"Give her a night to cry her eyes out. Twenty-four hours will put a
crimp in her courage. Let the fact that she's jilted soak in. Give her
time to realize what she's up against in Crowheart."
And the woman had been right in her reasoning, for a night of tears and
grief, of shame and humiliation left Essie Tisdale with weakened
courage, mentally and physically spent.
Back of everything, above all else loomed in black and gigantic
proportions the fact that Van Lennop had gone away forever without a
word to her, that he even had thought less of her when it came to
leaving than of the woman whom he had seemed to avoid.
In the long hours of the night her tired brain constantly recalled the
things which he had said that had made her glow with happiness at the
time, but which she knew now were only the pleasant, idle words of the
people who came from the world east of the big hills. Dr. Harpe was
right when she had told her that in her ignorance of the world and its
men she had misunderstood the kindness Van Lennop would have shown to
any person in her position.
"But he didn't show it to her--he didn't show it to anyone else but me!"
she would whisper in a fierce joy, which was short-lived, for,
instantly, the crushing remembrance of his leave-taking confronted her.
Her face burned in the darkness when she remembered that Dr. Harpe had
taunted her with having displayed her love to all the town. She no
longer made any attempt to conceal it from herself, the sure knowledge
had come with Van Lennop's departure, and she whispered it aloud in the
darkness in glorious defiance, but the mood as quickly passed and her
face flamed scarlet at the thought that she had unwittingly showed her
precious secret to the unfriendly and curious.
She crept from bed and sat on the floor, with her folded arms upon the
window-sill, finding the night air good upon her hot face. She felt
weak, the weakness of black despair, for it seemed to her that her faith
in human nature had received its final shock. If only there was some one
upon whose shoulder she could lay her head she imagined that it might
not be half so hard. There was Mrs. Terriberry, but after what had
happened could she be sure even of Mrs. Terriberry? Could any
inconsequential person like herself be sure of anybody if it conflicted
with their interests? It seemed not. She shrank from voicing the
thought, but the truth was she dared not put Mrs. Terriberry's
friendship to any test.
"The best way to have friends," she whispered bitterly with a lump in
her aching throat, "is not to need them."
She dreaded the beginning of another day, but it must be gotten through
somehow, and not only that day but the day after that and all the
innumerable, dreary days ahead of her. Finally she crept shivering to
bed to await the ordeal of another to-morrow.
The long shadows of the afternoon's sun lay in the backyard of the
Terriberry House when Essie sat down in the doorway to rest before her
evening's work began. The girl's sad face rested in the palm of her hand
and her shoulders drooped wearily as Mrs. Abe Tutts in her blue flannel
yachting cap came down the road beside her friend Mrs. Jackson, who
rustled richly in the watered silk raincoat which advertised the fact
that she was either going to or returning from a social function. Mrs.
Jackson's raincoat was a sure signal of social activity.
"Let's walk up clost along the fence and see how she's takin' it,"
suggested Mrs. Tutts amiably. "Gittin' the mitten is some of a pill to
swaller. Don't you speak to her, Mis' Jackson?"
Mrs. Jackson glanced furtively over her shoulder and observed that Mrs.
Symes was still standing on the veranda.
"If I come upon her face to face, but I don't go out of my way a-tall,"
she added in unconscious imitation of Mrs. Symes's newly-acquired
languor of speech. "One rully can't afford to after her bein' _so_
indiscreet and all."
"Rotten, I says" declared Mrs. Tutts tersely.
"She looks kinda pale around the gills s'well as I can see from here,"
opined Mrs. Jackson, staring critically as they passed along. They
tittered audibly. "I tell you what, Mrs. Tutts, Essie ought to get to
work and marry some man what'll put her right up in society where Alva
put me."
A biting comment which it caused Mrs. Tutts real suffering to suppress
was upon the tip of that lady's tongue, but it was gradually being borne
in upon her that the first families were not given to actual
hand-to-hand conflicts, so she checked it and inquired significantly
instead--
"But could he, after ridin' over the country t'hout no chaperon and
all?"
Mrs. Tutts had only recently found out about chaperons and their
function, but, since she had she insisted upon them fiercely, and Mrs.
Jackson was finally forced to admit that this violation of the
conventions was indeed hard to overlook.
Essie Tisdale was too unhappy either to observe the passing of the women
or their failure to recognize her. In the presence of this new, real
grief their friendliness or lack of it seemed a small affair. The only
thing which mattered was Ogden Van Lennop's going. The sun, for her, had
gone down and with the inexperience of youth she did not believe it ever
would rise again.
The girl sat motionless, her chin still resting in her palm, until a
tremulous voice behind her spoke her name.
"Essie."
She turned to see Mrs. Terriberry, buttoned into her steel-colored
bodice and obviously flustered.
"Yes?" There was a trace of wonder in her voice.
At the sight of the pale face the girl upturned to her, Mrs.
Terriberry's courage nearly failed her in the task to which she had
nerved herself.
