AFTERMATH
It was a substantial stone house, built against the mountainside,
overlooking a picturesque canyon. A woman sat on the broad veranda.
Occasionally, she turned her head, and looked down the mountain road,
listening as though expecting some one. Then she walked down the path,
and stood watching. A little five-year-old girl joined her, flitting
about like a sprite.
"Will father come soon, mother?" she asked.
"I hope so, Edith. He said he would come to-day." There was a far away
look in the mother's eyes.
"Why _doesn't_ father come?" the child continued.
"Oh, he has been a long way, and has traveled many days, dear.
Something may have happened to detain him."
"What could have happened, mother?" the little one asked.
"Oh, business, or the rails might have spread, or there might have
been a washout, or a landslide."
The mother again looked down the road. Then she walked slowly back to
the veranda and took up her sewing. The child leaned against her knee.
"Mother, when you were a little girl, did you have any little girls to
play with?"
"No. I had just my dear grandfather."
"Then you know how lonely I am, mother. It's pretty hard to be a
little girl and all alone."
"Do you think you are alone, little daughter, when you have father,
and aunt Carla, and mother?"
"But you are big, mother, don't you see? When a little girl hasn't any
other little boys and girls to play with, the world's a pretty
lonesome place."
The mother sighed.
The child rested her chin in her dainty hands, and looked up through
her long lashes into her mother's eyes.
"I have been thinking, mother."
The child was given to confidences, especially with her mother.
"What did you think, Edith?" The mother smiled encouragingly.
"I thought I'd pray for a brother."
A tear trembled on the mother's cheek.
"A little brother?" The mother looked far away.
"Oh, a _b-i-g_ brother!" said the child, stretching her arms by way of
illustration.
"What would you say, sweetheart, if a big brother should come to-day?"
The little one clapped her hands.
"A really, _truly_, big brother?" she asked, dancing about in glee.
"A really, truly, big brother,--Wathemah. You have never seen him, and
he has never seen you, since you were a baby. But he is coming home
soon, you know."
"Will he play with me?" she asked. "You and Aunt Carla just 'nopolize
father and the big ladies and gentlemen when they come. But
_sometimes_ father plays with me, doesn't he, mother?"
"Yes, sometimes. He loves his little daughter."
"I don't know." She shook her head doubtfully.
"I heard father say he loved you bestest of ev'rybody in a world."
She threw up her arms and gave a little jump.
"Oh, I wish I had some one to play with!"
"Let's go watch for father again," said the mother, rising.
This time they were not disappointed. They heard the sound of wheels;
then they saw the father. The little daughter ran like the wind down
the road. The father stopped the horses, gave the reins to the driver,
and stepped to the ground. In an instant the little sprite was in his
arms, hugging him about the neck, while her ripples of laughter filled
the air. The wife approached, and was folded in the man's embrace.
"Father," said the child, "I am to have a big brother, mother says."
"You are?" Great astonishment.
The parents smiled.
"An', father,"--here she coquetted with him--"you and mother are not
to 'nopolize him when he comes. He's going to play with me, isn't he,
mother?"
"I think so." A grave smile.
The child was given to saying her father "un'erstood."
"When did you hear from Wathemah, Esther?" the father asked.
"About ten days ago. I'll read you his letter. I shall not be
surprised to see him any day, now."
"Wathemah is my big brother, Father. Mother said so. She says he's
always been my big brother, only _I_ didn't re'lize it, you know."
The parents looked amused.
"Yes, Edith, he is your brother, and a dear brother, too," said the
father.
When they were seated on the veranda, and the child was perched on
her father's knee, Esther brought Wathemah's last letter, and read it
aloud to her husband.
"_Dear Mother Esther:_
"This is probably the last letter I shall write you from Harvard for
some time. As soon as Commencement is over, I shall go to Carlisle
again for a brief visit, and then start for Arizona, to Father Kenneth
and you, my dear Mother Esther, and my little sister and Carla and
Jack. Now that the time approaches for me to return to you, I can
hardly wait.
"I may have expressed my gratitude to you and Father Kenneth in
different ways before, but I wish to do so again now.
