WYOMING HOSPITALITY.
The March days came hurrying on—gray and wind-blown and showery—but
rather merry for all that. All signs bore tokens of an early spring. A
flock of geese had already gone over, crows were flapping across St.
Helen’s snow-freed meadow, and robins and song-sparrows felt quite at
home. There was a misty, indistinct blur in the tops of the maple
trees, quite as though wet buds were swelling. Under the pine trees by
the Retreat, tiny, furry heads were peeping above the needles,
hepaticas just awakening. The waters of the brook, freed from ice,
tore boisterously through the meadow; and along its weedy edges the
water-rats, having left their tunnels in the banks, scurried on
secret, silent errands. Everywhere there was a strange fragrance of
freshly-washed things—soft brown earth, buds ready to burst, tender
shoots of plants. Yes, spring was unmistakably near, and the St.
Helen’s girls were ready for its coming.
It was on a Saturday afternoon, the last in March, that Virginia
walked alone down the hill, through the pine woods, and across the
road to the pastures and woodlands opposite. She would have loved
company, but Priscilla, Lucile, and the Blackmore twins were playing
tennis finals in the gym, the Seniors were enjoying an afternoon tea,
Vivian was nowhere to be found, and, in the hope of persuading Dorothy
to go with her, she had again interrupted a secret conference between
Dorothy and Imogene, which conferences, to the watchful and troubled
Vigilantes, were becoming more and more frequent. The whole campus
seemed deserted, she thought, as she started from The Hermitage.
Perhaps, the opening of the “Forget-me-not” soda fountain—another sign
of spring—accounted for that.
It was wet underfoot and gray overhead, but she did not mind. She was
bound for the pastures on the other side of the road leading to
Hillcrest, for there Miss Wallace had said she might even this early
find the mayflowers of which her mother had so often told her. As she
went along, jumping over the little spring brooks and pools in the
hollows, she thought of how spring was also coming to her own dear
country. Her father’s letter that morning had told her of budding
quaking-asps, of red catkins on the cottonwoods, of green foot-hills,
and of tiny yellow butter-cups and the little lavender pasque-flowers,
which came first of all the spring blossoms. In a few weeks more those
foot-hills would be gay with violets and spring beauties, anemones and
shooting-stars.
She crawled between the gray, moss-covered bars of a fence which
separated the two pastures, and went toward some deeper woodland where
pines and firs grew. Here, Miss Wallace said, she would be likely to
find them. She looked sharply for brown, clustered leaves, which
always deceived one as to the wealth beneath them. At last on a little
mossy knoll, in a clearing among the pines, she found what she sought.
Kneeling eagerly on the damp ground, she searched with careful fingers
through the brown leaves. Green leaves revealed themselves. She
smelled the sweetest fragrance imaginable—the fragrance of flowers and
brown earth and fresh leaves all in one. She looked beneath the green
leaves; and there, with their pale pink faces almost buried in the
moss, she found the first mayflowers of the spring.
Tenderly she raised the tendrils from the moss and grass, and examined
the tiny blossoms, in whose centers the hoar frost of winter seemed to
linger. These then were the flowers her New England mother had so
loved. Years before, perhaps in this very spot, her mother had come to
search for them. She almost hated to pluck them—they looked so cozy
lying there against the brown earth, but she wanted to send them to
her grandmother for her mother’s birthday. On other knolls and around
the gray pasture rocks, even at the foot of the fir trees, she found
more buds and a few opened blossoms. Her mother had long ago taught
her Whittier’s “Song to the Mayflowers,” and she said some of the
verses which she still remembered, as she sat beneath the trees, and
pulled away the dead leaves from the flowers’ trailing stems.
“O sacred flowers of faith and hope,
As sweetly now as then
Ye bloom on many a birchen slope,
In many a pine dark glen.
“Behind the sea-wall’s rugged length,
Unchanged, your leaves unfold,
Like love behind the manly strength
Of the brave hearts of old.
“So live the fathers in their sons,
Their sturdy faith be ours,
And ours the love that overruns
Its rocky strength with flowers.”
For an hour she roamed about the woods, finding evergreen to line her
box for the flowers, and some cheery partridge vine, whose green
leaves and red berries seemed quite untouched by the winter’s snow. It
was quiet in among the trees. She was glad after all that she had come
alone. At school one needed to be away from the girls once in a while
just to get acquainted with oneself.
She climbed upon a great gray rock in the open pasture, and sat there
thinking of the months at St. Helen’s—remembering it all from the day
she had left her father. She was glad that she had come—glad that in
her father’s last letter he had said she was to return after a summer
at home. Priscilla was to return, too, a Senior—perhaps, she would be
monitor like Mary—and they were to room together as they had this
year. The Blackmore twins had petitioned for Mary and Anne’s room,
promising upon their sacred honor to be models of behavior; and Miss
King and Miss Wallace were considering their request. Virginia did
hope it would be granted, for she loved Jess and Jean clearly. Dorothy
would return. Would Imogene, too, she wondered? It might be mean to
hope that she would not, but she did hope that.
