BECOMING ACQUAINTED
Once within the cool shadows of the livingroom, Mrs. Herndon again
bethought herself to kiss her niece in a fresh glow of welcome, while
the latter sank into a convenient rocker and began enthusiastically
expressing her unbounded enjoyment of the West, and of the impressions
gathered during her journey. Suddenly the elder woman glanced about
and exclaimed, laughingly, "Why, I had completely forgotten. You have
not yet met your room-mate. Come out here, Naida; this is my niece,
Phoebe Spencer."
The girl thus addressed advanced, a slender, graceful figure dressed in
white, and extended her hand shyly. Miss Spencer clasped it warmly,
her eyes upon the flushed, winsome face.
"And is this Naida Gillis!" she cried. "I am so delighted that you are
still here, and that we are to be together. Aunt Lydia has written so
much about you that I feel as If we must have known each other for
years. Why, how pretty you are!"
Naida's cheeks were burning, and her eyes fell, but she had never yet
succeeded in conquering the blunt independence of her speech. "Nobody
else ever says so," she said, uneasily. "Perhaps it's the light."
Miss Spencer turned her about so as to face the window. "Well, you
are," she announced, decisively. "I guess I know; you 've got
magnificent hair, and your eyes are perfectly wonderful. You just
don't fix yourself up right; Aunt Lydia never did have any taste in
such things, but I 'll make a new girl out of you. Let's go upstairs;
I 'm simply dying to see our room, and get some of my dresses unpacked.
They must look perfect frights by this time."
They came down perhaps an hour later, hand in hand, and chattering like
old friends. The shades of early evening were already falling across
the valley. Herndon had returned home from his day's work, and had
brought with him the Rev. Howard Wynkoop for supper. Miss Spencer
viewed the young man with approval, and immediately became more than
usually vivacious in recounting the incidents of her long journey,
together with her early impressions of the Western country. Mr.
Wynkoop responded with an interest far from being assumed.
"I have found it all so strange, so unique, Mr. Wynkoop," she
explained. "The country is like a new world to me, and the people do
not seem at all like those of the East. They lead such a wild,
untrammelled life. Everything about seems to exhale the spirit of
romance; don't you find it so?"
He smiled at her enthusiasm, his glance of undisguised admiration on
her face. "I certainly recall some such earlier conception," he
admitted. "Those just arriving from the environment of an older
civilization perceive merely the picturesque elements; but my later
experiences have been decidedly prosaic."
"Why, Mr. Wynkoop! how could they be? Your work is heroic. I cannot
conceive how any minister of the Cross, having within him any of the
old apostolic fervor, can consent to spend his days amid the dreary
commonplaces of those old, dead Eastern churches. You, nobly battling
on the frontier, are the true modern Crusaders, the Knights of the
Grail. Here you are ever in the very forefront of the battle against
sin, associated with the Argonauts, impressing your faith upon the
bold, virile spirits of the age. It is perfectly grand! Why the very
men I meet seem to yield me a broader conception of life and duty; they
are so brave, so modest, so active. Is--is Mr. Moffat a member of your
church?"
The minister cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening. "Mr. Moffat?
Ah, no; not exactly. Do you mean the mine-owner, Jack Moffat?"
"Yes, I think so; he told me he owned a mine--the Golden Rule the name
was; the very choice in words would seem, to indicate his religious
nature. He 's such a pleasant, intelligent man. There is a look in
his eyes as though he sorrowed over something. I was in hopes you knew
what it was, and I am very sure he would welcome your ministrations.
You have the only church in Glencaid, I understand, and I wonder
greatly he has never joined you. But perhaps he may be prejudiced
against your denomination. There is so much narrowness in religion.
Now, I am an Episcopalian myself, but I do not mean to permit that to
interfere in any way with my church work out here. I wonder if Mr.
Moffat can be an Episcopalian. If he is, I am just going to show him
that it is clearly his duty to assist in any Christian service. Is n't
that the true, liberal, Western spirit, Mr. Wynkoop?"
"It most assuredly should be," said the young pastor.
"I left every prejudice east of the Missouri," she declared,
laughingly, "every one, social and religious. I 'm going to be a true
Westerner, from the top of my head to the toe of my shoe. Is Mr.
McNeil in your church?"
The minister hesitated. "I really do not recall the name," he
confessed at last, reluctantly. "I scarcely think I can have ever met
the gentleman."
"Oh, you ought to; he is so intensely original, and his face is full of
character. He reminds me of some old paladin of the Middle Ages. You
would be interested in him at once. He is the foreman of the 'Bar V'
ranch, somewhere near here."
"Do you mean Billy McNeil, over on Sinsiniwa Creek?" broke in Herndon.