"I am deeply indebted to him for his generosity, and for his fatherly
interest and counsel. But it is to you, my beloved teacher, I owe most
of all. All that I am or ever may be, I owe entirely to you. You found
me a little savage, you loved me and believed in me, and made it
possible for me to become a useful man. As I have grown older, I have
often wondered at your patience with me, and your devotion to the
interests of the Indian. You have done great things already for him,
and I am confident that you will do much more to bring about a true
appreciation of him, his character and his needs. The Indian in
transition is a problem. You know more about that problem than almost
anyone else.
"I never told you about my birthday, did I? Do you know the day I
count my years by? My first day, and your first day at the Gila
school. Then my real birth took place, for I began to be a living
soul.
"So, in a spiritual sense, you are my real mother. I have often
wondered if the poor creature who bore me is still living, and living
in savagery. All a son's affection I have given to you, my beloved
foster mother. It is now nearly sixteen years since you found me a
little savage. I must have been about six years of age, then; so, on
the next anniversary of your first day in the Gila school, I shall be
twenty-two years old. From that day till now, you have been the
dearest object in the world to me. I am sure no mother could be more
devotedly loved by her son than you are loved by me. I strive to find
words to express the affection in my heart.
"And Grandfather Bright! How tender and gentle he always was to me,
from the time we had our beautiful wedding journey until his death! He
came to Carlisle to see me as he might have gone to see a beloved son.
He always seemed to me like God, when I was a little fellow. And as I
grew older, he became to me the highest ideal of Christian manhood. I
went over to Concord Cemetery not long ago, and stood with uncovered
head by his grave.
"And our dear little David Bright! That was a sore loss for you and
Father Kenneth.
"You don't know how often I wish to see little Edith. I was greatly
disappointed that you and Father Kenneth did not bring her with you
the last time you came to see me. You didn't realize such a lean,
lanky, brawny fellow as I cared so much to see a little girl, did you?
I had always wished I might have a little sister. I have shown her
pictures to some of the fellows who come to my room, telling them she
is my baby sister. They chaff me and say I do not look much like her.
"The fellows have been very courteous to me.
"Now that the time has come to leave Harvard and Cambridge and Boston,
I am sorry to go. I have met such fine people.
"Dr. ---- urges me to return in the fall, to continue my work for my
Master's degree; but I have thought it all over, and believe it wiser,
for the present, to work among my people, and get the knowledge I seek
at first hand. After that, I'll return to Harvard.
"Long ago, your words gave me my purpose in life,--to prepare myself
to the uttermost for the uplift of my race.
"Daily, I thank you in my heart, for the years I had at Carlisle. But
most of all, I thank you for yourself and what you have been to me.
"I must not close without telling you of a conversation I had with
Col. H---- of Boston. He heard your address on 'The Indian in
Transition' at the Mohonk Conference. He told me it was a masterly
address, and that you presented the Indian question with a clearness
and force few have done. He told me that what you said would give a
new impulse to Indian legislation. He seemed to know of your
conferences at Washington, too.
"I hear great things of Father Kenneth, too; his increasing wealth,
his power for leadership, and his upright dealings with men.
"Do you remember how jealous I used to be of him when I was a little
chap? Well, I am jealous no longer. He is the finest man I know.
"But I must stop writing. This letter has run on into an old-fashioned
visit.
"I am coaching one of the fellows in mathematics. Strange work for a
savage!
"With love for all of you, including my dear Carla,
"Your loving boy,
"WATHEMAH."
"He's a fine fellow, is Wathemah," said Kenneth, as he cuddled his
little girl up in his arms.
"Yes, he's developed wonderfully," responded Esther.
"How's Carla?" the husband asked.
"Carla's well, and just now deeply interested in the Y.M. and Y.W.C.A.
work."
Here Carla herself appeared, and joined in the welcome home. She was
the picture of wholesome content.
While they were talking, there was a sound of wheels again. The wagon
stopped, a young man jerked out a trunk, paid the driver, and ran
towards the veranda. How happy he seemed!
"It's Wathemah," all cried, hastening to meet him. The sprite was in
advance, with arms outstretched.
