OLIVE MISSING.
There was dire dismay at Perfection City when the flight of Olive became
known. Napoleon Pompey informed Madame of it the same evening, but, for
reasons best known to herself, she did not announce the fact until the
next morning, when the brethren and sisters flocked to her house to talk
over this surprising event in all its bearings. The members accounted
for it in different ways and explained it according to their
preconceived notions. Madame at once said that she had evidently left
her husband whom she had never really loved at all.
“I think we must all have noticed how utterly unsuited she was to him
and how uncongenial. She was no fit companion for a man of Ezra’s mind,”
said Madame.
“Wal, now,” observed Uncle David, “I think such a purty little gal with
sweet little kitten-ways was a most congenial companion.”
“Uncle, you don’t understand men. Men with minds and high aspirations
want a companion capable of sharing their ideas and aims, they don’t
want a kitten or a plaything.”
“My ’pinion is most men is satisfied with kittens, if they’re as soft
an’ coaxin’ in their ways as little Ollie is,” replied Uncle David.
“I guess she couldn’t stand the bondage of marriage,” said Mary Winkle.
“When she first came she was all for being absorbed in her husband, she
would be Mrs. Weston forsooth, she wanted to sink her individuality. She
has naturally found out her mistake. I respect her and sympathize with
her in her efforts to shake off the trammels of custom and make a dash
for freedom. I dare say we shall soon have her coming back again, having
resumed her own name, and perhaps ready to lecture on the absurdity of
women giving up their names on marriage, as if they ceased to exist.
Marriage under these circumstances becomes a sort of death to a woman.
It is extinction.”
“’Tain’t no such thing, Sister Mary,” said Uncle David. “It is an
honourable distinction our forefathers have used, findin’ the same handy
and convenient. I don’t believe little Ollie has gone a-lecterin’, she
ain’t that sort o’ gal. I guess she’s jes’ tired an’ lonesome feelin’,
an’ thought she’d ride out an’ meet Ezry comin’ home.”
“She hasn’t done that, Uncle, for I’ve seen a man from over Jacksonville
way, and he told me she had been seen the other side of Big Cotton Wood
Creek, and that she was asking for news of Cotterell,” said Brother
Wright.
“Then she has gone to him,” said Madame with decision.
“She hain’t neither,” contradicted Uncle David, “you hain’t got no
business to tell wicked stories like that.”
“She has been carrying on a secret acquaintance with him all the summer.
I know that, for I surprised them together at the spring some weeks
ago.”
“She didn’t do nothin’ that was dishonest an’ secret,” said Uncle David
anxiously. “I ain’t agoin’ ter believe anything ’gin little Ollie. She’s
a good little gal.”
He wiped his forehead nervously with his large bony hand, and then took
out his red handkerchief and passed it several times across his face.
“The power of love is strong,” said Madame, looking at him with
compassion.
“Yes, yes,” he replied quickly, “jes’ what I say, an’ she did love her
husban’, an’ hain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
“She didn’t love him,” burst out Madame with excitement. “It often
filled me with anger to see how she took all his love and made no
return. Everyone saw it.”
“I guess the rest of us didn’t pay so much attention to them and their
affairs. We had our own,” said Mary Winkle, at which Madame winced.
“You don’t know what her feelin’s was. She loved Ezry, else she wouldn’t
ha’ married him an’ followed him way out here on this lonesome prairie.
I ain’t never goin’ to believe wrong o’ little Ollie.” Uncle David’s big
chest heaved with a sob that would burst out.
Madame placed her hand gently upon his. “The falling of one’s idol has
always been a grievous sorrow, and has bruised many a loving heart.”
“She wasn’t fit to live here on the prairie,” said Aunt Ruby, wiping her
spectacles with her big checked handkerchief. “She was too young an’
purty an’ frolicksome to be here anyhow. Ezry hed ought ter hev kep’ her
in the East, where she was raised, an’ where she could go to parties,
an’ put on purty clo’s, an’ dance, an’ so forth. It’s nat’ral for them
young gals to dance an’ love fin’ry, jes’ as it’s nat’ral for lambs to
skip an’ play in the sunshine. They is born so, an’ I guess the Lord put
the right idees into their min’s at the beginnin’. I don’ wan’ ter skip,
an’ Sister Mary she don’t wan’ ter neither, we hev got ole an’ stiff by
now; but that chile she did wan’ ter, on’y mos’ likely she didn’t know
it. Sweet purty little thing, too, she was, it done my eyes good ter
look at her. She wasn’t fit for ’Fection City, we hain’t got nothin’ for
young folks as don’t care mos’ly to argy ’bout principles, they loves
ter be gay. Why, it wasn’t further back nor day ’fore yesterday she come
ter my house ’long with that pup o’ hern. My stars, didn’t she laugh
when it took ter scootin’ roun’ ’mong my hens! It done me a heap o’ good
ter hear her, it was like a silver bell, an’ she hedn’t nothin’ for to
amuse her. I think it was downright sinful o’ Brother Ezry to take such
a sweet purty little thing ’way from her proper home.”
