CHAPTER XV
NEW TRAILS
THE train to Bauer left so early that Mary had to take the firststreet-car passing the Post, in order to reach the station in time. Gayhad announced her intention of going down with her, but did not awakenuntil Mary, who occupied an adjoining room, was nearly dressed and themaid was bringing up a hastily-prepared breakfast, on a tray. But Marycould not honestly share Gay's regrets at being late. She had dressednoiselessly on purpose not to waken her. She wanted to go alone in orderto have those last moments with Phil all to herself, and she was soelated when she finally got away from the house unaccompanied that shecould have sung aloud.
Her route took her through Alamo plaza again, and the streets whichstill bore witness to the presence of the Carnival. All the buildingswere still gay with bunting, and flags flapped merrily in the morningsunshine. She wondered which would be first to reach the station, andall the way down, Phil's face was before her. She could see just the wayhe would look, coming towards her through the crowd, tall anddistinguished and with such a jolly twinkle in his handsome eyes. And hewould call out, "Hullo, little Vicar; I beat you to it!" or some suchfriendly greeting as that.
She did not know that she was smiling to herself, but it made nodifference. There was no one to see, for the men on the car were allhidden behind their morning papers. When she reached the station only afew people were in sight, and when she climbed into the coach at the endof the long line of freight-cars, there were not more than half a dozenpassengers aboard. All of them looked sleepy, and a series of gentlesnores attracted her attention to an old countryman, curled up on a backseat with his valise for a pillow.
On her way in she had passed through the waiting-room and given a hastylook around to see if Phil were ahead of her. Glancing up at the clockshe found that she had ten minutes to spare. Three of these passed ingetting settled and in taking an inventory of her fellow-passengers.Then she began to hang out of the window and anxiously watch thewaiting-room door. She was growing uneasy. Maybe the clerk _had_forgotten to call him. Maybe he _was_ "slumbering still," as Gay hadprophesied. He might have missed the car he should have taken, or theremight be a tie-up somewhere along the line.
A colored man hurried into the coach with a chunk of ice for the watercooler. The conductor came down the platform looking at his watch, andsignalled something to a brakeman. Mary put her head out of the windowagain and looked anxiously up and down, whispering in a flutter ofnervousness, "Oh, _why_ doesn't he come? Why _doesn't_ he come? There'sonly a minute or two left and there won't be time for a word."
She would not admit the possibility of his not coming at all, until sheheard the warning, "All aboard!" the ringing of the engine bell, andfelt the jerk and jar which proclaimed all too plainly that the car wasin motion. She was so disappointed that she could hardly keep the tearsback. Her last thought before falling asleep the night before and thefirst one on awakening had been that she was going to see the "Best Man"by himself a few moments, without any talkative Roberta to absorb hisattention, or any other people to run away with the conversation.
It was a very disconsolate little face that turned towards the openwindow to hide its disappointment from possibly curious neighbors. Shefound it hard to wink the tears back when she was so deeply, grievouslydisappointed. Her back was turned resolutely towards the aisle and herarms were crossed on the window-sill. In that position she could not seethe rear door of the car open and some one come in from the backplatform. He stood a moment, his hat in one hand and a suit-case in theother, breathing fast as if he had been running. Then after a searchingglance through the car, he went directly down the aisle and stoppedbeside Mary's seat. Her attitude, even to the droop of her hat-brim,proclaimed her dejection so clearly that a smile twitched the corners ofhis mouth. Then he said in a deep voice, so deep that it was fairlysepulchral, "I beg pardon, Miss. May I occupy this end of the seat?"
Startled by the strange voice so near, she turned a very sober andunsmiling face to see what manner of person had accosted her. Then sheexclaimed, in astonishment, "Why, Phil Tremont! How ever did you get onwithout my seeing you? I looked and looked and thought you must havegotten left!"
Then realizing that the train was well under way and they had beencarried some distance past the station, she cried in alarm, "But youcan't get off! They're carrying you away!" She was almost wringing herhands in her excitement.
