MARY'S "PROMISED LAND"
It was a hot, tiresome journey back to Kentucky. Joyce, worn out with
all the hurried preparations of packing her mother and Norman off to the
mines, closing the Wigwam for the summer, and putting her own things in
order for a long absence, was glad to lean back in her seat with closed
eyes, and take no notice of her surroundings. But Mary travelled in the
same energetic way in which she killed snakes. Nothing escaped her.
Every passenger in the car, every sight along the way was an object of
interest. She sat up straight and eager, scarcely batting an eyelash,
for fear of missing something.
To her great relief the peeling process had been a short one, and thanks
to the rose balm, not a trace of a blister was left on her smooth skin
to remind her of her foolish little attempt to beautify herself in
secret. The first day she made no acquaintances, for she admired the
reserved way in which her pretty nineteen-year-old sister travelled, and
tried to imitate her, but after one day of elegant composure she longed
for a chance to drop into easy sociability with some of her neighbors.
They no longer seemed like strangers after she had travelled in their
company for twenty-four hours.
So she seized the first social opportunity which came to her next
morning. A middle-aged woman, who was taking up all the available space
in the dressing-room, grudgingly moved over a few inches when Mary tried
to squeeze in to wash her face. Any one but Mary would have regarded her
as a most unpromising companion, when she answered her question with a
grumbling "Yes, been on two days, and got two more to go." The tone was
as ungracious as if she had said, "Mind your own business."
The train was passing over a section of rough road just then, and they
swayed against each other several times, with polite apologies on Mary's
part. Then as the woman finished skewering her hair into a tight knot
she relaxed into friendliness far enough to ask, "Going far yourself?"
"Yes, indeed!" answered Mary, cheerfully, reaching for a towel. "Going
to the Promised Land."
The car gave a sudden lurch, and the woman dropped her comb, as she was
sent toppling against Mary so forcibly that she pinned her to the wall a
moment.
"My!" she exclaimed as she regained her balance. "You don't mean clear
to Palestine!"
"No'm; our promised land is Kentucky," Mary hastened to explain. "Mamma
used to live there, and she's told us so much about the beautiful times
that she used to have in Lloydsboro Valley that it's been the dream of
our life to go there. Since we've been wandering around in the desert,
sort of camping out the way the old Israelites did, we've got into the
way of calling that our promised land."
"Well, I wouldn't count too much on it," advised the woman, sourly.
"They say distance lends enchantment, and things hardly ever turn out as
nice as you think they're going to."
"They do at our house," persisted Mary, with unfailing cheerfulness.
"They generally turn out nicer."
Evidently her companion felt the worse for a night in a sleeper and had
not yet been set to rights with the world by her morning cup of coffee,
for she answered as if Mary's rose-colored view of life so early in the
day irritated her.
"Well, maybe your folks are an exception to the rule," she said,
sharply, "but I know how it is with the world in general. Even old Moses
himself didn't have his journey turn out the way he expected to. He
looked forward to _his_ promised land for forty years, and then didn't
get to put foot on it."
"But he got to go to heaven instead," persisted Mary, triumphantly, "and
that's the best thing that could happen to anybody, especially if you're
one hundred and twenty years old."
There was no answer to this statement, and another passenger appearing
at the dressing-room door just then, the woman remarked something about
two being company and three a crowd, and squeezed past Mary to let the
newcomer take her place.
"_She_ was more crowd than company," remarked Mary confidentially to the
last arrival. "She took up most as much room as two people, and it's
awful the way she looks on the dark side of things."
There was an amused twinkle in the newcomer's eyes. She was a much
younger woman than the one whose place she had taken, and evidently it
was no trial for her to be sociable before breakfast. In a few minutes
she knew all about the promised land to which the little pilgrim was
journeying, and showed such friendly interest in the wedding and the
other delights in store for her that Mary lingered over her toilet as
long as possible, in order to prolong the pleasure of having such an
attentive audience.
But she found others just as attentive before the day was over. The
grateful mother whose baby she played with, welcomed her advances as she
would have welcomed sunshine on a rainy day. The tired tourists who
yawned over their time-tables, found her enthusiastic interest in
everybody the most refreshing thing they had met in their travels. By
night she was on speaking terms with nearly everybody in the car, and at
last, when the long journey was done, a host of good wishes and
good-byes followed her all down the aisle, as her new-made friends
watched her departure, when the train slowed into the Union Depot in
Louisville. She little dreamed what an apostle of good cheer she had
been on her journey, or how long her eager little face and odd remarks
would be remembered by her fellow passengers.
All she thought of as the train stopped was that at last she had reached
her promised land.
Those of the passengers who had thrust their heads out of the windows,
saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man come hurrying along toward the
girls, and heard Joyce exclaim in surprise, "Why, Rob Moore! Who ever
dreamed of seeing _you_ here? I thought you were in college?"