"Essie," she faltered, twisting her rings nervously, finally blurting
out, "I'm afraid you'll have to go, Essie."
The girl started violently.
"Go?" she gasped. "Go?"
Mrs. Terriberry nodded, relieved that it was out.
"But why? Why?" It seemed too incredible to believe. This was the very
last thing she had expected, or thought of.
Mrs. Terriberry avoided her eyes; it was even harder than she had
anticipated. Why hadn't she let "Hank" Terriberry tell her himself! Mrs.
Terriberry was one of that numerous class whose naturally kind hearts
are ever warring with their bump of caution.
She was sorry now that she had been so impulsive in telling him all that
Dr. Harpe had whispered over the afternoon tea at Mrs. Symes's now
fashionable Thursday "At Home." It was the first of the coveted cards
which Mrs. Terriberry had received and Dr. Harpe took care to adroitly
convey the information that the invitation was due to her, and Mrs.
Terriberry was correspondingly grateful.
"You can't afford to keep her; you simply can't afford it, Mrs.
Terriberry," Dr. Harpe had whispered earnestly in a confidential corner.
"But," she had protested in feeble loyalty, "but I _like_ Essie."
"Of course you do," Dr. Harpe had agreed magnanimously; "so do I; she's
a really beautiful girl, but you know how it is in a small town and I am
telling you for your own good that you can't afford to harbor her."
"I couldn't think of turning her out just when she needs a friend," Mrs.
Terriberry had replied with some decision, and Dr. Harpe's face had
hardened slightly at the answer.
"It's your own affair, naturally," she had returned indifferently; "but
I'll have to find accomodations elsewhere. If living in the same house
would injure me professionally, merely a boarder, you can guess what it
will do to you in a business way, and," she had added significantly,
"socially."
Mrs. Terriberry had looked startled. After hanging to the fringe until
she was all but exhausted, it was small wonder that she had no desire to
again go through the harrowing experience of overcoming Society's
objections to a hotelkeeper's wife.
"Certainly I don't blame you for hanging on to her as long as you can,"
Dr. Harpe had added, "and of course you would be the last to hear all
the gossip that there is about her. But, on the whole, isn't it rather a
high price to pay for--well, for a biscuit-shooter's friendship? Such
people really don't count, you know."
Mrs. Terriberry who had once shot biscuits in a "Harvey's Eating House"
murmured meekly--
"Of course not." But instantly ashamed of her weak disloyalty she had
declared with a show of spirit, "However, unless Hank says she must go
she can stay, for Essie has come pretty close to bein' like my own girl
to me."
Dr. Harpe had been satisfied to let it rest at that, for she felt sure
enough of Terriberry's answer.
"He needs my money, but if more pressure is necessary,"--she sniggered
at the recollection of Mr. Terriberry's sentimental leanings--"I can
spend an hour with him in the light of the 'meller moon.'"
Again Dr. Harpe was right. Mr. Terriberry needed the money, also his
fears took instant alarm at the thought of losing so popular and
influential a guest, one, who, as he told Mrs. Terriberry emphatically,
could do him a power of harm. The actual dismissal of the girl who had
grown to womanhood under his eyes he wisely left to his wife.
The girl stood up now, a slender, swaying figure: white, desolate, with
uplifted arms outstretched, she looked like a storm-whipped flower.
"Oh, what shall I do! Where shall I go!"
The low, broken-hearted cry of despair set Mrs. Terriberry's plain face
in lines of distress.
"Essie, Essie, don't feel so bad!" she begged chokingly.
The girl's answer was a swift look of bitter reproach.
"You can stay here until you find some place that suits you."
The girl shook her head.
"To-morrow I'll go--somewhere."
"Don't feel hard toward me, Essie," and she would have taken the girl's
hand, but she drew it quietly away and stood with folded arms in an
attitude of aloofness which was new to her.
"It's not that; it's only that I don't want your--pity. I don't think
that I want anything you have to give. You have hurt me; you have cut me
to the quick and something is happening--has happened--_here_!" She laid
both hands upon her heart. "I feel still and cold and sort
of--impersonal inside."
"Oh, Essie!"
"I understand perfectly, Mrs. Terriberry. You like me--you like me very
much, but you are one kind of a coward, and of what value is a coward's
friendship or regard? I don't mean to be impertinent--I'm just trying to
explain how I feel. In your heart you believe in me, but you are
afraid--afraid of public opinion--afraid of being left out of the teas
and card parties which mean more to you than I do. You've known me all
my life and fail me at the first test."
"I hate to hear you talk like that; it doesn't sound like Essie
Tisdale." But in her heart she knew the girl was right. She was a
coward; she had not the requisite courage to set her face against the
crowd, but must needs turn and run with them while every impulse and
instinct within her pulled the other way.
"Doesn't it?" The girl smiled bitterly. "Why should it? Can't you
see--don't you understand that you've helped kill _that_ Essie
Tisdale--that blundering, ignorant Essie Tisdale who liked everybody and
believed in everybody as she thought they liked and believed in her?"