"Well, I don't mind it if you don't," said Phil, sitting down beside herand laughing at her concern. "I'm going along with you. Something MissRoberta said last night on her way home started me to thinking, and--theresult was, I decided to spend another day and night in Bauer. It'spositively my last appearance, however. I'll leave for good in themorning."
What Roberta could have said to make such a change in his plans was morethan Mary could imagine. She almost had to bite her tongue to keep fromasking, and Phil, knowing that he had aroused her wildest curiosity,laughed again. But he wasted no more time in teasing her.
"No, really," he said, "I was joking. A telegram from my firm routed meout about six o'clock this morning. They want me to go to St. Louis tosee some parties before returning to New York. I figured it out that Icould double things up there so as to give me one more day here. But ittook me so long to figure it, that, by the time I had made up my mind,there was only a moment to stuff my things into my suit-case and call ataxicab. When I got down to the station I saw I had about three minutesin which to snatch a sandwich and a cup of coffee at the lunch counter;but the coffee was so hot I came near missing my train. Had to run ablock and swing up on the rear platform. If it had been the regularexpress I couldn't have caught it. Luckily it was a freight, so here Iam."
He did not add that an unaccountable impulse to go back to Bauer hadseized him the night before when he bade her good-night, or that theimpulse had been strengthened afterward by a casual remark of Roberta'sabout Lieutenant Boglin. Roberta thought she saw the first symptoms of abudding romance on Bogey's part.
Not being given to the practice of analyzing his feelings, Phil did notstop to ask himself why it should make any difference to him what thelieutenant thought of little Mary Ware, nor did he realize at the timehow much that remark influenced his decision to spend one more day withher. Afterwards he used to say that it was Fate and not himself that wasresponsible for that journey; that it was destined from the beginning heshould chase madly after that freight-train, catch it, and thereby givehimself four long uninterrupted hours in which to grow better acquaintedwith her than he had ever been before.
At the end of that time he knew why he had been drawn back. It was thather real self, the depth of whose charm he had not even half suspected,should be revealed to him in the intimacy of this conversation. Itchanged his whole attitude toward her to find how much she had changedherself; how she had grown and developed. In some ways she was still theamusing child whose unexpected sayings had first attracted him. Shewould always be that, but she was so much more now; and, again, as onthe day he met her in the field of blue-bonnets, he found himselfwatching her, trying to decide just wherein her charm lay, and how itmade her different from any other girl he had ever known. Sometimes hewould almost lose what she was saying, puzzling over the problem.
At the stone quarry, while they waited a long time for the engine toswitch off some empty cars, and pick up some loaded ones, they left thecoach and walked up and down beside the track. They were talking aboutGay and Alex, and he laughed at her outspoken honesty in expressing heropinion about their delayed wedding.
"I think it's so sensible for them to wait till he's got something savedup for a rainy day, when he's nothing now but his practice. It's likeproviding a sort of financial umbrella. Really, it is just likestarting out without a sign of an umbrella when you know it's going torain, and trusting to luck to keep you dry, for people to marry withnothing to depend on but an uncertain salary."
Phil laughed, as he answered, "What a little pessimist you are, Mary. It_doesn't_ always rain, and p
eople _have_ married without such aprovision who lived happily ever after."
"But it does oftener than it doesn't," she insisted. "Papa and mammalived happily, and he had only his practice as a young lawyer. But lookwhat we've been through since he died. Things wouldn't have come to sucha pass when his health broke down if there had been something laid awayfor such emergencies. Joyce and I have often talked about it when we'vehad to pinch and work and economize down to the last cent."
"So you'll never marry a man who has only the shelter of a salary tooffer you?" said Phil, teasingly.
"I didn't say that," answered Mary, her face puckered up into a puzzledexpression. "I don't want to, and I don't _think_ I would, but,honestly, I don't know what I would do. I'm afraid that if I loved a manas much as you ought to to be his wife that I'd be every bit as foolishas anybody else, and that I'd marry him even if I had to take in backstairs to scrub for a living. But I do hope I'll have more sense, orelse he won't be that kind of a man. It isn't that I mind work," sheadded, "but I'm so tired of doing without and making over, and tuggingand pulling to make both ends meet. Do you know what they call me athome? The Watch-dog of the Treasury, and you can guess what I've had tobe like to earn such a name. I earned it, too, all right. I fought overevery penny, and I'd hate to keep on in the same old rut all the rest ofmy days. It would be so nice to look forward to a luxurious old age."
