VIRGINIA MUST GO
Virginia sank limply into the parlor car seat. After a moment she raised
herself and looked out through the wide window upon the busy platform of
the South Ridgefield station. Serena and Ike waited by the car nervously,
endeavoring to locate the position of their mistress by peering into
the coach. The old negress was publicly weeping.
As they caught sight of the girl, the train started and with rapidly
increasing speed moved down the platform. Ike grinned a cheerful
farewell while Serena screamed her adieu, and, as if unable to bear
the separation, started to waddle along with the train, frantically
waving her black hands.
Virginia signaled back and shouted embarrassed little good byes,
subconsciously aware that they would be heard by no one except her
traveling companions. As the two negroes were swept from her sight, a
feeling of utter loneliness wrapped her in its gloomy folds. Pent up
tears flooded her eyes, and so, through a mist, she saw at the end of the
platform a man and woman, waving handkerchiefs from an automobile, who
looked remarkably like Hezekiah Wilkins and Mrs. Henderson. Likewise,
through a curtain of moisture, when the train crossed the bridge, she
perceived the stranded _Nancy Jane_, symbolical of her own wrecked
efforts.
As the roar of the train upon the bridge died away, the girl sank back
again into her seat and succumbed completely to her grief. During those
last few hours at home she had steeled herself not to display her
feelings. She had met her father on the previous day and explained
her plans quite as calmly as if she were about to take an ordinary
vacation trip.
The decision of his daughter to leave him, based as it was upon the
inspiration of her mother, dead these seventeen years, had left him
strangely helpless. In his passion he had thrust aside the cloak of
idealism in which she had arrayed him and exposed his true character.
She had struck back, unwittingly selecting a weapon which had swept aside
his momentary anger and left him shaken and perplexed at the edge of
the abyss which had opened between them. Obadiah, too, had been unhappy
in those hours. He loved Virginia with all the affection of which his
nature was capable. There had been moments when he would have surrendered
abjectly to his daughter on her own terms but for the grim obstinacy
which obsessed him.
It may be that she intuitively appreciated his mental struggles, because,
excepting only her determination to leave home, she treated him with the
tenderest consideration. In his perplexity, Obadiah drifted for the
moment and blindly followed the girl's lead, as if through her alone
could come the solution of the problem which separated them. Their
breakfast that morning had been a difficult ordeal as had been their
leave taking. He had displayed no desire to accompany her to the train
and had parted from her with a grim indifference which his troubled
face belied.
Now, at least, there was relief in the luxury of a good cry; but after a
time the tears ceased and a weary peace came. Resting her head against
the back of her chair she gave herself up to thoughts of the few little
happinesses which gleamed like bright stars in the darkness with which
she was surrounded.
She thought of Joe Curtis and thrilled when she remembered the long
hand clasp. His picture of Old Rock comforted her anew as she assured
herself that such a place could not be lonely. She reviewed the few
moments in which she had bidden farewell to Mrs. Henderson. She had
dreaded Hennie's embarrassing questions. But, strangely, Hennie was
not inquisitive. She had broken away to rush into her kitchen crying
loudly that something was burning. This belief, from certain remarks
which had floated back, had irritated Carrie, her cook, exceedingly.
Returning, she had enveloped the girl in a wealth of motherly tenderness,
so that in reality the visit had consisted of much sobbing upon the
older woman's shoulder to an accompaniment of soothing endearments
and a train of explosive exclamations from which little could be gathered.
Soon she began to think of her Aunt Kate and of the new home to which she
was going. Little enough she knew. Once, shortly before the death of
Elinor Dale, Mrs. Kate Baker had visited South Ridgefield. At the time,
she had a baby daughter of Virginia's age and was mourning the death
of her husband. For years there had been irregular correspondence; but,
as far as Virginia was concerned, her father's sister and her cousin
were merely names.
The day of tiresome travel slowly passed. There were times when, in a
wave of despair, Virginia pictured herself adrift on a sea of sadness,
where all was dark and cheerless; but there were moments when sweet
thoughts of her mother strengthened her and made her resolve to stand by
her colors, no matter what the cost.
It was late that evening when the train arrived at Old Rock. The unusual
excitement and the fatigue of traveling had brought on a persistent
headache, so that it was a most forlorn and miserable Virginia who was
helped down from the car. Hardly had her bag been dropped at her side
when the train moved on. As the metal doors clanged shut, it seemed to
the girl as if it were the sound of the gates of her old life closing
against her. She gazed timidly about the station. It was very dark to
this girl of the city--this child of the electric lights. The fear of
the unknown seized her. Sick, frightened, every limb of her trembling,
she hesitated helplessly.
