WHEN the railroad came to Benson, it reached down from a lake port, a feeble little tentacle of iron which joined another feeble tentacle that had pushed up from a river point. Theoretically, its coming was in response to the town's need, because of its mills and warehouses, and the bounty of its waving fields of grain; so Colonel Sharp declared in an editorial which contained much Latin, some very superior English, and numerous allusions to destiny; and the town, lacking not in local pride, and having had dreams of civic greatness, was prepared to believe that its importance as a commercial centre was the magnet that drew the road thither.
But Jacob Benson and some others knew that the real reason the railroad came, was that they had exchanged certain dollars for uncertain stock; that but for this, the line would have sought the town of Carthage, distant some twenty miles to the east, where the air was heavy with the reek of soft-coal smoke, the chimneys of the blast furnaces blazed unceasingly in the night, and a small but active population worked, drank, and fought, beyond what was habitual to any other population of its size in the State.
While the general public was favourable to the road, there were certain wise ones who clung with satisfaction to the memory of days when the pioneer turned the corn of his clearing into whisky; his wheat into flour; and rafted his produce down the Little Wolf River, and thence by the Ohio and Mississippi to New Orleans, where boat and cargo were exchanged for Spanish silver. These, dubiously regarding what the world in its short-sighted folly was pleased to call progress, pointed out that even yet, all the town traded in, found its way conveniently enough by the stage road to lake or river point; so it mattered not that the Little Wolf had become a failing stream, flowing through depleted forest lands; so shallow, where it had once floated great rafts, that now the lightest skiff was steered with difficulty among the encroaching sand-bars.
These ancient oracles, looking back over forty years through a haze of pleasant memories, took no stock in Colonel Sharp's mouthfilling sentences. They declared that the advent of the railroad meant the town's ruin, for how could a town reasonably expect to thrive unless it was at either one end or the other of a line?
For full ten years there had been talk of this railroad, but when it did come and when the first brief wonder of it was past, it was at once as a familiar thing; even in the full effulgence of its newness, it was not quite a miracle; it had been a miracle when fifty miles away; it was still a miracle when this distance had been reduced to ten miles; and then when the first train steamed into Benson, the wonder seemed almost as remote, as the day when the first horse was broken and ridden by the first man, that pre-historic genius who had found his own legs all too short for the work they must do.
The railroad came to the town of Benson the year Benson, the man, returned from the West. It came visibly one cold February day in a flurry of snow, and with the fall of twilight; a puffing, panting engine, of even then obsolete type, drawing a single dingy coach, once spectacularly decked with streamers and flags, now wet and bedraggled. It rumbled out of the deep cut north of town, at a rate of speed variously estimated by the crowd of men at the station at from ten to thirty miles an hour.
Young Jacob Benson, as a stockholder, with certain other public-spirited citizens, who between them had taken some hundreds of shares in the enterprise, formed a little group with Mr. Cammack the mayor; Captain Tompkins, the sheriff; Mr. Bently, the postmaster; the members of the town council, Colonel Sharp of thePioneer, and Judge Bradly, whose presence could be counted on at any public gathering where there was the slightest possibility of argument or oratory, for both of which, so eminent an authority as Colonel Sharp had declared him singularly fitted.
This opinion having been carried to the judge, it had provoked a sentiment of such tropic warmth on his part, that the colonel rarely crossed the square going from his office to the tavern for so simple a thing as a drink of whisky, without the judge, whose office windows also overlooked the square, starting in instant pursuit. Being favoured as to the distance he had to cover, he was usually able to plant himself squarely in the path of his victim; and the colonel, mild of eye and mein, and lacking in decision of character, invariably proffered the expected invitation.
Now the judge held the editor affectionately by the arm; but ventured only such remarks as he felt must fully sustain the other's opinion of his intellectual attainments; but to live up to the flattering opinion the colonel entertained for him, had its difficulties; it was quieting and not conducive to conversation; and while he felt the present was a great occasion, an occasion pregnant with deep significance for the future, he searched his mind, which was pleasantly vacant, for some thought that would be adequate to the moment.
A wave of enthusiasm diffused itself over the crowd as the engine's headlight swung out of the cut north of town.
“Why, the infernal thing's smoking like a cook stove!” cried Mr. Bartlett at Benson's elbow.
