YOUNG WINGS
There was no going to bed for Hilda now. Once out of Uncle Hank’s
sight, she turned and ran noiselessly through the dim, empty,
clean-smelling kitchen to the cyclone cellar, lighted her candle and
began, with feverish eagerness, a letter to Pearse. She was tingling
with a joy that had to express itself; all thought of her
unsatisfactory talk with Pearse was swept away or changed. He’d be
as glad of this chance to see her, where they could openly be
friends, as she was.
Out over the page bubbled her child’s heart, which was scarcely yet
the young girl’s heart, accusing herself—“I was horrid”—“I know
you’ll forgive me”—“Just cross and tired”—“and hate to have to meet
you on the sly.” She was almost drowned in the wonderfulness of the
thought that at last they were to be together without deceit and
without fear. The delight of it singing in her veins, she wrote with
impulsive confidence. “Won’t it be lovely not to have to hide or
tell any fibs, and to have our visit out at last? I have so many
books I want to talk over with you. I have read all of Dickens—have
you? Which one do you think is the best? Of course the critics
praise ‘David Copperfield,’ but I love ‘Tale of Two Cities.’ I can’t
ever read that last chapter without crying, and I’ve read it very,
very many times.”
So, in sheer joy of heart, the letter ran on and on. It was nearly
ten o’clock when it was finally stamped and addressed, and she
slipped upstairs to find Burch in the front hall calling excitedly
for Uncle Hank, who was just going up the stairs to his own room.
“I tell you I saw it just as plain as I see that lamp. Buster saw
it, too.”
“I reckon it was the lamp—the shine of it through the winder, you
know,” Hank argued calmly. “Don’t disturb your auntie.”
“What was it, Buddie?” inquired Hilda.
“A fire, out there in the brush by the irrigating ditch,” Burch
replied, glad to have a listener who might display some excitement.
“Buster and I were coming over from the bunk-house, and we saw it in
that vine there, all blazing. We ran as hard as we could and
hollered to the boys to bring a bucket—and just before we got there
it suddenly went out.”
“Why, that’s queer,” laughed Hilda nervously. How careless of her to
have forgotten the open shutter!
The letter was sent. She could not put it into the general mail. The
secrecy she felt obliged to maintain brought some small twinges of
conscience; yet it contributed an added thrill, too. She gave the
missive to Sam Kee and asked him to post it when he went in to Dawn
the next day.
There followed a time of anxious waiting. It seemed to Hilda that
discovery would be certain if the letter came after she was gone and
had to be forwarded. It worried her all the time she was getting
ready, but the day before Colonel Marchbanks was due from Amarillo
an envelope, addressed to Hilda in the fine, bold hand, arrived. As
Uncle Hank sorted the letters over and apportioned them, she felt
that the appearance of this one must shout aloud to him the name and
all the marvelous, romantic history of its writer. She snatched it
so swiftly that she had to be called back to get a magazine and
picture postal card which completed her portion. It was only in her
own room, with the door locked, that she dared open and read. It
began abruptly:
“Well, Hilda, I’m afraid you and I can see very little of each other
while you’re in Encinal County. So far as I am concerned, you might
almost as well be at the Three Sorrows.”
Hilda stopped there. She wasn’t going to cry. Nothing to cry about.
Her glance came back to the letter. There was one more sheet. She
turned the page and read:
“I probably didn’t make it clear to you about how I stand with the
Marchbanks family. I get along without the people at the Alamositas,
and they worry along without me; I couldn’t go to see you there,
Hilda, or take rides with you, and I think you will stand better
with them if you don’t tell them that you and I are friends—or
acquainted at all, for that matter.”
At about this point of the reading, Hilda raised her head and looked
around. Her eyes were bright and dry, and her cheeks glowed like
fire. This was Pearse’s answer to her childish, impulsive letter, to
the reminders of the time she sheltered him in the cyclone cellar.
