SOME LETTERS AND A REPLY
Her letter came to him a week later, though she had posted it the
morning she took the train from Morrison. It had lain for days in the
post-office box of the East Coast Company, waiting the day when one of
the teamsters should call and carry it in overland. Steve had never
before seen her handwriting. It was his first letter from her; yet he
recognized it the instant Big Louie put it in his hand. And he was
glad that night that both Fat Joe and Garry were absent from the
up-river camp--glad that he was to have the next hour alone. But when
he broke the flap of it Big Louie, who lingered uneasily in the open
doorway--even Big Louie, whose wits were not particularly keen--knew
from the expression which passed over his superior's face that this
heavy envelope which he had brought had not contained good news. The
quick contraction of muscles which tightened his jaw was too much like
a spasm of pain. For her first letter, so the sentence ran, was to be
her last; she wrote "less kindly than she would have wished to write,"
that she and Mr. Wickersham had decided upon the first of May, and
after the silence had become a throbbing thing Big Louie decided,
instinctively, that he would let go until later the demand which he had
planned to make for a raise to meet that raise which, so he had heard
it gossiped in town, was being paid the men in the northern
lumber-camps. He stumbled going out and lost his balance so that the
door crashed to behind him, violently. But Steve stood as he had stood
when his eye's sought the first line of her note, nor did the crash
penetrate his ears.
Repeatedly, in the interval which had elapsed since she had bidden him
good-bye, the latter had told himself that she would not write, but the
repetition had been unconvincing. He knew that now. With the note
which smelled faintly of her there in his hand he realized that he had
gone beyond mere expectation of a letter; he had dared to hope
concerning its contents. How was he to know that she, too, after
mailing it, had suffered as keenly as he was suffering that moment,
wishing that she had employed less abrupt phrases, rebelliously
regretting that she had sent it at all?
That night his fingers closed until the monogrammed sheet was reduced
to a crumpled ball. The edges of the paper took fire slowly, then it
exploded softly into flame upon the bed of coals in the fireplace where
he had tossed it. And at that he laughed aloud, a harsh taunt for his
own high hopes, without thinking how much his mirth of that moment was
like what Garry's once had been. He lowered himself into a chair, and
he was still there, motionless before a dead fire, when morning dawned
greyly. His face had become less hard; he even found it possible to
smile a little when the cook-boy, starting at the sight of him fully
dressed at that hour, advised with alarmed volubility that breakfast
would be ready immediately. But the few men who still remained at
Thirty-Mile, felling and hauling the piles which were to carry the
track across the swamp, noticed a difference in their chief that
morning which made them careful to hear him, the first time he spoke an
order.
Barbara did not write again, and in this, at least, the man who loved
her anticipated her correctly. The letters, however, which Garrett
Devereau received each day from Miriam--bulky, extra-postage
epistles--brought often news of her; and these fragments Garry, knowing
without being told for whom they were meant duly delivered to Steve, in
weekly or fortnightly instalments, whenever the latter's duties brought
him to Morrison. For Garry and Fat Joe, who had been transferred to
the lower end of the work, along with the bulk of the up-river force,
had noticed that difference too.
"Miriam says for me to keep my feet dry this cold weather," he'd tell
the other man, laughingly, "and Barbara sends her regards to all of us,
and hopes that we are making splendid headway." Or again: "Barbara's
looking a little pale, Miriam writes. She says she's--er--trying to do
altogether too much for her endurance."
Whatever the bit of news was Garry passed it on religiously, a little
guiltily, sometimes, because of his own great happiness. Once he had
failed, signally, to read behind his friend's moody silences; his
surmise concerning the reason for Steve's changed bearing was not so
wide of the mark this time. Often, within himself, Garry's wrath
seethed hot, but he was no longer as ready as he had once been with
verbal, cynical criticism. Only to Fat Joe did he dare pour out his
soul with that vivid incisiveness which always held Joe spellbound.
"He's eating his heart out over _her_," he'd explode, "over a girl who
is proving every day that she isn't worth a minute's heart-ache of a
man like him. I used to think she had brains, if any of them did; I
used to think that Barbara Allison was something besides a fluffy
little fool! Why can't he see for himself that she's just as worthless
as most of the rest of them?"
And from there, without knowing how truly funny such argument sounded,
coming from his lips, he would soar to wonderful heights of profanity.
