SNAP SHOTS
"A letter from Montana for Miss Jane Bell," observed Peter, distributing
the mail at the breakfast-table one May morning, nine months after the
picnic at Grandfather Bell's farm. "It strikes me these Montana letters
are beginning to arrive with astonishing regularity."
"They began," declared Ross, enjoying the sight of the sudden colour in
Jane's face, as she tucked the letter into her belt and tried vainly to
look unconscious as she went on serving the family from a big dish of
oatmeal porridge, "by coming modestly once in about three or four weeks.
Then they got to once a fortnight--that was in midwinter. Along about
April----"
"If I were a big, grown man," murmured Jane, "I 'd never condescend to
keep track of----"
"Along in April," pursued Ross, unmoved, "once in ten days was the
schedule. But this last, coming as it does just one short week after
its predecessor, and carrying, as it does, two large red
postage-stamps--which, I am confident, is underpayment----"
"Stop teasing!" cried Nancy, always loyal to her sister. "Every one of
you is envying Jane, wishing you could have letters from a real cowboy."
"A real cowboy!" laughed Ross. "I think I see Murray Townsend getting
himself up in that rig. With his pale face and thin shoulders he 'd
look like the tenderest kind of a tenderfoot."
Jane pulled the letter out of her belt. The previous letter had
promised that this one should bring some snap-shot pictures of the
writer and his surroundings. She hoped, as she broke the seal, that she
should find them, feeling sure that the extra thick letter indicated
that it carried the promised enclosures.
As she pulled out the sheets a little packet of blue-prints dropped into
her lap. She picked them up and fell to looking at them. Peter,
sitting next to her, laughed to himself, as he reached for his dish of
oatmeal, Jane having forgotten to serve him. But everybody forgot
breakfast, as the blue-prints went round the table. All but one were
scenes of ranch and camp life, bringing into view horses and cowboys of
all sorts and conditions, each carefully labelled with its descriptive
title. But the one at the bottom of the pack was called "the
tenderfoot"--the only one of the set in which Jane's correspondent was
in evidence.
"Can it be possible this is Murray?" exclaimed Mrs. Bell, studying
incredulously the erect figure on horseback, life and energy in every
outline, from the tilt of the wide hat to the set of the leg in the
saddle. "Why, he looks as if he weighed thirty pounds more than when he
went away."
"By George, the fellow has n't roughed it nearly a year for nothing, has
he?" admitted Ross. "He doesn't look the stage cowboy, either--I 'll
say that for him. Those clothes have seen wear and rain, and that hat
has had the true Western shape knocked into it. It makes you envy him,
does n't it?"
Peter said nothing, but his eyes dwelt upon the figure in the saddle
with a look of longing so intense that if anyone had been observing him
it must have told his story plainly. One person was observing him, and
as Peter looked up at last, with an involuntary glance at his father,
who had just made some observation on the advantage it had been to the
rich man's son to get out among the ranchmen and gain a new view of
life, he met his father's eyes. Joseph Bell understood just what it
meant to Peter to stay at home and work as foreman in a note-paper
factory when there were such places as Montana in the world waiting for
young men to come and explore them. And there was that in his father's
look which told Peter that his sacrifice was appreciated.
Up in her own room, when a dozen duties had been done, Jane read her
letter. It was to her a deeply interesting letter, as had been all
those which came before it, for Murray wielded a graphic pen, and his
pictures of the sort of life he had been living were vivid as
colour-sketches. He was rejoicing in the coming of spring and summer,
after the long, cold winter, and his delight seemed to Jane so unlike
any pleasure in outdoor life she had seen him show at home that it
filled her with joy. The letter said, as it neared the close and fell
into the personal vein, as letters do:
I never knew before what it was to breathe way down to the bottom of my
lungs. My existence--after my accident, and up to the time I came
here--seems now to me like that of some pale monk in his cell, feeding
on other men's thoughts, but never living them himself. I've learned to
live! You, who have long known that secret, will be glad with me, won't
you?