Aunt Ruby ended her long speech with the twin-sob to the one that had
escaped from Uncle David.
“Sister, you’re a downright good woman,” said he gratefully. The two old
people nodded at each other in complete harmony of affection and
affliction.
A long day passed over Perfection City, a day without any positive news
or confirmation of previous rumours. The brethren were full of their
various theories in regard to Olive’s disappearance, which they found
necessary to discuss and re-discuss over and over again. All work was at
a stand-still, for the members congregated at Madame’s house both early
and late, as they considered she would be the first to get any news from
the outside world. Without a horse they were practically cut off from
all communication with the outside, and were entirely dependent on the
thoughtfulness of such neighbours as might come to bring them news. It
was in the afternoon of the day of the abortive trial at Union Mills
that the first authentic tidings reached them. They were talking the
matter over together for the fiftieth time when Brother Green was seen
coming very hurriedly from his forge along with a stranger, who waited
outside the door with an amount of diffidence unusual on the prairie.
Brother Green’s grimy face wore a look of alarm.
“We’ve got news of them both,” he exclaimed, bursting into the room
regardless of ceremony, he who was generally the most heedful of the
little forms of politeness. “She has gone after him, and they’ve gone
away, and he stole her and said we lent her to him,” said Brother Green
distractedly.
“Brother, I don’t understand,” said Madame. “Who lent what? And where
has she gone?”
“I mean Sister Olive—oh! I’m so sorry—poor Brother Ezra!—Sister Olive
has gone off with Cotterell, and it was he who stole Queen Katharine,
only it was proved at the trial that she lent her to him.”
Brother Green was too distressed to be a good witness.
“Who told you?” asked Madame.
“Whoever did told a lie,” said Uncle David.
“He’s outside. He was at the trial and has come to tell us about it.”
“Then bring him in,” said Madame.
The stranger entered, looking somewhat abashed. He was truly sorry to be
the bearer of such bad tidings.
“Young man, before you begin this wicked tale, I charge you think of God
and tell the truth.” Uncle David stood before him like an avenging
spirit.
“Sir, excuse him,” said Madame in her sweet voice. “The old man is
painfully distracted by grief, he does not know what he is saying. You
have come to bring us definite news, have you not?”
“I’m thund’rin’ sorry, so I am, an’ if we’d ha’ knowed how it would ha’
ended, the boys ’ud ha’ made sure by bangin’ him fust an’ havin’ the
trial a’terwards.”
“Are you speaking about Mr. Cotterell? We have not had any news for
days, so perhaps you will explain it all clearly,” said Madame.
“Yes, wal, when ole man Wright come an’ tole as how yer hoss was stole,
the boys they ’lowed as you was all such damn—such all-fired pertikler
folks as didn’t do yer own shootin’, they ’lowed they oughter kinder be
neighbourly an’ do it for yer. So we sot out to run down the cuss. We
got word from a teamster from beyond the Creek, he seed a man on a mare
jes’ like yourn agoin’ toward the border. So we picked up the trail
right away. He warn’t worth a red cent to hide a trail. He jes’ follered
straight ahead ’long the road, axin’ his way an’ follerin’ plumb on the
d’rections. Any fool could ha’ run down such a coon as him. He war
ridin’ yer brown mare when they come up, an’ he didn’t show fight, jes’
said he’d stan’ trial, an’ he ’lowed it ’ud be fair. The boys
calkerlated it wouldn’t be a fair trial ’less they toted him roun’ to
Union Mills, which are his own post-office, an’ if that ain’t treatin’ a
man fair nothin’ is. An’ they got a new set o’ men to stan’ jury as what
cotch him, ’cause mos’ on ’em was that mad for leavin’ the corn-shuckin’
to run down such a nat’ral born fool, they’d ha’ mos’ likely strung him
slap up. It war all done fair, we kep’ him down to Phillipps’ store over
night, an’ I tuk a spell o’ stan’in’ guard. We didn’t sen’ for none o’
yo’uns, ’cause we knowed yer be all sot agin hangin’, an’ yer can’t have
a man on a jury who’s sot agin hangin’ when that’s all yer want ter git
done, can yer? So we was a-tryin’ of him fair, with ole man Strong for
foreman ’cause he knowed all the forms, as he was out to the hangin’ of
Howard an’ that thief over to Jacksonville an’ mos’ on ’em. He was
pertikler to do it all straight ’cordin’ to law, an’ we was gittin’
’long slick, when Mis’ Weston come an’ bust it all up. She said she lent
him the hoss, an’ it war hern.”
The narrator stopped to observe the effect of this announcement. He felt
repaid.
“I don’t believe it,” sobbed Uncle David.
