THE JOURNEY EAST
As the great Puget Sound Limited was about to pull out of the little
Wyoming way-station to which Virginia and her father had driven in the
early morning, a white-haired, soldierly looking gentleman in gray
overcoat and traveling cap watched with amused interest a gray-eyed
girl in a blue suit, who, leaning over the railing of the observation
car, gave hurried and excited requests to her father who stood alone
on the station platform.
“Father, dear,” she begged, “don’t work too hard or read too late at
night; and don’t forget to take the indigestion tablets. And, father,
I think it would be fine if Jim could have my room when it gets cold.
The bunk-house is bad for his rheumatism. And I do hope you can keep
William away from town. You’ll try hard, won’t you?” The train slowly
began to move, but she must say one thing more. “Daddy,” she called,
beckoning him nearer, and making a trumpet of her hands; “daddy, you
trust me, don’t you, to use my judgment about talking on the journey?”
The man on the platform smiled and nodded. Then, taking his
handkerchief from his pocket, he waved to his little daughter, who,
waving her own, watched him until the now rapidly moving train quite
hid his lonely figure from sight. Then she sighed, tucked her
handkerchief in her coat pocket, and sat down beside the old
gentleman, who was apparently still amused and interested, perhaps
also touched.
“Well,” he heard her say to herself with a little break in her voice,
“it’s all over and it’s just begun.” Then she settled herself back in
her chair, while her neighbor wondered at this somewhat puzzling
remark.
“How can it be all over and at the same time just begun, my dear?” he
ventured to ask, his kind blue eyes studying her face.
Virginia looked at him. They two were quite alone on the platform. The
old gentleman, having heard her last request of her father, concluded
that she was using her judgment and deciding whether or not she had
best talk to him. His conclusion was quite right. “He certainly is
oldish, and very kind looking,” Virginia was thinking. “I guess it
wouldn’t be familiar.”
“Why, you see, sir,” she answered, having in her own mind satisfied
herself and her father, and allowing herself to forget all about Aunt
Lou, “it’s all over because I’ve said good-by to father, and it’s just
begun—that is, the making of me is just begun—because I’m on my way
East to school.”
“So going East to school is going to be the making of you, is it?”
“That’s what Aunt Lou says; and, besides, ‘a very broadening
experience.’”
“I see; and who is Aunt Lou?”
“She’s my mother’s sister from Vermont. You see, my mother lived in
Vermont when she was a girl, and went to St. Helen’s, too; but when
she got older, she came to Wyoming to teach school and married my
father. My mother is dead, sir,” she finished softly.
His eyes grew kinder than ever. “I’m sorry for that,” he said softly,
too.
She thanked him. She had never seen a more kindly face. Certainly even
Aunt Lou could plainly see he was a gentleman. Secretly she hoped he
was going all the way East.
The train all at once seemed to be slowly stopping. There was no
station near. She went to the railing to look ahead, and the gentleman
followed her. Apparently the engine had struck something, for a dark
object was visible some yards distant by the track. They drew near it
slowly, and as they passed, now again gathering speed, Virginia’s
quick eyes saw that it was a dead steer, and that on its shoulder was
branded a horseshoe with a “C” in the center.
“My!” she cried excitedly, half to herself and half to her companion
in the gray coat. “That’s a Cunningham steer, strayed from the range.
Even one steer will make old Mr. Cunningham cross for a week. He’ll
say there’s rustlers around Elk Creek.” She laughed.
“How did you know it belonged to Cunningham? Who is he, and what’s a
rustler?”
Virginia laughed again. “You’re like me,” she said frankly. “I ask
questions all at once, too. Why, Mr. Cunningham is a ranchman who
lives over the hills north of us; and I knew it belonged to him
because I saw the brand. He brands his with a horseshoe mark, and a
‘C’ in the center. And a rustler is a horse and cattle thief. There
used to be a lot of them, you know, who went about putting their own
brands on young cattle and colts. But there aren’t any more now, you
see, because the range isn’t open like it used to be. There are too
many people now. And, besides, no one would be likely to rustle cattle
which are branded already. You see,” she went on, “Mr. Cunningham’s
mean, though he’s very rich, and he makes his men round up his cattle
ever so many times even when they’re not branding or shipping, so he
can tell if a single one is missing. Every one laughs at him, because
people in our country think it’s very small to make such a fuss over
one steer when you have hundreds.”
“I should think so. And how many cattle have you?”
“Oh, not so many now as we used to have,” she explained, while he
listened interested. “You see, sir, the range isn’t so open any more,
because people are taking up the land from the government every year;
and so there isn’t so much room for the cattle. Besides, we’ve been
irrigating the last few years and raising wheat, because by and by
almost all the cattle land that’s good for grain will be gone. The
boys are rounding up our cattle to-day. I guess we have perhaps a
thousand. Does that seem many to you?” she added, because the old
gentleman looked go surprised.
