A NEWSPAPER
Linda, though spontaneous enough in ordinary matters like most Southern
girls, was reticent when it came to those things which touched her
most nearly. She was but fifteen when her mother died; her sisters,
older than herself, had passed out of her life before she had really
known them well. The elder had married and had died within a year, the
younger, Linda remembered only as a delicate girl, who was too frail to
go so far as town to school, and who one day was covered with flowers
and was borne to the little churchyard. So at the very time Linda had
needed someone to whom to give her confidences she had only her older
brother, Martin, a busy man, and one who could hardly sympathize with
her youthful fancies, her flights of imagination, however kind he
might be. Therefore because she must have some outlet for her fanciful
thoughts she began to scribble, for her own pleasure at first, later
with the hope that she might one day write something worth publishing.
It was not till she had taken up her abode with Miss Ri that she did
timidly send forth some little verses, very doubtful of their finding
a place in the columns of the newspaper to which she sent them.
Time went on and she had heard nothing of her small venture, but one
Saturday morning, having gone to the school-house for some book she
needed, she stopped at the postoffice for the mail, forestalling the
postman who could deliver it later.
On the threshold she met Berk Matthews. "Why, hallo, Linda," he
exclaimed. "Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays."
"And whose fault is that, I'd like to know," she answered.
"Whose fault? Why, the ducks, of course. I didn't have any luck and am
going out again. By the way when did you turn poet?"
Linda paled, flushed, looked down nervously, shuffled the letters and
papers she held. "What do you mean?" she asked at last.
"There's only one Verlinda Talbot, isn't there? Unless someone has
borrowed your very pretty and unusual name. Look at this." He thrust
his hand into his coat pocket and drew forth a paper, opened the sheet
and pointed out the following:
THE MARCHING PINES
Up from the hill-slope and over the ridge
An army is coming of marching pines.
The cloud-shadows lurking, lie low on the bridge
Wrought out by the moonbeams in delicate lines.
They march from the meadow land over the snow
With bayonets pointed, a solid phalanx,
Save where, on their outlying edges, they show
A few timid stragglers who've broken the ranks.
And down in the field, set in orderly rows
Are wigwams, one sees by the light of the moon.
Hark! Hark! Does a war-whoop discover the foes?
From out of the marsh comes the laugh of a loon.
Verlinda Talbot.
"Here, let me take your things," said the young man gently as he
perceived by her shaking hands and changing color that she was
agitated. He watched her read the lines through and as she raised sweet
questioning eyes, he bit his lip and drew in his breath quickly and
sharply. "I like it, Linda," he said as she folded the paper and handed
it back to him. "How did you manage to do it? I am as proud as can be
of you."
"Are you really, Berk? That is very nice of you. To think you saw it
before I did. Why I didn't even know they were going to print it."
"You didn't? Then I'm the discoverer. I'm proud of that, too. Very
likely you will find a copy of the paper in your mail. Are they paying
you well for it?"
"Oh, no, I don't think they pay at all. I don't expect that. I am paid
sufficiently by seeing it in print this time. Perhaps--some day--if I
keep on--"
"You will be a great writer."
"Oh, never that, but I may be able to write something worth while. I
long to."
"And give up teaching? You don't like teaching."
"I don't believe I do very much."
"Yet I hear good accounts of you."
"Really, Berk?"
"Certainly I do. Mr. Willis told me you were very satisfactory, and had
broken in your class so they trotted along without a break."
"I think we do get along better," Linda acknowledged a little
dubiously, "and I believe the small boys do begin to like me more than
they did, at least some of them do."
"All of them will in time, I am sure."
"You're a nice encouraging friend, Berk. Is this where we part?"
"Yes, I have an appointment with Judge Morris this morning. Good-by.
Tell Miss Ri I'll be around soon."
He gave the budget into her hands, raised his hat and entered the
little one-storied building at the side of whose door were signs
denoting the calling of those whose offices were within, lawyers all,
two judges among them.