A figure approached through the gloom, and the soft, cheery voice of a
girl inquired, "Cousin Virginia?"
Virginia's throat was dry and husky. "Yes." Her answer was only a
whisper. A frightened little sound, but it was all that she could make.
Now a hand seized her arm and she was led along the platform. They came
under a station lamp, and again the voice spoke as they faced a tall,
angular, plainly dressed woman. "Here she is, mother."
Virginia looked up into a face which made her gasp in astonishment. In
the eyes, the mouth, the deep cut lines, was resemblance to her father
but, oh, with what a difference. It was Obadiah sweetened by love and
affection. The harshness, the obstinacy, the selfishness of him were
memories here. In their place lay a gentle, motherly look beneath the
soft, white hair and from the eyes beamed a tender welcome to the lonely
girl.
As Virginia hesitated diffidently, the lamp overhead brought out the
pallor and the pathos of her wan tired little face. With never a word
but just a soft exclamation she sank into the outstretched arms of her
aunt.
"You poor tired darling," whispered Aunt Kate. She fixed a look of
great severity over Virginia's shoulder at her own daughter. "Helen,"
she cried, "do you expect visitors to carry their own baggage? Take
Virginia's bag to the surrey." As Helen obediently departed, Aunt Kate
gave her guest a motherly hug, meanwhile making strange noises in her
throat. Releasing one arm with great care lest the girl be disturbed,
she endeavored to wipe a tear from her wrinkled cheek with a finger.
"Come, child," she said sharply. "You must get to bed. How do you
feel?" When she learned of the headache she commiserated with her niece.
"You poor child. Sleep is the best treatment for that."
A surrey drawn by a remarkably fat horse was waiting for them back of
the station.
"Don't you feel well, Cousin Virginia?" inquired Helen from the front
seat.
"It's only a headache, Cousin Helen."
There was sincere relief in Helen's voice as she replied, "I am so glad
that it is nothing worse."
Virginia and her Aunt climbed into the back seat of the conveyance.
"Hush," cried Helen in a loud whisper. "Archimedes is asleep. It's a
shame to disturb him. I haven't the heart to hit him," she giggled.
"Be careful and don't strike that horse cruelly, Helen," Aunt Kate
warned her daughter, as if that maiden were habitually guilty of cruelty
to animals.
Helen disregarded her mother's remark. "Archimedes is dreaming of corn
and oats and hay and green pastures. He must dream of such things, as
he never thinks of anything else," she laughed.
"Stop your nonsense, Helen. I have a sick girl here who should be in
bed."
"I'm better already," protested Virginia.
"Get up, Arch," cried Helen.
Archimedes stood fast.
"Arch," she called again.
No movement followed.
"Pull on the reins, Helen," suggested Aunt Kate.
"Mother, how many times must I tell you that to pull on the reins is
no way to start a horse. A logical minded animal would expect you to push
on the lines when you want him to stop, and that wouldn't do at all."
That mischievous giggle came again and Helen gave the horse a smart tap
with the whip.
The lazy steed flinched slightly and moved slowly forward.
"Don't be cruel, Helen, and keep in the gutter."
"Mother, there are no automobiles out at this time of night. For once,
when we have company, we should drive in the middle of the road. As
we pay taxes, we have a right there," argued Helen. "I am getting
curvature of the spine from driving with one wheel in the gutter."
"It is so much safer, Helen. Archimedes can't get out of the way
quickly."
"Why should he? Let the automobiles make room for us once. Are we
frightened chickens to flee from them?"
"It makes the people in the machines so cross, Helen. They say such
unkind things."
Delightful remembrances returned to Helen. "Mother, are you thinking of
the man who offered to lend us his jack to move Archimedes out of the
road?"
"That man was very angry."
"He was, mother. I hope that he has gotten over it by now," laughed
Helen. She clucked energetically and went on, "As you are with us
tonight, we will pursue our usual humble way in the gutter. But," she
declared emphatically, "when Virginia and I go driving we will take
the middle of the road and keep it in spite of all the horn-blowing
goggle-eyed men in the state of Maine. Archimedes shall not be insulted.
His proud spirit rebels."
