THE LAST STRAW
No really human girl, especially with the memory of Miss Green,
clothed in curl-papers and horror, fresh in her mind, could resist
relating such an experience as that of the night before to her
roommate at least. Virginia was really human, and so she told
Priscilla, who was wondering over the lost porch key, first vowing her
to eternal secrecy, or, at all events, until it should be revealed
whether or not Miss Green would feel it her duty to report the affair.
They might have spared themselves a great deal of wonder and a little
worry had they known that Miss Green, after due deliberation in the
small hours of the morning, had decided that this was not a case for
report. However, she had not decided at the same time that implicit
trust might be placed in this somewhat unusual girl from Wyoming. She
was still disturbed, and somewhat suspicious, as she recalled the
events of the evening before, and felt that Virginia would “bear
watching.”
Breakfast that Saturday morning was a painfully lugubrious meal. To
begin with, every one was late; and Miss Green’s frigid manner really
did not need the added coolness which she invariably bestowed upon
late comers. Imogene did not appear, sending a headache as an excuse,
and Vivian arrived, red-eyed from weeping, and minus a neck-tie. Mary
and Anne were unusually silent, Lucile audibly wished for the
“Continental Breakfast,” and Dorothy openly snubbed Virginia, who
hoped, perhaps not tactfully, but certainly genuinely, that Imogene
was not ill. Priscilla and Virginia had come in late, but in good
spirits, having just finished laughing over Miss Green’s curl-papers.
However, their good spirits waned in this atmosphere, only enlivened
by Miss Wallace’s futile attempt at conversation. Moreover, Miss Green
felt Virginia’s gayety very inappropriate under the circumstances, and
apparently considered it her duty to extend toward her a cool reserve.
Poor Virginia, who upon awaking had decided to try to forget all the
discomfort of the evening before and be happy again, felt her
resolution impossible of fulfillment in this atmosphere; and by the
time breakfast was over (be assured it was a short repast) was as
discouraged and homesick as the night before. She declined Mary’s and
Anne’s invitation to walk with them and the sad-eyed Vivian to the
village after Saturday morning’s house-cleaning; refused to play
tennis with Priscilla and the Blackmore twins (two jolly girls from
Hathaway); quite enraged Dorothy by discovering her and Imogene in
secret conversation, when she went to find her sweater which Lucile
had borrowed; and at last, completely discouraged, and sick of
everything, wandered off down the hill by herself, pretending not to
hear some girls from King Cottage, who called to her to wait.
On the way she met the postman, who handed her three letters. She
stuffed them in her pocket; and then, for fear of being followed by
the King girls, hurried into the woods by a short cut she had already
discovered, and found her way to the little gray stone chapel. She
opened the door and went in, but it seemed cold and damp inside, and
she came out again into the sunshine.
Here she was practically sure of being undisturbed, for the girls did
not often visit St. Helen’s Retreat on Saturday morning. She sat down
on the stone steps and listened to the wind in the pine trees, which
completely surrounded the little chapel. Shafts of sunlight fell
through the branches upon the brown needles beneath. In among the
tangled thickets beyond the trees, the birds were gathering to go
southward. They seemed in a great bustle of preparation. Virginia
spied thrushes and tow-hees, brown thrashers and robins in great
numbers; also many bluebirds, whose color was not so brilliant as that
of their mountain bluebird at home. The English sparrows, however,
were undisturbed by thoughts of moving, and chattered about the eaves
of the Retreat, quite lazy and content.
At any other time Virginia would have watched the birds with eager
interest, creeping through the thickets to observe them, for she was a
real little student of their ways, and loved them dearly. But to-day
the world was wrong, and birds were just birds, she told
herself,—nothing more! Besides, she had been treated unjustly and
unfairly, and she had a good cause for feeling blue. No one could
blame her—not even Donald, whose words kept coming to her. She wished
Don had never said them—they bothered her!
She drew her letters from her pocket. In a way, she hated to read
them, she said to herself, because they would make her more homesick.
But in a very short time curiosity overcame her, and she began to open
them eagerly. Two were from her father and Don, the other from Aunt
Lou in California. She read Aunt Lou’s first—saving the best for the
last. Aunt Lou was glad to hear such pleasing reports both from those
in Vermont, and from Miss King. From Grandmother Webster she had been
convinced that Colonel Standish was a gentleman though she would again
warn Virginia that one could not be too careful. She knew that St.