Benson turned to the stage driver,
“Are you going with us?” he asked.
“Me ride on that doggone wheezy contrivance, me risk my life on that blame steaming invention where I'm likely to be set afire any minute? No, sir! You don't catch me!”
Benson laughed.
“I don't think you need fear that; you'd better come along.”
But Mr. Bartlett only shook his head.
“And they say the stage is done for, put out of business by that ornery looking concern. I don't believe it, people's got too much sense. I wouldn't like to think my fellers was such damn fools. What time will she make, do you reckon; ten miles an hour?”
“Twice that, three times that,” said Benson.
Mr. Bartlett shook his head.
“That,” said he, “is one of your yarns. It can't be done; a man can't set still and get his breath going at that clip. Blame it! we are coming to pretty times. It will scare the hosses, it will run over cows; damned if it ain't real dangerous! What's to keep it from just scooting off through the fields, from getting clear loose?” He skipped back suddenly in some alarm as the engine rolled past, but when it came to a stop he recovered his courage. “The town's done for,” he mourned. “I'm glad I ain't a property owner; catch me owning a house in a town that's got a railroad! Travel will just be sliding past at a top-notch gait; it ain't going to be like the stage, where all hands stop to take a drink at the tavern and put good money in circulation. Now they'll be piling through in their foolish haste. The big towns 'll suck the blood out of the little towns.”
“His is the world-old cry against the new,” murmured the judge in the colonel's ear with a wise shake of the head.
“They say the government's stopped work on the national roads!” cried Mr. Bartlett more in sorrow than in anger. “And the canals is done for, too! Well, there's plenty of sense in a canal, for its natural to ride on the water, and I ain't opposed to anything that's natural, but I'm agin all foolishness.”
An old man, bent and withered, and leaning heavily on a cane, pushed his eager way into the centre of the little group.
“Why, Mr. Randall, what are you doing here?” said the stage driver. “I reckon you don't take much stock in this foolishness? You've heard a heap too much nonsense talked in your time to be fooled now.”
The old man shot him a shrewd glance out of his beady black eyes.
“It's fat Jim Bartlett!” he said in a shrill cracked treble. “Fat Jim Bartlett, who's seeing the last of his easy hoss-driving job.”
“Don't you believe it, pap!” said the stage driver good-naturedly.
The old man rapped on the new station platform with his heavy thorn walking stick.
“Why ain't there more doing, jedge?” he said. “You should ha' seen us here when the fust stage coach come through from clean acrost the mountings.”
“Do you remember that?” asked Colonel Sharp interestedly.
“Do I remember it! I've seen this here country grow outen the timber. It was rolling green for two hundred miles, smooth and round as a duck's breast, when I crost the mountings; not a clearing, not a road, not a house. I seen the fust booted foot that was put onto the trace; the fust shod hoof; I seen the fust grist of corn that was ground on the Little Wolf; I seen the fust barrel of whisky that was run outen a still; I seen the fust flat-bottomed boat that was poled up from the Ohio; I seen the fust wheeled cart that General Landray fetched in from Virginia, when he come with his niggers; and I seen the fust stage coach, and rid in it, too, long enough afore your time, fat Jim Bartlett! That's enough to crowd into one life time, ain't it?”
“You seen a plenty when you seen the stage, pap,” said Mr. Bartlett, tolerantly. “I believe in letting good enough alone, I do. The world got on pretty tolerable well for a many year without none of these here railroads!”
But the stage driver had the argument to himself; the judge and
Benson and their friends were entering the coach, and they had taken old Pap Randall with them. And then presently the miracle of steam and iron rumbled off down the track to cross the new railroad bridge which spanned the Little Wolf River not two hundred yards distant from where the old covered bridge stood, stained and weather-beaten, with here and there a board missing.
The river rippled beneath the bridges, the old and the new, where it had once swept in silent volume, soundless and deep. From the bank above, the big warehouses cast long black shadows.
The day of flat boats had come and gone; the river, with its failing flow and the sand-bars that choked its channel, had been the first means of pioneer trade; and now the stage road was doomed too, this new marvel had come to usurp its use, to take its place, its trade, its life; the life of cross-road shops, and stores, and taverns. It would soon be shorn of its dignity, its traffic of herds and flocks, and heavy merchandize, the hurry and bustle of its flying mail stages; to be left a thing disused, a mere country highway, the relic of a day of lesser needs and smaller activities. Two strands of wire, hung on poles, followed the course of the railroad; and on these the wind played a dirge.