They jogged along, the proud spirit of Archimedes being well content with
a modest speed. Turning into a driveway, they ascended a slight incline
and drove into a large barn.
"This is my department," Helen told her cousin with pride as she
unharnessed Archimedes. When he was safe in his stall she paused before
the white face of a Holstein cow. "Cowslip," she giggled, "this is
your cousin Virginia who has come to visit you."
A door opened and Aunt Kate called, "Helen, bring your cousin in. Don't
keep her out in that barn when she has a headache."
So, with an arm about her cousin's waist, Helen guided her on her first
trip along a Maine domestic pathway which begins in the stable, or even
chicken house, and runs under one roof to the parlor.
Virginia paused in a doorway that opened into a large oblong room. In
its center was a great, square, brick chimney which divided it into a
cosy kitchen forming a most convenient part of the dining room, and a
dining room which was a most pleasant part of the kitchen. The low room
with its old-fashioned paper, its white-curtained, square-paned windows
and its painted floor, was delightfully homey and cheerful. It seemed
particularly so to Virginia, with the motherly face of her aunt smiling
a kindly welcome and the arm of her pretty blonde cousin drawing her
affectionately towards its comfort.
A few minutes later, with a bag in one hand and a candlestick in the
other, Helen led her cousin up the stairs to the cosiest little bed room
imaginable. Its low ceiling sloped with the roof except where broken
by dainty curtained dormer windows. A mahogany four poster, a highboy
and a table with some chairs constituted its furniture, while upon the
floor were round rugs of woven rags.
After Helen had departed and she had removed the traces of her journey,
Virginia seated herself in a rocker for a moment. She felt as if a
weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The fear of the unknown,
which had so terrified her, was gone. In spite of her sadness, when she
thought of her father, she felt reassured and comforted. As the girl
sat there, a tender dreamy look of indescribable sweetness crept into
her face. Her lips moved and she whispered ever so softly, "Mother,
your way is not so hard."
The simple little supper, to which the three women sat down that evening
was delightful to Virginia. And afterwards, what a gay time they had
with the dishes. The city cousin, whose headache was now a thing of the
past, donned an apron and assisted in drying them. Never had Serena
permitted her this proud privilege and how pleased she was to do it
now. She polished the few plates upon which she had the time to apply her
intensive treatment until they shone and sparkled bravely beneath the
lamplight.
Aunt Kate watched her strenuous efforts for a time in silence and then
burst forth, "Good land, if I weren't sure that the blue on that old
willow ware was burned deep, child, I'd be afraid you'd rub it off."
"Virginia is exercising, mother," laughed Helen.
"If she exercises that hard on each dish, she won't have either the
strength or time to do the rest of her work. No man would want to marry a
girl who puts in her time wiping dishes. Most of them would rather look
at good things to eat in their plates than at the reflection of their
own faces, I'll warrant you."
How the two girls did enjoy Aunt Kate's sage remark and what a pleasant
little chat they had when supper was over.
Aunt Kate sat in her easy chair and sewed, and now and then interjected
a word of wisdom into their conversation which convulsed them. Finally
she yawned, and, looking at the old wooden cased clock upon the mantel,
announced, "It's time all honest folks were in bed and rogues were
movin'."
A short time after this pointed remark, Virginia, tingling with the chill
of the northern night which swept in as she opened her windows, climbed
into bed, and, pulling the blankets about her, she gave a little sigh
and, very much like her old self, plunged into a deep and dreamless
slumber.
When she awakened the next morning, sunlight was streaming into the
room. Filled with curiosity over her new surroundings, she sprang from
her bed and gazed out of the window. Across the road, which ran in
front of the house, a newly mowed meadow rolled down to the shore of a
lake or pond a short distance away. Its surface, rippled by the morning
breeze, glittered and sparkled in the sun. Beyond the water, rising
abruptly from its edge, was a great hill, its slope covered with a
forest of pine and fur and hemlock. The green expanse of the meadow was
broken by islands of maple and oak while several huge granite bowlders
stood forth against the sod in all of their grey majesty. The color
of the soft, rich summer sky, dotted with floating masses of fleecy
white, was reflected in the flashing water. The trees and grass, yet
glistening with the morning dew, were a moist green, untouched by the
yellow of sun scorch or drought. It was a restful verdancy which spoke
of frequent rains, of cool days and of cooler nights.
"Virginia, are you awake?" came the voice of her aunt from the hall.
She climbed hastily back into bed as her aunt entered.