All through the winter I was wrapped to the eyes whenever I put my head
out of the cabin door. Men dress warmly here in the
winter--flannel-lined canvas overcoats--"blanket coats" they call
them--felt boots, and all that. But they don't make grannies of
themselves as I did--at first. As the winter advanced, though, I began
to get hardened to it, and before spring I could stand a pretty low
temperature without feeling my blood congeal. But when spring
came--spring in this Western country! I wish I could describe it. The
air like wine, the sunshine like--nothing I can think of. When spring
came I began to expand mentally and physically--and in still another
way, I think. Anyhow, I 'm not the same fellow who went to the doctor
for an outfit of drugs before he dared start West.
I 've learned a lot from these men I 've been associated with. A rough
set they would seem to you, most of them--they did to me at first. But
when I got to know them, underneath the roughness I found--men. It's no
use trying to put it into a letter. I must talk with you, face to
face--and just what that means to me when I think of it I won't venture
to say. I 'll be home in the fall, and then--I 'm going into my
father's business. I have n't said that before, have I? You 'll please
not mention it to anyone, except Peter, if you like; I want to surprise
father. That's going to be my reward for doing my duty. It is my
duty--I see it plainly at last, and every ounce of determination I can
grow from now till fall is going to be just so much more to offer him.
But I won't brag about that. Do the best I can, it won't be a wonderful
gift, for I 'm afraid my talents don't lie in that direction. But if
honest effort can make up--Jane, I have n't watched some of these heroic
chaps for nothing. I 'm simply shamed into taking my medicine, and
shutting my mouth tight after it. And that's the last word about it's
being medicine. I 'm going to get interested in the business if
pitching in all over will do it.
This is a long letter, and I 'm done--except to tell you that the West
does n't deserve all the credit for my altered views of life. A certain
girl I know, who wanted to go to college, but gave up all thought of it
because, besides the family, her father and brothers had half a dozen
helpless elderly relatives to support, isn't the poorest sort of
inspiration to her friend, when he happens to be a fellow who never gave
up anything for anybody in his life. He values her friendship far more
than he dares to tell her now. Somebody--Ruskin?--said a knight's armour
never fitted him quite so well as when the lady's hand had braced
it--and I 'm beginning to understand what that rather picturesque
metaphor may mean. Do I sound sentimental, and are you laughing at me?
Don't do it! I 've not a "gun" in my belt, but I'm rather a rough
looking customer nevertheless. I came in an hour ago, wet to the
skin--caught out in a cloudburst without my slicker--and while my
clothes dry am attired in my cousin's (seven sizes too big!) being
averse to putting on any of the clothes in my trunk, the foolish clothes
of civilisation.
I weigh one hundred and sixty-five. What do you think of that? And
it's not flesh, but worked-on muscle and sinew. Did I say I was done? I
am. But I am also
Faithfully your friend,
MURRAY TOWNSEND.
"You look it," agreed Jane, studying the photograph. "You certainly
look it." She gave the little print one more careful examination,
noting the steady gaze the pictured face gave back, a spirited
expression very different from the half-moody look she had first known;
then she put the photographs away and went about her work. And as she
went, a little song sang itself over and over in her heart--the song of
trust in a ripening friendship of the sort that makes life worth living.
Spring and summer passed slowly by, marking a growing interchange of
amenities between the little house in Gay Street and the big one in
Worthington Square. Things had happened during the winter, things kept
on happening as the year advanced, to draw the two families together. In
January Shirley had had a long and severe illness, during which Mrs.
Bell and Jane made their way into the inmost heart of every member of
the household. There were nights during that illness when Joseph Bell,
feeling that difference of social position counted for nothing when a
father was in trouble, went over to shake Harrison Townsend's hand,
bidding him be of courage--and found himself detained as a friend in
need.
By and by, when the anxiety was over and the Bells ceased coming often
in and out, the Townsends began to summon them. Mr. Townsend discovered
the shrewd wisdom and genial philosophy of Joseph Bell to be of value,
and often went to sit with him in the little front room, where his eyes
noted with approval the rows of books. He discovered that Armstrongs's
head man knew more that lay between the covers of those books than did
Harrison Townsend himself.