It was midnight when their little journey by rail ended; and Judge Bradly attached himself to Benson as the party separated. The night was cold and raw, and the two men walked rapidly up the street. They came to the judge's boarding-house, and Benson paused.
“Good-night, judge,” he said.
The judge was searching his pockets one after another. “I seem to have lost my key. This thing of boarding is a great mistake. Every man should have a wife to let him in when he stays out late!”
“See if you can make some one hear; if you can't, you'd better come with me,” said Benson.
The judge mounted the steps and began to pound vigorously on the door. He continued this for a minute or two, pausing at intervals to listen.
“Oh, come along!” cried Benson impatiently.
The judge abandoned the attempt, however, with some reluctance, but he rejoined Benson after delivering a final kick to the door.
“I like,” said he, adjusting himself to a new and pleasant train of thought as they moved away, “I like a hot whisky when I come in late; it's been one of the little luxuries I have carried into my lonely state.”
“You shall have your hot whisky, judge,” said Benson.
“My dear Jake, you must not let me put you to any trouble; for I know that admirably conducted as your house is, you rather ignore the liquids. So if hot whiskey makes too great a demand, I'd suggest that just plain whisky is preferable to no whiskey at all. When a man is on the wrong side of fifty, his little nips do him a world of good.”
They had reached their destination, and Benson unlocked his office door and motioned the judge to precede him into the room.
A lamp was burning on his desk, and the big logs he had thrown on the fire earlier in the evening had wasted to a mass of glowing coals. He added a stick or two, and soon a cheerful blaze was roaring in the wide chimney. Having rid himself of his hat and coat, Benson produced a black bottle and two glasses from his cupboard, and sugar and a pitcher of hot water from the kitchen; the judge watched these preparations with grave but silent approval. This approval grew and reached its zenith, when he on one side of the fireplace, and his host on the other, smiled and nodded over the rims of their glasses. They sipped in silent enjoyment, with their feet thrust out toward the fire.
“Jake,” said the judge, “it's well that the pitcher has capacity. This is just right. If you attempted to duplicate it, you might fail. Failure is always a sad thing, Jake, a thing to be avoided.”
“It is,” agreed Benson.
“My dear boy, I am troubled,” said the judge. He threw a certain significance into the glance that accompanied these words.
“And what have you to worry about?” questioned the younger man lazily.
“I'm alone,” began the judge in his mellow voice. “Quite alone. I may say a homeless vagabond. This is the second time I've been locked out this winter. Now I ask you, Jake, what sort of a life is this for a man of my years, and if you will allow me, my position?”
“Well,” said Benson, cheerfully, “you shouldn't forget your key.”
“That's a detail I never had to burden myself with in Mrs. Bradly's lifetime, sir. It was her pride to care for me in such matters; it furnished her with occupation.” There was a long pause, during which the judge's glass was filled and emptied and filled again, and then he spoke.
“Have you seen Mrs. Landray recently?” he asked.
“Which Mrs. Landray?”
“Bush's widow.”
“Not recently; why?”
“I was merely curious.” And he was silent again, but not for long. “Jake?”
“Yes, judge.”
“She's going to make a fool of herself.”
“I dare say,” said Benson indifferently.
The judge stared at him in some surprise.
“You dare say?” he repeated.
“I mean it's quite likely.”
“In what particular?” demanded the judge.
“Oh, in any particular,” said Benson. “I haven't formulated any definite theories where she is concerned.”
The judge considered this in silence for a time.
“This is merely a general opinion?” he asked at last.
“Merely a general opinion,” said Benson amiably.
“Then you haven't observed any new developments?”
“No;” and Benson yawned.
“You have heard no gossip?”
“None; I didn't know there was any.”
“You are quite sure you haven't noticed anything, Jake?”
“Quite.”
“Not this new bent of hers?”
“Oh, you mean her religious interests? Why, they're natural enough. I thought them rather hopeful.”
“Hopeful!” repeated the judge bristling.
“Yes, certainly; religion's a good thing for any one.”
“Religion!” and the judge snorted the word with angry contempt “Well, if you choose to call it religion!”
“What do you call it?” inquired Benson.
