NEIGHBORS
“Do you remember,” said Nancy, as she and Beatrice viewed each other
across a wilderness of overflowing trunks, half-unpacked boxes of
bedding, baskets of china, and packages of groceries, “do you remember
how that Englishman at your sorority dance used to talk about an affair
like this as ‘settling in’? Settling wouldn’t be so hard, but settling
in! Will all this stuff ever go inside this house?”
“I don’t know,” replied Beatrice abstractedly. “It will have to go in
somehow. Surely we need everything that is here.”
She spoke absently, for the mention of the dance had brought a sudden
flood of memories and of odd fancies. It had been the last one she had
attended before the doctor’s verdict concerning Aunt Anna’s health,
which had upset all their plans and driven them West. It must have been
in another world, she thought, that evening at the country club with the
moonlight coming in on the polished floor, with the whirling maze of
colored dresses, the swinging music, and the soft sound of multitudes of
sliding feet. She stepped out upon the stone doorstep, and looked down
between the giant red trunks of the pine-trees down upon the white
thread of road winding to the valley, upon the huddle of box-like
houses, with the slow smoke rising from the blackened ruins in the
midst.
A wave of panic seized her. Would she know how to manage affairs in this
strange new world, this place of rugged, lonely peaks, pine-forested
mountainsides, of narrow valleys filled with rioting men? Yet panic was
followed by sudden exhilaration, born, perhaps, of the strange clearness
of the thin air and the brilliance of the morning sunshine. She
remembered the dance again, how she had been manager of it and how the
evening had been full of congratulations on the success of her
arrangements. Yet in the midst of it she had felt a vague discontent, a
sudden wonder whether this was all the pleasure that life had to offer.
Well, she thought now, with a long breath of fresh, sparkling air, if
she could hold her own in that world, she could in this also, and she
returned to her work.
Nancy, quite untroubled by any doubts or fancies, was plodding steadily
ahead at the task in hand. It had been no hardship for her to arise
early, explore the possibilities of the kitchen, concoct a breakfast out
of such supplies as they had brought with them, and carry it in on a
tray with a beaming and triumphant smile.
Aunt Anna seemed to have suffered little harm from the midnight
flitting, and was sleeping late after the excitements of the night
before. She had been made comfortable at once in the one room that was
in tolerable order; for the girls had only to make up the couch with the
bedding they had brought, to build a fire out of the pine cones that lay
so thickly under the trees, and the apartment was ready for the invalid.
Christina had taken charge of the place for the former occupants, and
had left it very clean and in order. In the dry Montana air, no house,
even when closed for months, grows damp, nor, in the clean pine woods,
even very dusty. Aunt Anna had remained long awake, however; for, two
hours later when it was almost dawn, Beatrice had stolen in and found
her staring wide-eyed at the fire.
“Can I do anything for you? Aren’t you very tired?” the girl had asked,
but her aunt only smiled and shook her head.
“I am very comfortable,” she said. “I think we are going to be very
happy in this strange little house. I am glad you had the courage to
bring me here, my child.”
Beatrice stood beside the bed and straightened the coverlid.
“Won’t you tell me why you wanted so much to stay?” she begged. “I wish
I might know.”
Her aunt did not answer for a moment.
“I used to think,” she said at last, “that you might never know, but
perhaps, since last night, I have changed my mind. Yes, whatever
happens, I believe I will tell you, but not just now; for I am too weary
to go through with such a thing. Move my pillow a little, my dear; I am
going to sleep. The music of that waterfall would make anybody drowsy.”
Before they had finished breakfast, Christina had appeared, with Sam,
heavy-laden, following her, bringing more of their things from the
village.
“I just packed everything that I thought you would need and had Sam
fetch it up,” said Christina. “No, you can’t go down to the town until
things have quieted a little. There was fighting last night, and Dan
O’Leary has been shot.”
“Just through the leg,” Sam reassured them, seeing Nancy’s horrified
face. “Dan has been foreman of one of the ditching gangs, but he owns
the livery-stable and one of the stores, so being a property holder
makes him more careful than the rest. He’s hot-headed enough, though,
and was leader of all the workmen until this fellow out of Russia,
Thorvik, came to town. He goes Dan one better, and there is no knowing
what he won’t stir up.”
“Is the strike going to last long?” Beatrice asked.
Sam chuckled.
“It’s not a strike; that’s just where the pinch is. While they were
holding their meeting last night, and arguing about how soon they should
quit, there comes word from the company that the work is shut down until
further notice. Something has gone wrong with the money end of the
business, people say, and there’s nothing to go on with. Anyway, there’s
no strike; the men higher up beat them to it. Christina is right. The
City of Ely is no place for young ladies to be going just now.”
He carried in the boxes and went down the path for more.
“There’s room in the shed for your horse, Miss Beatrice,” he announced,
when he had made his last trip. “I can bring him up if you like, only
you would have to take care of him yourself. We can haul up enough feed
to keep him, and there’s some grazing land higher up the hill.”