The trees over-arching the long street had lost most of their leaves,
but the river was as blue as ever, and the gardens still held late
blooms. A tall cosmos peeped over the fence of one, chrysanthemums
made a brave showing in another. A few courageous nasturtiums started
brilliantly from amid their yellowing leaves, scarlet salvia shot
out myriads of little tongues of flame before almost every house.
The streets were quite full of people this Saturday morning. Country
vehicles, mud-stained, and in many cases rickety and drawn by shabby
mules, jostled more pretentious teams. Lolling darkies singing some
monotonous camp-meeting hymn, drove their brick carts to a new building
which was going up near by. Dogs were seen everywhere, some at the
heels of the young men who, in hunting attire, were making ready to
start out for a day's shooting, some lying on the porches ready to
bark at any passer-by, some sportively chasing one another up and down
the street, playfully catching at the long silky ear of a companion,
or rolling him over and over, then off again in hot chase. One or two
thrust their cold noses into Linda's hand as she passed them, and with
wagging tail received her caress and "Nice doggie" as something not
only expected but deserved. The air was soft, sweet and languorous,
for Indian summer was here and the days still held suggestions of the
earlier season.
Linda turned in at the gate leading to Miss Ri's house, and pushing
her feet through the drift of crisp leaves which covered the gravelled
walk, enjoyed the exhilaration of the hour. She was buoyant, hopeful,
really happy. Life was opening up wonderful possibilities. The music
of the spheres was hers. She read the spirit of the universe in each
dancing leaf, in each scarlet flower-flame.
Seeing Phebe at the back of the house she ran around to her. The old
woman raised herself ponderously from where she was spreading her
dish-towels on the grass. "Do you like it here? Are you happy, Mammy?"
asked Linda.
"Jes listen to de chile," exclaimed Mammy. "Is I happy? I done got
'ligion long ago, honey, and I ain't back-slid fo' many a ye'r. Co'se I
is happy. I ain't shoutin' but I ain't mo'nin', an' I hopes I ain't lak
dese young things dat hollers hallelujah at nights and steals from de
madam in de mawnin'. Co'se I is happy long as mah baby ain't down in de
mouf. Yuh sutt'nly looks peart, honey, an' bless mah Lord an' Marster
dat I kin say it. Whar all yo' beaux, honey chile?"
Linda laughed. "Oh, they'll be around after a while."
Mammy chuckled and Linda entering by the back door, after some
searching, at last found Miss Ri upstairs looking over the house linen.
"Well, Verlinda, you have a fine color," said the lady looking up. "It
does you good to get out into the fresh air. Any news up town?"
"I met Berk."
"You did? What did he say about the trunk?"
Linda stopped in the act of tearing the wrapper from a newspaper she
held. "Aunt Ri, I declare I never said a word to him about it. Never
once did it enter my mind."
"Verlinda Talbot! I can scarce believe that. What were you talking
about to make you forget it?"
Linda finished freeing the paper from its wrapper. Her eyes were
downcast, and the flush lingered in her cheeks; a smile played around
her lips. "This," she answered holding out the paper on which her
verses were printed.
Miss Ri adjusted her spectacles, read the lines, laid the paper aside
and took the girl's hands in hers. "You dear, sentimental child," she
said, "I am proud of you."
"That is what Berk said," returned Linda with a little pleased smile.
"Did he? Well, he may be. Why, my dear, we shall all be proud of you,
the whole town. We must have you in the club; you will be an ornament
to it."
Linda fairly laughed at this. "One meagre little set of verses will not
give more than a rushlight's beam," she answered, "even in Sandbridge,
Aunt Ri. But maybe I shall be a real shining light some day. Anyhow it
is great fun."
"Of course it is to those who can do it. I couldn't to save me."
"And, you see, in the excitement of the discovery, the reason of my
forgetting the trunk. Please don't tell Mr. Jeffreys that I have seen
Berk; he will think me a very indifferent cousin if he knows."
"What did Berk have to say besides mentioning that he was proud of you?"
"He said he had no luck shooting and that he was going out again. I
imagine he has been pretty busy, but he said I was to tell you he'd be
around soon."
