Probably the last word would have been given its full complement of
syllables, had the shingle been wider; as it was, the "forgot" was
cramped until it was barely intelligible.
Miss Satterly, observing the mark of high-heeled boots in the immediate
vicinity of the grave, caught herself wondering if the remains had been
laid away to the tune of "Bill Bailey," with the chorus of "Good Old
Summertime" shuffled in to make a full deck. She started to laugh and
found that laughter was quite impossible.
Suddenly the schoolma'am did a strange thing. She glanced about to
make sure no one was in sight, knelt and patted the tiny mound very
tenderly; then, stooping quickly, she pressed her lips impulsively upon
the rude lettering of the shingle. When she sprang up her cheeks were
very red, her eyes dewy and lovely, and the little laugh she gave at
herself was all atremble. If lovers could be summoned as opportunely
in real life as they are in stories, hearts would not ache so often and
life would be quite monotonously serene.
Weary was at that moment twenty miles away, busily engaged in
chastising Glory, that had refused point-blank to cross a certain
washout. His mind being wholly absorbed in the argument, he was not
susceptible to telepathic messages from the Meeker school-house--which
was a pity.
Also, it was a pity he could not know that Miss Satterly lingered late
at the school-house that night, doing nothing but watch the trail where
it lay, brown and distinct and utterly deserted, on the top of the bill
a quarter of a mile away. It is true she had artfully scattered a
profusion of papers over her desk and would undoubtedly have been
discovered hard at work upon them and very much astonished at beholding
him--if he had come. It is probable that Weary would have found her
quite unapproachable, intrenched behind a bulwark of dignity and
correct English.
When the shadow of the schoolhouse stretched somberly away to the very
edge of the coulee. Miss Satterly gathered up the studied confusion on
her desk, bundled the papers inside, and turned the key with a snap,
jabbed three hatpins viciously through her hat and her hair and went
home--and perhaps it were well that Weary was not there at that time.
The next night, papers strewed the desk as before, and the schoolma'am
stood by the window, her elbows planted on the unpainted sill, and
watched the trail listlessly. Her eyes were big and wistful, like a
hurt child's, and her cheeks were not red as usual, nor even pink. But
the trail lay again brown, and silent, and lonesome, with no quick
hoof-beats to send the dust swirling up in a cloud.
The shadows flowed into the coulee until it was full to the brim and
threatening the golden hilltop with a brown veil of shade before Miss
Satterly locked her door and went home. When she reached her aunt
Meeker's she did not want any supper and she said her head ached. But
that was not quite true; it was not her head that ached so much; it was
her heart.
The third day, the schoolma'am fussed a long time with her hair, which
she did in four different styles. The last style was the one which
Weary had pronounced "out uh sight"--only she added a white chiffon bow
which she had before kept sacred to dances and which Weary always
admired. At noon she encouraged the children to gather wild flowers
from the coulee, and she filled several tin cans with water from the
spring and arranged the bouquets with much care. Weary loved flowers.
Nearly every time he came he had a little bunch stuck under his
hat-band. A few she put in her hair, along with the chiffon bow. She
urged the children through their work and dismissed them at eleven
minutes to four and told them to go straight home.
After she had swept the floor and dusted everything that could be
dusted so that the school-room had the peculiar, immaculate emptiness
and forlornness, like a church on a week day, and had taken a few of
the brightest flowers and pinned them upon her white shirt-waist. Miss
Satterly tuned her guitar in minor and went out and sat upon the shady
doorstep and waited frankly, strumming plaintive little airs while she
watched the trail. To-morrow was Labor Day, and so he would certainly
ride over to-night to see if she had really meant it (Miss Satterly did
not explain to herself what "it" was; surely, there was no need).
At half-past five--Miss Satterly had looked at her watch seventeen
times during the interval--a tiny cloud of dust rose over the brow of
the hill, and her heart danced in her chest until she could scarce
breathe.
The cloud grew and grew and began drifting down the trail, and behind
it a black something rose over the hilltop and followed it, so
proclaiming itself a horseman galloping swiftly towards her. The color
spread from the schoolma'am's cheeks to her brow and throat. Her
fingers forgot their cunning and plucked harrowing discords from the
strings, but her lips were parted and smiling tremulously. It was
late--she had almost given up looking--but he was coming! She knew be
would come. Coming at a breakneck pace--he must be pretty anxious,
too. The schoolma'am recovered a bit of control and revolved in her
mind several pert forms of greeting. She would not be too ready to
forgive him--it would do him good to keep him anxious and uncertain for
a while before she gave in.
Now he was near the place where he would turn off the main road and
gallop straight to her. Glory always made that turn of his own accord,
lately. Weary had told her, last Sunday, how he could never get Glory
past that turn, any more, without a fight, no matter what might be the
day or the hour.
Now he would swing into the school-house trail. Miss Satterly raised
both hands with a very feminine gesture and patted her hair
tentatively, tucking in a stray lock here and there.
Her hands dropped heavily to her lap, just as the blood dropped away
from her cheeks and the happy glow dulled in her eyes. It was not
Weary. It was the Swede who worked for Jim Adams and who rode a sorrel
horse which, at a distance, resembled Glory.
Mechanically she watched him go on down the trail and out of sight;
picked up her guitar which had grown suddenly heavy, crept inside and
closed the door and locked it She looked around the clean, eerily
silent schoolroom, walked with echoing steps to the desk and laid her
head down among the cans of sweet-smelling, prairie flowers and cried
softly, in a tired, heartbreaking fashion that made her throat ache,
and her head.
The shadows had flowed over the coulee-rim and the hilltops were
smothered in gloom when Miss Satterly went home that night, and her
aunt Meeker sent her straight to bed and dosed her with horrible home
remedies.
By morning she had recovered her spirit--her revengeful spirit, which
she kept as the hours wore on and Weary did not come. She would teach
him a lesson, she told herself often. By evening, however, her mood
softened. There were many things that could have kept him away against
his will; he was not his own master, and it was shipping time.
Probably he had been out with the roundup, or something. She decided
that petty revenge is unwomanly besides giving evidence of a narrow
mind and shallow, and if Weary could show a good and sufficient reason
for staying away like that when there were matters to be settled
between them, she would not be petty and mean about it; she would be
divine--and forgive.