From the rock where she sat a portion of the Hillcrest road was
visible. She was still thinking of Imogene and Dorothy, when a red and
a white sweater appeared on the distant road moving in the direction
of St. Helen’s. “Dorothy and Imogene on the way home from Hillcrest,”
she thought to herself. They were walking very close together,
apparently reading something, for Virginia could see something white
held between them. All at once they stopped, looked up and down the
road, and then disappeared among the bushes that edged the roadside.
Virginia was about to call them, thinking perhaps they had seen her,
and were coming through the pastures to where she was; but before she
had time even to call, they reappeared, and walked more hurriedly
toward the school. This time they were not close together, and the
paper had disappeared.
The founder of the Vigilantes, perplexed by this strange behavior, did
not move until the two girls had turned into the driveway of St.
Helen’s. Then she jumped from the rock. She would go back across the
pastures to the gate which she had entered, then turn down the road
and investigate. She felt like a true Vigilante, indeed! Something was
in the air! She had felt it the moment she discovered Imogene and
Dorothy in secret conference. Perhaps, in the roadside bushes she
would find the solution. Had the girls been Mary and Anne, Virginia
would never have questioned. Moreover, she would have felt like a spy
in suspecting their behavior. But Imogene had long given good cause
for righteous suspicion; and were not the Vigilantes pledged to guard
against evil-doers?
She hurried across the pastures. The sun, which had been out of sight
all day, now at time of setting shone out clear and bright and was
reflected in every little pool. She reached the gate, closed it behind
her, and was about to turn down the road, when she saw sitting on a
rock by St. Helen’s gate a weary, worn-looking woman with a child.
Something in the woman’s expression made Virginia forget the errand
upon which she was bent. She looked more than discouraged—almost
desperate. The little girl by her side sat upon a shabby satchel, and
regarded her mother with sad, questioning eyes. There was something
about them so lonely and pathetic that Virginia’s eyes filled with
quick tears. She crossed the road and went up to them.
“Are—are you in any trouble?” she asked hesitatingly. “Can I help
you?”
The woman in turn hesitated before she answered. But this young lady
was apparently not like the two who had passed her but a moment
before. She looked at her little girl, whose tired eyes were red from
crying. Then she answered Virginia.
“I’m in a deal of trouble,” she said slowly. “I’ve been sick, and
we’ve spent our money; and because we were three months back on the
rent, we were turned out this morning. I’m looking for work—any kind
will do—and I came to Hillcrest because I was hoping to get it at the
school there. I’ve heard tell of how Miss King is very kind; but the
two young ladies, who passed here just a few minutes ago, said there
was no work there at all. I guess they didn’t have much time for the
likes of me. Do you go there, too?”
“Yes,” said Virginia. “But they don’t know whether there’s any work or
not at St. Helen’s. I don’t know either; but I know Miss King would
like to find some for you if she could. Anyway, I want you to come to
our cottage to supper with me. You are my guests—you and—what is the
little girl’s name?”
“Mary. And I’m Mrs. Michael Murphy. But, miss, you don’t mean come to
supper with you? You see, we ain’t fit.”
“Yes, you are perfectly fit. Saturday night no one dresses up. Please
come, and then you can see Miss King after supper. You’d like to come,
wouldn’t you, Mary?”
Poor little Mary cared not for etiquette. Besides, she was plainly
hungry. She pulled her mother’s dress.
“Please go, mother. Please!”
Virginia smiled at her eagerness. “Of course you’ll come, Mrs. Murphy.
My name’s Virginia—Virginia Hunter. Let me help with your satchel,
please. Come on, Mary.”
With one hand she helped Mrs. Murphy with the satchel, while she gave
the other to Mary, and they started up the hill—Virginia never once
thinking that her new friends would not be as welcome guests as those
who were often bidden to The Hermitage, Mary, untroubled by
conventions and happy at the thought of supper, Mrs. Michael Murphy,
secretly troubled, but compelled to snatch at any hope of work.
“You’re not from these parts, I take it from your talk,” Mrs. Murphy
remarked as they neared the campus.
“No, I’m from Wyoming. It’s a long way from here.”
“You’re sure—I’m afraid—the ladies at your cottage mightn’t like Mary
and me coming this way.”
“Please don’t think that, Mrs. Murphy,” Virginia reassured her. “We’re
always allowed to invite guests to supper. It’s quite all right,
truly.”
