MRS. DAVIDSON'S CONSCIENCE
It was fall, and the flame of the frost had fallen on the aspen and the
cottonwoods, and shorn the willows of most of their leaves. A hundred
thousand wild fowl honked their way across the meadows toward the black
flats where once had been a lake, and where now was immeasurable food
for them. Up in the mountains the elk were braying. The voice of the
coyotes at the pink of dawn seemed shriller now, as speaking of the
coming days of want. But the sun still was kind, the midday hour still
was one of warmth. A strange, keen value, immeasurably exalting, was
in the air. All nature was afoot, questioning of what was to come.
Mary Gage came in from the stream side that afternoon, the strap of her
trout creel cutting deep into the shoulder of her sweater. She placed
the basket down under the shadow of the willow trees, and hung up a
certain rod on certain nails under the eaves of the cabin. Her little
dog, Tim, soberly marched in front of her, still guiding her, as he
supposed; but she no longer had a cord upon his neck, a staff in her
hand. A hundred chickens, well grown now, followed her about, vocal of
their desire for attention. She turned to them, taking down the little
sack which contained the leavings of the wheat that had been threshed
not so long ago here.
"Chick, chick, chick!" she called gently--"_chick_ee, _chick_ee!" So
she stood, Lady Bountiful for them as they swarmed about her feet in
the dooryard.
She heard the clang of the new gate, and turned, her hand shading her
eyes to see who was coming.
As she stood she made a splendid picture of young womanhood, ruddy and
brown, clear of skin and eye, very fair indeed to look upon. The droop
of the corners of her mouth was gone. Her gaze was direct and free.
She walked easily, strong and straight and deep of bosom, erect of
head, flat of back, as fit for love as any woman of ancient Greece.
Such had been the ministrations of the sagebrush land for Mary Gage,
that once was the weakling, Mary Warren.
She saw two figures coming slowly along the well-worn track from the
gate. She could not hear the comment the one made to the other as they
both advanced slowly, leaning together as gossiping women will, like
two tired oxen returning from the field.
"Is that her?" asked one of the newcomers, a ponderous sort of woman,
whose feet turned out alarmingly as she walked.
"Sure it's her," said Karen Jensen. "Who's it going to be if it ain't
her? Ain't she nice-looking, sort of, after all? And to think she can
see now as good as anybody! Yes, that's her.
"How do you do, Mis' Gage?"
She spoke now aloud as Mary came toward them smiling. The dimples in
her cheek, resurrected of late, gave a girlishness and tenderness to
her face that it once had lacked in her illness.
"I'm well, thank you, Mrs. Jensen. It's a glorious day, isn't it?
I've got some fish for you. I was going to tell Minna to take them
down to you when she went home. She's a dear, your Minna."
"Well, it's right fine you should catch fish for us now," said Mrs.
Jensen. "I'll be obliged for some--my man don't seem to get time to go
fishing."
"Make you acquainted with Mis' Davidson, Mis' Gage," she continued.
"This is the school teacher. She comes every fall to teach up above,
when she's done living on her Idaho homestead, summers."
"How do you do, Miss--Mrs. Davidson," began Mary, offering her hand.
"If you know Mrs. Jensen I ought to know you--she's been very good to
me. Come in, won't you? Sit down on the gallery."
"Yes, this new porch is about as good as anywheres right now,"
commented Mrs. Jensen. "It's a little hot, ain't it?" They found
seats of boxes and ends of logs.
Mrs. Davidson cast a glance into the open door. It included the
spectacle of a neat, white-covered bed, a table with a clean white
oil-cloth cover, a series of covered and screened receptacles such as
the place might best afford out of its resources. She saw a floor
immaculately clean. She spoke after a time ending a silence which was
unusual with her.
"The latter title that you gave me, Mrs. Gage, is correct," said she.
"I am a widow, having never encountered the oppor-r-r-tunity but once."
It was worth going miles out of one's way to hear her say
"opportunity"--or to see her wide-mouthed smile.
"As a widow," she resumed with orotundity not lessened by her absence
from her own accustomed dais, "as a widow yourself, you are arranged
here with a fair degree of comfort, as I am disposed to believe, Mrs.
Gage."
"I cannot complain," said Mary Gage simply.
"A great trait in life, my dear madam; resignation! I endeavor to
inculcate in my pupils the virtue of stoicism. I tell them of the
Spartan boy, Mrs. Gage. Perhaps you have heard of the Spartan boy?"