She laughed when she had said it, but such a tired little sigh camefirst, and that wistful look again in her honest, straightforward eyesas she glanced up at him, that he was seized with a sudden desire suchas no one else had ever inspired before, to pick her up and carry heraway from all her troubles; to surround her with all the girlishpleasures and pretty things she loved, and to humor every whim all therest of her life. But all he said was:
"And if you were a man I suppose you would feel the same way about it."
"Oh, more so!" she cried. "The more I thought of a girl the surer I'dwant to be that she need never face that rainy day unprotected."
She stooped to pick a tiny yellow star from a clump of broom growingalongside the track, and they walked on in silence a moment. Then hesaid, with an amused side-glance at her:
"You can't imagine how funny it seems to hear such common-sense,practical 'side talks on matrimony' from an eighteen-year-old girl likeyou. I feel as if I'd had a scolding from my grandmother, and that I'llhave to own up that I did it, but I'm sorry and I'll never do it again."
"Did what?" queried Mary in surprise.
"Spent everything as fast as I made it. Had money to burn and burnt it.I don't ask any better salary than I've been receiving for severalyears. Of course, when I go in by myself, that'll be another matter. ButI'll have to own up; out of it all, I've saved practically nothing. Ihaven't spent it in riotous living, and it doesn't seem that I've beenparticularly extravagant, but it's gone. It just slipped through myfingers."
"Oh, well, _you_," began Mary. "That's different."
"In what way is it different?" he persisted, when she did not go on.
"Well, if a man doesn't mind getting wet himself it's nobody's businessif he takes chances. It's the man who expects to--to have some one elseto protect--who ought to be ready for the possible storms."
"But what makes you think that I'll always go it alone?" insisted Phil."That I'll never have any one to--protect? That's what you seem toinsinuate."
He was looking directly into her eyes, laughingly, teasingly, and a waveof color swept over her face. Roberta would have evaded the question,and turned it off with a laugh. Mary was too simple and direct. It wasthe moment she had long felt must confront her some time. Her day ofreckoning had come for playing eavesdropper. No matter how hard shefought against doing so, she knew she was going to confess that she hadbeen one, albeit unintentionally.
As he repeated his question with smiling insistence, the words stuck inher throat, but the thought uppermost in her mind called out to him bysome strange, telepathic power, and he understood as if she had spoken.
"You think," he said slowly, looking into her eyes as if the writtenwords were actually before him there and he was reading them aloud, "youthink that it is on Lloyd's account. How did you know about--_that_?"
It startled her so that he should read her thought in such a way thatshe could only stammer in reply:
"I--I--heard you singing to her once at The Locusts, that song you sanglast night, 'Till the stars are old,' and I thought if you cared for heras it sounded both times, that there _couldn't_ be anybody else,_ever_!"
Phil turned partly away from her, and stared off towards the hills amoment, his eyes narrowed into a thoughtful, musing expression. Finallyhe said, "I thought so, too, Mary, once. I thought it for a number ofyears. That time will always be one of the sweetest and most sacred ofmy memories. One's earliest love always is, they say, like the firstwhite violet in the spring."
There was a long pause, then he finished the sentence by turning aroundto her to say, significantly, "But there's always a summer after everyspring, you know. Come on, we'd better be getting aboard again. It looksas if they're about ready to start."
He helped her up the steps and followed her down the aisle. Whileadjusting the window-shade before she took her seat, he began to talk ofother things, and the subject was dropped between them. But it was notdropped in Mary's mind. She had been called on to adjust herself to anew viewpoint of him so quickly that it left her mentally gasping. Withhis own hand he had ruthlessly swept away one of her dearest illusions.She had always believed that no matter who else might forget, _he_ wouldalways stand as a model of manly constancy. What surprised her now wasnot his change of view. It was her own. By that one sentence he had madeit perfectly clear to her that it was not reasonable to expect him to goon mourning always for the "first white violet." It was only naturalthat summer should follow the spring.