Hilda was as generous as an Arab. She didn’t want his gratitude—but,
oh, she burned with an intolerable humiliation at this lack of
return for her friendship! And yet the letter was not unfriendly. In
conclusion, he spoke earnestly, urgently, of the value of a good
education; said how sorry he was that his own had been broken off
early, and how it delighted him to know that she was to have better
opportunities than his had been. This was the closing paragraph:
“I was awfully sorry to learn from your letter that you were so
lonely, and had no young friends. But your coming over to the
Alamositas will make that all right. They say Maybelle’s a very nice
girl, and I hear they have a great deal of young company at the
ranch; only, little girl as you are, I’m glad Fayte Marchbanks isn’t
at home now, or likely to be back, it seems, while you are there.
He’s not the sort of fellow for you to make a friend of.”
That was about all. He hadn’t thought worth while to say anything
about the books she wanted to discuss with him. He might have
written about them. They could have corresponded while she was at
the Alamositas, anyhow. She drew her wounded girl’s pride about her
with the declaration that she would never mention Pearse again to
any one, never write to him again nor make any effort to see him.
Then she thought miserably that this was what he had advised her to
do in the letter. Her heart sank to the ultimate zero.
Meantime Hank had his own worries. A year’s stay on a big,
prosperous ranch like the Alamositas, within easy distance of more
than one small New Mexican town—and he knew well how it went with
young folks in a ranching community, where it is out of the question
to draw any hard-and-fast social line. Quick courtships—even the
ill-considered marriages of boys and girls who were scarcely more
than children—those were the things that came about under such an
arrangement. He was full of anxiety for his girl; she must not be
sent unwarned into that sort of thing. He finally mustered up
courage to go to Miss Valeria and say that, under the circumstances,
he felt she ought to talk to Hilda about “goin’ with the boys” and
such things before they let her leave for New Mexico.
The little lady listened to him with a bewildered air, which finally
gave way to an embarrassed laugh. When he’d said his say, she
dismissed the whole matter airily with:
“But, Mr. Pearsall, the child isn’t ‘out’ yet.”
“No,” agreed Hank seriously, “but she’s a-goin’ out to-morrow, when
Marchbanks comes through for her.”
“You don’t understand me,” Miss Val said. “You don’t get my meaning.
At home, in New York, we used that expression—” She broke off, drew
her brows a little, and the bright black eyes behind the glasses
studied the ranch boss a moment before she went on: “Hilda’s a
schoolgirl—she goes to Mr. Marchbanks’ as a schoolgirl. She’s not
out in society. Naturally, she won’t be thinking of any of those
matters you mention. I certainly shouldn’t bring them up in talking
to her—it might put foolish ideas into her head.”
“You won’t take it on you to speak to her?” Hank asked.
“Certainly not. Those people—the Marchbankses—have a daughter near
Hilda’s age. Of course, Maybelle Marchbanks isn’t out yet, either. I
remember the child when she was here, visiting the Capadine ranch.
Mrs. Marchbanks can be trusted, I am sure, with the management of
the social affairs of two school-girls. Why, Mr. Pearsall, in New
York we shouldn’t be thinking, much less speaking, of such things in
connection with Hilda for—for some time yet. It is the custom there,
you know, to introduce a girl to society—when she is through with
her schooling, and has had, perhaps, some travel abroad—at a ball or
other large affair. They tell me that now a luncheon or a tea is
more usual. I haven’t begun to trouble my head yet about which would
be nicest for Hilda—when the time comes. But I’ll attend to all
that. I’ll attend to it, Mr. Pearsall. Don’t give it another
thought.”
Hank backed away, nodding. When Miss Val began talking New York—
Well, he could hear her words; but, as for getting any sense out of
them—
“I’ve got to do it myself,” he reflected, with some misgiving.
“Lord, send me the right words.”
He was fumbling after those right words on the evening of that day,
as he sat beside Hilda in the afterglow on the side door-stone—the
spot where he and she had lingered so often to exchange deep
confidences. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was
like a young bird with trembling wings lifted for flight. Yet there
was pathos in her face too. And to that he had not the clew of
Pearse Masters’ letter in her pocket.
