INTRODUCING LASSIE TO MRS. RAY
The next morning dawned gorgeous.
When Lassie, in her little gray kimono, stole gently in to wake her
friend, she found Alva already up and dressed, standing at the window,
looking out over the October beauty that spread afar before her. It was
a wonderful sight, all the trees bright and yet brighter in their autumn
gladness, while the grass sparkled green through the dew that had been
frost an hour before. The view showed the radiance fading off into the
distant blue, where bare brown fields told of the harvest garnered and
the ground made ready for another spring.
Lassie pressed Alva's arm as she peeped over her shoulder, and the other
turned in silence and kissed her tenderly.
Side by side they looked forth together for some minutes longer, and
then Lassie whispered:
"I could hardly get to sleep last night--for thinking of it all, you
know. You don't guess how interested I am. I do so want to know
everything."
Alva turned to regard her with her calm smile.
"But when you did get to sleep, you slept well, didn't you?" she asked;
"tell me that, first of all."
"Why, is it late? Did I sleep too awfully long? Why didn't you call
me?"
"Oh, my dear, why? It's barely nine, and that isn't late at all for a
girl who spent all yesterday on the train. I let you sleep on purpose.
What's the use of waking up before the mail comes? And that isn't in
till half-past under the most favorable circumstances; and even then it
never is distributed until quarter to ten. I thought we'd get our
letters after our breakfast, and then carry them across the bridge with
us. Would you like to do that? I have to cross the bridge every
morning."
"Cross the bridge? That means to go to your house?"
"Yes, dear."
"How nice! I'm crazy to see your house. Is it far from here to the
post-office? Will that be on our way?"
"That is the post-office there--by the trees." Alva pointed to a brown,
two-story, cottage-like structure three hundred yards further up the
track.
"The little house with the box nailed to the gate-post?"
"It isn't such a little house, Lassie; it's quite a mansion. The lady
who lives in it rents the upper part for a flat and takes boarders
down-stairs."
"Does she take many?"
Alva laughed. "She told me that she only had a double-bed and a
half-bed, so she was limited to eight."
"Oh!"
"I know, my dear, I thought that very same 'Oh' myself; but that's what
she said. And that really is as naught compared to the rest of her
capabilities."
"What else does she do?"
"I'm afraid I can't remember it all at once, but among other things she
runs a farm, raises chickens, takes in sewing, cuts hair, canes chairs
and is sexton of the church. She's postmistress, too, and does several
little things around town."
Lassie drew back in amazement. "You're joking."
"No, dear, I'm not joking. She's the eighth wonder in the world, in my
opinion."
"She must be quite a character."
"Every one's quite a character in the country. Country life develops
character. I expect to become a character myself, very soon; indeed I'm
not very positive but that I am one already."
"But how does the woman find time to do so much?"
"There is more time in the country than in the city; you'll soon
discover that. One gets up and dresses and breakfasts and goes for the
mail, and reads the letters and answers them, and then its only quarter
past ten,--in the country."
Lassie withdrew from the arm that held her. "It won't be so with me
to-day, at all events," she laughed. "What will they think of me if
every one here is as prompt as that?"
"It doesn't matter to-day; we'll be prompt ourselves to-morrow. But
you'd better run now. I'm in a hurry to get to my house; I'm as silly
over that house as a little child with a new toy,--sillier, in fact, for
my interest is in ratio with my growth, and I've wanted a home for so
long."
"But you've had a home."
"Not of my very ownest own, not such as this will be."
The young girl looked up into her face. "I'm so _very_ curious," she
said, with emphasis; "I want so to know the story."
Alva touched her cheek caressingly, "I'll tell you soon," she promised,
"after you've seen the house."
Lassie went back into her room and proceeded to make her toilet, which
was soon finished.
They went down into the little hotel dining-room then for breakfast, and
found it quite deserted, but neat and sweet, and pleasantly odorous of
bacon.
"Such a dolls' house of a hotel," said Lassie.