"I guess you don't reco'nize me," she said. "I'm your little sister."
He laughed, stooped and lifted her in his arms, and kissed her several
times.
Then came Esther's turn. At the same time, Kenneth enfolded Wathemah.
Then came Carla, whom Wathemah kissed as he used to do in childhood
days, and laughingly repeated a question he was accustomed to ask her
then--"Is my face clean, Carla?"
And all laughed and talked of the days when they had found one
another, of the Claytons and Jack Harding, and Patrick Murphy and his
family, and the Rosses and Carmichaels, and the changes that had taken
place in Gila since they left there.
"I was so sorry to hear of Mr. Clayton's death," said Wathemah. "What
a great-hearted man he was! Such a generous friend! Do you suppose
Mrs. Clayton and Edith will ever come back to America?"
"No," answered Kenneth, "I fear not. Mrs. Clayton's kindred are in
England, you know. She never liked America. It was a lonely life for
her here, and doubly so after her husband's death."
"And how's Jack? Dear old Jack! I must see him soon," said Wathemah.
"I'll call him up," said Kenneth, going to the phone.
"Give me 148, please."
"No,--1-4-8."
"Hello! Is Mr. Harding within reach?"
"Gone to the store, you say? Send some one for him at once, please,
and tell him Mr. Hastings wishes to talk with him. Important."
He hung up the receiver and returned to his place.
"Do you know, Father Kenneth, I have received a letter from Jack every
week since I left Gila, except the time he was sick? He insisted upon
sending me money, saying that it was he who found me, and wanted me to
live."
"Yes, Jack is a generous fellow," assented Kenneth.
"I tried to make him understand that I was strong and able to earn my
own way; but it made no difference."
"Just like him! Bless him!" said Esther.
"So I have invested his money for him, in his name, and it will make
him very comfortable some day."
Kenneth smiled.
"Jack is becoming a rich man by his own work, and his own wise
investments."
Just then the telephone rang.
"Hello! Hello! Is that you, Jack?" asked Kenneth.
"That's good.
"Yes, yes.
"Something interesting is up. Whom would you like to see at this
moment?
"Mother Esther? That's good. Who next?
"Wathemah? Hold the phone a minute."
He turned to Wathemah.
"Jack says he'd like to see you. He doesn't know you're here. Here!
Talk to him yourself."
So Wathemah stepped to the phone.
"Hello, old Jack!"
There was a happy laugh.
"You'll be over to-morrow?"
"What's that you say? _Your_ boy? Well, I guess!"
"How happy Jack will be!" said Kenneth.
"Your little pard?" There was a chuckle from the lithe, muscular young
Indian.
"To be sure, I'm still your 'pard,' only I'm far from little now. I'm
a strapping fellow."
"What's that? You feel the education has come between us? No more o'
that, old fellow! You're one of the biggest-hearted friends man ever
had!"
"Tell him to come over as soon as he can," interrupted Kenneth.
"Father Kenneth says 'Come over as soon as you can.'"
"You will? Good! What a reunion we'll have! Good-by."
He hung up the receiver, and the conversation drifted on.
"Has Jack made a successful overseer?" questioned Wathemah.
"Very. He's a fine fellow. He is still very religious, you know, and
the men respect him. He has become an indefatigable reader and student
of labor questions. Recently I heard him give a speech that surprised
me. He grasps his subject, and has a direct way of putting things."
"I should expect Jack to be a forceful speaker," commented Wathemah,
"if he ever overcame his diffidence so as to speak at all. But tell
me about the school at Gila. That little spot is dear to me."
"You should see the building there now," said Esther. "Do you know
that the people who were most lawless when we were there, are now
law-abiding citizens? Gila is said to be one of the best towns in
Arizona."
"That seems like a miracle,--your miracle, Mother Esther." He rose
from his chair and stood for a moment behind her, and said in a low
voice, as in childhood, "_Me_ mother, _me_ teacher." There was a
suspicious choke in his voice, and, turning, he lifted Edith, tossed
her to his shoulder, and ran with her down toward the road. Kenneth
overtook him, and as they strolled along, they talked of many things,
but chiefly of Esther, and her great work for the Indian.