“Pettie,” he began, looking out over the plain to where the planet
of love hung luminous in the sky, “I spoke to your aunt about saying
some little things to you that ought to come to a girl easier from
her women-folks than from any one else; and—she said best not to put
it into your head. Now, honey-girl, I know that if your own folks
don’t do it, there’ll be them that will—and anybody that does, will
be the wrong person.”
There was a startled silence between them. Hilda turned eyes that
were a bit frightened to his grave face. She had understood at once
what it was of which he wished to speak.
“The wrong person?” She echoed him falteringly.
“Yes,” he said, “the wrong person.” He looked fondly at the slim
shape beside him. Hilda’s head was now turned away; he got only the
outline of one thin, brown cheek; he couldn’t see the look that was
in the big, black, long-lashed eyes—nor that Hilda had turned them
away from him because she herself was afraid that look was in them.
“You’re only a little girl—as yet,” he repeated it, as though by
repetition he meant to make it true. “And still we’re bound to
remember that there’ll be plenty of young fellers over there to
notice you—and for you to notice. That’s what I’m trying to speak to
you about, honey—and I ain’t finding it easy.”
A quick glance from Hilda; she hated to trouble Uncle Hank this way.
She tried to help him out with:
“Fayte’s not going to be there—at first, anyhow. His father said he
was sending him into Old Mexico—on business—he might not be back for
nearly a year.”
Uncle Hank put that by with a little wave of the hand. Fayte’s
connection with the rustlers was understood by every man on the
Sorrows; his father’s lame explanation that the boy had been
deceived by the gang was accepted silently. This sending him off to
Mexico till the talk blew over was the best Marchbanks could do.
“I ain’t thinking about that feller,” Uncle Hank said. “You’d not
make a friend of him—though in front of his folks you’d have to
treat him nice. I trust you to handle that. You’re young, Pettie,
but you’ve got good judgment. Just take what I’m saying as mostly a
warning to any young person going out among strangers. Your way is
paid over there. I wouldn’t take nothing for you as a gift from
Marchbanks, though he wanted me to. I intended you should be free
and independent, like your father’s daughter ought to be. Anything
you don’t like—you can just pick up and come home.”
Hilda’s hand went instinctively to her pocket. Uncle Hank talked a
good deal like the letter there.
“Oh, well,” she said, half bitterly, “if I’m such a child, Aunt Val
must be right; you won’t need to talk to me about—about these things
for years yet.”
Hank could not remember when Hilda had ever spoken to him like that.
He couldn’t know that she was answering Pearse’s letter, making her
little stand of maiden dignity with Pearse.
“Think so?” he asked gently. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Pettie.
You’ll find yourself a grown-up young lady all of a sudden—and then
maybe some of the things you have allowed to hang about will make
trouble.”
Hilda’s only answer was a sort of inarticulate sound. Presently the
old man spoke again.
“These here common working people marry very young, Pettie,” holding
the slim wrist and tapping his own palm with her hand. “That’s
natural, and right enough. You see how they live; there’s nothing to
keep them from marriage. They don’t have to have education, like
Charley Van Brunt’s daughter. I see now that I myself didn’t look at
this thing right; seemed to me you was getting—or had got—pretty
well all the learning you’d need—the reading of books and such to
sort of fill out. I thought you felt that way, too, but the way
you’ve took up with this idea of going over to the Marchbanks place
shows me different.”
“Oh, Uncle Hank!” Hilda protested, in a misery of self-condemnation.
What would he think if he knew that most of the rapture over the
idea of going to the Alamositas had been because of what he’d call
“a young feller,” who was working on an adjoining ranch? And she
couldn’t tell him any part of it. The whole cyclone-cellar matter
would have to come out, if she told him any. And it wasn’t her
secret. It concerned Pearse. Pearse had a right to say whether it
should be told or not. She didn’t examine very closely into her own
feeling as to whether she would have told Uncle Hank if she’d felt
free to. She let that go. He was speaking:
“I’ve always been so sort of drove for ready cash—and not liking to
sell more cattle than needful, or to hitch any mortgages onto the
old Sorrows. You haven’t had a heap of things you ought.”