But the puzzle now was, who was good enough and sweet and high and fineenough to follow Lloyd? Mary was positive that there was nobody. Hemight hunt the whole world over, but she was sure he would be doomed todisappointment in the end. Her motherly concern over that was almost asgreat as her sympathy had been when she thought of him as doomed tocarry a secret sorrow with him to the grave.
After that the conversation was not so personal. It was nearly noon whenthey reached Bauer, and in that time they had exchanged views on enoughsubjects to have filled an encyclopaedia. Twice after that they talkedtogether alone. The first time was when they went out in the boat justbefore sunset. Mary wanted him to see Fernbank in all its glory of freshApril greenness, with the little waterfalls splashing their fine mistover the walls of delicate maiden-hair.
She insisted on poling the boat, although he protested that it made himuncomfortable to sit still and see her doing the work. He refused to goat all, until she compromised by saying he might pole on the way back.
"It isn't work," she insisted. "It's one of the greatest pleasures Ihave, and about the only one I've had in this benighted place."
"You always did love to 'paddle your own canoe' and strike out and dothings for yourself," he remarked, as they shot swiftly up the stream."By the way, what are you going to do next? Will you be starting back toWarwick Hall again in September, now that Jack is sure of taking his oldposition in the mines then?"
"No," was her decided answer. "We've scrapped about that a lot lately.He insists that I must. But it's this way. He's lost a whole year out ofhis life, and although he's never said so, I know the time is comingwhen he'll want to settle down and have a home of his own. And _he's_the kind who'd never ask a girl to marry him until he'd provided for herfuture in case anything should happen to him. Joyce's plans have beenput back a year, too. She has her heart set on going to Paris with MissHenrietta to study, just as soon as she can afford it. Of course, Jackwill pay back his part of what she's spent on us this winter, but itwill take a good while for him to do it. I've made up my mind I'm notgoing to stand in their way. I'll not be a drag on either one of them.There's lots of thin
gs that I can do. The summer is already providedfor. When Mrs. Mallory found that we are going to stay on here tillSeptember, till Jack is strong enough to go back to work, she made upher mind to stay, too, no matter how hot it gets, because the childrenare so happy here. They can't bear the idea of stopping their lessons.They're beginning to learn to read now, and are as wild over that as ifit were a new game. Mrs. Rochester says it does get frightfully hot herein the summers, but that we can stand it if we have the lessons in themorning instead of afternoon."
"And then," asked Phil, "after that?"
"After that I don't know, but there'll be something. It's all uncertain,but it's interesting just to wonder what will come next. I'm like thewolf in the last of the Mowgli stories."
She turned to glance over her shoulder as she quoted, laughingly, "'_Thestars are thin,' said Gray Brother, sniffing at the dawn wind. 'Whereshall we lair to-day? For, from now, we follow new trails._' I don'tknow where the new trails will lead, but from all that's happened in thepast, I've faith to believe that there'll be 'good hunting' in them."
"There will always be that for you," said Phil, warmly. "You'll neverstrike one where you'll not find friends and interests and--"
He started to say more, but checked himself, and after an instant'spause, stood up, almost upsetting the boat, and laughingly took the oaraway from her, insisting that he couldn't sit still another minute. Hehad to work off some of his surplus energy.
What he had come near saying when he checked himself was, "And you'llnever strike a trail where you won't be the bravest, jolliest, dearestlittle comrade a man could have; one that he would never tire of, onewho could inspire him to do and be his best."
The impulse to say all this came upon him so suddenly that it startledhim. Then a sober second thought told him that after all she wasscarcely more than a child, that she had always looked upon him as anelderly brother, and that it would be better not to destroy that oldintimate relationship until he was sure of being able to establish a newone. A strange feeling of humility took possession of him. It suddenlyseemed that he had so little to offer one who could give so much. Evenher opinion which he had laughed at at the stone quarry, about providinga financial umbrella, carried weight now, and made him hesitate, nolonger confidant of himself.
