VERMONT AS VIRGINIA SAW IT
It was not until the afternoon of the second day in Vermont that
Virginia wrote her father. The evening before she had said
“Good-night” as early as she thought polite to her grandmother, Aunt
Nan, and the minister who had come to call, and, upon being asked,
willingly stayed to tea, and had gone up-stairs to the room which had
been her mother’s to write her father about everything. But somehow
the words would not come, though she sat for an hour at the quaint
little mahogany desk and tried to write; and it all ended by her going
to bed, holding close her mother’s old copy of “Scottish Chiefs,”
which Aunt Nan had placed in her room, and forgetting in sleep the
thoughts that would come in spite of her.
But now that the hardest first night was over, and the first forenoon,
which she had spent walking with Aunt Nan, had gone, she must write
him all about it. She sat down again at the quaint little desk, over
which hung the picture of a girl of sixteen with clear, frank eyes,
and began:
“Webster, Vermont, Sept. 18, 19—
“Father dearest:
“Do you remember how the poor queen in the fairy tale dreaded
to meet the dwarf because she knew she didn’t know his name?
Well, that was just like me when the train was near
Springfield. If it hadn’t been for the dear Colonel, whom I
told you about in my train letter, I don’t believe I could
ever have been as calm as I truly _outwardly_ was; because,
daddy, I felt as though I didn’t know grandmother at all, any
more than the poor queen, and I did dread seeing her. But I
was tidy, and my heart didn’t beat on the outside, for which
blessings I could well be thankful. The Colonel carried my bag
for me, and that made it easier, for, of course, family pride
forbade my allowing him to see that my grandmother and I
weren’t really well acquainted.
“And, after all, it wasn’t so bad. Aunt Nan is dear, father,
like mother, I know, and I love her already. She is not so
_proper_ as grandmother. _I_ kissed Aunt Nan, and
_grandmother_ kissed me. That explains the way they made me
feel, Grandmother _is_ handsome, isn’t she? And stately, like
an old portrait. But when you talk with her you feel as though
there were some one else inside your skin.
“I do hope they don’t disapprove of me now, and will by and by
care for me for mother’s sake and yours. Aunt Nan likes me
now, I am sure, and grandmother, I am reasonably sure, doesn’t
dislike me, though I think she considers me somewhat puzzling.
She looks at me sometimes like we used to look at the tame
foxes, when we weren’t sure what they were going to do next.
“Do you remember how the country looked coming from
Springfield to Webster, when you came with mother? It was in
September when you came, you said, and I remembered it. The
creeks, which they call ‘brooks’ here, are lovely, though not
so swift as ours, and the oaks and maples are a wonderful
color in among the fir trees. I know you remember the
goldenrod and asters, because mother always told about them.
Didn’t you miss the quaking-asps, father? I did the first
thing, and asked grandmother about them,—if none grew in
Vermont. She didn’t know what I was talking about. She had no
idea it was a tree, and thought I meant a bug, like that which
killed poor Cleopatra. But I missed them, and I think the fall
is sadder without them, because they are always so merry. I
missed the cottonwoods, too. Aunt Nan said there were a few of
those in New England, but they called them Carolina poplars.
“The little villages in among the hills are pretty, aren’t
they?—so clean and white—but they don’t seem to care about the
rest of the world at all, it seems to me. Webster is like
that, too, I think, though it is lovely. If you remember how
it looked when you were here, then I don’t need to describe
it, for Aunt Nan says it hasn’t changed any. When we reached
here, and were driving up towards the house, grandmother asked
me how I liked Webster, and I said it was beautiful, but it
seemed very small. She couldn’t understand me at all, and said
she didn’t see how it could seem small to me when we didn’t
live in a town at all in Wyoming. I was afraid I had been
impolite, and I was just trying to explain that I meant it
seemed shut in because you couldn’t see the country all around
like you could at home, when we stopped at the house, and saw
a gentleman coming toward us with a black suit and a cane.
Grandmother looked at Aunt Nan, and Aunt Nan at grandmother,
and they both said at once, ‘Dr. Baxter!’
“‘We must invite him to tea,’ said grandmother. ‘It would
never do not to!’
“‘Nonsense!’ said Aunt Nan. ‘I don’t see why.’
“Well, he came up to the carriage just as grandmother finished
whispering, ‘Our pastor, Virginia,’ and handed grandmother
out, and then Aunt Nan, and lastly me. I tried to be
especially polite when grandmother introduced me, remembering
how she had warned me that he was the minister; but somehow
all I could think of was the parson in the ‘Birds of
Killingworth,’ because, when I first saw him coming down the
street, he was hitting the goldenrod with his cane, and some
way I just know he preaches about the ‘wrath of God,’ too,
just like the Killingworth parson. He did stay to tea, though
I’m sure Aunt Nan didn’t want him, and I, not being used to
ministers, didn’t want him either; but I put on one of my new
dresses, as grandmother said, and tried to be an asset and not
a liability. But, father, I know grandmother was troubled,
and, in a way, displeased, because of the following incident:
“Dr. Baxter is bald and wears eye-glasses on a string, and the
end of his nose quivers like a rabbit’s, and he rubs his
hands, which are rather plump, together a great deal. Some
way, father, you just feel as though he didn’t care away down
deep about you at all, but was just curious. I am sorry if I
am wrong about him, but I can’t help feeling that way. All
through tea he talked about the Christianizing of Korea, and
the increased sale of the Bible, and how terrible it was that
China wasn’t going to make Christianity the state religion. He
didn’t pay much attention to me, and I thought he had
forgotten all about me, when all at once he looked at me
across the table and said:
“‘And to what church do you belong, Miss Virginia?’