“Observe me, Jake; a man seems as necessary to some women's religion as a God. In her case, it's that long-legged scarecrow from India! You mark my words, the little fool will marry him! Well, she could 'a done better.”
“What!” cried Benson. “Dr. Stillman; no!”
“The little fool will marry him,” repeated the judge slowly and sternly. Then he sighed deeply.
“And what if she does,” said Benson.
“Well, I am glad you can view it so calmly.”
“I can, just that calmly,” said Benson cheerfully.
“I can't,” said the judge. “To me, sir, it is a mater of considerable moment.”
“Oh, I see,” said Benson.
“My dear boy, this is a weakness I shrink from revealing, but I feel assured of your delicacy, so I shall speak frankly and without reserve.” The judge considered for a moment. “I have had, how many whiskies, Jake?”
“Five,” said his host promptly.
“I made it four; but never mind, it's a point on which I am likely enough to be mistaken.”
“What's that to do with it?” inquired Benson.
“The vine,” said the judge, “inspired some of the choicest outbursts of classic poetry; I suppose the distillery will some day inspire a truly American muse—you don't follow me?”
“Not quite.”
“The point is that I may speak with an abandon I should eschew at another time. Five hot whiskies make a difference in the intensity of a man's emotions. To-morrow I shall probably regret my candour; so I want to feel that in remembering what I say to-night, you will not fail to recall that this excellent mixture may have had something to do with it.”
“I think I understand,” said Benson laughing.
“Two o'clock in the morning confidences are always personal, Jake; a man seldom stays up late unless it is to talk of himself, or to drink, and in either case the result is the same; he says too much.”
“Aren't you rather forgetting Mrs. Landray?” inquired Benson.
“Jake, it's outrageous that she should be allowed to sacrifice herself.”
“I didn't know—” began Benson.
“You are going to say you didn't know it was a matter of any interest to me.”
“Something of the sort,” said Benson. “When I came back you did seem interested, but I didn't take it seriously; and to tell you the truth your interest struck me as premature.”
“That was only your inexperience, Jake; it's quite evident your knowledge in such matters is all gleaned at second hand. I dallied with the situation too long. I couldn't quite make up my mind; there are merits in being married, and there are merits in being single; you can't have your cake and eat it, too; and while I was pondering the matter, Stillman cut in. It was plain from the very moment he arrived in town that he was to have the pick of our eligible female population. Disgusting, ain't it?”
“Very,” agreed Benson.
“I'm threshing over old chaff with you, Jake. My chances now are about like the camel's at getting through the needle's eye, not worth mentioning.”
“Then you did come to a decision?”
“After I had hung fire long enough to decide I wanted what some other man had won. That's one of the risks you take when you wait until you're sure you're right before you go ahead.”
“As a widower, judge—”
“At present a widower, Jake; kindly phrase it so; for who is master of his fate?” he adjusted his stock rather pompously. “I am a man of some sentiment. Drat it! At fifty odd, and with sound health, one does not willingly admit that the best things in life are past! There are other widows—damn it, sir! There are maids, too!” and he wagged his head and leered knowingly at Benson. The hot whisky had steadily diminished, but for its disappearance the judge and not Benson was responsible. The judge now tilted the pitcher over the glass he held in his uncertain right hand, but only a drop or two fell from it; he looked hard at his host, but his host avoided his glance. With a sigh he placed the pitcher bottom up on the floor at his feet, and his glass beside it, also inverted. “Jake, have you any influence with her?”
“Not the least in the world, judge.”
“Hum! That's unfortunate. I hoped that you might have, and that you might be willing to exert it in my behalf; casually, of course, very casually; a word here, a word there.”
“I would if I possessed it, judge; but you see in trying to control her expenditures I have sacrificed some portion of her regard.”
“And her money will go to that confounded missionary!” and the judge groaned aloud in bitterness of spirit.
“But how do you know that it will?” asked Benson.
“It is as plain as the nose on your face! He is always there, and she has become a terrible prig; and last night I found her reading, what do you think, Jake? Edwards on 'Redemption!' She told me she felt instructed, quickened, strengthened, by its precious message! Now she'd stick to a lighter intellectual diet if there wasn't a man in sight; she's after more than redemption! Jake, can't you help me? I'm to be pitied, sir! I no sooner see some female capable of engendering a sentimental interest in my breast, than fate intervenes,” he smiled darkly. “I don't mind telling you that this is the third minister of the Gospel who has crossed my path.”