His strong, quick sweeps of the oar sent the boat upstream at twice thespeed it had been going before, and Mary, from her seat in the stern,called out that it was as good as flying, and that she'd have toacknowledge that she'd never known before how delightful it was to sitstill and let somebody else do the paddling. But that was because nobodyelse had taken her along so fast.
At Fernbank they did not get out of the boat. Phil took the seat facingher, while they drifted around the deep pool for a little while. It wasalmost twilight there, for the high bank shut out the glow of thesunset, and it was deliciously cool and green and still. Presently someremark of Phil's made Mary exclaim:
"That reminds me, although I don't know why it should, of somethingI've been intending to tell you, that Joyce wrote recently. You've heardher talk of little Jules Ciseaux, the boy who played such an importantpart in her winter in France. He lived in the house with the giantscissors on the gables, and over the great gate, you know. Well, he'sover here in America now. He's always wanted to come ever since Joycetold him so much about it. His mother was an American and I think he wasborn in this country. At any rate, he's here now, sightseeing and tryingto hunt up his mother's family.
"He's come into quite a large fortune lately, ever so many hundredthousand francs. As he is of age, he can do as he pleases. Joyce says hewants to come out to Lone Rock to see us, because she used to entertainhim by the hour with tales of us, and he used to envy us our good timestogether in the little brown house at Plainsville. He never knew anyhome life like ours. I'm wild to see him. Joyce says he is charming!Such lovely manners, and such a sensitive, refined face, like one'sideal of a young poet. He's really something of an artist. Joyce sayshe's done some really creditable work, and all her friends have takenhim up and are making it nice for him while he is in New York."
"That _is_ interesting," said Phil. "I'll look him up as soon as I getback. Wouldn't it be romantic if the friendship that started betweenthem as children should grow into something more? All those inheritedfrancs would provide the fine, large umbrella which you seem to think isnecessary."
"Oh, it never can be anything but friendship in this case," exclaimedMary. "Jules is two years younger than Joyce."
"By the same token he is three years older than you. Maybe it's Joyce'slittle sister he will be taking an interest in."
"Humph! You're as bad as Norman!" replied Mary, calmly. "That's what_he_ said. He thought he had something new to tease me about, but hesoon found out that it wouldn't work."
Despite her indifference, Phil thought of the possibility again manytimes that night before he fell asleep. Knowing the limited space of thecottage, he had taken a room at the Williams House, despite Mrs. Ware'sprotests, saying he would be over early in the morning for breakfast.But it seemed for awhile that breakfast-time would arrive before hecould fall asleep.
Things assume formidable proportions in the darkness and dead quiet ofthe night that they never have by day. Away after midnight he was stillthinking of what Mary had said about the young Frenchman who had latelycome into his fortune, and of what Roberta had said about LieutenantBoglin. The face of the latter rose up before him. Not a particularlygood-looking face, he thought, but it was a strong, likable one, and hehad a sense of humor which made him good company, and a blarney-stoneturn of the tongue that would take with any girl. As for Jules Ciseaux,who had envied the Wares their home life, Phil knew all about thechildhood of the lonely little lad left to the mercies of a brutalcaretaker. Jules would only need to see Mary once, dear littlehome-maker that she was, to want to carry her away with him to hischateau beside the Loire.
Before Phil finally fell asleep he had decided just what he would say toMary next morning, and that he would go early enough to make anopportunity to say it. It _was_ early when he went striding down theroad, across the foot-bridge, and took the short cut through a meadow tothe back of the Ware cottage; but the preparations for breakfast werewell under way. When he reached the back porch, screened bymorning-glory vines, he saw the table set out there, with freshstrawberries at each place, wreathed in their own green leaves.
Judging from the odors wafted through the door, chickens were broilingwithin to exactly the right degree of delectable crispness, and coffeewhich would be of amber clearness, was in the making. But the noiseswithin the kitchen were not to be interpreted as easily as the odors.There was a banging and scuffling over the floor, muffled shrieks andbroken sentences in high voices, choking with laughter. Not till hereached the open window and looked in could he imagine the cause of theuproar. Norman and Mary were wrestling and romping all over the kitchen,having a tug-of-war over something he was trying to take away from her.