“Poor grandmother looked so uncomfortable that I felt sorry
for her, and after I had said, ‘I don’t belong to any, Dr.
Baxter,’ she tried to explain about our living on a ‘large
farm’ (I don’t believe grandmother thinks ranches are real
_proper_) and not being near a church.
“Aunt Nan tried to change the subject, but Dr. Baxter just
wouldn’t have it changed, and after looking at me thoughtfully
for a few moments, he said:
“‘I wonder that our Home Mission Board does not send
candidates to that needy field. Do you have no traveling
preachers, Miss Virginia?’
“Grandmother looked so uneasy that I did try to say just the
right thing, father, but I guess I made a mistake, because I
told him that we did have traveling preachers sometimes, only
we didn’t feel that we needed just the kind of preaching they
gave. His nose quivered more than ever, and grandmother tried
to explain again only she didn’t know how, and at last he
said:
“‘If the Word is not appreciated in Wyoming, it is elsewhere,
thank God!’—just as though Wyoming were a wilderness where
‘heathen in their blindness bow down to wood and stone.’
Grandmother looked more mortified than ever, and the silence
grew so heavy that you could hear it whirring in your ears. By
and by we did leave the table, and then I excused myself to
write to you, but I couldn’t seem to write at all, I felt so
troubled about mortifying poor grandmother. This morning I
thought she would speak of it, but she didn’t, and perhaps, if
I make no more slips, she will forget about it. It is very
difficult to be a constant credit to one’s family, especially
when it requires so much forethought.
“Grandmother feels very bad because she has no son to carry on
the family name. When she and Aunt Nan and Aunt Lou die, she
says ‘the name will vanish from this town where it has been
looked up to for two hundred years.’
“It makes a great difference in Webster _how_ one does
things—even more than _what_ one does. This morning, when Aunt
Nan and I were going to walk, Aunt Nan said, ‘I think we’ll
run in to see Mrs. Dexter, mother. She’ll want to see
Virginia.’ And grandmother said, ‘Not in the morning, Nan. It
would never do!’ So we have to go in the afternoon. I told
Aunt Nan when we were walking that at home we called on our
friends any time, and she said she wished she lived in
Wyoming! _She_ could ‘belong’ to us, father, but I’m afraid
grandmother never could enjoy Jim and William and the others.
She is too Websterized.
“Wasn’t it thoughtful of Aunt Nan to put mother’s old
‘Scottish Chiefs’ on my table? It has all her markings in it.
Last night—but I won’t tell you, because you will think I am
homesick, and I’m not! Please tell Don.
“Do you remember the view of the Green Mountains from the
window in mother’s room? I can see them now as I write you.
They are beautiful, but so dressed up with trees that they
don’t seem so friendly and honest as our little brown
foot-hills. Oh, daddy, I do miss the mountains so, and our
great big country! Last night when I tried to write you and
couldn’t, I stood by the window and watched the moon come up
over the hills; and I couldn’t think of anything but a poem
that kept running through my head like this:
To gaze on the mountains with those you love
Inspires you to do right;
But the hills of Vermont without those you love
Are but a sorry sight!
“Aunt Nan is waiting for me down-stairs. I can hear her and
grandmother talking together. Oh, I wonder if they do approve
of me!
“Father, dear, give my love to Jim and Hannah and Mr. Weeks
and Alec and William and Joe and Dick and all the Keiths, and
tell them I think of them every day. Give Pedro sugar as often
as you remember, won’t you?—and if the lump in the littlest
collie’s throat doesn’t go away soon, please kill him, because
I don’t want him to suffer.
“I do love you so much, father dearest, that if I tell you any
more about it, I’ll quite break my promise to myself.
“Virginia.
“P. S. Just think, daddy, Aunt Nan says you must come East
in June to get me and visit them. She said also when we
were walking that you were a fine-looking man; and I told
her that you were not only that, but that you were fine
all the way through, and that every one in Sheridan County
knew it!—V. W. H.”
And while Virginia wrote her letter to her father in the room which
had been her mother’s, downstairs, in the library, her grandmother and
Aunt Nan talked together.
“I must admit, Nan, she isn’t nearly so wild as I expected after
having been brought up in that wilderness.”
“Wild, mother? She’s a dear, that’s what she is! And Wyoming isn’t a
wilderness. You must remember the country has grown.”
“I know, but it can hardly afford the advantages of New England. I
mean in a cultural way, my dear.”
Aunt Nan actually sniffed. “Maybe not, mother. I’m sick of culture! I
like something more genuine. And as to good manners, I’m sure Virginia
has them.”
“Yes,” her mother assented. “And I must say I’m surprised after what
Louise wrote as to the ranch life. Mary’s husband has done well by
Virginia, I must grant that.”
“Lou is too particular for any use, mother. I’ve always said so. And
as for Virginia’s father, you’ve never half appreciated him!”
Virginia’s grandmother felt rebuked—perhaps, a little justly.
“Of course,” she said, a little deprecatingly, “there are crudities.
Now as to that matter last evening with Dr. Baxter. I fear he was
rather—”
“Shocked!” finished Aunt Nan. “And I’m glad he was! Virginia only told
the truth. If he knew more about Wyoming geography and less about
Korean idolatry, he’d appear to better advantage! He needs shocking!”
“My dear Nan!” interposed her mother.
“Well, he does, mother, and I hope he’s so shocked that he won’t come
to tea again for a month!”
And with that Aunt Nan, leaving her mother somewhat disturbed in mind,
went to call her niece.