Yes, it did seem a good number to him, he told her, since he was
accustomed to seeing five or six meek old cows in a New England
pasture. Then he asked her more and more about her home and the land
about, and, as she told him, she liked him more and more, and wished
he were her grandfather. He, in turn, told her that he lived in
Boston, but had been to Portland, Oregon, on a visit to his married
daughter, and was now returning home. “Then he will go all the way,”
thought Virginia gladly. Also, after she had candidly told him that he
looked like a soldier, he told her that he had been a Colonel in the
Civil War, and ended by telling her that his name was Colonel Carver
Standish. At that Virginia felt a longing to take from her bag one of
her new cards and present it to him; but it would be silly, she
concluded, since he had only told her his name, and so she said quite
simply:
“And my name is Virginia Hunter,” which pleased the old Colonel far
better than a calling card would have done.
“And now, Miss Virginia,” he said, “if you will pardon me for what
looks like curiosity, will you tell me about Jim and William? I
couldn’t exactly help overhearing what you said to your father. I hope
you’ll excuse me?”
Virginia smiled. She did enjoy being treated like a young lady.
“Certainly,” she said. And she told him all about poor old Jim, his
wooden leg, the accident that necessitated it, his learning to read,
which greatly interested the old Colonel, and his kindness to her ever
since she was a little girl. Then, seeing that he really liked to
know, she told him of the evening before, and the new saddle which the
boys had given her.
“Capital!” cried the Colonel, slapping his knee in his excitement,
quite to the amusement of a little boy, who had come out-of-doors and
who sat with his mother on the other side of the platform. “Capital!
Just what they should have done, too! They must be fine fellows. I’d
like to know them.”
“Oh, you would like them!” she told him. “I know you would! I love
them all, but Jim the best. And this morning, Colonel Standish” (for
if he called her by name she must return the courtesy), “this morning
when the other men had all gone to the round-up, Jim harnessed the
horses for father to drive me to the station. But he felt so bad to
have me go away that he couldn’t bear to bring the horses up to the
door, so he tied them and called to father; and when we drove away and
I looked back, he was leaning all alone against the bunk-house. And,
some way, I think he was crying.”
She looked up at the Colonel, her eyes filled with tears. The Colonel
slapped his knee again, and blew his nose vigorously.
“I shouldn’t wonder a bit if that’s what he was doing, Miss Virginia,”
he said. “Fine old man! And what about William?” he asked after a few
moments.
“Oh, William,” said Virginia. “You’d like William; and I’m sure you
wouldn’t call him ‘Bill’ like some do. It makes such a difference to
him! If you call him ‘Bill’ most of the time, he’s just Bill, and it’s
a lot easier for him to stay around the saloon. But if you say
‘William,’ it makes it easier for him to keep away—he told me so one
day. And in his spare time, he loves to take care of flowers, and
plant vines and trees.”
The Colonel liked William. Indeed, he liked him so thoroughly that he
asked question after question concerning him; and then about Alec and
Joe and Dick. It was amazing how the time flew! Another hour passed
before either of them imagined it. The country was changing. Already
it was becoming more open, less mountainous. Some peaks towered in the
distance—blue and hazy and snow-covered.
“We can see those from home,” Virginia told the Colonel. “They’re the
highest in all the country round. They’re the last landmark of home
I’ll see, I suppose,” she finished wistfully, and was sorry when a
bend of the road hid them from sight.
“You love the mountains?” he said, half-questioning.
“Oh, yes,” she cried, “better than anything!” And then they talked of
the mountains, and of how different they were at different times, like
persons with joys and disappointments and ideals. How on some days
they seemed silent and reserved and solemn, and on others sunny and
joyous and almost friendly; and how at night one somehow felt better
acquainted with them than in the day-time.
“But the foot-hills are always friendly,” Virginia told him. “And
they’re really more like people, because you can get acquainted with
them more easily. The mountains, after all, seem more like God. Don’t
you think so?”
The Colonel did think so, most decidedly, now that he thought at all
about it. He admitted to himself that perhaps in his long journeys
across the mountains and through the foot-hills on his visits West, he
had not thought much about them, especially as related to himself. He
wished he had had this gray-eyed girl with him for she breathed the
very spirit of the country. It had been rare good fortune for him that
by chance he was standing on the platform when she said “Good-by” to
her father, else he had missed much. It was dinner time before either
of them realized how quickly the morning had passed; and Virginia ran
to wash her hands, after the Colonel had raised his cap with a
soldierly bow, saying that he hoped to see her again in the afternoon.