Accordingly it was settled that Buck, also, was to be a part of their
establishment, although Beatrice felt a little appalled at the prospect
of taking care of a horse single-handed.
“Bless you, he’s that wise he can almost take care of himself,” Sam
reassured her. “He’s a little light on his feet when you go to saddle
him, but beyond that he hasn’t a fault. It will be a good thing to have
a horse on the place.”
Toward noon the two girls, with Christina’s assistance, began to bring
some order out of the confusion. The cabin possessed four rooms
downstairs; the large living-room, into which the front door opened; the
bedroom off it; the lean-to kitchen; and, wonder of wonders, a tiny
bath-room with a shining white porcelain tub.
“Those engineers who used the place just settled down to make themselves
comfortable,” Christina explained. “They put in the water-pipes
themselves, and I’ll never forget the day they brought up that tub,
packed on a mule. He bucked it off once and it slid down the hill until
it caught between two pine-trees.”
The enterprising former tenants had also introduced electricity from the
power plant of the nearest mine, so that the two most difficult
housekeeping problems of water and light were thus already solved. The
heavy table and straight clumsy chairs must also have been brought there
by their predecessors, and the bunks in the two little rooms under the
roof must have been their work. The men had evidently slept on pine
branches; but for the girls Sam brought mattresses from the house in the
village and a comfortable bed for Aunt Anna.
“Now,” said Nancy at last, “we have everything we need except milk and
eggs.”
“I believe,” said Christina, who was scrubbing the big table, “that over
at John Herrick’s—he’s your nearest neighbor—they could spare you what
milk and eggs you want. I know they have a cow and that his girl,
Hester, makes a great deal of her chickens!”
Neighbors! Beatrice had forgotten that house, nearly hidden by the
shoulder of the mountain, but visible from the trail below. There was a
girl there, too, perhaps of their own age. She was eager to go and
investigate at once and scarcely waited to hear how to find the way.
It was a long walk down to the road beyond the bars and then up the hill
to the next house. Beatrice realized, as she tramped along, that
distances are deceitful in high altitudes and that the presence of Buck
would be a great convenience. The house, when she reached it, was even
larger than she had thought—a long, low dwelling, with a row of sheds
and stables and an enclosed corral! She had just reached the front steps
when she saw the door fly open and a brown-haired girl, with very
bright, dancing eyes, come running out in a flutter of dark curls and
flying blue and white skirts.
“Oh, oh!” cried Hester Herrick, grasping Beatrice’s hand in her cordial
brown one. “I thought there was smoke in your chimney and I couldn’t
wait to know who was living in the cabin. To have neighbors—you can’t
think what it means on this mountain! Come in, come in.”
To Beatrice, who had observed with some distaste the flimsy houses of
the village, the sagging board walks and streets full of ruts and
boulders, this place was a delightful surprise, with its air of spruce
neatness and picturesque charm. She liked the outside of the building,
the pointed gables and wide eaves; but, as Hester conducted her within,
she gave a little gasp of wonder, for the house was really beautiful
inside. Beauty in a house, to her, had always meant shining white
woodwork, softly colored rugs, and polished mahogany, but there was
nothing of all that here. The low room with its windows opening toward
the distant mountains, was full of rich colors, the dull red of the
unceiled pine walls and bookcases, the odd browns and yellows in the
bearskin rugs, the clear flame-color of the bowl of wild lilies that
stood on the broad window-sill. Hester seated her guest in the corner of
a huge comfortable couch and sat down beside her with a smile of broad
satisfaction.
It was difficult to bring up such a prosaic subject as milk and eggs in
such pleasant surroundings; but when that had been disposed of, the two
were soon chattering as though they had known each other for years.
“Yes,” commented Hester, nodding sagely, as she heard the tale of their
departure for the cabin on the hill, “there is going to be real trouble
in Ely, so Roddy says, and he won’t let me go down there just now. How
glad I am that you didn’t go away!”
Beatrice’s eyes had been roving about the room, observing the white
birch log on the hearth, the tawny-orange shade of the homespun
curtains, and even the pictures on the wall.
“Why,” she exclaimed, her glance arrested by a photograph hanging near
the window, “we have that same picture at home, in my father’s study. It
is of the school where he used to go.”
Hester looked up at the vine-covered archway showing a tree-lined walk
beyond.
“I don’t know where Roddy got it,” she said. “It has always been there,
over his desk, for as long as I can remember.”
“Who is Roddy, your brother?” Beatrice asked.
“No, he is my—my sort of father, but not really. He is too young to be
my father, I suppose. He adopted me when I was very little. His name is
John Rodman Herrick, so, as he’s only fifteen years older, I call him
Roddy. I can’t remember when I didn’t live in this house with him, and
with old Julia and her husband Tim, to do the work for us. There is
Roddy now.”
The stride of heavy boots sounded along the veranda, and a man came in,
a handsome vigorous person who, as Hester had said, looked too young to
be her father. Nor were they the least alike in appearance, since he was
very fair, with thick, light hair and blue eyes that contrasted oddly
with his very sunburnt skin. He wore ordinary riding clothes, but seemed
to carry an air of distinction in his clean-cut profile and straight
shoulders.
