—you might be willing to see and advise with her. I know I have no right to impose this upon you, still you have nothing to fear from her, in the way of becoming a dependent, I mean; she is in no sense an object of charity; on the contrary she shows a commendable pride and entire independence of spirit; but she is very young and inexperienced, really scarcely more than a child. I thought you might be able to suggest something she could do. I hardly know what, but surely there is some occupation she can take up until such time as her husband can make suitable provision for her,” he concluded hesitatingly. “I didn't know whom to turn to, until I thought of you.”
There was a pause during which Virginia considered the matter in all its lights. At another time her sympathies, which were always generous, would have led her to prompt action, but now, with the idea of the decay of the family fortunes firmly implanted in her mind, she was reluctant to take a step that might involve her in any way.
Benson's face fell. He had expected something different of her. He half rose from his chair.
“I fear I was entirely too hasty.” There was palpable disappointment in his manner which he did not attempt to conceal.
“No, no,” said Virginia quickly. “I was only wondering if I knew of anything.”
“Then you will see her?” he was immensely relieved.
“Oh, yes, I will go out to her,” and she turned swiftly to the door, but he detained her by a gesture.
“If you will permit it I will ask her to come here to you; probably she will prefer to see you alone. I'll just step down to the mill; I wish to see Paxon,” he said.
Virginia signified her assent, and taking up his hat and gloves he hurried from the room and, a moment later, Mrs. Walsh came quickly into the library, though, evidently, with no little trepidation. She was very young, as Benson had said, slight and fair, and exceedingly pretty. She was dressed in black, but her veil was thrown back so that Virginia could see her face.
“I am very glad to meet you,” said Virginia kindly; then she made a forward step, extending her hand. “Won't you sit down? It's quite a drive out from town; do make yourself comfortable.” And she led her to a chair.
Mrs. Walsh was vastly relieved by her cordiality. She mutely looked her gratitude. After a moment's silence she said: “I should hardly have dared to come to you, Mrs. Landray, without Mr. Benson had urged it. I can't tell you what cause I have to be grateful to him, he has been so kind.”
“It was his place to be kind,” said Virginia; and something told her visitor that Mrs. Landray did not like Mr. Benson. This caused her an instant's surprise.
“You know I am an utter stranger here, Mrs. Landray; my husband came West to fill a position as instructor in Doctor Long's Academy.” The connection had evidently seemed a notable one to the young wife, for she referred it it with manifest pride.
“I think,” said Mrs. Landray shortly, “it was very foolish of him to leave you, and sacrifice such a desirable position.”
“I thought so, too,” agreed the young wife, “but he hopes for such great things from this journey to California. His letters are so brave and full of courage. I am trying to share in all he feels. It was not easy for him to go; I am sure this separation is quite as hard for him to bear as it is for me.”
“But what about you, my dear?” said Virginia. “The fortune he is to make is all in the future. What about the present?”
“Ah, that is very serious,” and her face clouded with doubt. “I shall not know where to write him until after he reaches California; and even then I must wait weeks and months for his answer telling me what to do, and all that while I must live—but how?”
“Then you are quite without means?” said Virginia gravely.
“Yes, but when Jasper left, there was a small sum of money which he had placed with his brother in New York when he came to Benson. He had arranged, as he thought, that this money was to be sent to me, and I was to place it in Mr. Benson's hands for safe keeping, who was to let me have it as I needed it; but now Jasper's brother writes that the business in which the money was invested has been a failure, and that it is lost; that there is no hope of recovering any part of it.”
“Has he made no effort to recover it?” asked Virginia frowning. It was a matter of no small regret to her that this brother had been permitted to shirk his responsibilities. She felt that something should be done to him.
“Mr. Benson has written him, and I, of course; but all he will say is that his business is a failure, and that he has been able to save nothing from the wreck. It is useless to look to him for help; I must do for myself.”
“And what can you do?” asked Virginia.