He did see her again in the afternoon, for they discovered that their
sections were in the same car, in fact, directly opposite; and again
the next morning, until by the time they reached Omaha they were old
friends. They talked more about the country, which, after leaving the
mountains, was new to Virginia’s interested eyes; and then about
books; and after that about the war, the old soldier telling a most
flattering listener story after story of his experiences.
The conductor, coming through the car with telegrams at Omaha, found
them both so interested that he was obliged to call her name twice
before her astonished ears rightly understood him.
“Aren’t you Miss Virginia Hunter?” he asked amused.
“Yes, sir,” she managed to say. “But it can’t be for me, is it? I
never had a telegram in my life.”
“It’s for you,” he said, more amused than ever, while the Colonel
smiled, too, at her surprise, and left the yellow envelope in her lap.
“Whom can it be from?” she asked herself, puzzled. “The spell of
having a real telegram is so nice that I almost hate to break it by
finding out. But I guess I’d best.”
She tore open the envelope, and drew out the slip inside. When she had
read it, she gazed perplexed at the Colonel. She was half-troubled,
half-amused, but at length she laughed.
“I’ll read it to you, I think,” she said, “because in a way it’s about
you.” The Colonel in his turn looked amazed. “You see,” she went on,
“it’s from my Aunt Lou, and she warned me about talking to strangers
on the way. I suppose she thought I’d forget, and so she sent this.”
She again unfolded the telegram, and read to him:
“Los Angeles, Cal., Sept. 15.
“I hope you are remembering instructions, and
having a pleasant journey.
“Aunt Louise.”
“But I’m sure she would approve of you,” she assured him; “and I’ve
talked with almost no one else, except the baby in the end of the car
and his mother; and babies certainly would be exempt, don’t you think?
No one could help talking to a baby.”
He agreed with her. “Aren’t you going to send her a wire in return?”
he asked.
“Why, I never thought of that. Could I? Is there time? What can I tell
her?”
“Of course, you could, and there’s plenty of time. Ten minutes yet.
I’ll get you a blank, and you can be thinking what you’ll tell her.”
While he was gone, Virginia studied her aunt’s message, and decided
upon her own. She was ready when he returned.
“Don’t go away, Colonel Standish, please,” she said, when he would
have left her to complete her message. “I never sent a telegram
before, and besides I want you to tell me if you think this is all
right. I’ve said:
“Delightful journey. No talking except with
baby, mother, and oldish gentleman.”
The Colonel slapped his knee, and laughed. “Capital!” he said.
“Capital! You’ve got us all in.” He laughed again, but stopped as he
noted her puzzled expression. “Not satisfied, Miss Virginia?”
“Not quite,” she admitted. “You see it doesn’t sound exactly honest.
I’ve said, ‘No talking ex-cept—’ Now that sounds as though I’d talked
only occasionally with the three of you, and most of the time sat by
myself, when really I’ve talked hours with you. I think I’ll change
the ‘No talking,’ and say, ‘Have talked with baby, mother, and oldish
gentleman.’ I’d feel better about it.” She paused, waiting his
approval.
“If I’d feel better about it, Miss Virginia, I’d surely make the
change,” he said approvingly. “That queer thing inside of us that
tells us how to make ourselves most comfortable, is a pretty safe
guide to follow.”
So she rewrote the message, while he waited, and while he went to
attend to its dispatch, wondered how Aunt Lou would feel when she
received it.
* * * * *
At Chicago, Miss Cobb, a friend of Aunt Louise, met her and took her
across the city to the station from which she was to take the Eastern
train; and though Virginia had said “Good-by” to the Colonel until
they should again meet two hours later, it so happened that he was in
the very bus which took them with others across the city. Virginia
introduced him to Miss Cobb, and under her breath, while the Colonel
was looking out of the window, asked if Aunt Lou could possibly object
to her talking with such an evident gentleman. Miss Cobb, who,
perhaps, fortunately for herself, was not quite so particular as
Virginia’s aunt, felt very sure there could not be the slightest
objection, of which she was more than ever convinced after a half
hour’s talk with the gentleman in question.
So Virginia with a clear conscience continued her journey from Chicago
on, and enjoyed the Colonel more than ever. As they went through the
Berkshires on the last day of the journey, she told him more about
Donald, his experience at school, and how he couldn’t seem to feel at
home.
“I wish my grandson knew that fellow,” said the old gentleman. “Just
what he needs. Too much fol-de-rol in bringing up boys now-a-days,
Miss Virginia. The world’s made too easy for them, altogether too
easy!” And he slapped his knee vigorously to emphasize his remark. “By
the way, what’s the name of that school of yours?”