Unconscious of a spectator, they dragged each other around, bumpingagainst walls amid a clatter of falling tinware, stumbling over chairsand coming to a deadlock in each others' arms in a corner, so full oflaughter they could scarcely hold their grip.
"Dare me again! will you?" gasped Norman, thinking he had her pinned tothe wall. But wrenching one hand free, she began to tickle him until hewrithed away from her with a whoop, and dashed out of the door.
"Yah! 'Fraid cat!" she jeered after him. "Afraid of a tickle!"
"You just wait till I get back with the milk," he cried, catching up ashining tin pail that stood on the bench, and starting down the pathover which Phil had just come.
MARY WARE in TEXAS.
Well, I'm going away and I may not see you again.]
"You'll have to hurry," she called after him. "Breakfast is almostready."
She stooped to open the oven door and peep at the pan of biscuit within,just beginning to turn a delicate brown. Then she looked up and caughtsight of Phil. He was leaning against the w
indow looking in, his armscrossed on the sill as if he had been enjoying the spectacle for sometime.
"For mercy sakes!" she exclaimed. "How long have you been there?"
The coast was clear. Norman was well on his way to the Metz place, andMrs. Ware was helping Jack get ready for breakfast. It was as good anopportunity as Phil could have hoped for, to repeat the speech he hadrehearsed so many times the night before. And she looked so fresh andwholesome and sweet, standing there in her pink morning dress with thebig white apron, that she was more like an apple-blossom than anythingelse he could think of. He wanted to tell her so; to tell her she hadnever seemed so dear and desirable as she did at this moment, when hemust be going away to leave her.
Yet how could he tell her, when she was all a-giggle and a-dimple andaglow from her romp with Norman? Clearly she was too far from his stateof mind to share it now, or even to understand it. After all, she wasonly a little girl at heart--only eighteen. It wasn't fair to her toawaken her quite yet--to hurry her into giving a promise when shecouldn't possibly know her own mind. He would wait--
So he only leaned on the window-sill and laughed at her for having beencaught in such an undignified romp, and asked her when she intended togrow up, and if she ever expected to outgrow her propensity forscrapping. But when he had joked thus a few minutes, he said, quitesuddenly and seriously, "Mary, I want you to promise me something."
She was taking the chickens from the broiler and did not look at himuntil they were safely landed in the hot platter awaiting them, but shesaid lightly, "Yes, your 'ighness. To the 'arf of me kingdom. Wot isit?"
"Well, I'm going away and I may not see you again for a long time. Thechief wants me to take a position, engineering the construction of a bigdam down in Mexico. It would keep me down there two years, but it wouldbe the biggest thing I've had yet, in every way. Last night I just aboutmade up my mind I'd take it.
"While I'm gone you will be striking out into all sorts of new trails,and I am afraid that on some of them somebody will come along and try topersuade you to join him on his, even if you are such a little girl. NowI want to have a hand in choosing the right man, and I want you topromise me that you won't let anybody persuade you to do that till Icome back. Or at least if they do try, that you'll send me word thatthey're trying, and give me a chance to come back and have a look at thefellow, and see if I think he is good enough to carry you off."
"Why, the idea!" she laughed, a trifle embarrassed, but immenselypleased that he should think it possible for her to have numeroussuitors or to have them soon, and flattered that he should take enoughinterest in her future to want to be called back from Mexico to directher choice.
"But will you promise?" he urged.
"Yes; that is not much to promise."
"And you'll give me your hand on it?" he persisted.
"Yes, and cross my heart and body in the bargain," she added, lightly,"if that'll please you any better."
For all his gravity, she thought he was jesting until she reached herhand through the window to seal the compact.
"You know," he said, as his warm fingers closed over it, "I've never yetseen anybody whom I considered good enough for little Mary Ware."