“I hearn her say it,” said the man. His complete enjoyment of the effect
was marred by the tears of that poor old man.
“We had to let him off, o’ course, for the stealin’, an’ we couldn’t
hang him for the shootin’ o’ Jake Mills, ’cause some o’ the boys said
they’d never hang on nigger evidence, an’ we hadn’t none other. Anyhow,
that nigger he drowned hisself in lies right away, an’ we didn’t lay
much on what he done tole us, you bet. But we was powerful sorry
a’terwards when we seen what we’d done. She’s gone off with him plumb.”
“No, no, not that,” said Uncle David, “tain’t so, you didn’t
un’erstan’.”
“We axed her war she a-gwine with him, an’ she said, ‘yes,’ I hearn her
say so.”
“She was on’y goin’ home,” said Uncle David tremulously.
“She had not come home half an hour ago,” observed Madame.
“They rode ’long to the South Fork, an’ that don’t lie on her road home
from Union Mills, do it? I stayed behin’ at the Store, the boys was
talkin’ if they hadn’t bes’ go right a’ter him an’ shoot him anyhow, but
we ’lowed he’d ha’ showed fight then, an’ maybe she’d ha’ been killed in
the shootin’. Yer can’t never say who’ll be hit when everybody’s firin’
like blazes. I didn’t quit the Mills for a spell, an’ mos’ the boys was
’ready gone home, an’ they allowed I oughter tell yer we done our best
for yer.”
They thanked him, and he went his way.
“Somebody has got to tell Brother Ezra, he will be coming home
to-night,” said the blacksmith, wiping his sleeve across his forehead.
“Poor Ezra! What a home-coming!”
Brother Green remained silent for a long time, then he spoke again in a
soft low voice, almost as if he was communing with himself.
“When I laid my young wife in her grave with her babe on her breast,
fifteen years ago last Midsummer, I thought I had known the greatest
sorrow possible to the human heart. But my loss was not so great as
Brother Ezra’s, his cup is filled to the brim, and oh, how bitter! How
great a power of suffering lies in the human heart!”
“It is through suffering that the heart is purified,” said Madame to him
in reply.
“Aye, so they say: but some sorts of sorrow may very well embitter.
People talk of the purifying by sorrow. It seems to me that happiness
can purify too. We are all sure to get our share of the sorrow in this
world, it is the happiness that so seldom comes to a man. Brother Ezra
was happy, is happy, poor man, since he does not yet know of the wreck
of his home. It was a delight to see him so happy. And she, poor young
thing, my heart aches for her! She was in my forge the other day, said
she was lonesome and came to talk. Poor child! We are all to blame. Why
did we leave her alone? Why didn’t I think of going to see her, instead
of merely remembering how bright she was in the forge. We should have
looked after her. Madame, why didn’t you do so? You are the chief.”
Brother Green’s voice had a stern ring in it, that immensely surprised
Madame in her self-contained calm.
“I!” she exclaimed hastily. “I had absolutely no control over her, and
no influence. She was one of the most determined young women I ever
knew, and the least liable to yield to the judgment of others.”
“No, I don’t think that was her character,” said Brother Green.
“You are taken by the pretty face, like Brother Ezra, and are utterly
ignorant of the mind within. Men are always like that in regard to a
pretty woman,” said Madame scornfully.
“Beauty is a great power, no doubt,” admitted Brother Green, “but people
may err just as widely by judging everything from the prejudiced point
of view as by yielding too far to favourable impressions.”
“Brother Green,” said Uncle David earnestly, “I’m right glad you’re like
me, you won’t believe nothin’ ’gainst little Ollie, will you, no more
than I will?”
“I will hope for the best and that there may be some reasonable
explanation of her disappearance,” said Brother Green, looking
compassionately at the piteous old face that scanned his so eagerly for
some scrap of comfort.
“I don’t see what explanation there can be but the one we have already
received,” said Madame icily.
“Who will break this sorrowful news to Ezra?” asked Brother Green. “Will
you do it, Uncle David? You would do it tenderly, as you have faith in
her still.”
“No, no, I couldn’t bear to see the look o’ death in his eyes, an’ it
’ud come no matter how I told it, when I came to sayin’ little Ollie was
gone an’ we didn’t know where.”
“I think perhaps I had best take this painful duty upon myself,”
suggested Madame.
“Well, after all, maybe you are the best person. But remember to deal
tenderly with him in his sorrow. You will know what to say to instil
some hope into his heart,” said Brother Green sadly.
“An’ don’t you tell him she’s gone off with that man Cotterell, for she
hain’t done no such thing,” said Uncle David anxiously. “You jes’ say we
don’t know why she went away, an’ kinder hint as you’re expectin’ she’ll
he home to-morrow or nex’ day. Do you understand?”
Madame told no one what she would say to Ezra, and made no promises as
to how she would say it.