But save for the pleasure which he took in the pyrotechnics, his
outbursts made little impression upon Fat Joe. The latter maintained a
sort of placid superiority, perhaps because he had learned early that
this attitude aggravated Garry's rages; perhaps because he was so very
certain of his man.
"I wouldn't go to getting all stirred up like this, so early in the
game," he'd reply with unvaried calm. "Shucks, it's too early to begin
counting either man's pile of chips--" either man to both minds meaning
Steve and Wickersham, without the naming of names. "You are too liable
to premature enthusiasms or discouragements, Garry. That's why I
mostly manage to beat you as easy as he beats me, whenever we throw a
hand or two. Ain't you never going to learn that a man must gamble a
bit on the cards still waiting to be dealt?"
And again, confidently:
"He's worried--of course he is! He ain't enjoyin' his meditations a
little bit these days, but he's enjoyin' 'em more all by himself than
he would be if we were up there with him, forcin' him to look
everlastingly like four aces, when it's deuces at present he's holding.
He's worried, and that's why I don't grow nervous myself. Because it
is only the man who is too sure who is awful likely to finish broke.
Don't you waste any pity on him yet, and I wouldn't let him hear me
passing uncomplimentary words concerning his girl, either, if I was
you. Lightning ain't particular where it strikes when it's been a long
time cooped up. Every man to his own taste in such matters, says
I--and shucks, man, can't you tell, just from seein' 'em together that
they was made for each other? If a man quit every time a woman began
to put him over the jumps we'd have a dangerous decrease in marriage
licences staring us in the face. He's just learning to care more for
her, that's all, and caring a lot about anybody never was a comfortable
state to be in. It's entirely too uncertain and unsettling--but you
wouldn't enjoy not caring about anybody at all, yourself, would you?"
Garry admitted that he wouldn't.
"Well, then, don't waste your time pitying him." A cold gleam
flickered in those bleached blue eyes. "Don't you suppose I'd have
taken apart long ago this animated ice-chest who is making all the
trouble, just to see what makes him so cold, if I didn't know I'd be
spoiling the big show? Couldn't you see, without my tellin' you, that
I'd rise up some day and leave him looking like a premature blast,
after all I've learned he's plannin' to slip us, if I wasn't sure that
he's going to get it, worse than I could ever give it to him, from that
girl herself? Well, I would. He makes me shiver, that man; makes me
crawl and itch to take his head in one hand and his throat in the other
and exert a little strength in opposite directions. Give our entry
time! The game is running dead against him at present, I'll admit, but
he's husbanding his chips. He ain't drawing wild and squandering his
chances. And he's only _begun_ to play."
Which, in part, was very, very true; in part not so close to the facts.
Before snow came that fall Steve had recovered his outward confidence,
at least; he had begun to hope again, while he waited and labored
prodigiously against the coming of spring. But in his heart he was no
longer sure; he could not summon back that serene self-surety which,
toward the end, had shaken even the girl's certainty in herself. He
could no longer argue convincingly with a vision of her, as he had
often argued with Barbara herself, that his way would be her way in the
end. For he had begun to realize the width of that gulf which he knew
must seem to exist between them, if not to her then to the eyes of
others of her world.
It was his memories which gave him consolation those long nights, but
they also gave him doubt. Remembering the daintiness of her as she had
come to him, the night of her party, recalling the things to which she
had been accustomed since she had opened her eyes on the first light of
day, he began to ask himself as every man like him has asked who ever
loved a woman, how in any fairness he could expect her to accept the
little which he could offer in return. To Steve and Fat Joe, to the
men of his gang, his confidence was that of the old, old Steve who, ten
years before, had cocked his head at one of Allison's switch engines
and promised gravely, "I'll hev to be gittin' one of them for myself,
some-day." But his heart ached. And when that ache became so leaden
that he couldn't endure it any longer in silence, he carried it to the
one person in his life who was best calculated to understand.
Diffidently he broached the subject with Miss Sarah, approaching it in
a roundabout fashion least likely to deceive that bright-eyed little
lady.
"Garry is saving his money against the fatal day," he laughed one
night. "He has become a rank miser! Joe says he goes for days at a
time, borrowing his tobacco, and he won't play anything but penny-ante
now, when he can be coaxed to play at all!"
Miss Sarah was too kind to look at him directly that evening.
"The regeneration of Garry is one of the things which had made my life
most happy," she answered. And then, paving the way for what she knew
was on his mind. "I suppose you will be surprising us yourself, one of
these days. And no doubt you'll be just as happily positive as Garry
is, that your choice is the only one in the world."