Aunt Kate smiled sweetly down at the girl whose serious eyes reflecting
the color of the morning sky, gazed at her from a mass of wavy black
hair. "How is the headache?" she asked.
"It left last night, Aunt Kate, and hasn't come back."
"That's good." Aunt Kate's voice was very gentle and sympathetic.
She sat upon the edge of the bed and, leaning forward, patted the soft
cheek of her niece.
Again, in the lined face of her aunt, Virginia recognized that
resemblance to her father, so wonderfully softened by kindness and
sweetness. The thought came to the girl that her mother would have
had such a tenderness of look had she lived. A flood of memories swept
down upon her and tears welled up in her eyes.
Her aunt gathered her into those mothering arms again, and almost before
the girl appreciated what she was doing she had opened her heart and told
her woes in the gloomiest way possible.
After she had soothed her niece, until she could give a teary little
smile, Aunt Kate arose and, moving to the window, viewed the familiar
landscape with a stern eye, sniffing portentously. In a moment she
began to speak. "We Dales are a selfish and obstinate family. We were
always so." There was a note of pride in her voice. "The men are
worse than the women--much worse--more obstinate and selfish, dear," she
repeated. "I know my brother Obadiah--better than he knows himself.
I am very glad, child, that you told me about the whole thing." Suddenly
her voice became sharp and emphatic and she fastened a severe look
upon Virginia. "Don't you for a minute get it into your head that you
have run away from home. If you had, I should take you back myself. You
should have visited your cousin Helen and me a dozen times before, and
now we will make up for your neglect and give brother Obadiah a chance
to calm himself after the disturbances you have created." She paused
for a moment and then went on, smiling sweetly, "I want you to be
your own sweet self here and have a jolly time with Helen." Her tones
became gentle. "Follow the way of your mother until the end of your
life. Sometimes it will lead through gloomy valleys but it is the road
which leads to the sunshine of the heights. Hum," she cried sharply,
"read 'Pilgrim's Progress,' child. It says the same thing, but
better."
A much cheered Virginia came down to breakfast, and, like the very
healthy young person she was, in obedience to her aunt's command and the
natural law of youth, forgot the unhappiness of yesterday in the joys
of the present.
The days which followed were crowded with happy hours. There were drives
long in time but short in mileage behind the majestic Archimedes over
tree-shaded roads. Unaccompanied by the timid Aunt Kate, they forsook the
humble gutter and seized the crown of the road. With peals of ringing
laughter, they pursued their slow way, unmindful of irate tourists filled
with the belief that the road and the width thereof was theirs to be
covered at fifty scorching miles an hour, and that delays from slow
moving taxpayers were an interference with their vested rights as well
as to their progress towards the uttermost parts of the earth.
There were plunges into the cold depths of the pond followed by wild
scrambles, when, with chilled muscles, they ran through the cool air
over the meadow to the house.
There were long paddles in the canoe where every curve and bend of a
stream opened a new vista of loveliness, of woods, of stream, of hill,
of rolling meadow.
There were tramps through forests of fir and pine where their feet sank
into the soft cushion of needles and they climbed until they came out
on the rugged tops of hills where, resting in weariness, they drank deep
of the pure air and feasted their eyes upon the pleasing prospect below
them.
Tired and weary but happy beyond relief, they would return in the evening
and, catching sight of Aunt Kate waiting upon the porch, greet her with
gay shouts and, both speaking at once, relate stirring adventures of
field and flood with cows and frogs and sheep and dogs.
Jolly feasts these three women had when sore muscles rested after the
day's effort. Never were such vegetables grown as came from the garden
back of the barn. Where else, pray tell, could such desserts be found as
Aunt Kate made? Or what could be more delicious than those big bowls of
raspberries or blueberries afloat in Cowslip's rich, thick contribution
to the feast?
Afterwards, Virginia would write letters until too soon a nodding head
and leaden eyelids would force her to bed. Her correspondence was large
in those days. She wrote to Mrs. Henderson and Serena and Joe Curtis;
but more often she wrote to her father, telling him all that she did.
Regularly to her, came letters from him. They were formal, precise
epistles in a style which might be described as having commercial
tendencies and obviously prepared by Mr. Jones at the dictation of
Obadiah.
As the weeks passed "V," as Helen nicknamed her cousin, developed
muscle and flesh and grew amazingly, and the coat of tan she acquired
would have been a scandalous thing in any beauty parlor in the land.