"When ye see two hearts tryin' to beat ez one, gin 'em the
chance."--Old Cy Walker.
Chip's success and popularity in Greenvale was practically nullified
by Hannah, who from wounded vanity and petty jealousy became her enemy
from the outset.
Aunt Comfort did not know it. Angie was not conscious of the facts, or,
busy with her own social duties and home-making, gave them no thought.
And yet, inspired by Hannah's malicious tongue, Greenvale looked upon
poor Chip as one it was best to avoid.
With Angie as sponsor, she had been made one of the Christmas church
decorators, and had been twice invited to parties, only to exasperate
Hannah all the more and cause an increase of sneers.
"She's nobody an' an upstart," Hannah said at the first meeting of
the village sewing circle after Chip's advent, "an' I've my doubts
about her father an' mother ever bein' married. Then she's an infiddle
an' believes in Injun sperrits an' hobgoblin things she calls spites,
an' is a reg'lar heathen. I don't trust her a minit, an' never leave
the house 'thout I lock up my things."
Much more of this sort fell from Hannah's lips whenever occasion
offered, though never within hearing of Aunt Comfort or Angie. Neither
did the townspeople enlighten them, and so the undercurrent of innuendo
and gossip, once started by Hannah, spread until all Greenvale looked
askance at Chip.
There was also some color for this ill repute, for Angie had concealed
nothing, and Chip, foolishly perhaps, had asserted her belief when it
would have been better to conceal it.
The parson also, chagrined at his failure to make a convert of the girl,
referred to her as "rebellious, obstinate in her ideas, and one who
needed chastening."
Her teacher, however, was her stanch friend. Aunt Comfort beamed upon her
morning and night, while Angie, having provided her with home, raiment,
opportunity for schooling, escort to church, and much good advice, felt
that she had fulfilled her duty. And in a way, she had.
But social recognition in a country village can be made or marred by
such a person as Hannah, and quite unknown to those most interested,
Chip's popularity was not decreed. Neither was she conscious of this
undercurrent. Each day she went to and returned from school in a sturdy
sort of way. A most devoted pupil, she never failed to thank her teacher
for every word of help, and if--thanks to Hannah--she failed to make
friends about the village, she won a place near to Aunt Comfort's heart.
But somehow Aunt Comfort, who loved everybody alike, good or bad, or
at least spoke no ill of the bad ones, didn't count. That she must
inevitably take Chip under her motherly wing, all recognized. She had
taken Hannah, then Angie and Nezer, and now this waif who, as Hannah
insisted, was all bad; and according to Greenvale's belief, Aunt Comfort
would keep on "taking in" homeless waifs and outcast mortals as long
as she lived, or house room held out. And it was true.
By midwinter Martin's new house was all furnished, and social
obligations began to interest Angie, which made matters all the worse for
Chip, for now Hannah could persecute her with less danger of exposure.
But Chip was hard to persecute. She had known adversity in its worst
form. Her life at Tim's Place had been practical slavery, and the worst
that Hannah could do was as pin pricks compared to it.
It is certain, also, if Chip had "spunked up," as Hannah would call
it, now and then, it would have been better for her; but it wasn't
Chip's way. To work and suffer in silence had been her lot at Tim's
Place. Angie had said, "You must obey everybody and make friends," and
impelled by experience, and this somewhat broad order, Chip was doing
her best.
One hope cheered her all that long, hard winter of monotonous study--the
return of Ray, and possibly Old Cy, when summer came. Somehow these two
had knit themselves into her life as no one else had or could. Then
she wondered how Ray would seem to and feel toward her when he came,
and if the little bond--a wondrous strong one, as far as her feelings
went--would still call him to her side.
Of love and its real meaning she was scarce conscious as yet. She simply
felt that this youth with his sunny face and brown eyes was the one
being on earth she wished to please. All the romance and pathos of
that summer idyl, all the moonlight and canoeing, all the songs he had
charmed her with, and every word and act of his from that first evening
when, ragged and starving, she had stumbled into the camp, until she had
parted from him with misty eyes, had been lived over by her countless
times.
It had all been a beacon of hope to her in the uphill road toward the
temple of learning; and how hard she had studied, and how patiently she
had tried to correct her own speech, not even her teacher guessed.
Few of us can see ourselves as others see us, and yet Chip, mature
of mind as one just entering womanhood, realized somewhat her own
condition. Perhaps, also, she was conscious in some degree as to why
she was not more popular, but that was a matter of scant interest to
her. All she wished and all she strove for was to learn what others knew,
speak as others spoke, and act as they acted; and all for one end and
purpose--to win favor in the eyes of Ray.
And so no one, not even Hannah, whose prying eyes saw all things, guessed
her secret.
A little of gall and bitterness was now and then meted out to Hannah
in return for all her sneers, for Chip's teacher occasionally spent an
evening at Aunt Comfort's, and every word of praise she let fall for
her pupil was a thorn to Hannah. But she revenged herself, as might be
expected.