"Yes," said Mary. "I know something about stoicism, I hope. But now
I'm going to get you some berries--I picked some, up beyond, on the
meadows." She rose now and passed into that part of her cabin which
constituted the kitchen.
"An extr-r-r-aordinary young woman!" said Mrs. Davidson to Karen
Jensen. "An extra_or_dinary person to be here. Why, she is a person
of culture, like myself. And once married--married to that man!"
Mrs. Davidson's lips were tight pursed now.
"I don't reckon she ever was, real," said Karen Jensen, simply. "I
don't hardly believe they _was_."
Mrs. Davidson showed herself disposed to regard all the proprieties,
hence she but coughed ponderously and shook her head ponderously,
turning from side to side two or three times in her chair ponderously
also.
"For what has happened here," said she at last, "I thank God. If
things had happened worse it would have been my fault. Never again
shall I address myself to the task of writing advertisements for men in
search of wives. Great Providence! An extraordinary woman like this!
To-night I shall pray on my two knees for forgiveness for what I did,
and what it might have meant. When I consider how near I came
to--to----"
"To raising hell?" inquired Karen Jensen sympathetically, seeing that
her companion lacked the proper word at the time.
The other woman nodded in emphatic though unconscious assent. Always
there was present before her mind her own part in the little drama of
this place. It was she who had helped to bring this woman here--who
had helped to deceive her. She thanked Providence that perhaps fate
itself sometimes saves us from the full fruit of our follies, after all.
"Just a little sugar, thank you, Mrs. Gage," said she as Mary offered
her some of the fresh whortle berries. "And these little cakes--you
made them?"
"Oh, yes--I do most of my cooking, when I can keep Annie away. You
know about Annie, of course. And Minna, Mrs. Jensen's little, girl,
who is my companion here most of the time--as I said, she's a dear.
I've been teaching her to read all summer--spoiling your work, Mrs.
Davidson!"
"I wish more and more that I might have aid in that undertaking in this
valley," said Sarah Davidson, herself a great soul in her way, and
Covenanter when it came to duty. "It is perhaps primitive here, more
so than elsewhere, but the people--the people--they need so much, and
they--they----"
"They _are_ so much," said Mary Gage gently. "They _are_ so much. I
never knew before what real people were. I'm so glad."
Mrs. Davidson's face worked strangely, very strangely, Mary thought, so
that she believed her to be afflicted with some nervous disease of the
facial muscles. But in truth Sarah Davidson was only endeavoring to
get under control her own emotions, which, like all else about her,
were ponderous and slow.
"Then, my dear--you will let me say 'my dear,' won't you? It's
becoming such a habit with me at my time of life--you will permit me to
inquire if that is an actual expression of your attitude toward the
people here? You say you are glad? Do you mean that, or is it a mere
conventionality with you?"
Mary turned toward her with that gravity which quite commonly marked
her face when all her features were at rest.
"I quite mean it all, Mrs. Davidson," said she. "I'm thankful with all
my heart that I came out here. It's a great place to fight things out.
I'd never have been happy in all my life if I had not come here. I'm
really glad, and you may believe that, because I do--now."
"You would forgive--you would cherish no malice against any who acted
as the ah--instigators--of your original journey here?"
A sudden question arose in Mrs. Davidson's mind as to whether or not
any of Mary Gage's associates and neighbors ever had told her all the
story of that original endeavor, whose object was matrimony. Whereupon
she concluded now to let sleeping dogs lie, and not to urge the matter.
Nor was Mary herself the more disposed at the moment to speak of the
past. She only looked out across the valley, as was her custom.
They passed on to some talk of the peace news, and demobilization plans
for the men still abroad, for the visitors had brought the latest paper
with them.
"Our men!" exclaimed Mary Gage as she read the headlines. "They're
fine. They are always fine, everywhere, all of them. I'd have liked
to see them in the great parades, in the cities."
"'Twould be a gr-r-r-and sight," said Mrs. Davidson, "for women who
have had no oppor-r-r-tunity!"
"Ah? Women who haven't had what women wish?" said Mary Gage, a strange
confidence in her own tones. "Don't you suppose God knows the way?
Why be trying to change----" The word did not come at first.
"The plan?" suggested Mrs. Davidson.
"The plan!" said Mary.
"I must be going before long," said Karen Jensen, having finished her
saucer of berries, and caring little for philosophizing. "I've got to
milk seven cows yet."