Helen’s and her experiences there would surely be the making of
Virginia, etc., etc.
Virginia folded the letter. In a way she could not help feeling glad
that her grandmother and Aunt Nan, and especially Miss King, were
pleased with her. Still, if Miss Green told, would Miss King
understand? But it was of no use to worry, and it was in a little
better humor that she opened Donald’s letter.
He had missed her, he said. Everything had seemed lost without her. It
was no fun riding alone, and he had been glad when October came, and
he had gone to Colorado. He liked it much better than the East. The
fellows were more his sort, and they rode a lot; but not one of them
could ride better than she.
“I’m mighty glad,” the letter ended, “that Mary Williams is in your
cottage. She’s a peach, isn’t she? Jack’s all right, too. He wrote me
the other day that maybe he would come to Wyoming another summer.
Wouldn’t it be great if Mary could visit you then? I’m glad you’ve got
a good room-mate. Don’t forget though, you promised not to be a young
lady in June!”
Before she opened her father’s letter, Virginia felt decidedly better.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Mary could go to Wyoming with Jack?
Maybe—of course, not probably, but maybe—Priscilla’s father might let
her go, too. Dreams of glorious days in the mountains made her eyes
shine. She was almost happy again.
Her father’s dear fat letter was supplemented by a laboriously written
one from Jim, and a note—yes, actually a note from William. And
William could write a good hand, without misspelling a word! Jim’s
letter told her that the little colt was growing beautifully, and was
the image of his mother; that he hadn’t much minded the branding; and
that Joe sent his best regards and wished to say that the lump in the
littlest collie’s throat had quite disappeared. His rheumatism got
worse, he said, with the colder weather, and he read her books a lot
for company. He closed by saying they all missed her worse every day,
and by asking her for them all how she liked the saddle, and “how it
set”?
William’s note told her that he should send by the next mail two sets
of rattles, whose former owners he had killed the week before; and
that he had already planted her garden with some perennials which he
knew she would like. He would not tell her what they were, as he
wanted to surprise her.
She read her father’s letter over and over again. It was filled with
pride, for he, too, had received a letter from Miss King, and—what was
stranger yet!—actually one from Grandmother Webster, telling of their
pleasure in Virginia. He was glad every day that she was so happy at
St. Helen’s. Were she often homesick, he would be troubled; but her
happiness made his loneliness the less.
The fall threshing was over, he said, and the round-up and branding
completed. The men were having a much-needed rest. William had not
gone to town once since she left, and if he continued in his
determination, she would not know him when she came home. Jim, he was
sorry to tell her, seemed far from well. The Keiths were also finished
with the hardest of the fall labor; and they had all decided to ride
up the canyon the next Saturday “To-day,” thought Virginia—and camp
for over Sunday, just for a change. How they wished she and Don were
there to go along!
Virginia folded the letter and jumped to her feet. An idea had seized
her, dispelling the few remaining blues, for to a nature like her own
a new idea is often a cure-all. Why had she not thought of it before?
She would ride to-day, just as they were doing at home. Not yet had
she used her new saddle, but really there had been little opportunity.
The days had been too filled with lessons and getting acquainted to
allow much time for riding; and they had now become so short that it
was impossible after supper. The first two Saturdays had been taken
up—one by a tennis tournament, the other by the Senior and Junior
basket-ball game—and this was only the third.
But to-day she would ride. She would hurry home, learn her
lessons—yes, she even thought she might learn her Latin—and then after
luncheon have the man from the village stable bring up the horse he
had recommended at a previous interview.
The atmosphere at luncheon was less chilled. Mary, Anne, and Vivian
brought from the village the glad tidings that the “Forget-me-not”
would be open all winter, and serve hot chocolate and cakes instead of
sundaes; Priscilla and Lucile had won four sets from the Blackmore
twins; and Virginia’s spirits were certainly improved. Only Imogene
and Dorothy, who had been together all the morning, preserved, the one
a haughty, the other an embarrassed, silence.
Virginia’s announcement that she was to ride brought forth great
interest on the part of the girls, and solicitude on the part of Miss
Green.
“You have permission, I presume, Virginia?”