Her eyes fell before the seriousness of his steady glance, and sheturned away all in a flutter of pleasure that the "Best Man" should havesaid such a lovely thing about _her_. It was the very thing she hadalways thought about him.
Mrs. Ware came out just then, wheeling Jack in his chair, and soon afterNorman was back with the milk, and breakfast was served out on the porchamong the morning-glories. "A perfect breakfast and a perfect morning,"Phil said. The 'bus which was to call for him came while they were stilllingering around the table, and there was only time for a hasty good-byall around.
"Come and walk out to the gate with me, Mary, and give me a goodsend-off," he said, hurriedly snatching up his suit-case.
Now in this last moment, when there was much to say, neither had a word,and they walked along in silence until they reached the gate. There heturned for one more hand-clasp.
"Remember your promise," he said, gravely, as his fingers closed warmlyover hers. "I meant every word I said."
"I'll remember," she answered, dimpling again as if he had reminded herof a good joke; "and I'll keep my word. Honest, I will!"
With that he went away, carrying with him a picture which he recalled athousand times in the months that followed; Mary, standing at the gatein the pink and white dress that had the freshness of a spring blossom,with her sweet, sincere eyes and her dear little mouth saying, "I'llkeep my word! Honest, I will!"
It was a long, long, hot summer that followed. The drought dried up thecreek so that the boat lay idle on the bank. The dust grew deeper anddeeper in the roads and lay thick on the wayside weeds. Even the treeswere powdered with it; all the green of the landscape took on an ashengrayness. Meadows lay parched and sere. Walking ceased to be a pleasure,and as they gasped through the tropical heat of the endless afternoons,they longed for the dense shade of the pines at Lone Rock, and countedthe days till they could go back.
But as soon as the sun dropped behind the hills each day, and the breezestarted up from the far-away Gulf, their discomfort was forgotten. Inthe wonderful brilliance of the starry nights when there was no moon, orin the times when one hung like a luminous pearl above a silver world,the air grew fresh and cool, and they sat late in the open, making themost of every minute. In the early mornings there was that same crispfreshness of the hills again, so one could endure the merciless, yellowglare and the panting heat of the afternoons, for the sake of the nightsand dawns.
Even without that, however, they would have been content to stay on,enduring it gladly, for Jack was daily growing stronger; and to see himmoving about the house on his own feet, no matter how falteringly atfirst, was a cause for hourly rejoicing.
Mary still played the part of Baloo with Brud and Sister, starting earlyin the morning and taking them over to the old mill-dam, in the shade ofsome big cypress and sycamore trees. She was teaching them to read andwrite, but there was little poring over books for them. They built theirletters out of stones, and fashioned whole sentences of twigs; wrotethem in the sand and modelled them in mud, scratched them on rocks withbits of flint, as Indians do their picture language, and pricked themin the broad sycamore leaves with thorns. By the end of the summer theyhad enough of a vocabulary to write a brief letter to their father, andtheir pride knew no bounds when each had achieved one entirely alone,from date to stamp, and dropped it into the box at the post-office. Hispride in them was equally great, and the letter that he sent Mary withher final check was one of the few things which she carried away fromTexas as a cherished memento.
She did not write often in her Good Times book. There was so little tochronicle. An occasional visit from the Barnaby's, a call at therectory, a few minutes spent in neighborly gossip in the Metz garden;never once in the whole summer a happening more exciting than that,except when the troops from Fort Sam Houston were ordered out on theirannual "hike" and passed through Bauer in July. Each of the differentdivisions camped a day and a night in the grove back of the cottage,near enough for the Wares to watch every manoeuvre. The Artillery bandplayed at sunset when it was in camp, and gave a concert that night inthe plaza. When the Cavalry passed through, Lieutenant Boglin came tosupper and spent the evening. Gay was up for a day twice, and Mary wentonce to San Antonio. That was all. Yet stupid as it was for a girl ofher age, and much as she missed young companionship, Mary managed to getthrough the summer very happily. All its unpleasantness was atoned forone day in early September, when she looked out to see Jack going downthe road, straight and strong, pushing his own wheeled chair in front ofhim. He was taking it down to Doctor Mackay's office to leave "for thefirst poor devil who needs it," he said.