“I might become a seamstress, or a nurse, or a companion.”
Virginia shook her head. “You are not strong enough to be a nurse, and I know of no one who wants a companion; as for sewing, it is illy-paid work at best; you could scarcely make a living at that. Have you no one—in the East, I mean, who might be willing to help you until your husband can provide for you himself?”
“My aunt, with whom I lived as a child, has died since my marriage, and Jasper only has this brother, and he is on the point of leaving for California himself.”
“I should like to see him,” said Virginia. Mrs. Walsh looked at her in some surprise. “I would give him a piece of my mind.” Virginia added, for her fuller enlightenment.
“He is not very reliable, I fear,” admitted Mrs. Walsh.
“So I should suppose,” said Virginia drily
“Dr. Long would have given me a position in his academy to teach the very small children, but his daughter will do that so really he can do nothing for me. I think he was rather put out at my husband's leaving so suddenly. Of course, I went to him first. I have been very wretched and lonely—” and her lips quivered pathetically.
“My dear,” said Virginia with sudden animation, “you shall stay here with me until you hear from your husband!”
“Oh, Mrs. Landray!”
“I am lonely, too. It may be that we can cheer each other up. At any rate you shall remain with me until your husband knows of your need and provides for you. It will not be for long, and I shall be most happy to serve you in this way.”
“But I can't be a dependent—that of all things—”
“But you won't be. No, I won't listen to your objections. I know Stephen would expect me to do this.”
Just then, through the open window, she saw Benson crossing the yard from the mill. She turned toward the door.
“Here comes Mr. Benson. I will see him and tell him it is all arranged.”
She found the lawyer with one foot on the porch steps, hesitating as to whether or not he should enter the house.
“Mr. Benson,” she said in her clear, calm voice, “Mrs. Walsh will stay with me. May I ask you to see that her trunk is sent out from the town in the morning? Though, perhaps, I'd better send Sam in for it, so I need not trouble you.”
“It will be no trouble in the world,” he made haste to assure her. “Mrs. Landray, this is most kind of you, most generous; I am more than grateful,” and his boyish face flushed with real feeling. Virginia's face, however, remained wholly impassive. She did not ask him into the house, but stood above him on the top step, statuesque and beautiful, her tall figure sharply outlined against the dark green of the woodbine and wisteria that rioted over the porch. Benson stole a glance at her. His face was still radiant. This was what he had secretly expected of her, and his own generous enthusiasm leaped up to touch her's; but it met with no response.
“She doesn't want praise,” he thought. “She is satisfied to be kind and generous.” He hesitated irresolutely, but there was no invitation in her manner, and she did not speak. It occurred to him that she might be waiting for him to go, and his face burnt again.
“I will drive out and see Mrs. Walsh in a day or so if I may.”
“Certainly,” said Virginia. “Perhaps you will see her before you go?”
“You will say good-bye to her for me, please. I'll not go in.” He half hoped she would insist; but her attitude was one of waiting. He turned slowly toward his horse.
“If there is anything I can do, Mrs. Landray, I trust you will not hesitate to command me,” and he took his leave in some haste; more haste, it occurred to him afterward, than the occasion warranted. .
As Virginia turned back into the hall, Mrs. Walsh met her. “Oh, has he gone?” she said. “I so wanted to thank him.” and her voice was full of regret. “What will he think of me, after all he has done! Can't I run after him?”
“It is too late now, I fear, but he will be here again and then you will have your opportunity.” Then her glance softened. “You are such a child,” she said, extending her hand with a cordial gesture. “What is your name?”
“Jane,” answered the other, smiling happily and forgetting all about Benson; and then she slipped her arms about Virginia, and there was a moment given up to hushed confidences on the part of the young wife in the darkened hall. At last Virginia cried: “Oh, my dear, how could he leave you when he knew that?” and her great eyes, now all softness and tenderness, swam with pity. “How could he?” she repeated.