He listened to Hester’s rather confused account of Beatrice’s arrival
and shook hands with her gravely.
“Are you going to be comfortable in the cabin?” he asked. “Who is
helping you get settled?”
“There is a Finnish woman who is doing everything for us,” Beatrice told
him. “I have never seen any one who worked so hard.”
She told how she had first met Christina in the wood, and what gratitude
and assistance the woman had given them later.
“Poor Christina, she can never put that boy out of her mind,” John
Herrick said. “He was a good fellow, Olaf Jensen, and I have missed him
since he left Ely. He was always in some mischief or other and his last
escapade before he went to sea came near to being serious. There are
still men in the village telling what they will do to him when he comes
back.”
“What was it he did?” Beatrice asked.
John Herrick began to laugh.
“Olaf was working with one of our ditching gangs, and a good workman he
was. Suddenly, one day while they were digging near the river, Olaf
pointed to a high rock opposite, called Mason’s Bluff, a well-known and
dangerous place. There seemed to be a man hanging by a rope halfway down
the face of it, unable, apparently, to get either up or down. The
laborers didn’t take much interest—said any one was a fool who would try
such a climb; and not one of them would budge an inch to help him. Then
Olaf remarked casually, ‘It must be that scientist fellow who was in our
camp yesterday. Do you remember that rich tenderfoot who went around
spending money and tapping rocks?’ Every man dropped his tools, for if
there is a chance for a reward these Bohunks are on the job at once. You
should have seen them scurrying down to the river, getting across any
way they could, and running like rabbits through the brush, each one
determined to be first on the spot.”
“And did they save him?” Beatrice inquired eagerly.
“The first ones were within a hundred yards when the man fell.”
She gasped, but he went on with a dry chuckle.
“They went nearer to pick him up and found he was a dummy man, stuffed
with straw. Then they remembered that Olaf had been laughing at them for
being willing to do anything for money and nothing without it, and they
came back to camp vowing to have his blood. Even I was surprised at what
an ugly temper they showed, but Olaf was wise enough to know how they
would feel, and when they came back he was gone. Probably he meant to go
anyway and wanted to have one final fling.”
Beatrice, glancing at the clock, was horrified to see how long she had
stayed and rose at once to go. Both her new friends came to the door
with her.
“By the way,” said John Herrick as Beatrice stood on the step below, “my
Hester is too informal a person for introductions, and she has not even
told me your name. Indeed, I doubt if she knows it herself. Won’t you
tell us who you are and who is at the cabin with you?”
What a cordial, friendly smile, he had, Beatrice thought, and how it
lighted his brown face!
“My Aunt Anna and my sister Nancy are at the cottage with me,” she said.
“The place is mine; my father gave it to me. My name is Beatrice Deems.”
Never had she seen a countenance change so abruptly as did John
Herrick’s as he turned suddenly and went into the house, leaving Hester
to say her good-bys alone.
It was at the end of a very laborious but satisfactory day that Nancy
came up to her sister’s room to find Beatrice writing at the rough pine
table.
“Everything is in order, and Christina and Sam have just gone,” said
Nancy. “There wasn’t anything more you wanted them to do, was there?”
“Oh, I wanted them to mail my letters,” exclaimed Beatrice, seizing her
envelopes and jumping up. “It took me so long to write everything to dad
that I only just finished this one that I promised Christina for her
boy, Olaf. Perhaps I can catch Sam at the gate.”
She sped down the path through the pines and was able to overtake
Christina and Sam where they had paused to put up the bars. Beatrice was
just explaining to the Finnish woman what she had written, when a heavy
slouching figure came up the road through the shadows and Thorvik, in
his broken English, addressed his sister roughly.
“You spend the whole day here—spend the night too? I have not yet my
supper!”
It was evident that he wished Beatrice, also, to know of his
displeasure, or he would have used his own tongue. He grasped Christina
angrily by the arm and shot the girl a scowling glance of such fierce
enmity that involuntarily she shrank back behind the gate. It was
difficult, under that frowning scrutiny, to hand the two letters to
Sam,—the more so since Christina eyed one of the envelopes with such
nervous apprehension. Even a duller eye than Thorvik’s might have noted
that the letter was of special importance to her.
The sullen animosity deepened on the man’s face.
“You make nothing more with my sister; see?” he said, as he led
Christina away.
Sam nodded a subdued good night, clucked low-spiritedly to his horses,
and drove slowly after the two. Even his unquenched cheerfulness seemed
affected by instinctive dread of Thorvik’s sour ill-temper. Nor was it
with a very cheerful heart that Beatrice walked back alone up the path.
It rendered her task of living by no means easier to realize that she
had made an enemy of such a man as Thorvik. Yet the light from her
cabin, shining small and yellow beneath the giant pines, seemed somehow
to rekindle her failing courage. Those two dearly loved people were
there within, Nancy and Aunt Anna. Surely the way would be shown to her
to care for them and keep them safe.