“Oh, Uncle Hank—” the girl broke out again; he silenced her gently,
and went on:
“But you have had pretty good schooling, and I do think that by the
time you’re through your work out yonder I can have the money to
send you to college. Then, when you’re graduated and got your papers
to show for it, we’ll talk about a European tour. Miss Valery seems
to think that would be about the figger. I believe we can cover it
for you. The ranch is doing better every year. It’s coming up,
Pettie, hand over fist. If that railroad should go through, as it
seems it might, we’ll all be rich before you know it. Even if it
don’t, I haven’t a doubt but I’ll be ready to put up the money—your
money, of course, you understand, girl—for you and your aunt to go
a-traveling, and for the biggest kind of a _baile_—or whatever
shindig Miss Valery speaks for—when you git back—a young lady. Ain’t
that a bright prospect?”
The childish hand, hard from much horseback riding, with a good firm
grip in its slim fingers, trembled in his, as Hilda answered:
“Yes, Uncle Hank; I’ll do my best!”
He seemed scarcely to hear her.
“You’re going out there—plumb away from me—to a new life, at least
for a spell. We don’t neither of us know what you may run onto,
honey. I’m just obliged to feel a—to—well, to fix it so’t you’d see
that your Uncle Hank would understand—do you see what I’m driving
at, Pettie?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, then, I’m a-going to tell you some things about myself—things
I’ve never spoke to any one about. I expect you don’t know your
Uncle Hank was married?”
“Yes, Mrs. Johnnie told me—that time she made the first dresses for
me.”
Hilda spoke low, for Mrs. Johnnie was even then at the Sorrows,
making the sewing machine hum while she got Hilda’s outfit ready.
Mrs. Johnnie had stood out for one “party dress” and constructed it
from some uncut silks Miss Valeria had. That party dress, and some
things Mrs. Johnnie had tried on, seemed to make Uncle Hank’s
warnings not unreasonable. He stroked the little hand he held with
steady fingers.
“She died,” he repeated, “but it wasn’t that that broke my heart so;
any man might lose his wife by death.” He was silent a long minute;
then he began on a louder note, as though resolved to go through
with a painful thing: “You see, Pettie, she was a girl that I knew
back where I was raised, in the Tennessee mountains. It’s what
happened to her that I want to tell you, so’s you get my meaning.”
He sat silent for a moment. Hilda waited breathlessly. Then he went
on:
“Mattie’s folks was well to do. They sent her down to the valley
school—sorta like our sending you over to the Alamositas; see,
Pettie? She ran away with a feller, from the school. It was a boy we
all knowed—Judge Moseley’s son. He was in school himself at the
time. She was just a little thing, younger than you are now. I had
my mother, and the farm and the raising of my younger brothers and
sisters on my hands; hadn’t aimed to name marriage to Mattie at that
time; but I never thought of any one else; and when she ran off with
that Moseley boy, seemed to me my heart was broke smack in two. I
got things settled for Ma and the young ’uns and lit out to
Texas—that’s where a Tennessee boy goes usually to better himself. I
done well. My part of it ain’t what I want you to notice, Pettie.
It’s Mattie’s part that means something to a girl. It was seven
years from that time I left Tennessee till I saw her again. And how
do you think I saw her next time?”
He glanced up. Hilda was all eyes, all attention.
“Her and Alf came through my ranch—movers. You know what that means,
Pettie. We don’t get so many of them on the Sorrows, being off the
main line of travel, but you’ve seen ’em—a ramshackle old wagon, a
ga’nted team, a man on the driver’s seat, looking out ahead of him,
clear into the nevertheless, never noticing that the woman and
children he’s dragging around with him from place to place—no home,
no comforts, no nothing—are just about perishing on his hands. Yes,
that’s what Alf Moseley had come to be—a mover. He had the itchy
foot. You can’t do nothing for one of them fellers. And Mattie—at
twenty-four or five—Mattie was an old, broke-down woman.