"Ducks or no ducks?"
"The ducks weren't mentioned."
"Well, he'd better come if he knows what is good for him. Here is your
other swain heading this way. Go down and see him and keep the trunk
out of the conversation when I am around or I might forget myself and
tell on you. I think you'd better take him off somewhere if you want to
be quite safe. It's a fine day to be out of doors."
"We can sit on the porch or go out on the river," responded Linda as
she left the room.
She felt a little diffident about showing her newspaper to her visitor,
but, reflecting that Miss Ri would be sure to speak of it, she decided
to have the matter over with, and at once displayed her verses. If
Mr. Jeffreys did not openly express the same appreciation that Berkley
had done he was at least as effusive as Linda expected, being at no
time a person who showed ardent enthusiasm. His call was not a long
one, for Linda felt a little ill at ease, condemning herself for having
forgotten a thing so important to him, and in consequence she was not
able to talk of his affairs with the same show of interest, a fact
which he, however, attributed to her excitement over the printing of
her verses.
As the two walked to the gate together they saw Berkley drive by with a
friend. Both men were equipped for hunting, and from between Berkley's
knees looked out the intelligent face of a fine brown setter who was
all a-quiver with the prospect in view.
Mr. Jeffreys gave a sudden call after the buggy, but checked himself
directly, turning to Linda with an air of apology. "I should not
have done that, but I was carried away by my interest in seeing Mr.
Matthews. I didn't know he was in town."
"He is going off with Elmer Dawson, evidently," rejoined Linda, looking
after the buggy.
"And there is no telling when he will return. The fates are against me,
Miss Linda."
"You certainly are having a lesson in patience," Linda admitted. "Never
mind, Mr. Jeffreys, the case won't suffer by reason of delay. Why
don't you write a note to Mr. Matthews?" she asked suddenly catching at
the idea. "Tell him you think he has happened upon your trunk, describe
it, and ask him to let you see it. You must remember his attention has
not been called to it yet, and he hasn't a notion that you are in a
state of suspense."
"Unless he has examined the contents."
"Which he may or may not have done. At all events, you will have the
satisfaction of knowing that you have brought the subject to his
notice. He seems such a difficult person to get at these days that it
might be as well to write."
"Thank you for the suggestion; it might not be a bad idea. I will
go home and think it over." He lifted his hat and Linda watched him
thoughtfully walking down the street. "If Berk does know it is pretty
mean of him," she said to herself, and she voiced the opinion to Miss
Ri when she went indoors.
"It is mighty mean if he really knows it, and it almost seems as if
he must," agreed Miss Ri. "One might almost think he was doing it on
purpose, if it were not really a serious matter. Berk is something of a
tease, you know. I'll call him up to-night and tell him to come and get
his socks. He doesn't deserve to have me mend them, the rascal."
But Mr. Matthews was not at the hotel, came the news over the 'phone
that evening. Neither did he appear on Sunday. On Monday it was learned
that he had returned but was at Court when Mr. Jeffreys tried to see
him. The day went by and there was no response to the note Mr. Jeffreys
mentioned having written.
"It begins to look very queer," said Miss Ri soberly when Monday
had passed and no Berkley appeared. "I'm beginning to lose faith,
Linda, and that is something I have never done before where Berk was
concerned. He can't want to steal such a paltry thing as a trunk."
"Perhaps to his legal mind it is his own property since he bought it,"
remarked Linda in excuse.
"But there are the papers."
"True, there are the papers. He has no right to them. Dear me, my head
fairly buzzes with trying to account for it. I wish we had never heard
of Wyatt Jeffreys and his old trunk. Why did he come here to disturb
our peace?"
"It certainly is queer for Berk to act so," continued Miss Ri, "and the
queerest part of the whole business to me is that he has not been near
us for two weeks."
"He did come, you remember, that day you went to the country with Mrs.
Becky."
"Yes, I had forgotten that."
"And he was as nice and friendly as could be the day I met him at the
postoffice."
"But he hasn't sent us those ducks," contended Miss Ri.