They were alone in the big living-room. Caleb was still in town,
gossiping with Hardwick Elliott. And Steve's bruised smile clutched at
Miss Sarah's heart.
"I!" he overdid his amusement. "I have lived too much alone, I'm
afraid, ever to prove very attractive to any woman's fancy. Bachelors
are not always born; they are sometimes the habits of loneliness."
"Stuff and nonsense!" the good woman ridiculed him. "Why--why, if it
weren't for a suspicion that you might have your eye on some small
person or other, I'd drop everything and hunt one up for you, myself.
Why, Stephen, what a remark for me to hear from you!"
Both were silent for a moment.
"Marriage is a mighty--expensive proposition," he commented at length,
profoundly.
"Is Garry such a plutocrat any more?"
"That is not a fair illustration for us to employ," he countered, and
Barbara Allison was not the only woman who loved his lazily final
statements. "Both Garry and Miriam have been taught that there are
worse things than the hardship of making last year's limousine do for
another season."
Miss Sarah laughed at this drollery. She was a better antagonist than
most. She had practiced on Caleb.
"Can't one girl learn what another has been taught?" she wanted to
know. "Stephen, do you mean to sit there and infer that you could
continue to _care_ for a girl who could not care for you, just for
yourself?"
His reply told her how tired he had become in trying to stem the tide
of doubt alone. It warned her, too, that she had gone too close, for
he veered off sharply. Steve persisted in generalities, but he wanted
to talk.
"I have been wondering if that is not an old-fashioned attitude," he
said. "Women, they tell, us, have broadened since they usurped many
places in the business world once held by men. They are looking mighty
keen-eyed toward the vote now, and a share in the legislation of their
growing affairs, or at least so they explain. You have heard many men
say 'business is business.' Maybe you have watched quite a few
charming brides walk to the altar, and wondered if that wasn't their
sentiment, too."
She chose to be suddenly vexed with him.
"I do not like such humor, and of course you are joking. I have heard
Garrett Devereau talk in just such a strain too often to be amused by
it. And if you mean----"
"If I meant it, I was crying the baby," stated the man coldly, and Miss
Sarah knew that he was rebuking himself. "I could care for such a
girl--yes. But I doubt if I would marry a woman who had even the
smallest doubt. There are too many sharp places to be smoothed over,
without chancing that tragedy of discontent. It's merely habit that's
to blame again, that's all." He cast about for a parallel. "One does
not miss sugar so very much from a meal, until he knows he can't have
it. And then--well, Miss Sarah, I have many times talked peevishly,
for a man, because there was none to be had."
"We are talking of women. What about salt?" she inquired quickly.
"That is very indispensable, too, but----"
"Of the two which do you always take care shall not be missing from
your pack, whenever you turn into the woods?"
"I see where you are heading, but----"
"I do not like dissemblance, Stephen," she warned. "You know without
the salt of love the sugar of life can grow sickeningly cloying."
He did not win his argument, but defeat gave him far more happiness
than could have come from victory. Leaving her that night, he closed
his hand over her delicate fingers in a clasp which left her smiling in
wonder after he had gone. She watched horse and rider disappear into
the whiteness of the new winter till both were lost to her sight.
"Bless the boy," she murmured then. "Bless the boy!" And to Caleb,
her brother, when he came stamping in: "I surely must take a hand with
these children. They have been left to their own devices long enough."
Caleb had recovered his good-natured view of the whole affair; he was
given to grinning those days at her flutterings. On more than one
occasion he told her, none too flatteringly, that she made him think of
an officious hen with a brood which a high rate of mortality and
prowling night-raiders had left bereft of all save two of her hatch.
But this particular witticism did not bother her in the least, perhaps
because she realized how pat the comparison was. Instead of silencing
him she showed him the letter which she constructed some days
later--constructed most painstakingly, the second week in December.
She deigned to read it aloud to him, before she dispatched it on its
journey.
"Barbara, dear child," she wrote, "this is the appeal of a lonesome
spinster lady who finds that winter, still only a lusty infant here, is
the season for younger, warmer pulses. I am very tired of Caleb's
continued company; that is, with nothing to leaven it. The keenest of
epigrammarians, my dear, becomes very commonplace, you know, to ears
too long tuned to one voice. So I am writing you in dignified
desperation to come to me this holiday season--Caleb is not always as
epigrammatic as I could wish.
