Three days later Jasper Holt rode into Hawk Valley from a Westerly
direction, serious and silent, with a light of purpose in his eyes
and a new dignity about him; and Harrington, meeting him in
trepidation, was surprised and not a little disturbed by the steady
look of understanding that accompanied the grave bow he gave him.
The tournament had accomplished one thing in Holt's favor, for many
men meeting him now acknowledged his presence by a formal greeting
who had formerly been wont to ignore him utterly or treat him with
contempt. A few even went so far as to try to talk with him in a
friendly way when they met him in the post-office, though perhaps
there was the least bit of condescension about their manner when they
did it. But Jasper Holt held on his reserved way, mingling little
with any save his chosen few, and presuming not at all on his
popularity on the day of the tournament. That incident was closed
and he wished it to be as if it were not so far as they were
concerned. The greetings of his fellow men he answered coolly,
almost curtly, always briefly, and was gone. Would-be friends found
little encouragement in any advances they made. A recognition won by
mere physical skill was not what he desired. His pride lay not in
that direction. There were things he intended to do, but they would
take time, and meantime he went on his independent way and men saw
little of him.
Time passed on and Jean's languishing lovers recovered from their
various heartbreaks. Other maidens visited Hawk Valley and were
feasted and fêted and cherished with flowers and tournaments; but
Jasper Holt came no more to dispute their victories. He was keeping
on his quiet, steady way, and gaining their respect every day.
Not a word passed between Holt and the girl in the East whom he
loved. Eleanor never mentioned him in her letters, although her
conscience hurt her now and then that she did not; for she was an
honest woman and liked to give even the devil his due. Moreover
Harrington, after a period of restlessness and unstrung nerves,
appeared to have settled down to the fact that his enemy was not
going to bring him to justice, and had developed a most extraordinary
way of saying pleasant things about him now and then. He even
suggested once that Eleanor include him in a dinner they were giving
for business purposes; but his wife promptly vetoed the idea. Even
for business purposes she would not lay aside her principles, she
said, and shut her lips in a firm line that reminded Harrington of
her younger sister.
Jean in her quiet, safe home had not expected letters from Holt and
so had nothing to be disappointed about; but sometimes when her
sister's letters came she listened eagerly, hoping for just some
little word that would tell her how he was faring; and after they
were read she would invariably sit looking wistfully off out of the
window. Her father and mother noticed it and wondered if she had
left her heart behind her with any of the many lovers of whom Eleanor
had written. They talked it over at dusk sometimes when they were
alone, and looked ahead to the years when their girl would be without
them.
"I'd like her to find a strong, noble man," said her father, "I
cannot bear to think of her treading her years alone. And yet, there
are very few men of that kind," and he sighed.
"Perhaps we ought to send her back to Eleanor's for another visit,"
suggested her mother anxiously. "We called her home so soon before
her visit was done you know. It may be there was someone there. It
may be she would like to go."
Yet when they suggested it to Jean, although her face lighted
wistfully she shook her head.
"No, Mother dear," she said firmly, "I'm going to stay with you. I'm
not going off there again to get my head turned," and from that
purpose they could not turn her, although they tried more than once;
and so they settled back relieved and happy that she was content to
stay with them.
Nevertheless, although she would not go, she cried her heart out that
night with longing; yet knew it was better that she should stay.
A year and more had passed with Jean continuing on her quiet way in
the home and church. It was not an unhappy place to be. The manse
in which they lived was beautiful for situation, built of stone with
pretty rooms and many windows, the rooms all cheerful and light and
everything pleasant in a simple, unpretentious way. The people of
the church loved Jean as they loved her father and mother, and she
was welcome everywhere in all the merrymakings. She had a large
Sunday School class in the church and another in a mission in the
lower part of the town, and her boys were her most devoted followers.
Neither was she without older admirers, for all the young men in the
church and neighborhood were her friends, and she was as popular at
home as she had been in the west. The little manse reception room
was never for long unadorned with flowers of some kind that had been
sent to her, and she was never without an escort to anything she
cared to attend. Yet, though she had a pleasant circle of young
friends and seemed to enjoy their company moderately, she never was
deeply interested in any of them; and one by one those who had tried
their fortune at her hand, went sadly away and seldom came any more.
Jean seemed happy. She spent much time with her music and her books,
when she was not actually busy about the house or in the parish
helping her father with some plan for his poor people or his sick
people. But she was growing thin, and the wistful look was ever in
her eyes now. Her mother watched her anxiously and petted her more
every day, and her father sighed and wished he could afford to take
her off on a foreign trip for a little while. Jean only smiled, and
went on her way, doing every day the duty that came next.
Sometimes the longing to hear from Holt grew intolerable. Sometimes
she almost yielded to her mother's suggestion that she make Eleanor
another visit; but something always held her back. What was she
waiting for? A sign from Holt? No, that would probably never come.
He had said he was unworthy, and he would not of himself cross her
path again. But she could not go after him. He might have
forgotten, yet she believed in her heart he had not. Her faith in
him glowed bright as ever. Even when her common sense got to work
and told her he was but human and by this time the incident of their
days together was a thing of the past to him and she ought to be
satisfied if her influence had helped him even for a time to let
people know the good that was in him; still she did not believe that
he had forgotten. She believed he was doing just what he had
promised to do, and she must stay here and trust him. At least, if
he had forgotten, she would rather never know.
So she lived her life, and struggled with her heartache, and when the
pain was too much she knelt and prayed for him she loved. Then at
last one day there came a great, fat letter from Eleanor, addressed
to Jean. Most of Eleanor's letters were addressed to their mother,
so that when Jean took this one from the post-office she caught her
breath and her heart beat a trifle faster than usual. What could
Eleanor have to say to make such a nice, thick letter, and why was it
sent to her instead of to mother? Perhaps she was worried about
mother, or perhaps she wanted to tell some trouble to her and not
worry their parents. But always when a letter came from her sister,
she felt there was that blessed chance that perhaps she might say
some little word about Holt, just to let her know he was alive. It
was foolish, of course, because she never had done so, and yet hope
is a subtle thing and often abides without reason for its hiding and
springs forth at the least encouragement. Then, there was always a
little comfort that she said nothing against him, for she knew that
Eleanor was so constituted that if Holt had done anything which the
town considered very atrocious Jean would have had to hear of it
within the next twenty-four hours; for Eleanor liked to establish her
theories by facts even if it were years after they were uttered.
Jean did not open her letter at the office. Her hand was trembling
too much and her heart beating too wildly. She did not wish to have
any one watch her while she read that letter, for she had a feeling
that her face might tell its secrets when she was off guard, reading.
So she held the letter with a firm little grip and walked down the
leaf-strewn street among the falling golden foliage, trying to grow
calm, and remember that this was probably just a regular commonplace
letter about everyday affairs and nothing unusual in it at all; and
she must not be disappointed nor expect anything great.
She did not open the letter until she was safe on the vine-covered
piazza at home, sitting in the hammock where she would not be
disturbed. Some strange power held her from taking it to her mother
and sharing its first reading with her as she usually did any letters
she received, especially one of Eleanor's. Afterward she wondered at
this; wondered too, as she remembered how cold her hand had been, and
how it had trembled when she tried to open the envelope with her hat
pin. She was so agitated, so sure by this time that something was
the matter, that as she took the folded sheets from the envelope she
closed her eyes and breathed a quick petition:
"Oh, dear Father, make me strong for whatever it is."
Then she unfolded the thick sheets and read the letter.