Always now on the evening of post day, after I had read my newspapers,
came the worn shawl and the dark, weary eyes--Vesty, to sit awhile with
Miss Pray.
"Is there any news of Notely, Major Henry?"
Now and then I made her put the question, but oftener I was kind and
volunteered any information on this subject that I had been able to
glean; and at the news of joy or success for him, how her eyes glowed!
Basin pure and great, with no thought for the shadow of her own
lot--Vesty of the Basins.
"Is there any news of Notely, Major Henry?"
She was pinning the shawl at her throat after a short call, before
going out; and she gave me her direct, reproachful look, as though I
had been teasing her.
But I was not teasing her; my heart yearned over her where she stood,
facing the dark.
"I will tell you what I have read," I said, "as I walk home with you.
You are 'helping' them at your own father's again now?"
She bowed her head. Her dark eyes filled me with a kind of frenzy to
make rest and comfort about her; and I had hard news for her!
"In my papers of the past week the beginning of what concerned Notely
Garrison was a medley. 'Reformer,' 'The old never-heeded cry of a St.
John in the wilderness,' and again, from the other side, 'Fanatic,'
'Visionary,' 'Throwing out his by no means boundless wealth like water
for the sake of chimeras, ideally noble enough, but still vain
chimeras!' And the news at the week's end, 'Young Garrison stricken: a
shock. Overwork, over-excitement, and the result of an accident
suffered not long since. Recovery very doubtful.'"
"I want to go to him," said Vesty. I heard her breath coming painfully
and quick.
"I knew that. I have already made arrangements for you to leave early
in the morning."
"Just to see him. I promised him. Notely! Notely! I can't bear
it--just as though it was little Gurd."
"You shall see him by to-morrow night. I have sent a messenger to make
special arrangements for conveyance, in case you should desire this."
"Major Henry, I forgot. I cannot; I have no money."
"Ah, but you can and must. It is arranged."
"And I do not know the way. I was never from the Basin."
"I am going with you. In my country high ladies travel with a servant,
thus. Get what rest you can and be ready at four. They will take good
care of little Gurd while you are gone."
"Some time," said Vesty, on the morrow, "when Gurd is a little older,
and I can take him away somewhere where I can earn wages, I can pay
you, Major Henry. They want me now--his mother wants me, somehow, I
know."
"You are safe to think that."
"My clothes are not like theirs," said Vesty quietly, when we came at
night more and more into the throngs of civilized life. "Do you mind?
I knew that I should not be dressed like them."
"In my country high ladies wear what they will."
She gave a low, perplexed laugh, looking at me with curious sorrow for
my hallucinations.
"But I am only Vesty."
"Surely. But you remind me so of a lady."
At least Vesty travelled as a princess might. I brought her the long
and devious journey swiftly, with as little fatigue as possible: but it
was late at night when we mounted the steps of the Garrison town
residence; the house was all alight.
Mrs. Garrison brushed past the servant at the door.
"Vesty Rafe! I knew it was you. I knew you would come, somehow,
child." She drew her in, and fell on her neck, weeping.
"He is dying?" murmured Vesty then, with cold lips.
"He has not spoken since the shock. He does not know us; but it may be
he will know you! Come!"
Servants from the doorways of the wide, rich hall were staring
strangely at Vesty and at me. Vesty turned to me now, to consider me.
I gave her the warning look. "I came to show Vesty the way," I said in
simple Basin speech. "I will go to my hotel. I will call."
The girl's sad eyes looked reproach at me, but she obeyed me.
"Wait," she said then; "I want to speak with Major Henry." She came to
me in the door.
"When will you come back?" she murmured, low.
"I will call in the morning."
"You will come?" A strange abandoned distress was in her eyes, as of a
child lost in crowded city ways.
"Vesty!"
She turned, chidden, but with a sort of wilful content.
My heart bounded as I limped down the steps. I smiled to myself, safe
in the dark, sardonically. Make what you will of it, with other men
she was strong, womanly, serene; with me, she had the sweet grace to
show weakness.
The carriage bounded over the paving-stones and stopped at my hotel.
The driver lifted his hat obsequiously. I, with sardonic smile,
entered the hotel, where I was not unknown. No doubt was made as to
the character of my apartments.