In the last few weeks he had discovered what he had not known before,that the town was full of invalids in quest of health, attracted fromall over the country by the life-giving air of its hills
. He had madethe acquaintance of a number of them since he had been able to ridearound with the doctor. Now, as he went off down the road with thechair, with all of the family at the window to see the happy sight, Mrs.Ware repeated to Mary what the doctor had said about Jack's effect onhis other patients, and what the rector had told her of the regard allthe villagers had for Jack.
"The dear boy's year of suffering has done one thing for the world," sheadded. "It has given it another Aldebaran. Don't you remember in _TheJester's Sword_--" She quoted it readily, because ever since she hadfirst seen it she had always read Jack's name in place of Aldebaran's:
"'_It came to pass whenever he went by, men felt a strange,strength-giving influence radiating from his presence, a sense of hope.One could not say exactly what it was, it was so fleeting, sointangible, like warmth that circles from a brazier, or perfume that iswafted from an unseen rose._' That's what one feels whenever Jack comesnear."
"Yes, I know," assented Mary. "Even old Mr. Metz tried to say as much tome about him. He didn't choose those words, of course, but in his ownbroken way he meant the same thing."
When the day came to leave, there was no one to go with them to thestation. The Rochesters were away on their vacation, and it was tooearly in the morning for the Barnabys to come in from the ranch. Theyhad bidden each other good-by the day before, with deep regrets on bothsides. It seemed so good to both Mary and her mother to see Jackattending to the tickets and the trunks in his old way, so quick andcapable. While he was getting the checks, Mary walked down the track alittle piece to a place where she could look back at the town for onemore picture to carry away in her memory.
How friendly and homelike and dear it seemed now. Between the belfry ofSt. Peter's and the gray tower of Holy Angels, rose the smoke from manybreakfast fires, and the windmills twirled merrily in the morning sun.For all its dreariness she was carrying away the recollection of a scoreof happy times.
Over there was the free camp-yard, where their little Christmas tree hadspread such cheer. Further on shone the spire of St. Boniface. She wouldalways think of it as she saw it Easter morning, its casement windowsset wide, and its altar white with the snowy beauty of the rain lilies.There was the meadow through which she had gone in blue-bonnet time, tofind Phil waiting under the _huisache_ tree, and there the creek,running on to Fernbank. Nearer by she could see the windmill tower shehad so often climbed, sticking up over the roof that had sheltered themduring the ten months they had been in Bauer. "Dear little old Bauer,"she thought, gratefully. She wouldn't have believed it in the beginningif anyone had told her, that there would be any regrets in herleave-taking when the time came to go. How wonderfully it had all turnedout. The crooked _had_ been made straight, and the rough places smooth.She could face the future gladly, buoyantly, now, no matter what itheld, since Jack was well again.
"Come on, Mary, it's time to go aboard!" called Norman.
"You go on in, and save me a seat," she called back. "Here come thechildren. I must wait to speak to them."
She had bidden them good-by the night before, and had not expected tosee them again. They came running, out of breath. Sister had a littlebag of animal crackers she had brought as a farewell offering, and Brudproffered a companion-piece, a sack of sticky red cinnamon drops. Theyhad cried the night before, and they were close to tears now, realizingthat something very rare and precious was passing out of their lives.She took their offerings with thanks that brought smiles to theirdejected little faces, then once more stooped to kiss them good-by.
"From now, it's new trails for all of us," she said, lightly, "andyou'll write and tell me what you find in yours, and I'll write and tellyou about mine."
On the platform of the car she turned for a last look at the threedisconsolate little figures, waiting to watch her start off towardsthose new trails. There were three, for Uncle August had joined themnow, squatting mournfully beside them as if he, too, were losing hisbest playfellow. The train began to move slowly out. As she clung to therailing to wave to them one more time, a mournful little pipe followedher shrilly down the track. It was Brud's voice:
"Good hunting, Miss Mayry! Good hunting!"
THE END.