"It's a cozy place," Alva answered. "I like this kind of hotel. It's
sweet and informal. If they forget you, you can step to the kitchen and
ask for more coffee. I'm tired of the world and the world's
conventionality. I told Mrs. Lathbun yesterday that Ledge would spoil me
for civilization hereafter. I like to live in out-of-the-way places."
"Mrs. Lathbun is the hostess, I suppose?"
"No, Mrs. O'Neil is the hostess, or rather, she's the host's wife. You
must meet her to-day. Such a pretty, brown-eyed, girlish creature,--the
last woman in the world to bring into a country hotel. She says herself
that when you've been raised with a faucet and a sewer, it's terrible to
get used to a cistern and a steep bank. She was born and brought up in
Buffalo."
By this time Mary Cody had entered, beaming good morning, and placed the
hot bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, before them.
"I'm going for the mail after breakfast, Mary," Alva said; "shall I
bring yours?"
"Can't I bring yours?" said Mary Cody. "I can run up there just as well
as not." Mary Cody was all smiles at the mere idea.
"No, I'll have to go myself to-day, I think. I'm expecting a registered
letter."
"I'll be much obliged then if you will bring mine."
"If there are any for the house, I'll bring them all," Alva said; "will
you tell Mrs. Lathbun that?"
"I'll tell her if I see her, but they're both gone. They went out
early--off chestnutting, I suppose."
"Oh!"
"Who is Mrs. Lathbun?" Lassie asked, when Mary Cody had gone out of the
room.
"I spoke of her before and you asked about her then, didn't you? And I
meant to tell you and forgot. She's another boarder, a lady who is here
with her daughter. Such nice, plain, simple people. You'll like them
both."
"I thought that we were to be here all alone."
"We are, to all intents and purposes. The Lathbuns won't trouble us.
They are not intrusive, only interesting when we meet at table or by
accident."
"Every one interests you, Alva; but I don't like strangers."
Alva sighed and smiled together.
"I learned to fill my life with interest in people long ago," she said
simply; "it's the only way to keep from getting narrow sometimes."
Lassie looked at her earnestly.
"Does every one that you meet interest you really?" she asked.
"I think so; I hope so, anyway."
"Don't you ever find any one dull?"
Alva looked at her with a smile, quickly repressed. "No one is really
dull, dear, or else every one is dull; it's all in the view-point. The
interest is there if we want it there; or it isn't there, if we so
prefer. That's all."
There was a little pause, while the young girl thought this over.
"I suppose that one is happiest in always trying to find the interest,"
she said then slowly; "but do tell me more about the Lathbuns."
"Presupposing them in the dull catalogue?"
Lassie blushed, "Not necessarily," she said, half confusedly.
Alva laughed at her face, "I don't know so very much about them, except
that they interest me. The mother is large and rather common looking,
but a very fine musician, and the daughter is a pale, delicate girl with
a romance."
Lassie's face lit up: "Oh, a romance! Is it a nice romance? Tell me
about it."
"It's rather a wonderful romance in my eyes. I'll tell it all to you
sometime, but that was the train that came in just now, and I want to
get the mail and go on over to the house, so we'll have to put off the
romance for the present, I'm afraid."
"I don't hear the train."
"Maybe not--but it went by."
"Went by! And the mail! How does the mail get off by itself?"
"Oh, my dear, I must leave you to learn about the mail from Mrs. Ray.
She'll explain to you all about what happens to the Ledge mail when the
train rushes by. It's one of her pet subjects."
"Do you know you're really very clever, Alva; you seem to be plotting to
fill me full of curiosity about everything and everybody in this little
out-of-the-way corner in the world? Nobody could ever be dull where you
are."
A sudden shadow fell over the older's face at that; a wistful wonder
crept to her eyes.
"I wish I could believe that," she said.
"But you can, dear. You've always seemed to me to be just like that
French woman who was the only one who could amuse the king, even after
she'd been his wife for forty years. You'd be like that."