"I think that Injun gal's a witch," she said once to her bosom friend
after one of these unpleasant evenings, "the way she pulls wool over
Miss Phinney's eyes by pretending she's so anxious to learn. You'd
think to hear her go on that learnin' was all she was livin' for, and
her teacher almost an angel. I think Angie must 'a' ben spellbound
the same way when she fetched her here to crowd out her betters."
But Chip, fortunately, was still unconscious of the extent and injury
of Hannah's malice.
With the coming of springtime and green grass, life for Chip assumed
a more smiling face, for now she could fly to the hillsides, and for
the time being imagine herself at the lake once more. Somehow Greenvale
as a whole had impressed her as cold and unloving, and to escape it was
a relief. Her teacher was dear to her, Aunt Comfort a kindly mother,
Angie a good friend; but none were kin to her and never could be, as
she more and more realized.
Then, too, poor Chip, in spite of Tim's Place, was growing homesick for
the wilderness again; or, to be more accurate, for the little lake where
her heart had been touched by the wand of love.
With some insight into books and a developing mind came a keener
sensitiveness, and what people thought of her and how they felt toward
her became of more consequence. Her life was simple. She rose early,
assisted as a housemaid in Aunt Comfort's home, departed at a set time
for school with its six hours of almost unbroken study, and, most prized
of all, a few moments' companionship with her teacher. To her Chip
had confided all her joys and sorrows and most of her history as well.
And be it said to Miss Phinney's credit, she had discretion and honor
enough not to betray Chip's confidence.
It is also possible, in fact almost certain, that that unfortunate
waif's somewhat pitiful tale had won her teacher's interest and
affection as naught else could. Only one reservation was made by
Chip--her own feelings toward Ray. All else became an open book to
Miss Phinney.
When school was out, the two walked homeward together as far as their
ways permitted, and then Chip obtained the one hour of the day which she
felt was quite her own. At first, during the autumn days, she had used it
for a scamper through the nutbrown woods. When winter came and it was
not too cold, she occasionally visited the mill pond above the village,
where, if the conditions were right, all the skating and sliding youth
were gathered; and when blessed spring returned, it was away to the
hills and fields once more.
On Saturdays she seldom left the house, unless sent on an errand, and
Sunday became a day of penance.
"I don't know why folks watch me so much when I go to meetin'," Chip
complained once to her teacher, "but they do, and I don't like it. I
can see now why they did when I first came. I guess they thought I was
an Injun, maybe; but what do I do now to make 'em so curious?"
"Oh, I wouldn't mind them," Miss Phinney answered soothingly, "no
one intends to annoy you; but it takes a long time for people here to
become accustomed to a stranger."
Miss Phinney dared not tell her pupil that her somewhat wild belief
and unquestionably rude origin and early life formed the basis of this
curiosity.
And now, when the flowers and birds had once more returned to Greenvale,
and Ray might return any day, a little plan that Chip had had in mind
for many weeks took shape. She knew Ray must come on the stage, and eager
for a sight of his face as only love can make one, she meant to be the
first to meet and greet him.
A mile down the village street and beyond the last house was a sharp
hilltop. The stage usually reached here about an hour after the close of
school, and to this vantage point, where she could hide behind a stone
wall, Chip now betook herself each day.
Her plans for meeting her young hero were well considered. She was sure
he would, like herself, prefer a seat with Uncle Joe. That important
person, whose heart she had won by her admiration of his horses on her
arrival, would surely invite her to ride into the village, if he saw her.
If he was alone, she would remain hid; but if _some one_ was with him,
she would then disclose herself and the coveted invitation and meeting
with Ray would follow.
It was a vague, uncertain plan. No one in Greenvale had the remotest idea
when Ray would return. Chip only knew that he was expected in the spring.
The day, or even week, was a long-range guess. But even that slim chance
poor, lonesome, heart-longing Chip would not miss, and so each day at
close of school she hurried to her lookout point to watch and wait.
It was a silly, almost hopeless sentinelship, as she knew well enough;
but with the dog's heart that was hers, she would keep her vigil, and
like one of those dumb brutes, wait weeks, months, ay, years even, for a
master coming.
It was mid-April when Chip began her daily watch, and missed no day
unless a pelting rain prevented. It was June ere she won her reward, and
then one balmy afternoon when she saw the stage afar, there, perched
beside Uncle Joe, was--a companion!
How sure that weary, waiting waif was that her heart was not mistaken!
How her pulses leaped and thrilled as the slow-moving stage crept up
the hill; and how Ray, eager to catch the first glimpse of his native
village, saw a winsome, smiling face shaded by a flower-decked hat,
peeping at him over a wall, was but a minor episode in the lives of
these two; yet one to be recalled many, many times afterward and always
with a heartache.
None came to them now, for on the instant Ray saw who was waiting for him
he halted the stage, and the next moment he was beside his sweetheart.
And Uncle Joe, with the wisdom and sympathy of old age, discreetly
averted his face, and said "Go-lang" to his horses, and drove on alone.