“They had but one child—and Mattie had named him for me—Henry
Pearsall Moseley. They stayed at my place longer than movers usually
stops. I offered Alf a partnership, but he was aimin’ to strike
toward the Rio Grande, and what I could offer wouldn’t hold him. But
they stayed long enough, even that time, for my heart to get just
wrapped around that little feller that was named for me. He was four
years old, and the finest boy of his age that I ever put my eyes
on—bar none. Well, after that they come and went, as you may say. No
harm to Alf, he didn’t think no more of his own comfort than he did
of the horses he drove or poor Mattie. Except for the time they went
into the bottom country, the baby, Harry, throve well. They’d use my
ranch for a stopping place when they couldn’t git no further—had
lost a horse or such. And finally, at the end of the Brazos bottom
trip, when Alf was dead—climate in there killed him—and all but
killed Mattie—she sent for me, and I went and got her and the boy.
“We was married before we started on the return trip. It was the
only arrangement to make. Mattie—any girl that thinks she’ll run
away from school and marry some lively boy that she don’t know how
he’ll turn out—well, I wish such a girl could have seen and heard my
poor Mattie on her trip back to the ranch with me. She never mended
in health, Pettie. I done everything I could, even to sending her
back east—and it mighty nigh pulled the heart out of my breast to
part with the boy. He hugged me ’round the neck with his little
short arms and promised he’d take good care of his mother and bring
her right back to me as soon as she was well.”
“Oh, Uncle Hank!” whispered Hilda, leaning her head against his arm.
“But she never come back. She died. At the time, I wasn’t where I
could have the boy with me, as it seemed. Jeff Aiken—husband of
Mattie’s sister—wrote that he had the little chap in school, that he
was doing terrible well, and that it was Mattie’s wish that he
should stay there. I sent the money for him, same as I’d been
sending it to Mattie. Everything I had was for him—till— But that
ain’t what I started out to tell you. That’s just an old man’s
sorrow, and the thing that broke me all up and took my ranch and
left me the lonesomest somebody in Texas.”
“You hadn’t any one left, had you, Uncle Hank?” Hilda found voice to
say finally, when it seemed the old man would not go on.
“No. I hadn’t nobody. But I’ll tell you how that come, some other
time, Pettie. What I’m trying to get you to notice now is that my
poor Mattie ruined her life when she ran away from school to marry.
She’d never have took Alf Moseley when she was older and had her
full sense. It was the thing being secret—meeting Alf out without
nobody knowing—and thinking it was great—that got her into it.
That’s what I’m warning you against.”
Hilda nodded. She couldn’t get out a word, so she just nodded. What
would Uncle Hank think if he knew about Pearse Masters and the
cyclone cellar? But that was in the past. And suddenly the knowledge
that she would have been glad of secret meetings with Pearse over at
the Alamositas—that it was only his letter, showing that there was
to be nothing of the sort, that had taken all the glow out of
going—brought the tears. Uncle Hank was very penitent when he saw
them.
“Don’t cry, honey,” he begged, patting her arm. “Nothing to cry
about. All these troubles I been talking of is in the past. Mebbe I
shouldn’t ’a’ named ’em to you. You got bright prospects ahead.
You’ll be mighty happy over there, with a nice girl of your own age
to go with, and a first-class teacher.”
“Let’s give it up, Uncle Hank,” she said chokingly. “I don’t want to
go. I don’t care about the education or—or anything that there is
over there in New Mexico. Really, I don’t. I’d rather stay here—at
the Sorrows—with you.”
Hilda wiped her eyes and showed as clear a countenance as she could
and drew up to face him. One of the boys came whistling along the
path from the bunk-house. Sam Kee opened his kitchen door and threw
out a pan of water.
“No, Pettie—no, you’re just tired—and a little scared to-night.
Uncle Hank’s seen what it is you really do want—what you ought to
have, anyhow. A chance to try your wings—to try your wings—”