"How did it all come about?" asked Wathemah.
"Oh, in a roundabout way. Her magazine articles on the Indian first
drew attention to her. Then her address at the Mohonk Conference
brought her into further prominence. She was asked to speak before the
Indian Commission. Later, she was sent by the Government to visit
Indian schools, and report their condition. She certainly has shown
marked ability. The more she is asked to do, the more she seems
capable of doing."
"A wonderful woman, isn't she?"
"Yes. Vital. What she has done for the Indian, she has also done for
the cause of general education in Arizona."
"I fear she will break down under all this, Father Kenneth."
"Never fear. Work is play to her. She thinks rapidly, speaks simply,
and finds people who need her absorbingly interesting."
"Yes, but she gives herself too much to others," protested the Indian
youth.
"Well, we must let her. She is happier so," responded Kenneth.
"What about your own work, Father Kenneth? I have heard in
Massachusetts that you are a great force for public good throughout
this region. But tell me of the mines."
"I invested much of my fortune _here_," said Kenneth, giving a broad
outward sweep of his arm. "Some of the mines are paying large
dividends. My fortune has more than doubled. But Arizona has been
unfortunate in being infested with dishonest promoters. I am trying to
bring about legislation that will protect people from this wholesale
robbery."
"I suspect you enjoy the fight," laughed the youth.
"It has created bitter enemies," said Kenneth, gravely.
So talking, they again sought the house, and found Esther and Carla on
the veranda. The latter sat where Wathemah could see her delicate
profile as she bent over some sewing. Quiet happiness and content had
transformed her into a lovely woman.
"How beautiful you are, Carla!" said Wathemah, admiringly.
He enjoyed her confusion.
"Do you remember the day I played truant, Carla, and you found me in
the canyon, and made me ashamed of myself?"
Did she?
He did not notice the shadow over the winsome face.
"Do you know, Wathemah," said Esther, "Carla would not remain at
college, because she felt I needed her. But she has become an
indefatigable student."
Later, Wathemah discovered for himself that she really had become a
fine student. One day he asked her how she came to study Greek.
"Oh," she said, hesitatingly, "I loved Grecian literature, and
history, and art. And I had often heard that my father was a fine
Greek scholar. So I began by myself. Then I had Sister Esther help me.
And after that, it became to me a great delight."
They were a merry party that day. All were in fine spirits. In the
midst of their talk and laughter, the telephone rang.
"Some one for you, Esther," said Kenneth, returning to the veranda.
On her return, he looked up questioningly.
"The superintendent of education wishes me to give an address before
the teachers at Tucson next month," she said, quietly.
"And will you do it?" asked Wathemah.
"Do it?" echoed Kenneth. "Of course she'll do it! She doesn't know how
to say 'no.'"
Esther smiled indulgently.
"You see, Wathemah, the needs of the new country are great. They would
not invite me to lecture so frequently, if they had enough workers. To
me, the opportunity to help means obligation to help."
"Our Mother Esther has just returned from a conference at Washington,
and another in Montana," said Kenneth, "and here she is going off
again. The truth is she has become an educational and moral force in
the Southwest."
"We are glad to share her with all who need her," said Carla, simply.
"Yes, lad," added Kenneth, rising, "we are glad she has the power to
help."
The next morning, they were awakened early by John Harding, calling
Wathemah to let him in. Such a meeting as that was! Jack did not seem
to know how to behave. The little unkempt lad, untutored, and
undisciplined, whom he had known and loved, was gone; and in his
place, stood a lithe, graceful, really elegant young man. Jack stood
back abashed. _His_ Wathemah, his little Wathemah, was gone. Something
got in his throat. He turned aside, and brushed his hand across his
cheek. But Wathemah slipped his arm around his neck, and together they
tramped off up the mountain for a visit. Then Jack knew that his boy
had really come back to him, but developed and disciplined into a man
of character and force.
That was a gala day for Jack Harding and the Hastings household. No
one had ever seen Jack so happy before.
Late that afternoon all stood on the veranda.