"I think quite likely, uncle; would n't he make a splendid addition to
Mr. Wynkoop's church?"
Herndon choked, his entire body shaking with ill-suppressed enjoyment.
"I should imagine yes," he admitted finally. "Billy McNeil--oh, Lord!
There 's certainly a fine opening for you to do some missionary work,
Phoebe."
"Well, and I 'm going to," announced the young lady, firmly. "I guess
I can read men's characters, and I know all Mr. McNeil needs is to have
some one show an interest in him. Have you a large church, Mr.
Wynkoop?"
"Not large if judged from an Eastern standpoint," he confessed, with
some regret. "Our present membership is composed of eight women and
three men, but the congregational attendance is quite good, and
constantly increasing."
"Only eight women and three men!" breathlessly. "And you have been
laboring upon this field for five years! How could it be so small?"
Wynkoop pushed back his chair, anxious to redeem himself in the
estimation of this fair stranger.
"Miss Spencer," he explained, "it is perhaps hardly strange that you
should misapprehend the peculiar conditions under which religious labor
is conducted in the West. You will undoubtedly understand all this
better presently. My parish comprises this entire mining region, and I
am upon horseback among the foothills and up in the ranges for fully a
third of my time. The spirit of the mining population, as well as of
the cattlemen, while not actually hostile, is one of indifference to
religious thought. They care nothing whatever for it in the abstract,
and have no use for any minister, unless it may be to marry their
children or bury their dead. I am hence obliged to meet with them
merely as man to man, and thus slowly win their confidence before I
dare even approach a religious topic. For three long years I worked
here without even a church organization or a building; and apparently
without the faintest encouragement. Now that we have a nucleus
gathered, a comfortable building erected and paid for, with an
increasing congregation, I begin to feel that those seemingly barren
five years were not without spiritual value."
She quickly extended her hands. "Oh, it is so heroic, so
self-sacrificing! No doubt I was hasty and wrong. But I have always
been accustomed to so much larger churches. I am going to help you,
Mr. Wynkoop, in every way I possibly can--I shall certainly speak to
both Mr. Moffat and Mr. McNeil the very first opportunity. I feel
almost sure that they will join."
The unavoidable exigencies of a choir practice compelled Mr. Wynkoop to
retire early, nor was it yet late when the more intimate family circle
also dissolved, and the two girls discovered themselves alone. Naida
drew down the shades and lit the lamp. Miss Spencer slowly divested
herself of her outer dress, replacing it with a light wrapper, encased
her feet snugly in comfortable slippers, and proceeded to let down her
flossy hair in gleaming waves across her shoulders. Naida's dark eyes
bespoke plainly her admiration, and Miss Spencer shook back her hair
somewhat coquettishly.
"Do you think I look nice?" she questioned, smilingly.
"You bet I do. Your hair is just beautiful, Miss Spencer."
The other permitted the soft strands to slip slowly between her white
fingers. "You should never say 'you bet,' Naida. Such language is not
at all lady-like. I am going to call you Naida, and you must call me
Phoebe. People use their given names almost entirely out here in the
West, don't they?"
"I never have had much training in being a lady," the young girl
explained, reddening, "but I can learn. Yes, I reckon they do mostly
use the first names out here."
"Please don't say 'I reckon,' either; it has such a vulgar sound. What
is his given name?"
"Whose?"
"Why, I was thinking of Mr. Wynkoop."
"Howard; I saw it written in some books he loaned me. But the people
here never address him in that way."
"No, I suppose not, only I thought I should like to know what it was."
There was a considerable pause; then the speaker asked, calmly, "Is he
married?"
"Mr. Wynkoop? Why, of course not; he does n't care for women in that
way at all."
Miss Spencer bound her hair carefully with a bright ribbon. "Maybe he
might, though, some time. All men do."
She sat down in the low rocker, her feet comfortably crossed. "Do you
know, Naida dear, it is simply wonderful to me just to remember what
you have been through, and it was so beautifully romantic--everybody
killed except you and that man, and then he saved your life. It's such
a pity he was so miserable a creature."
"He was n't!" Naida exclaimed, in sudden, indignant passion. "He was
perfectly splendid."
"Aunt Lydia did n't think so. She wrote he was a common gambler,--a
low, rough man."
"Well, he did gamble; nearly everybody does out here. And sometimes I
suppose he had to fight, but he wasn't truly bad."
Miss Spencer's eyes evinced a growing interest.
"Was he real nice-looking?" she asked.
Naida's voice faltered. "Ye--es," she said. "I thought so. He--he
looked like he was a man."
"How old are you, Naida?"
"Nearly eighteen."