Alva rose, laughing a little sadly. "God grant that it may be so," she
said, "there are so many people who need amusing after forty years. But,
dear, you know I told you last night that I sent for you to come and
teach and learn, and you are teaching already."
"What am I teaching?" Lassie's eyes opened widely.
"You are teaching me what I really am, and that's a lesson that I need
very much just now. It would be so very easy to forget what I really am
these days. My head is so often dizzy."
"Why, dear? What makes you dizzy?"
"Oh, because the world seems slipping from me so fast. I could so easily
quit it altogether. And I must not quit it. I have too much to do. And I
am to have a great task left me to perform, perhaps. Oh, Lassie, it's
hopeless to tell you anything until I have begun by telling you
everything. You'll see then why I want to die, and why I can't."
"Alva!"
"Don't be shocked, dear; you don't know what I mean at all now, but
later you will. Come, we must be going. No time to waste to-day."
They went up-stairs for hats and wraps, and then came down ready for the
October sunshine. It was fine to step into the crispness and breathe the
ozone of its glory. On the big stone cistern cover by the door a fat
little girl sat, hugging a cat and swinging her feet so as to kick
caressingly the brown and white hound that lay in front of her.
"A nice, round, rosy picture of content," Alva said, smiling at the tot.
"I love to see babies and animals stretched out in the sun, enjoying
just being alive."
"I enjoy just being alive myself," said Lassie.
They went up the path that ran beside the road and, arriving at the
post-office, turned in at the gate and climbed the three steps. The
post-office door stuck, and Alva jammed it open with her knee. Then she
went in, followed by Lassie.
The post-office was just an extremely small room, two thirds of which
appeared reserved for groceries, ranged upon shelves or piled in three
of its four corners. The fourth corner belonged to the United States
Government, and was screened off by a system of nine times nine
pigeonholes, all empty. Behind the pigeonholes Mrs. Ray was busy
stamping letters for the outgoing mail.
"You never said that she kept a grocery store, too," whispered Lassie.
"No, but I told you that I'd forgotten ever so many things that she
did," whispered Alva in return.
The lady behind the counter calmly continued her stamping, and paid not
the slightest attention to them.
They sat down upon two of the three wooden chairs that were ranged in
front of a pile of sacks of flour and remained there, meekly silent,
until some one with a basket came in and took the remaining wooden
chair. All three united then in adopting and maintaining the reverential
attitude of country folk awaiting the mail's distribution, and Lassie
learned for the first time in her life how strong and binding so
intangible a force as personal influence and atmosphere may become, even
when it be only the personal influence and atmosphere of a country
postmistress. It may be remarked in passing, that not one of the letters
then being post-marked received an imprint anything like as strong as
that frame of mind which the postmistress of Ledge had the power to
impress upon those who came under her sceptre. She never needed to
speak, she never needed to even glance their way, but her spirit reigned
triumphant in her kingdom, and, as she carried her governmental duties
forward with as deep a realization of their importance as the most
zealous political reformer could wish, no onlooker could fail to feel
anything but admiration for her omniscience and omnipotence. Mrs. Ray's
governmental attitude towards life showed itself in an added seriousness
of expression. Her dress was always plain and severe, and in the
post-office she invariably put over her shoulders a little gray shawl
with fringe which she had a way of tucking in under her arms from time
to time as she moved about.
Lassie had ample time to note all this while the stamping went
vigorously forward. Meanwhile the mail-bag which had just arrived lay
lean and lank across the counter, appearing as resigned as the three
human beings ranged on the chairs opposite. Finally, when the last
letter was post-marked, the postmistress turned abruptly, jerked out a
drawer, drew therefrom a key which hung by a stout dog-chain to the
drawer knob and held it carefully as if for the working up of some magic
spell. Lassie, contemplating every move with the closest attention,
could not but think just here that if the postal key of Ledge ever had
decided to lose its senses and rush madly out into the whirlwind of
wickedness which it may have fancied existing beyond, it would assuredly
not have gotten far with that chain holding it back, and Mrs. Ray
holding the chain. It was a fearfully large and imposing chain, and
seemed, in some odd way, to be Mrs. Ray's assistant in maintaining the
dignity necessary to their dual position in the world's eyes.