"So I was till day before yesterday," he answered, as they shook hands
like the best of old friends. "But grandfather was so ill they
telegraphed for me, and I got leave of absence for the rest of the term.
We were desperately alarmed about him, but 'all's well that ends well,'
He is out of danger now, and it gave me this chance of coming to meet
you."
Mary, standing at one side, watched in admiring silence the easy grace
of his greeting and the masterful way in which he took possession of
Joyce's suit-case and trunk checks. When he turned to her to acknowledge
his introduction as respectfully as if she had been forty instead of
fourteen, her admiration shot up like mercury in a thermometer. She had
felt all along that she knew Rob Moore intimately, having heard so much
of his past escapades from Joyce and Lloyd. It was Rob who had given
Joyce the little fox terrier, Bob, which had been such a joy to the
whole family. It was Rob who had shared all the interesting life at The
Locusts which she had heard pictured so vividly that she had long felt
that she even knew exactly how he looked. It was somewhat of a shock to
find him grown up into this dignified young fellow, broad of shoulders
and over six feet tall.
As he led the way out to the street and hailed a passing car, he
explained why Lloyd had not come in to meet them, adding, "Your train
was two hours late, so I telephoned out to Mrs. Sherman that we would
have lunch in town. I'll take you around to Benedict's."
Mary had never eaten in a restaurant before, so it was with an inward
dread that she might betray the fact that she followed Joyce and Rob to
a side-table spread for three. In her anxiety to do the right thing she
watched her sister like a hawk, copying every motion, till they were
safely launched on the first course of their lunch. Then she relaxed her
watchfulness long enough to take a full breath and look at some of the
people to whom Rob had bowed as they entered.
She wanted to ask the name of the lady in black at the opposite table.
The little girl with her attracted her interest so that she could hardly
eat. She was about her own age and she had such lovely long curls and
such big dark eyes. To Mary, whose besetting sin was a love of pretty
clothes, the picture hat the other girl wore was irresistible. She
could not keep her admiring glances away from it, and she wished with
all her heart she had one like it. Presently Joyce noticed it too, and
asked the very question Mary had been longing to ask.
"That is Mrs. Walton, the General's wife, you know," answered Rob, "and
her youngest daughter, Elise. You'll probably see all three of the girls
while you're at The Locusts, for they're living in the Valley now and
are great friends of Lloyd and Betty."
"Oh, I know all about them," answered Joyce, "for Allison and Kitty go
to Warwick Hall, and Lloyd and Betty fill their letters with their
sayings and doings." Mary stole another glance at the lady in black. So
this was an aunt of the two little knights of Kentucky, and the mother
of the "Little Captain," whose name had been in all the papers as the
youngest commissioned officer in the entire army. She would have
something to tell Holland in her next letter. He had always been so
interested in everything pertaining to Ranald Walton, and had envied him
his military career until he himself had an opportunity to go into the
navy.
Presently Mrs. Walton finished her lunch, and on her way out stopped at
their table to shake hands with Rob.
"I was sure that this is Joyce Ware and her sister," she exclaimed,
cordially, as Rob introduced them. "My girls are so excited over your
coming they can hardly wait to meet you. They are having a little
house-party themselves, at present, some girls from Lexington and two
young army officers, whom I want you to know. Come here, Elise, and meet
the Little Colonel's Wild West friends. Oh, we've lived in Arizona too,
you know," she added, laughing, "and I've a thousand questions to ask
you about our old home. I'm looking forward to a long, cozy toe-to-toe
on the subject, every time you come to The Beeches."
After a moment's pleasant conversation she passed on, leaving such an
impression of friendly cordiality that Joyce said, impulsively, "She's
just _dear_! She makes you feel as if you'd known her always. Now
toe-to-toe, for instance. That's lots more intimate and sociable than
tête-à-tête."
"That's what I thought, too," exclaimed Mary. "And isn't it nice, when
you come visiting this way, to know everybody's history beforehand! Then
just as soon as they appear on the scene you can fit in a background
behind them."
It was the first remark Mary had made in Rob's hearing, except an
occasional monosyllable in regard to her choice of dishes on the bill
of fare, and he turned to look at her with an amused smile, as if he had
just waked up to the fact that she was present.
"She's a homely little thing," he thought, "but she looks as if she
might grow up to be diverting company. She couldn't be a sister of
Joyce's and not be bright." Then, in order to hear what she might say,
he began to ask her questions. She was eating ice-cream. Joyce, who had
refused dessert on account of a headache, opened her chatelaine bag to
take out an envelope already stamped and addressed.
"If you'll excuse me while you finish your coffee," she said to Rob,
"I'll scribble a line to mamma to let her know we've arrived safely.
I've dropped notes all along the way, but this is the one she'll be
waiting for most anxiously. It will take only a minute."