"I am going to be positive that you will come, unless you have already
made other plans. And, on second thought, if you have already done so,
I am going to fall back upon the privileged tyranny of one who once
carried you in her arms. You must come to me this Christmas!"
There was another whole paragraph of rambling, repeated arguments, and
then a full page devoted to the beauties of the hills and season.
"The days are diamond brilliant," she wrote, "and the nights as drily
cold and crisp as Caleb's few last cherished bottles of champagne. We
have a foot of snow, two feet in the ell of the house where the
mint-bed lies, and that has afforded Caleb much peace of mind, too.
The roots will live nicely under their warm blanket, you see--all of
which must read frivolously to you, coming from staid Miss Sarah. I
can only plead that already I must be less lonely for anticipation of
your arrival. Are you well? You will find new roses for your cheeks
in this climate. And you may telegraph your acceptance, this once, if
you are too busy to write, although you know I deplore the lack of
those punctillios which once made of all custom and etiquette a most
charming thing."
It was signed, "Yours, my dear, Sarah Hunter."
There was a quaint twist to the letter S; sharp angles in the
chirography which a newer decade of femininity might have found sadly
lacking in a largeness of loops now indispensable as indication of
"character." And there was a postscript, of course.
"Stephen O'Mara has been several times to dinner, since your departure.
He is working very hard, but most successfully, I am sure, for he
appears to be very happy. He is thinner than he was, but who could
have guessed that the boy he was would grow to be such a handsome man!
Men with eyes like his and such voices used to break the hearts of
susceptible maids, when I was sixteen. Do come! S. H."
She read it aloud from beginning to end, nor did she falter much when
Caleb greeted the postscript with a shout of joy. Caleb was most
high-spirited those days, for the line in regard to the progress of
Steve's work was in truth an under-statement if anything, even though
the assurance of his happiness might have been called a misconstruance
of facts. Caleb had almost begun to think that he had done Dexter
Allison, his friend, an injustice. He had begun to congratulate
himself on having said nothing to him directly.
"What do you think of it?" his sister asked pleasantly, when she had
finished reading. "Will it--do?"
"If you mean--will it fetch her, I can only say Heaven knows!" Indeed
he was enjoying himself. "You feel positive that she cares for him,
you say? . . . But I thought you were always inclined to believe Steve
rather easy to look at, even as a boy?"
"I was!" maintained Miss Sarah. Her voice grew girlish. "Do you
remember the night you gave him my old hunting coat, Cal, and he went
to sleep with it in his arms?"
Some of the teasing note left her brother's voice.
"Then why do you tell Barbara--why do you seem to infer--" he foundered
hopelessly.
"Stupid!" said Miss Sarah. "Will she come?"
"She won't!" he stated solidly.
When he spoke in that tone Miss Sarah always chose to believe the
contrary, and events in this instance proved her right. Barbara did
not wire. She wrote a long letter full of little twists and turns
which led at last to the subject which Miss Sarah had mentioned so
parenthetically.
"I am delighted at the prospect of getting away from town for a week,"
she closed as she had opened her reply--"delighted at Mr. O'Mara's
splendid success. Last night I overheard father telling some business
associates that he would one day be the biggest power in the north
country, unless something happened to check him soon. That was very
flattering, wasn't it? It will make you very proud, I know. Tell Mr.
O'Mara I wished to be recalled to him. As I have already warned you in
this letter, father insists on coming with me. I think he must be a
little tired of the city himself, for he is very restless. And remind
Uncle Cal that I am to have the wish-bone, or I will not come at all!"
This reply Miss Sarah also read aloud to her brother, in a voice that
was not quite Christian, however, for it was gloating in tone.
"There!" she breathed, "and, Cal, aren't you ashamed sometimes to have
your judgment so often refuted by a mere woman?"
Caleb had been reading in the Morrison Standard that the East Coast
Company had made unbelievable strides in its work, in spite of many
conspiring hard-luck circumstances; he was frowning over that oddly
veiled compliment of Allison's, which his daughter had so innocently
repeated, but he was glad to hear that Dexter, too, planned to run up
for the year-end. He was a bit bored himself. Now he grinned over
another thought.
"She fails to mention whether she ever noticed the color of his eyes,"
he choked a little, "or--or the heart-breaking quality of his voice!
Maybe she hasn't noticed 'em yet herself, eh?"
Miss Sarah scorned to answer. She went upstairs to her desk and she
wrote two letters that night, before she retired. One went back to
Barbara. The other had not so far to travel, but it was longer in
reaching its destination.