The lady of the post-office now unlocked the bag and, thrusting her hand
far in, secured two packets containing nine letters in all from the
yawning depths. She carefully examined each letter, and then turned the
bag upside down and gave it one hard, severe, and solemn shake. Nothing
falling out, she placed it on top of a barrel, took up the nine letters,
and went to work upon them next.
When they were all duly stamped, she laid them, address-side up, before
her like a pack of fortune-telling cards, folded her arms tightly across
her bosom, and, standing immovable, directed her gaze straight ahead.
Now seemed to be the favorable instant for consulting the sacred oracle.
Alva and the third lady rose with dignity and approached the layman's
side of the counter; Lassie sat still, thrilled in spite of herself.
Alva, being a mere visitor, drew back a little with becoming modesty and
gave the native a chance to speak first.
"I s'pose there ain't nothing for me," said that other, almost
apologetically, "but if there's anything for Bessie or Edward Griggs or
Ellen Scott I can take it; and John is going down the St. Helena road
this afternoon, so if there's anything for Judy and Samuel--"
"Here's yours as usual," said Mrs. Ray, rising calmly above the other's
speech and handing Alva three letters as she did so; "the regular one,
and the one you get daily, and then here's a registered one. I shall
require a receipt for the registered one, as the United States
Government holds me legally liable otherwise, and after my husband died
I made up my mind I was all done being legally liable for anything
unless I had a receipt. Yes, indeed. I'd been liable sometimes legally
in my married life, but more often just by being let in for it, and I
quit then. Yes, indeed. When they tell me I'm legally liable for
anything now, I never fail to get a receipt, and I read every word of
the President's message over twice every year to be sure I ain't being
given any chance to get liable accidentally when I don't know it--when I
ain't took in what was being enacted, you know. Here,--here's the things
and the ink; you sign 'em all, please."
Alva bent above the counter obediently and proceeded to fill out the
forms as according to law. Mrs. Ray watched her sharply until the one
protecting her own responsibility had been indorsed, and then she turned
to the other inquirer:
"Now, what was you saying, Mrs. Dunstall? Oh, I remember,--no, of course
there ain't anything for you. Nor for any of them except the Peterkins,
and I daren't give you their mail because they writ me last time not to
ever do so again. I told Mrs. Peterkin you meant it kindly, but she
don't like that law as lets you open other people's letters and then
write on 'Opened by accident.' Mrs. Peterkin makes a point of opening
her own letters. She says her husband even don't darst touch 'em. It's
nothing against you, Mrs. Dunstall, for she's just the same when I write
on 'Received in bad order.' She always comes right down and asks me why
I did it. Yes, indeed. I suppose she ain't to blame; some folks is
funny; they never will be pleasant over having their letters opened."
Alva bent closer over her writing; Lassie was coughing in her
handkerchief. Mrs. Dunstall stood before the counter as if nailed there,
and continued to receive the whole charge full in her face.
"But I've got your hat done for you; yes, I have. I dyed the flowers
according to the Easter egg recipe, and it's in the oven drying now. And
I made you that cake, too. And I've got the setting of hens' eggs all
ready. Just as soon as the mail is give out, I'll get 'em all for you.
It's pretty thick in the kitchen, or you could go out there to wait, but
Elmer Haskins run his lawn-mower over his dog's tail yesterday, and the
dog's so lost confidence in Elmer in consequence, that Elmer brought him
up to me to take care of. He's a nice dog, but he won't let no one but
me set foot in the kitchen to-day. I don't blame him, I'm sure. He was
sleepin' by Deacon Delmar's grave in the cemetery and woke suddenly to
find his tail gone. It's a lesson to me never to leave the grave-cutting
to no one else again. I'd feel just as the dog does, if I'd been through
a similar experience. Yes, indeed. I was telling Sammy Adams last night
and he said the same."