"Dear me! oh, dear me!" Mrs. Terriberry rubbed her forehead and groaned
pathetically.
Any consecutive line of thought outside the usual channels pulled Mrs.
Terriberry down like a spell of sickness. She looked jaded from the
present conversation and her thoughts ran together bewilderingly.
"I know to-night how an outlaw feels when the posse's at his heels and
he rides with murder in his heart," the girl went on with hardness in
her young voice. "I know to-night why he makes them pay dear for his
life when he takes his last stand behind a rock."
"Oh, Essie, don't!" Mrs. Terriberry wrung her garnet and
moonstone-ringed fingers together in distress. "You mustn't get
reckless!"
"What real difference does it make to you or anybody else how I get?"
she demanded fiercely, and added: "You are showing me how much when you
advertise to all the town by turning me out that you believe their evil
tongues."
"I'm goin' to talk to Hank again----" but Essie stopped her with a
vehement gesture.
"You needn't. I don't want pity, I tell you, I don't want favors. I am
going to-morrow. There is some way out. There is a place in the world
for me somewhere and I'll find it."
She turned away and walked toward the corral where the black omnibus
horses nickered softly at her coming, while Alphonse and Gaston stood on
their hind legs and squealed a vociferous welcome.
"My only friends----" and she smiled bitterly.
She winced when she saw a new face passing the kitchen door and realized
that Mr. Terriberry already had filled her place. It was only one small
thing more, but it brought again the feeling that the world was sinking
beneath her feet.
She stood for a long time with her forehead resting on her folded arms
which lay upon the top rail of the corral. The big 'bus horses shoved
her gently with their soft muzzles, impatient to be noticed, but she did
not lift her head until a step upon the hard-trodden yard roused her
from her apathy of dull misery. She glanced around indifferently to see
old Edouard Dubois lumbering toward her in the fast gathering dusk.
Dubois's self-conscious, ingratiating smile did not fade because she
drew her arched eyebrows together in a slight frown. It took more than
an unwelcoming face to divert the obstinate old Frenchman from any
purpose firmly fixed in his mind.
"Ha--I am ver' glad to find you alone, Mees Teesdale, I lak have leetle
talk with you." There was a purposeful look behind his set smile of
agreeableness.
She shrank from him a little as he came close to her, but he appeared
not to notice the movement, and went on--
"I hear you are in trouble--eh? I hear you get fire from ze hotel?"
Again the girl's face took on its new look of bitterness. That was the
way in which they were expressing it, spreading the news throughout the
town. They were losing no time--her friends.
"'Fired' is the word when a biscuit-shooter is dismissed," she returned
coldly.
"I hear you get lef' by that loafer, too. I tole you, mam'selle, that
fellow Van Lennop no good. I know that kind, I see that kind before,
Mees Teesdale. Lak every pretty girl an' have good time, then
'pouf!--zat is all!"
She turned upon him hotly, her face a mixture of humiliation and angry
resentment.
"You can't criticise him to me, Mr. Dubois! I won't listen. If I have
been fool enough to misunderstand his kindness that's my fault, not
his."
Dubois's eyes became suddenly inscrutable. After a moment's silence he
said quietly--
"You love heem, I think. Zat iss too bad for you. What you do now, Mees
Teesdale? Where you go?"
He saw that her clasped hands tightened at the question, though she
replied calmly--
"I don't know, not yet."
"Perhaps you marry me, mam'selle? I ask you once--I haf not change my
mind."
She stared at him with a kind of terror in her eyes.
Was _this_ her way out! Was this the place that somewhere in the world
she had declared defiantly was meant for her? Was it the purpose of the
Fates to crowd her down and out--until she was glad to fill it--a
punishment for her ambitions--for daring to believe she was intended for
some other life than this?
Upon that previous occasion when the old Frenchman had made her the
offer of marriage which had seemed so grotesque and impossible at the
time, he had asserted in his pique, "You might be glad to marry old
Edouard Dubois some day," and she had turned her back upon him in light
contempt--now she was, not glad, she could never be that, but grateful.
"But I--don't love you." Her voice sounded strained and hoarse.
"Zat question I did not ask you--I ask you will you marry me?" He did
not wait for an answer, but went on persuasively, yet stating the bald
and hopeless facts that seemed so crushing to her youth and
inexperience. "You have no parent--no home, Mees Teesdale; you have no
money and not so many friend in Crowheart. You marry me and all is
change. You have good home and many friends, because," he chuckled
shrewdly, "when I die you have thirty thousand sheep. Plenty sheep,
plenty friends, my girl. How you like be the richest woman in this big
county, mam'selle?"
The girl was listening, that was something; and she was thinking hard.
Money! how they all harped upon it!--when she had thought the most
important thing in the world was love. Even Ogden Van Lennop she
remembered had called it the great essential and now she saw that old
Edouard Dubois who had lived for seventy years regarded it in a wholly
reverent light.
"When you marry me you have no more worry, no more trouble, no more
tears."