Nobody said a word to Bonnie Bell about Tom Kimberly--neither her pa nor
me; for she was so quiet and shut up like we couldn't seem to break in
noways. We had to let it go like it laid on the board. One thing shore,
being in love or not being--whichever it was--had changed Bonnie Bell a
heap. She wasn't the same girl no more.
It used to be that Bonnie Bell didn't care so much for her piano as for
things out of doors, but now she taken to soaking that pore helpless
thing--sometimes sad and lonesome, and then again so hard she'd near
bust the keys. Then, maybe after she'd pasted the stuffing out of it a
few times, she'd set looking out of the window with her hands in her
lap--and so forgetful of her hands that they lay there, little as they
was, on their backs, with the fingers turned up on the ends, and even
her thumbs. It made me sorry.
Then again she'd cut off the music for days and go to reading books,
mostly in the window seat, her head puckered, like it was hard work.
"What're you reading, Hon?" says I one day. "Seems to me it must be a
bad-luck story. Also, why have you took to reading books upside down?"
"Nonsense!" says she. "I been brushing up in my sikeology," says she.
"That was one of our senior studies--the last year I had in Smith's, you
know."
"What's it for?" says I. "Does it say anything about whether it's going
to rain next Tuesday?" I ast her.
"Well, it's something needed to train us to meet the problems of life as
they arrive, Curly," says she.
"Does it show you how to look any young fellow in the face," says
I--"one that's got his hair combed back and no part in it, and playing
La Paloma on a banjo or a guitar, and guess what he's thinking about,
Bonnie?" says I.
She got a little red and tapped her foot on the carpet.
"What do you mean, Curly?" says she.
"Nothing," says I. "Only I was wondering if they'd put me in a long coat
at the wedding. I never was backed into one of 'em in my whole life."
"Well, Curly," says she, "if you wait for my wedding you may need the
long coat for your funeral first."
"Huh!" says I. "Huh! Is that so? You don't know your pa none," says I.
"What do you mean, Curly?" says she, sharp.
"He ain't going to be boarding you all your life, kid," says I. "He
can't noways afford it."
"I reckon dad isn't worried much," says she.
"Are you so shore, kid?" says I to her. "Now look here: I'm, say, half
your pa. I haven't said a word to you about certain things. What's more,
I haven't said a word to your pa about them neither."
"I know it, Curly," says she, looking at me sudden. "I love you for it.
You're one grand man, Curly!"
"I'm one worried man," says I. "I've gone back on my job with your pa."
"Do you feel that way, Curly?" says she, and she looked scared. "And is
that my fault?"
"I shore do and it shore is," says I.
"But you haven't said a word."
"No--not yet."
"Don't, Curly!" says she, right quick. "Don't--oh, please don't!"
She puts her hand on my arm then and looks into my eyes.
She had me buffaloed right there. I couldn't get her hand off'n my arm.
I couldn't help patting it when it laid there.
"Aw, shucks!" says I to her. "Come now!"
Right then our William he come in at the door, and stood there and
coughed like he done when he had anything on his mind.
"Ahum!" says he, sad like.
"What is it, William?" says Bonnie Bell, looking round at him.
"Beg pardon, ma'am, but might Hi speak with Mr. Wilson for a moment?"
You see, he called me Mr. Wilson, that being my last name. It was in the
Bible, or else I probably would of forgot it.
"Oh, all right," says I; and I got up and went out with him.
He was standing in his little hall when I come out, and he has our
Boston dog, Peanut, tied to a chair leg there with a piece of rope.
Peanut barked joyful at me, thinking I was going to take him outdoors
maybe.
"Hexcuse me, sir," says William, right sad, "but this little dog is a
hobject of my suspicion, sir."
"What's that?" says I. "What do you suspect him of--embeazlement,
maybe?"
William he stoops down then and unties something that Peanut has
fastened in his collar. It was a envelope. It didn't have no name on it.
"This is the third one Hi found on 'im," says William. "Hi 'ave the
other two in my desk. Hi don't know, sir, for whom they may be
hintended, sir."
"Well, who sent 'em? Is anybody going to blow up our place unlessen we
put twelve thousand dollars under a stone on the front sidewalk?"
"That's what Hi wish to hinquire, sir. Hi became alarmed," says William.
"Hi thought Hi'd awsk you about it, sir, Mr. Wright not being at 'ome."
"Why didn't you awsk Miss Wright?" says I.
"Hi didn't wish to alarm her, possibly."
We stood there, with this letter in our hands, looking it over.
"You say you don't know where this dog's been?" says I.
"Oh, no, sir; quite the contrary. I don't doubt he's often been through
the--ahum!--ahum!----"
"Well, how often has he been through the ahum, William?" says I. "What
made you let him go? You know it's against orders."
"Hi am quite hinnocent of hany hinfraction of my duties," says he. "On
the contrary, Hi've watched this Peanut dog most closely, sir. Yet at
times 'e is habsent. Hi'm of the belief that the notes come from the
hother side of the fence, sir. But has to their haddress, and has to
their contents, sir, Hi assure you Hi'm hutterly hignorant; and hit was
for that reason that Hi awsked you to come and see this one. Hit's just
at 'and, sir."
I taken all three of them letters away from him and opened them, me
being foreman; but when I begun to read I didn't tell William what they
was. I only laughed out loud, hard as I could.
"This is just a joke, William," says I. "Don't pay no attention to it.
You see, Peanut's been over there again, digging up some petunies," says
I.
I went back into the room where Bonnie Bell was. I looked at her for a
while.
"Miss Wright," says I--the second time I ever called her that--"I've
played the game with you on the square, haven't I? You thanked me for
that."
"Yes, Curly; yes," says she, "Why?"
"Have you played in on the square with me?"
"Yes, Curly, I have."
"I told you not to have nothing more to do across the fence, didn't I?"
"Yes. I haven't."
"Is that so, Bonnie Bell Wright?" says I. "Then what's this?"
I put in her hand the note--the one I'd read. It was my business to do
that, the way it come to me.
"Read it," says I to her.
Near as I can remember, it run about like this:
Why don't you come again? When shall I see you? I'm in the same
place every day and I wait and wait. Please! Please! Please!