Miss Spencer leaned impulsively forward, and clasped the other's hands,
her whole soul responding to this suggestion of a possible romance, a
vision of blighted hearts. "Why, it is perfectly delightful," she
exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so serious, and really I don't in the
least blame you. You love him, don't you, Naida?"
The girl flashed a shy look into the beaming, inquisitive face. "I
don't know," she confessed, soberly. "I have not even seen him for
such a long time; but--but, I guess, he is more to me than any one
else--"
"Not seen him? Do you mean to say Mr. Hampton is not here in Glencaid?
Why, I am so sorry; I was hoping to meet him."
"He went away the same night I came here to live."
"And you never even hear from him?"
Naida hesitated, but the frankly displayed interest of the other won
her complete girlish confidence. "Not directly, but Mr. Herndon
receives money from him for me. He does n't let your aunt know
anything about it, because she got angry and refused to accept any pay
from him. He is somewhere over yonder in the Black Range."
Miss Spencer shook back her hair with a merry laugh, and clasped her
hands. "Why, it is just the most delightful situation I ever heard
about. He is just certain to come back after you, Naida. I wouldn't
miss being here for anything."
They were still sitting there, when the notes of a softly touched
guitar stole in through the open window. Both glanced about in
surprise, but Miss Spencer was first to recover speech.
"A serenade! Did you ever!" she whispered. "Do you suppose it can be
he?" She extinguished the lamp and knelt upon the floor, peering
eagerly forth into the brilliant moonlight. "Why, Naida, what do you
think? It's Mr. Moffat. How beautifully he plays!"
Naida, her face pressed against the other window, gave vent to a single
note of half-suppressed laughter. "There 's going to be something
happening," she exclaimed. "Oh, Miss Spencer, come here quick--some
one is going to turn on the hydraulic."
Miss Spencer knelt beside her. Moffat was still plainly visible, his
pale face upturned in the moonlight, his long silky mustaches slightly
stirred by the soft air, his fingers touching the strings; but back in
the shadows of the bushes was seen another figure, apparently engaged
upon some task with feverish eagerness. To Miss Spencer all was
mystery.
"What is it?" she anxiously questioned.
"The hydraulic," whispered the other. "There 's a big lake up in the
hills, and they 've piped the water down here. It 's got a force like
a cannon, and that fellow--I don't know whether it is Herndon or
not--is screwing on the hose connection. I bet your Mr. Moffat gets a
shock!"
"It's a perfect shame, an outrage! I 'm going to tell him."
Naida caught her sleeve firmly, her eyes full of laughter. "Oh, please
don't, Miss Spencer. It will be such fun. Let's see where it hits
him!"
For one single instant the lady yielded, and in it all opportunity for
warning fled. There was a sharp sizzling, which caused Moffat to
suspend his serenade; then something struck him,--it must have been
fairly in the middle, for he shut up like a jack-knife, and went
crashing backwards with an agonized howl. There was a gleam of shining
water, something black squirming among the weeds, a yell, a volley of
half-choked profanity, and a fleeing figure, apparently pursued by a
huge snake. Naida shook with laughter, clinging with both hands to the
sill, but Miss Spencer was plainly shocked.
"Oh, did you hear what--what he said?" she asked. "Was n't it awful?"
The younger nodded, unable as yet to command her voice. "I--I don't
believe he is an Episcopalian; do you?"
"I don't know. I imagine that might have made even a Methodist swear."
The puckers began to show about the disapproving mouth, under the
contagion of the other's merriment. "Wasn't it perfectly ridiculous?
But he did play beautifully, and it was so very nice of him to come my
first night here. Do you suppose that was Mr. Herndon?"
Naida shook her head doubtfully. "He looked taller, but I could n't
really tell. He 's gone now, and the water is turned off."
They lit the lamp once more, discussing the scene just witnessed, while
Miss Spencer, standing before the narrow mirror, prepared her hair for
the night. Suddenly some object struck the lowered window shade and
dropped upon the floor. Naida picked it up.
"A letter," she announced, "for Miss Phoebe Spencer."
"For me? What can it be? Why, Naida, it is poetry! Listen:
Sweetest flower from off the Eastern hills,
So lily-like and fair;
Your very presence stirs and thrills
Our buoyant Western air;
The plains grow lovelier in their span,
The skies above more blue,
While the heart of Nature and of man
Beats quick response for you.
"Oh, isn't that simply beautiful? And it is signed 'Willie'--why, that
must be Mr. McNeil."
"I reckon he copied it out of some book," said Naida.
"Oh, I know he didn't. It possesses such a touch of originality. And
his eyes, Naida! They have that deep poetical glow!"
The light was finally extinguished; the silvery moonlight streamed
across the foot of the bed, and the regular breathing of the girls
evidenced slumber.