As for Mrs. Townsend and Mrs. Bell, while they were too different in
temperament and taste to get far into each other's lives, they found
enough in common to bring them together rather oftener than could
naturally have been expected. There was a quiet poise about Mrs. Bell
which the other woman, accomplished woman of the world though she was,
could only study in despair of ever being able to attain. But she found
a rest and refreshment in her neighbour's society which none of her more
fashionable friends could give her, and she sent often for Mrs. Bell to
keep her company.
"Olive's taken one big step in advance," Peter said to his mother, one
day in early summer. "She has begun to write regularly to Forrest."
"I'm very glad," said Mrs. Bell. "Does he answer her letters?"
"He does--only too glad to, I should say. She's shown me some of his
letters. There 's a homesick grunt to them, that's sure. Life in the
army, and particularly life in the Philippines, is n't unmitigated
bliss, and he's finding it out. He does n't exactly squeal, but you can
see how it is with him."
"It will do Olive good to take up such a sisterly duty. Was it your
suggestion?" asked Mrs. Bell.
"How did you guess that? I did give her a talk one day, when she
happened to say that Shirley was the only one of the family who wrote to
Forrest with any regularity. She was pretty angry with me for a day or
two, but she came round, and now she writes once a fortnight. There 's
really more to that girl than you would think."
"She is improving very much, I am sure," agreed his mother, warmly.
"With a different early training, Olive would have been by now a much
more lovable girl than she has seemed. But, happily, it 's not too late
to give her new ideals, and I think you have helped in that direction."
"Ideals?" mused Peter. "I don't think I have any of those--at least, I
don't call them by that name. Rules of the game--how will that do,
instead? The foreman of Room 8 in a note-paper factory is n't supposed
to have ideals, is he?"
"I don't know about that. Suppose you ask the men and women under you.
I fancy they would protest your ideals were pretty hard for them to live
up to?"
Peter laughed to himself. "Maybe they would. But they would n't put it
that way. 'The boss is a tough one to suit,' they 'd say."
"Call it what you will--rules of the game, if you like. But, as the
children used to say, 'Peter Bell plays fair!'"
"I hope he does. If he does n't, it is n't the fault of his trainer."
And the gray eyes met the brown ones for an instant in a glance which
said many things Peter could not have spoken.
The days went on; June gave place to July; August heat melted into
September mildness; and October, with its falling leaves, marked the end
of the days of outdoor life lived from April to November in the little
garden.
"The twenty-fifth is Jane's birthday," observed Nancy to Shirley,
several days before that event. "We 're wondering what to do in
celebration."
"Why, it's mine, too!" cried Shirley. "How funny that we did n't know
it! We ought to celebrate it together."
This remark was duly reported to Mrs. Bell, who said at once that they
must invite Shirley over to have her birthday cake with Jane's. But
before this plan could be carried into effect, an invitation arrived
from the big house, asking every member of the Bell household to be
present at a small dinner of Shirley's own planning.
"This is the first time we 've all been asked over there together--it's
quite an occasion," declared Peter, on the evening of the twenty-fifth,
as he stood waiting in the doorway for everybody to be ready. "I say,"
he exclaimed, "but we're gorgeous!"
And he fastened admiring eyes on his mother, who was dressed in a pale
gray gown of her own making, and therefore of faultless effect. The
quality was fine also, for Peter had looked after that.
"Gorgeous does n't seem exactly the word," Ross commented. "Demure but
coquettish, I should call that gown."
The party proceeded in a body to the corner of Worthington Square, where
Jane, under escort of Peter, came to a sudden halt. "Oh, I 've
forgotten something to go with my present to Shirley," she said to him.
"Give me the key, please. I 'll run back and get it. Don't wait. I
want to slip into the dining-room over there, anyway, before I see
anybody, and I 'll come in by the side door."
So Jane ran back alone, and let herself into the dark house, the lamps
having, for safety, been all extinguished before the family went out.