"My little kid," said Jack, laying his hand on Wathemah's shoulder,
"I've worked fur ye, prayed fur ye, all the years. And now you've
come, now you've come," he kept saying, over and over.
"Say, Jack," said Wathemah, "do you remember the time you found me
asleep up the canyon, and took up a collection to send me East with
Mother Esther?"
Jack nodded.
"Well, that money, with all that you have since sent me, has been
invested for you. And now, Jack, my dear old pard, that money has made
you a little fortune. You need work no more."
Jack choked. He tried to speak, but turned his face away. Esther
slipped her arm through his, and told him she wanted to visit with
him. So the two walked up and down the road in front of the house,
talking.
"We are all so happy over Wathemah," she said. "I know you must be,
too. He is really your boy, for you saved him, Jack."
Then Jack Harding poured his heart out to her. She understood him, all
his struggles, all his great unselfish love for the boy. She knew the
pain of his awakening, when he found that the child whom he had loved,
whom he had toiled for all these years, needed him no more. It was
pathetic to her.
"But, Jack dear," she was saying, "I am sure Wathemah will always be a
joy to you. Only wait. My heart tells me he has some great purpose. He
will tell us in time. When he does, you will want to help him carry
out his plans, won't you?"
Up and down the veranda, walked Kenneth and Wathemah. Kenneth's hand
and arm rested on the youth's shoulder.
"Yes, Wathemah," he was saying, "little David's death was a great
sorrow to us. He was shot by an unfriendly Indian, you know."
For a moment his face darkened. The two walked on in silence.
"And Mother Esther?" Wathemah said in a husky tone; "how can she still
give her life for the uplift of my people?"
"Oh, you know as well as I. She serves a great Master."
They talked from heart to heart, as father and son.
At last all the household gathered on the veranda to watch the
afterglow in the sky. Esther slipped her arm through Wathemah's, and
they stood facing the west.
"And so my boy is to enter the Indian service," she said.
"Yes," he answered. "You know I majored in anthropology and
education. My summers among various Indian tribes were to help me know
the Indian. My thesis for my doctorate is to be on 'The Education of
the Indian in the United States.' When I have my material ready, I'll
return to Harvard and remain until I complete my work for my
doctorate."
"What next, Wathemah?" There was a thrill in Esther's voice.
The Indian youth squared his shoulders, lifted his head, and said, as
though making a solemn covenant:
"The uplift of my race!"
And Esther's face was shining.
Transcriber's Notes
Omission of punctuation and misspellings that appeared to be
typesetter errors have been corrected.
Slang and colloquialisms in dialogue has been left as it appeared in
the original.
In this Latin-1 text version, the following substitution system has
been used for non-Latin-1 diacritical marks:-
[=e] e with Macron
[=u] u with Macron
[)e] e with Breve
There is a Unicode version of the text file which has all diacritical
marks as per the original book.
In Chapter XV, the Apache makes the statement "N[=e]-sh[=e]-aed-nl[)e]h'"
"You be my squaw." This is repeated several times in Chapter XXI. In the
original the diacritical marks are typeset differently in the subsequent
entries. On the assumption that the first entry is more accurate, all
repetitions are changed to agree with the original.
In the original there is some dialogue of one sentence that has been
typeset across two paragraphs. These have been closed up into the same
paragraph to aid reading flow and to maintain consistency.
In Chapter XXI (page 250 in the original) there is a line that appears
to be out of order.
The original reads:-
His coming was
about as welcome to her as the wolves would be.
him. She shook her head, pointed to her ankle, and
"N[=e]-sh[=e]-aed-nl[)e]h'," he said, beckoning her to join
again tried to climb. Her efforts were futile. Then
This has been rearranged as:-
His coming was
about as welcome to her as the wolves would be.
"N[=e]-sh[=e]-aed-nl[)e]h'," he said, beckoning her to join
him. She shook her head, pointed to her ankle, and
again tried to climb. Her efforts were futile. Then
In Chapter XXIV the sentence "The child was given to confidences,
especially with her father" has been changed to "especially with
her mother" as the reference to father made no contextual sense.