"I will come often, if I may, Mrs. Gage, now that I am again located in
this valley," said her companion, rising also.
"Oh, won't you, please!" said Mary Gage. "And--won't you do me a
little favor now? I have a letter--I was just going up to the corner
to put it in the box. If you're going that way, will you drop it in
for me?"
Karen Jensen hesitated, looking across at the shortcut across the
fields, but Mrs. Davidson, not being well organized for barbed wire
entanglements, offered for the errand, which would take her around by
the road.
"Surely, I shall be most happy," said she. "I will walk around by the
box and drop your letter very gladly. No, no, don't mind coming. It's
nothing--I always go home that way."
But Sarah Davidson after all was the school teacher when she had passed
beyond the gate in the willow lane. She felt that in her were
represented all the privileges of what priesthood might be claimed in
this valley. She felt that her judgment was large enough to be
infallible, since she so long had been arbiter here in all mooted
matters. It was, therefore, surely her right to have intelligence as
to the plans, the emotions, the mental process of all these people,
including all newcomers. Were they not indeed in her charge?
Her right? Indeed, was it not her duty to know what there was in this
letter from the woman whom she herself had brought out here not so long
ago? It caused her vast perturbation, for she had a conscience which
dated back to ages of Scottish blood, but she was not one to deviate
from her duty once she had established it! This letter--to Major Allen
Barnes, in yonder city--what was in it?
It was a letter going to that outer world, from the very person whom
she, Sarah Davidson, had brought into this sagebrush world and had set
down among these neighbors. Just now she had confessed herself to be
happy here. Why? Could it be a violation of confidence--an
eavesdropping--opening this letter? Not in the least! It was only
oppor-r-r-tunity! As to that, who did not know that for years every
letter to a soldier was opened and censored? Obviously it was her duty
as social censor of Two Forks also to open and read this letter.
Therefore, looking behind her cautiously to see she was not observed,
she stepped behind the cover of the willows and ran the point of her
pencil along the edge of the sealed envelope--it had been sealed
thoroughly. Still, she tore it but very little in the process.
There came out into her hand a single sheet of paper. It bore no
address and no signature. It showed a handwriting evidently that of a
lady of culture, of education. There was nothing to show that it was
an answer--an answer long deferred but not now to be changed, a woman's
answer to the great question.
Mrs. Davidson was standing in a sort of consternation, the two parts of
the letter in her two hands, when she nearly sprang into the wire fence
at the sudden voice she heard, the voice of a man speaking close at
hand.
"Good Lord, Mr. Gardner!" said she, "you gave me a turn. I wasn't
thinking of you."
"What was you thinking of, Mis' Davidson?" asked Wid, smiling. "You
was all in a trance. Something on your mind, huh? I bet I know.
You're sending out a ad on your own account--'object, matrimony!'"
"Sir-r-r!" said Sarah Davidson, flushing red for the first time Wid
Gardner had ever seen it occur, "such conver-r-r-sation is not welcome
on your part, not in the least! I prefer-r-r that you shall not again
mention that act which I have so long regretted. The past is past. A
woman's real love is for to-day and to-morrow, when with her own eyes
and her own hear-r-rt she has chosen honorably, sir-r--honor-r-ably! I
bid you good evening, Mr. Gar-r-r-dner. I request you never to speak
of that incident again!"
Nor did he, so far as known.
But when Wid himself, chuckling innocently, had passed on down toward
the gate with the loaf of bread which Annie was sending over to Mary
Gage for her evening meal, Sarah Davidson was passing up the road
toward the school house--entirely forgetting to turn to the left toward
Nels Jensen's, where she boarded.
She was wiping away large, ponderous tears--tears of joy that the world
had in it love of men and women--that God, after all, did know--that
the world still was as it was in the beginning, incapable of
destruction even by war, incapable of diversion from the plan of peace
and hope. She guessed so much--and guessed the future of Mary Gage's
life--from data meager enough, but which may have served.
What she saw on the single, unsigned page, and what opened all the
fountains of emotion in her own really gentle soul, was a part of what
Mary once had heard come to her in a world of darkness. The words now
were written by herself in a world of light.
She had promised him when he went away that, if ever everything was
clear in her own mind regarding what was past, she might write to him
one day. So now she had written:
"Only thoughts of you remain
In my heart where they have lain;
Perfumed thoughts of you, remaining,
A hid sweetness, in my brain.
Others leave me; all things leave me:
You remain."