He had fallen more and more a prey to his sorrow, until it quite unmanned him, his forebodings becoming of the most gloomy character imaginable.
“I shall nip the bud of affection next time before it becomes the open flower of love! I'm marked for disappointment; I feel its blight, and I succumb! Confound it, Jake! she led me on, now I come to think of it—her conduct's been highly scandalous! I wonder what her friends, what her sister-in-law is going to say, when this gets out?”
“I wonder, too!” said Benson.
WHEN Virginia first heard the gossip that linked Anna's name with that of Dr. Stillman's, it won from her a shocked and indignant denial; but a doubt was born in her mind; it troubled her not a little the more she thought of it; and she drove at once into town determined to learn if possible the whole truth.
She found Anna at home. With her was a tall, dark man, a man with a narrow receding forehead, a sallow skin, and lean jaws. With much apparent solicitude she was hovering over this visitor whom she was regaling with afternoon tea. To Virginia she introduced him as Dr. Stillman, and in a single swift glance Virginia took stock of him as she acknowledged the introduction by a curtsey, that was palpably most disquieting to the missionary; indeed, her manner was so cold and distant that the smile which had relaxed his thin lips frittered itself away in the embarrassed silence that fell upon him.
He was aware that he must reckon on the antagonism of this splendid beauty; for he had been quick to recognize that the antagonism was there. It shook his sleek self-approval, and he turned to Anna,—Anna with her soft ways and pretty flatteries which made him feel strong and masterful and thoroughly at ease in her parlour, with a pleasant proprietory interest in her and in all that belonged to her;—but he was at once made to understand that in this small family crisis he was to stand alone.
He had heard the phrase, a great lady, and the younger Mrs. Landray lived up to the title in a most disquieting fashion. There was a subtle claim to superiority on her part that he weakly accepted without a challenge or the wish to assert himself. Anna's quite uncommon prettiness, too, paled beside Virginia's fuller beauty, which had never been complimentary to others of her sex.
Virginia, meanwhile, had been indulging in certain frigid civilities that did not exactly include the doctor, yet did not actually ignore his presence; they were sufficiently restrained, however; and he eagerly availed himself of the first opening to beat a retreat, and backed awkwardly from the room. On the steps with the house door closed at his back, he paused, and an unhealthy glow suffused his cheeks. The memory of her manner toward him rankled and hurt his pride; then he recalled Anna's soft farewells, and clapped his tall beaver on his head with an air that was almost jaunty, while his dark eyes flashed with triumph.
“So that is Dr. Stillman?” said Virginia, when the door had closed on the missionary; and as this did not seem to call for a reply, Anna was silent. “I have been hearing a good deal about him.” She shot Anna a swift searching glance.
“Yes,” said Anna airily, “he is very much before the public.”
“I don't mean in those ways,” said Virginia. “He doesn't seem a very cheerful person,” she added.
“That depends on how you take him, and I must say, Virginia, you were almost rude to the man, I never saw him so ill at ease.”
“Was I? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be.”
“That was the trouble, you didn't mean to be anything to him; he might just as well have been a piece of furniture, for all the notice he got from you.”
“Don't you think it unwise of you to see so much of him?” asked Virginia abruptly.
“Why is it unwise?” demanded Anna, who was instantly on the defencive.
“It will make talk,” urged Virginia gently.
“Anything will make that;” Anna said. “I'm sure I'm careful, I see almost no one, I go nowhere! I don't know what more you can ask of me, Virginia.”
“But the doctor comes here very frequently, does he not?”
“Dear me!” said Anna fretfully. “One can hear most anything if one will only listen.”
“Of course, I know it's the merest gossip—you couldn't—” she broke off abruptly.
Anna elevated her eyebrows. “I don't see why any one should say anything; he calls occasionally, he is interested in—”
“Interested, dear, in you?” questioned Virginia.
“Oh, dear, no! In my spiritual welfare,” she dropped her eyes prettily.
Virginia laughed quite audibly at this.
Anna shivered at the sound. She hated ridicule.
“Since poor Bush's death, I have felt that my life has been so worldly; indeed, I feel that I can never return to my former career of folly,” she sighed.