"Certainly," answered Rob, looking at his watch. "We have over twenty
minutes to catch the next trolley out to the Valley. They run every
half-hour now, you know. So take your time. It will give me a chance to
talk to Mary. She hasn't told me yet what her impressions are of this
grand old Commonwealth."
If he had thought his teasing tone would bring the color to her face, it
was because he was not as familiar with her background as she was with
his. A long apprenticeship under Jack and Holland had made her proof
against ordinary banter.
"Well," she began, calmly, mashing the edges of her ice-cream with her
spoon to make it melt faster, "so far it is just as I imagined it would
be. I've always thought of Kentucky as a place full of colored people
and pretty girls and polite men. Of course I've not been anywhere yet
but just in this room, and it certainly seems to be swarming with
colored waiters. I can't see all over the room without turning around,
but the ladies at the tables in front of me and the ones reflected in
the mirrors are good-looking and stylish. Those girls you bowed to over
there are pretty enough to be Gibson girls, just stepped out of a
magazine; and so far--_you_ are the only man I have met."
"Well," he said after a moment's waiting, "you haven't given me your
opinion of _me_."
There was a quizzical twinkle in his eye, which Mary, intent upon her
beloved ice-cream, did not see. Her honest little face was perfectly
serious as she replied, "Oh, _you_,--you're like Marse Phil and Marse
Chan and those men in Thomas Nelson Page's stones of 'Ole Virginia,' I
love those stories, don't you? Especially the one about 'Meh Lady.' Of
course I know that everybody in the South can't be as nice as they are,
but whenever I think of Kentucky and Virginia I think of people like
that."
Such a broad compliment was more than Rob was prepared for. An
embarrassed flush actually crept over his handsome face. Joyce, glancing
up, saw it and laughed.
"Mary is as honest as the father of his country himself," she said.
"I'll warn you now. She'll always tell exactly what she thinks."
"Now, Joyce," began Mary, indignantly, "you know I don't tell everything
I think. I'll admit that I did use to be a chatterbox, when I was
little, but even Holland says I'm not, now."
"I didn't mean to call you a chatterbox," explained Joyce. "I was just
warning Rob that he must expect perfectly straightforward replies to his
questions."
Joyce bent over her letter, and in order to start Mary to talking again,
Rob cast about for another topic of conversation.
"You wouldn't call those three girls at that last table, Gibson girls,
would you?" he asked. "Look at that dark slim one with the red cherries
in her hat."
Mary glanced at her critically. "No," she said, slowly. "She is not
exactly pretty now, but she's the ugly-duckling kind. She may turn out
to be the most beautiful swan of them all. I like that the best of any
of Andersen's fairy tales. Don't you? I used to look at myself in the
glass and tell myself that it would be that way with me. That my
straight hair and pug nose needn't make any difference; that some day
I'd surprise people as the ugly duckling did. But Jack said, no, I am
not the swan kind. That no amount of waiting will make straight hair
curly and a curly nose straight. Jack says I'll have my innings when I
am an old lady--that I'll not be pretty till I'm old. Then he says I'll
make a beautiful grandmother, like Grandma Ware. He says her face was
like a benediction. That's what he wrote to me just before I left home.
Of course I'd rather be a beauty than a benediction, any day. But Jack
says he laughs best who laughs last, and it's something to look forward
to, to know you're going to be nice-looking in your old age when all
your friends are wrinkled and faded."
Rob's laugh was so appreciative that Mary felt with a thrill that he was
finding her really entertaining. She was sorry that Joyce's letter came
to an end just then. Her mother's last warning had been for her to
remember on all occasions that she was much younger than Joyce's
friends, and they would not expect her to take a grown-up share of their
conversation. She had promised earnestly to try to curb her active
little tongue, no matter how much she wanted to be chief spokesman, and
now, remembering her promise, she relapsed into sudden silence.
All the way out to the Valley she sat with her hands folded in her lap,
on the seat opposite Joyce and Rob. The car made so much noise she could
catch only an occasional word of their conversation, so she sat looking
out of the window, busy with her thoughts.
"Sixty minutes till we get there. Now it's only fifty-nine. Now it's
fifty-eight--just like the song 'Ten little, nine little, eight little
Indians.' Pretty soon there'll just be one minute left."
At this exciting thought the queer quivery feeling inside was so strong
it almost choked her. Her heart gave a great thump when Joyce finally
called, "Here we are," and Rob signalled the conductor to stop outside
the great entrance gate.
"The Locusts" at last. Pewees in the cedars and robins on the lawn;
everywhere the cool deep shadows of great trees, and wide stretches of
waving blue-grass. Stately white pillars of an old Southern mansion
gleamed through the vines at the end of the long avenue. Then a flutter
of white dresses and gay ribbons, and Lloyd and Betty came running to
meet them.