"There, Mrs. Ray," said Alva, in a stifled voice, straightening up as
she spoke, "I think that will set you free from all liability; I've
signed them all."
"Let me see,--you mustn't take it odd that I'm so particular, because a
government position is a responsibility as stands no feeling." She
looked at the signatures carefully, one after the other. "Yes, they're
right," she said then; "it wasn't that I doubted you, but honesty's the
best policy, and I ought to know, for it was the only policy my husband
didn't let run out before he died without telling me. He had four when I
married him--just as many as he had children by his first wife--he had
six by his second--and his name and the fact that it was a honest one,
was all he left me to live on and bring up his second wife's children
on. Goodness knows what he done with his money; he certainly didn't lay
it by for the moths and rust, for I'm like the text in the
Bible--wherever are moths and rust there am I, too. Yes, indeed, and
with pepper and sapolio into the bargain; but no, the money wasn't
there, for if it was where it could rust it would be where I could get
it."
Alva smiled sympathetically, and then she and Lassie almost rushed out
into the open air. When they were well out of hearing, they dared to
laugh.
"Oh, my gracious me," Lassie cried; "how can you stand it and stay
sober?"
"I can't, that's the trouble!" Alva gasped. "My dear, she felt strange
before you, and was rather reticent, but wait till she knows you
well--until to-morrow. Oh, Lassie, she's too amusing! Wait till she gets
started about the dam, or about Niagara, or about her views on running a
post-office, or anything--" she was stopped by Lassie's seizing her
arm.
"Look quick, over there,--who is that? He looks so out of place here,
somehow. Don't he? Just like civilization."
Alva looked. "That? Oh, that's Ronald--Ronald Ingram, you know, coming
across lots for his letters. You remember him, surely, when you were a
little girl. He was always at our house then. You'll meet him again
to-night. I'd stop now and introduce you, only I want to hurry."
"I suppose that he knows all about it?"
"All about what?"
"The secret."
"Ronald? Oh, no, dear. No one knows. No one--that is, except--except we
two. You will be the only outsider to share that secret."
"For how long?"
"Until I am married."
"Until you are married! Why, when are you to be married?--Soon?"
"In a fortnight."
"And no one is to know!"
"No one."
"Not his family? Not yours?"
"No one."
"How strange!"
Alva put out her hand and stayed the words upon her friend's lips.
"Look, dear, this is the Long Bridge. You've heard of it all your life;
now we're going to walk across it. Look to the left; all that lovely
scene of hill and valley and the little white town with green blinds is
Ledgeville; and there to the right is the famous gorge, with its banks
of gray and its chain of falls, each lovelier than the last. Stand still
and just look; you'll never see anything better worth looking at if
you travel the wide world over."
They stopped and leaned on the bridge-rail in silence for several
minutes, and then Alva continued softly, almost reverently: "This scene
is my existence's prayer. I can't make you understand all that it means
to me, because you can't think how life comes when one is crossing the
summit--the very highest peak. I've climbed for so long,--I'll be
descending upon the other side for so long,--but the hours upon the
summit are now, and are wonderful! I should like to be so intensely
conscious that not one second of the joy could ever fade out of my
memory again. I feel that I want to grave every rock and ripple and
branch and bit of color into me forever. Oh, what I'd give if I might
only do so. I'd have it all to comfort me afterwards then--afterwards in
the long, lonely years to come."
"Why, Alva," said her friend, turning towards her in astonishment, "you
speak as if you didn't expect to be happy but for a little while."
A sad, faint smile crept around Alva's mouth, and then it altered
instantly into its usual sweet serenity.
"Come, dear," she said; "we'll hurry on to the house, and then after
you've seen it we'll go to my own dear forest-seat, and there I'll tell
you the whole story."
"Oh, let us hurry!" Lassie said, impetuously; "I can't wait much
longer."
So they set quickly forward across the Long Bridge.