“St. Helen’s at Hillcrest, sir.”
“Exactly. Just what I thought you told me the first day I saw you. If
I’m not mistaken, that’s in the neighborhood of the very school that
grandson of mine attends. And if you’ll allow me, Miss Virginia, some
day when I’m there I’m going to bring that boy of mine over to see
you. You’d do him good; and I want him to see a girl who thinks of
something besides furbelows.”
Virginia smiled, pleased at the thought of seeing the Colonel again.
“I’d love to have you come to see me,” she said, “and bring him, too,
if he’d like to come. What is his name, and how old is he?”
“Why, he has my name, the third one of the family, Carver Standish,
and he’s just turned seventeen. He has two more years at school, and
then he goes up to Williams where his father and I were educated. He’s
a good lad, Miss Virginia, if they don’t spoil him with too much
attention and too much society. I tell you these boys of to-day get
too much attention and too few hard knocks. I want this fellow to be a
man. He’s the only grandson I’ve got.”
So they talked while the train bore them nearer and nearer Springfield
where Virginia’s grandmother and aunt were to meet her. At last there
were but a few minutes left, and she ran to wash and brush her hair,
so that she might carry out the first of Aunt Lou’s instructions: “Be
sure you are tidy when you meet your grandmother.”
She was very “tidy,” at least so the Colonel thought, when, with
freshly brushed suit and hat, new gloves and little silk umbrella, she
stood with beating heart and wide-open, half-frightened eyes on the
platform of the slowly moving train. The Colonel was behind her with
her bag.
“You see,” she told him, a little tremulously, “I’m so anxious for
them to approve of me.”
“Well, if they don’t—” he ejaculated almost angry, and perhaps it was
just as well that the train stopped that moment.
Virginia’s eyes were searching the faces about her for those who might
be her grandmother and aunt; and, at the same time, farther up the
platform, the eyes of a stately, white-haired lady in black and of a
fresh-faced younger woman in blue were searching for a certain little
girl whom they had not seen for years.
“There she is, mother,” cried the younger woman at last, quickening
her steps, “there in the blue suit. She walks with her head high just
as Mary did.”
Tears came into the eyes of the white-haired lady. “But there’s a
gentleman with her, Nan. Who can he be?”
“Oh, probably just some one she’s met. If she’s like her mother, she’d
be sure to meet some one.”
She hurried forward, and so sure was she that the girl in the blue
suit was Virginia, that she put both arms around her, and kissed her
at once without saying a word.
“Oh, Aunt Nan,” breathed Virginia, her heart beating less fast. She
knew that moment that she should love Aunt Nan. But her heart beat
fast again, as Aunt Nan drew her forward to meet her grandmother, who
was drawing near more slowly.
“And this is Virginia,” said that lady, extending her perfectly gloved
hand, and kissing Virginia’s cheek. “I am glad to see you, my dear.
Mary’s little girl!” she murmured to herself, and at that tears came
again to her eyes.
Virginia liked her for the tears, but could somehow find nothing to
say in response to her grandmother’s greeting. She stood embarrassed;
and then all at once she remembered the Colonel. He stood, hat in
hand, with her bag—a soldierly, dignified figure, who must impress her
grandmother.
“I—I beg your pardon, grandmother,” she stammered. “This is my friend,
Colonel Standish, who has been kind to me on the way.”
Her grandmother acknowledged the introduction, her Aunt Nan also. The
Colonel shook hands with Virginia, and reiterated his intention to
call upon her at school. “With your permission, my dear madam,” he
added, by his cultured manner quite convincing Mrs. Webster that he
was a gentleman. Then he hurried aboard his train, and left a
gray-eyed girl with a heart beating tumultuously inside a blue suit to
go on a waiting northbound train toward Vermont. As his train pulled
out from the station, the Colonel completed his sentence.
“If they don’t approve of that little girl,” he said to himself, with
an emphatic slap upon his knee; “if they don’t approve of her, then
they’re-they’re hopeless, as that grandson of mine says, and I
shouldn’t care to make their acquaintance further.”
Meanwhile Virginia was fixedly gazing out of the window, as the train,
leaving Springfield, carried them northward. She tried to be
interested in the strange, new country about her; but some way,
instead of the crimson maples and yellow goldenrod, there would come
before her eyes a cottonwood bordered creek, a gap between brown
foothills, a stretch of rolling prairie land, black and green and
gold, and in the distance the hazy, snow-covered summits of far away
mountains. But with the picture came again Donald’s words—words that
made her swallow the lump in her throat, and smile at her grandmother
and Aunt Nan.
“No, the East isn’t like this—not a bit, and maybe you won’t like it;
but you’re too plucky to be homesick, Virginia!”