“Isn't that a rather harsh name for it? But I don't see what Dr. Stillman has to do with that,” said Virginia.
“Amusements have lost their relish. I am feeling the need of a more evangelical faith,” murmured Anna. The younger Mrs. Lan-dray laughed outright at this.
“And I suppose that is the reason you delight in the doctor's evangelical conversation.”
Anna sighed.
“Of course nothing is sacred to ridicule.”
“Oh, don't be silly!” said Virginia sharply. “Don't confound the doctor with his teachings!”
But Anna repelled the idea by a look.
“I do wish I knew what you meant,” said Virginia.
“Oh, I am so lonely!” cried Anna, with sudden frankness. “Of course I loved Bush, but I can't live in the memory of that! I am not like you, Virginia; there is this difference, why don't you try and understand it;” and then, by degrees, she told Virginia all; while the latter sat at her side, shocked, silent, and indignant. She had promised to marry the missionary. “I thought life had ended for me with Bush's death, but I find I can still be something to some one,” she added in justification of the step she had taken.
“I see,” said Virginia, with unexpected gentleness, and the anger faded from her eyes, and in its place was only sorrow.
“I was devoted to him while he lived—you know that, Virginia?” insisted Anna, almost fiercely. “And I adore his memory, and always shall, but it's not enough,” she looked up into her sister's face. “You will never marry again, you are different from me. Oh, I wish I were like you, dear!”
“What about little Stephen?” asked Virginia quietly. She accepted the situation, she felt there was nothing more to say.
“We shan't take him with us,” said Anna, greatly relieved by the other's altered tone.
“Take him with you where?” demanded Virginia.
“To India,” answered Anna.
“To India!” cried Virginia.
“Yes, to India;” but there was no little trepidation in her manner.
“You surely don't mean to tell me that man proposes to marry you and take you to India?”
“Why, of course, dear,” meekly, and as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Virginia looked at her in wonder. With Bush, she had always had her own way, he had denied her nothing. Virginia remembered her insistence; that she had never abandoned a purpose or desire until he yielded; and she mentally contrasted the handsome, easygoing fellow with this narrow-browed stranger from over the seas, and was moved to something very like pity for Anna.
“Why don't you leave little Stephen with me?” she at length asked.
“I thought you might like to have him; of course not for always,” she hastened to explain. “But the doctor says India is no place for children.”
“He is going to return there? You have not sought to dissuade him, to use your influence?”
“I haven't tried. It would be useless. He has started such a great work there among those dreadful pagans; he thinks I can be of such help to him in his labours.”
And Virginia saw that vanity, and probably a very real sense of loss, had worked this change in Anna; she also realized from the ready acceptance of the life the doctor had mapped out for her, something of the man's determination of character, a force that was all the stronger because of the narrow channels into which it had been directed by the chance that had determined his career.
“So I am to have little Stephen—poor little fellow!”
They were silent for a time and then Anna said, still in justification of her course.
“It's my chance for happiness, Virginia. I'm too young to bury myself alive, I know Bush wouldn't expect it, I know he would approve; and you can't think what a comfort that conviction is!”
“And you really expect to marry Dr. Stillman?” Virginia set her lips. “Then I have nothing more to say, Anna, absolutely nothing; you must judge for yourself. I don't propose to criticize you, or your future husband; no good can come of that, and we won't be friends long if I do. Of course I'll take little Stephen, you know that all along I have wanted you and him at the farm; I'd rather have you both, but I see that will never be,” she quitted her chair as she spoke.
“Oh, please don't go just yet, dear,” entreated Anna. Now that Virginia knew, and seemed so reasonable in her opinions she would have liked to keep her and make her her confidant; there was much to tell, so much in the way of profitable discussion of her plans. But Virginia had heard enough.
“I must go, Anna, I really must go; Sam West is tired of waiting for me, and I wish to go home,” she sighed gently. “I shall be sorry to lose you, dear,” she said graciously, “and perhaps when I am a little more familiar with the idea I shall see it differently; more as you see it.”
But on the drive home, the cheerfulness she had assumed in Anna's presence left her; she realized that it was but a few months since they had really known of their loss, and already Anna had formed new ties and interests, and these far removed from anything that had fallen within their past experiences. India—it vaguely suggested the ends of the earth, but beyond this it was only a sound, it carried no meaning.