“Oh, certainly, Miss Green. I’ve talked with Miss King all about it,”
answered Virginia, striving to be polite. Later, when she heard Miss
Green supplementing over the telephone her own directions to the
stable-man, and cautioning him to bring the safest horse in the
stable, she tried not to mind.
The horse arrived. To The Hermitage girls, and several from Hathaway,
who had come over to watch the proceedings, and who, if they had
ridden at all, had mounted nothing larger than ponies, he was a huge
beast. They watched with great interest while Virginia herself threw
across his broad back her shining new saddle, and tightened the
girths.
“What a queer saddle!”
“What’s that thing in front, Virginia?”
“The saddle-horn.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall against it and hurt you?”
Virginia laughed. “Oh, no!”
“See the ‘V. H.’ on the brass, Anne. Some style to you, Virginia!”
“What’s the horse’s name, Mr. Hanly?” asked Virginia, preparing to
mount.
“Napoleon Bonaparte.”
The girls laughed. Virginia swung herself into the saddle. To the
admiring girls it seemed as though she had not touched the stirrup at
all. She gathered her reins in one hand.
“Remember, you’re to try him, Priscilla, when I get back,” she called,
riding away.
From one of the lower windows of the Hermitage, some, one cleared her
throat.
“Use extreme caution, Virginia,” some one called, but Virginia was
already out of hearing.
She had intended to ride down to the gate-posts, and then farther out
into the country on the road which led away from Hillcrest. But by the
time she came in sight of the stone posts she had quite decidedly
changed her mind. Napoleon Bonaparte was hopeless! If he had not so
annoyed her she might have laughed at his combination of gaits. His
trot was torture; and it was only by the utmost urging that one could
prevail upon him to canter. This urging, Virginia discovered to her
surprise, was most effective when accomplished by yanking upon the
reins, a proceeding which a Western horse would not have borne at all.
His periods of willingness to canter were of short duration, for which
the rider at the end of the period usually felt thankful. Moreover, he
invariably stumbled when going down hill; and, to cap the climax, and
add the finishing touch, he had the asthma, and, after a few moments
of speed, sounded like a freight train.
The gate-posts reached, Virginia was resolved upon one thing! She
could not ride Napoleon! She would ride to the village stable and see
if a change were possible. She turned Napoleon’s heavy head, and rode
on, wondering what Donald would say if he could see her steed, and
greatly hoping that the village stable contained some improvement.
Mr. Hanly, who had driven down with the mail-carrier just ahead of
her, met her at the stable door.
“Anything the trouble, miss?”
Virginia for the moment ignored his question.
“Mr. Hanly, how old is Napoleon?”
Mr. Hanly calculated. “About eighteen, miss.”
“Eighteen!” cried Virginia. “Then I don’t wonder! Why, Mr. Hanly, he
can’t go at all. He hasn’t a gait to his name! Besides, he wheezes
terribly. Has he the asthma?”
Mr. Hanly explained that for years Napoleon had been afflicted with a
chronic cold; but that he had been in his day a good saddle-horse, and
safe.
“Oh, he’s perfectly safe, Mr. Hanly! He’s too safe! But, you see, I’ve
ridden all my life, and I can’t ride him. I really can’t! Haven’t you
something else?”
Mr. Hanly considered. Yes, he had a saddle-horse belonging to a
Hillcrest gentleman, who was away at present, but who had left word
that his horse might be exercised. Still, he would hardly venture to
saddle him for Virginia. He was safe enough, but inclined to take the
bit in his teeth. No, he would not dare to allow her to have him.
Still, she might look at him if she liked.
Virginia swung herself off Napoleon, and went in the stable to view
the horse described. He was assuredly not in the same class as
Napoleon. She knew by his build that he was a good saddle-horse. She
must have him, she thought to herself. Fifteen minutes later, the
persuaded, if not convinced, Mr. Hanly was somewhat dubiously removing
the saddle from poor, perspiring Napoleon, and strapping it, with
Virginia’s help, on the back of the black horse.
In another moment Virginia was up and away, leaving Mr. Hanly, who was
watching her, somewhat reassured in the doorway.
This was something like riding, she told herself, as she cantered
along the country road. The black horse, though nothing like her own
Pedro, was still a good horse. He could even singlefoot, and did not
have the asthma.