But Mrs. Murphy in her secret heart was not assured. She looked really
frightened as they neared The Hermitage; but Virginia, talking with
Mary, did not notice, nor did she heed the astonished and somewhat
amused looks of the girls whom they passed.
The supper-bell was ringing just as they opened the door, and stepped
into the living-room. Mary and Anne were at the piano, and Virginia
beckoned to them, and introduced her new friends. The surprised Mary
and Anne managed to bow and smile; and were frantically searching for
topics of conversation, when the girls began to come down-stairs, just
as Miss Wallace, with Miss King, who was staying to supper, opened the
door of Miss Wallace’s room.
Poor Mrs. Michael Murphy was perhaps the most uncomfortable of them
all, for the others were mainly surprised. The girls stared, Imogene
and Dorothy giggled audibly, Miss King looked puzzled, Miss Wallace
sympathetic. Virginia could not understand the manifest surprise,
mingled with disapproval, on the faces around her. Could she have done
anything wrong? They certainly would not think so, if they knew.
“Mary,” she said, “will you please introduce my friends to the girls,
while I speak a moment with Miss King and Miss Wallace?”
Mary, who began to see through the situation, managed to introduce the
painfully embarrassed Mrs. Murphy and shy little Mary to girls who,
with the exception of Imogene, responded civilly enough. Cordiality
certainly was lacking, but that was largely due to surprise.
Meanwhile, Virginia had explained matters to Miss King and Miss
Wallace, who, when they heard the story, lost their momentary
astonishment in sympathy. Of course such a proceeding was slightly out
of the course of ordinary events at The Hermitage; but Virginia’s
thoughtfulness, though perhaps indiscreet, was not at the present to
be criticised. They came forward and shook hands heartily with the
guests, much to Virginia’s comfort. It must be all right after all,
she concluded.
Mrs. Murphy laid off her hat and shawl, Virginia took Mary’s coat and
hood, and the family and guests passed to the supper table.
Conversation languished that evening. The girls talked among
themselves, but only infrequently. Even Miss Wallace and Miss King
apparently found it difficult to think of topics for general
conversation. But Virginia, true to her duties as hostess, chatted
with Mrs. Michael Murphy until the embarrassed, troubled little woman
partially regained her composure. As for little Mary, she was fully
occupied in devouring the first square meal she had had for days.
But Virginia was not unconscious of the atmosphere. Something was
wrong. Perhaps, after all, Mrs. Murphy had been right when she said
the ladies of The Hermitage mightn’t like to have her and Mary coming
this way. She could not understand it. At home in Wyoming the stranger
was always made a friend, and the unfortunate a guest. Hospitality was
the unwritten law of the land.
She was rather glad when supper was over. The girls immediately went
up-stairs, only Mary, Anne, and Priscilla lingering to say good-night
to her guests. Virginia stayed upon Miss King’s invitation, for she
and Miss Wallace were to talk with Mrs. Murphy concerning work at St.
Helen’s. Little Mary, tired out but satisfied, fell asleep, her head
in Virginia’s lap. To Virginia’s joy, and to the unspeakable gratitude
of Mrs. Michael Murphy, whom the world had used none too kindly, Miss
King decided that St. Helen’s needed just such a person to do
repairing and mending; and Mrs. Murphy, her face bright with
thankfulness, was installed that very evening in her new and
comfortable quarters.
An hour later, Virginia, the supper table atmosphere almost forgotten
in her glad relief over Mrs. Murphy’s immediate future, ran up-stairs
and down the hall to her own room. The door opposite opened a little,
and some one said in a biting voice:
“I suppose, Miss Hunter, we entertain Wyoming cow-boys before long?”
In Virginia’s eyes gleamed a dangerous light, but she answered
quietly:
“I’m afraid not, Miss Meredith. The Wyoming cow-boys whom I know are
accustomed to eat with ladies.”
Still, her delight over Mrs. Murphy’s freedom from care could not
quite banish the feeling of puzzled sadness with which she wrote these
words in her “Thought Book”:
“The world is a very strange place. God may be no respecter of
persons, but people are. It is a very sad thing to be obliged to
believe, but I am afraid it is true.”
The next morning the two Vigilantes, obtaining permission to walk to
church a little earlier than the others, stopped by the roadside at
the spot where yesterday Virginia had noted suspicious behavior, and
thoroughly investigated. A rough path had apparently been recently
broken through the alders. At the end of the path by the fence stood a
big, white birch, and on the smooth side of the birch farthest from
the road were many pin-pricks. One pin remained in the tree, and it
still held a tiny scrap of white paper, apparently the corner of a
sheet, the rest of which had been hurriedly torn away. The Vigilantes,
thinking busily, went on to church. It is needless to say that they
found it difficult to listen to the morning’s sermon.