She hurriedly lighted the lamp in the front room, for she meant to fill
out a card with a certain appropriate quotation, to put with Shirley's
gift, and the book she needed was in this room.
The quotation was not as easily found as she had thought it would be,
and hurriedly searching for it, Jane consumed considerable time, but did
not want to give it up, for the words fitted Shirley delightfully, and
would give point to the gift.
So bending over the book, still unsuccessful, she heard with regret the
sound of a quick step upon the porch, followed by a ring at the bell.
She sprang up, book in hand, wishing she had taken her affairs, with her
light, into the dining-room. Hoping that her appearance, in her evening
frock, would warn the chance visitor that the time was inopportune, she
opened the door.
"Jane!" exclaimed a joyful voice. "Ah, but this is good luck!" And
Jane looked up into a face so brown and rugged and strong that for an
instant she did not know it. But the eyes gazing eagerly into her own
told her in the next breath who stood before her. She put out both
hands, speechless with surprise. They were grasped and held, as Murray
Townsend closed the door behind him with a sturdy shoulder.
"I--you--why, I thought you were n't coming for a month yet," she said,
half shyly, for in spite of the smile and the warm handclasp, it seemed
as if this must be a stranger who stood before her, radiating health and
happiness, and looking so different from the pale young man who had gone
away a year before.
"I was hit by a sudden wave of homesickness that swept me off my feet,"
Murray explained, releasing the hands which were gently drawing
themselves away, but continuing to stare down at the engaging young
figure in its modest evening attire, as if he had seen nothing so
attractive in all Montana, in spite of his fine tales of its glories.
"I began to think about it, and that was fatal. Once the notion of
coming home a bit ahead of the date I 'd set took hold of me, I was no
more use to anybody. They told me to pack up and start, for I was n't
fit to brand a calf, and could n't earn my salt." He laughed. "Tell me
you 're not sorry."
"Indeed, I'm not. This happens to be my birthday, and it's the nicest
surprise I've had yet."
"Thank you--that's the welcome I wanted. But"--he glanced at her dress
again, and his face fell--"you were going out?"
"Only to Worthington Square," laughed Jane. "It's Shirley's birthday,
too, and we're all to be there at dinner. Why, you must know! You 've
just come from there."
"That is a joke on me. I rang--no latch-key, you know--and a new maid I
've never seen let me in. I saw everything lighted up and flowers all
about, and asked if they were entertaining. She said they were, and
everybody was dressing. So I just turned and ran, thinking I 'd slip
over here and see you first, since I could n't see much of my family
till the affair was over. Well, well--so I may spend the evening in your
company. Talk about luck!"
They stood there, exchanging questions and replies in the laughing,
disconnected way in which people are wont to address each other in the
first excitement of an unexpected and welcome meeting, neither of them
knowing quite what they were saying, but each feeling that something of
great importance had happened. Then Jane gathered up her wraps and
Shirley's gift, and said, with a startled glance at the clock, "It is
later than I thought! We must go this minute."
"Shall I put out the light?" and Murray strode across the floor. Jane
noted with gladness that his walk was the walk of a strong man.
They crossed the street to the hedge gate, and came to the side
entrance. As he put his thumb to the bell, Murray said, half under his
breath, "I've imagined all sorts of home-comings, but never one quite so
nice as this. To make my entrance with you----"
"Oh, you 're not going to make it with me!" said Jane, gaily. "I shall
stay in the dining-room, arranging Shirley's plate, until you are safe
in the midst of them."
And plead as he would, Murray found there was no way to make her change
this decision. So, at last, hearing the voices of the others in the big
hall, where they were gathered about the fireplace, in which roared a
royal October fire, he went to the door and opened it a crack. From
this position, he looked back at Jane, where she stood by Shirley's
chair watching him across the gala decorations of roses which crowned
the handsome table.
"I 'm at home again!" he called to her softly, and she nodded, smiling.
Then, hat in hand, he threw the door wide and marched through, shoulders
back, head up, eyes intent upon the faces which, at the opening of the
door, had turned that way.