She rode miles into the country beyond St. Helen’s. The afternoon was
perfect—one of those autumn afternoons when the summer lingers, loath
to go; when the leaves drift slowly down, and the air is filled with
an unseen chorus; and when all about an Unseen Presence makes itself
felt, and causes one to feel in harmony with the God of the
Out-of-doors.
Virginia’s cheeks were rosy red; her hair was flying in the wind, for
she had lost her ribbon, and had long since stuffed her cap in her
pocket; her eyes were glowing with happiness. She reached the Five
Mile Crossways and turned back toward home. Then the black horse
showed his paces. He fairly flew over the road, Virginia delighting in
his every motion. One mile—two—three—he galloped furiously. They were
within a mile of St. Helen’s. Virginia sought to quiet him, but he was
on the homeward way, and he knew it. They rounded a curve, still on
the gallop, when some rods ahead, Virginia espied a lone figure in a
gray shawl. It was Miss Green. Virginia strove with all her might to
pull the black horse into a walk so that she might speak, but he did
not choose to walk; and it was with a considerably lessened, but, to
the startled Miss Green, furious gallop that they passed, Virginia
waving her hand as her only means of salutation. She heard Miss
Green’s peremptory and horrified command for her to stop, but she
could not heed it. Her mind was at that time completely occupied with
wondering if the horse would willingly turn into the avenue leading to
St. Helen’s. Fortunately he did, perhaps imagining it for a new
entrance to his stable, and Virginia disappeared from sight among the
pines.
[Illustration: “Some rods ahead, Virginia espied a lone figure in a
gray shawl.”]
It is safe to say that Miss Harriet Green never before ascended the
hill leading to St. Helen’s in such a short space of time. When she
arrived, quite out of breath, at The Hermitage, Priscilla was just
preparing to mount the black steed, before the eyes of an interested
audience. She waved her hand as a signal for operations to cease until
she might find breath to speak. Then, after clearing her throat
vigorously:
“Priscilla,” she said, “dismount immediately. Virginia, tie that
dangerous animal to the hitching-post. Mary, telephone Mr. Hanly to
come at once and take him away. Virginia, you will now walk with me to
Miss King’s office!”
The girls listened mystified. What had Virginia done? Virginia, more
dazed than they, obediently followed Miss Green, who, in stony
silence, crossed the campus, and into Miss King’s gold and brown room.
Miss King sat by the western window, a book in her hand. She smiled as
they entered, a smile that died away at the sight of Miss Green’s
face.
“What is it?” she asked.
Miss Green spoke, acidly and at length. Virginia, standing by the
window, listened, still dazed, to this tale of her willful
disobedience, her fool-hardiness, her cruelty to animals, her refusal
to stop at a command from her teacher. When Miss Green had finished,
she turned to Virginia, as though expecting a denial, or an
explanation, but Virginia did not speak. Miss King did, however—very
quietly.
“You did quite right, Miss Green, in coming to me, since you did not
understand matters—quite right. You see, as regards horseback riding,
I left the choice of a horse entirely to Virginia, because we know so
little of horses, and I know she is thoroughly familiar with them. I
am sure she will always be careful of my desires, which I have fully
described to her. Virginia, if you will remain a few minutes, I will
talk this matter over with you.”
Miss Green left the room, with feelings quite indescribable. Virginia,
still in khaki, with disorderly hair and a heightened color in her
cheeks, remained with Miss King. For half an hour they talked together
of books and lessons, of Thanksgiving and Vermont, of Wyoming and the
mountains. Strangely enough, except for the briefest explanation of
Virginia’s inability to obey Miss Green, they did not speak of
horseback riding; but when Virginia left she was far happier than when
she had entered.
As for Miss King, she sat alone in the brown and gold room and watched
the sun go down behind the hills. She seemed thoughtful—troubled,
perhaps. By and by she rose from her seat by the window, went to the
desk, and wrote a letter. Then she returned and sat in the twilight.
“Harriet has been with me a long time,” she said to herself at last.
“But neither because of her superior Latin instruction, nor for the
sake of our old friendship, can I any longer allow my girls in The
Hermitage to lack a home atmosphere. Perhaps, after all, Athens needs
Harriet. I may be doing the Ancient World a favor, who knows?” And the
little, gray-haired lady smiled to herself in the twilight.