It was found that Anna's affairs and their adjustment, presented certain difficulties which necessitated the calling in of the patient Benson. By the terms of her husband's will, she was, in the event of her second marriage, to take one third of his estate and the house in town, the remainder going to little Stephen.
Virginia consented to the expedient of mortgaging the mill. It was in vain that Benson expostulated; pointing out the manifest unfairness of such a course; but a very satisfactory condition resulted from the buying out of Anna's interest; he was relieved of her, and now he could administer Virginia's means to the best possible advantage.
He would like to have known just what Virginia thought about Anna's marriage, but he never ventured to ask; and he fancied he detected in her manner a certain reserve whenever it was under discussion.
Benson also found a purchaser for Anna's house in town, and she overcame her dislike for the country sufficiently to go out to the farm with little Stephen, where she remained until her marriage, which occurred late in the summer following Benson's return from the west. To the very last she was sustained by her love of excitement; but when Benson, and Dr. Stillman, and Dr. Stillman's brother, who had performed the ceremony, had withdrawn to the library where they spent a gloomy half hour in waiting for Sam West to drive up to the door; and she and Virginia with Jane had gone up-stairs to finish packing her trunks; her gaiety quite left her; she appreciated for the first time the radical nature of the change that was before her; and she clung to Virginia with many endearments, weeping softly.
“I may never come back, Virginia; and if I don't, you will be a mother to my boy?”
“He is more to me than any one else in the world, now that you are going away, dear,” said Virginia gently. She had forgotten all of Anna's selfishness, her general unfairness, and the fact that she had not disdained to drive an exceedingly close bargain in the division of the estate; the latter, a point that the exasperated Benson could not get over and which he had kept before her with some insistence. These were the contradictory elements in human nature she felt; and her only emotion now was one of generous pity.
“Where is Stephen, Virginia?”
“He is with Martha; shall Jane go for him?”
“No, not yet. Let him stay with Martha till the last minute; until just before I go. You will do more for him than I could, Virginia; it is only believing this that makes it possible for me to leave him. You are lots wiser than I am, so perhaps it is providential that he should be left with you. When I come back in three or four years I expect he will be quite a big fellow, but don't let him forget his mother. Perhaps I haven't been just the best mother in the world, but in my own way I love him; you will not let him forget me—promise! Oh, it is so dreadful to be torn by these different loves and duties, I wish I was sure that I was doing right! The doctor doesn't seem to have any doubts, he is quite sure that I am.”
But Virginia had nothing to say to this. She disliked Dr. Stillman, for with true feminine constancy she had refused to modify her first unfavourable opinion of him. Anna she could forgive for her weakness and selfishness, and for what she considered her lack of any deep feeling, for Anna belonged to the family and bore the name of Lan-dray; but the doctor was to be judged by quite different standards; the charity she chose to exercise in the one case did not apply to the other.
And Anna having done exactly what she wished, having had her own way in every particular, and having sacrificed nothing of her feelings, her convenience, or her worldly fortunes, was now bent on being handsomely contrite.
“I have been frivolous and extravagant, and I expect a great care to you, Virginia, since poor Bush went away. I hope you will forgive me.”
“You have nothing to reproach yourself with, dear,” Virginia assured her.
“Oh, yes, I have! I fear even in settling up the estate I was selfish I should not have asked you to buy out my interest. Mr. Benson said I was involving you and the property. I don't see why he should have added that to my burdens at this time. I don't think he likes me any more; but it doesn't matter about him, Virginia; I don't care what he thinks, but it meanseverythingto me what you think! And you won't be influenced by what he says about the property; that I should pay back the extra money I had before we knew? That was pure spite, Virginia!”
“I am sure he didn't mean it as you think, dear.”
“Then I wish he hadn't said it; for I shall always be troubled by it, especially as I think it is quite true; no, I can't cheat myself I am going away with a guilty conscience in the matter; my only consolation is that I shall probably have to make great sacrifices for those awful pagans! The doctor has assured me that my life will be one of the greatest self-denial; you can think of me out there as being all I wasnothere, butshouldhave been!”
“I wish you were not going!” said Virginia.
“I feel that I am passing out of your life, and out of Stephen's; perhaps I shall never come back—I begin to be afraid!”
“Oh, no, that is nonsense!”
“Do you really think so, Virginia? You are such a comfort! You will have Stephen write me, I shall get so much happiness from his dear little scrawls!”
By this time she was dressed for her journey; and Virginia and Jane were busy with her trunks. Anna sat and watched them, slowly drawing on her gloves, and occasionally favouring them with suggestions and advice. She had already recovered much of her cheerfulness; and it was plain that the proper packing of those trunks was now the matter that rested heaviest on her mind.
Down stairs in the library, Benson and Dr. Stillman, and Dr. Stillman's brother sat stiffly in their chairs and watched the gilt hands of the big marble clock on the mantle-piece. Benson, erect and uncomfortable, and monosyllabic as to speech, was finding Mr. Stillman fussy and objectionable; and he had all along considered the doctor generally offencive; furthermore he thought the whole affair scandalous and wholly without justification. But he resented it most on Virginia's account; she would have to take up the burden of Anna's neglected duties in the case of little Stephen; and she already had Jane and Jane's baby on her hands; cares of his providing, that were now a misery to him to think of.
Presently Sam West drove up from the barn and hitched his team. The three men heard him open the front door and mount the stairs. He had gone for Anna's trunks.
Benson heaved a sigh of relief and quitted his chair with alacrity: the doctor and his brother rose, too.
“Can I offer you a seat with us into town?” asked the former, civilly turning to Benson.
“No, I thank you, I have my own horse and cart here.”
The doctor extended his hand.
“Good-bye, sir,” he said coldly, and Benson touched the tips of the three nerveless fingers he had given him.
“Good-bye,” said the lawyer.
“You will drive in with us, Andrew?” and the doctor turned to his brother.
“Yes, indeed, my dear John; I must see the last of you and Anna,” and he patted the missionary affectionately on the arm, who now turned from him abruptly and moved toward the door opening into the hall.
On the stairs above, Anna, and Virginia, and Jane appeared. Anna was smiling radiantly, though there were still traces of tears on her cheeks, for she had just parted from little Stephen. Virginia, who was watching her, knew that no deep nor stable emotion could long possess her light nature; and she felt her own heart fill with tenderness for the child.
Benson, roused out of the apathy, in which he had passed the last hour, to something like brightness, said:
“I wonder when we shall see you again, Mrs. Stillman? Those heathen over in India are to be congratulated.”
“Confess you are not sorry to see the last of me!” said Anna, giving him her hand.
“I shall confess nothing of the kind,” he assured her.
“Those are your civilities, sir—I know what they are worth, and I am not misled. I expect I have been a great care to you;” she smiled up brightly into his face. “But now that I am going away you must forgive me, you really must; for I want to feel that I am leaving only friends behind.”
Imperceptibly the doctor had edged her toward the door while she spoke, and through the door, and out on to the porch; and now she was standing at the head of the steps leading down to the path where Sam West waited at the horses' heads. She turned with a little smothered cry of dismay to throw her arms about Virginia for the last time.
“Be good to him!” she whispered. “Oh, I know you will!” she added in the same breath, and then the doctor urged her gently down the steps. From the door of the carriage she turned again, quite tremulous in her grief; but Virginia had disappeared, and there was only Jane and Benson.
“Good-bye!” cried Anna, “good-bye, and God bless you all!”
“Good-bye!” they called back, and then the doctor pushing his brother before him, mounted stiffly to his seat and closed the door; Sam touched his horses lightly with his whip, and the carriage rolled down the lane, and was soon out of sight on its road to Benson.
“They are gone!” said the lawyer at last, withdrawing his eyes from the spot where the carriage had last been visible through the trees that overhung the road. “We Americans are becoming a dreadfully diffuse people.”
Jane looked at him inquiringly.
“He must be a very good man to do all he does do for people who don't appreciate it,” she suggested.
“He is!” said the lawyer. “No one but a very good man would risk being so excessively unpleasant.”
“You don't like him,” said Jane; “but you think he will be good to her; do say that.”
“Oh, he's probably a man of high domestic virtues. Yes, he'll be good to her, in his way.” They were silent for a moment, and then Benson asked: “How about little Stephen; how did he take his mother's going?”
“Poor little fellow!” said Jane. “He doesn't understand yet.”
“He never will!” said Benson. “Mrs. Landray won't let him.”