# An Indiana Girl/Chapter 13

"This is a day to be thankful for, isn't it, dear?" said Brandt contentedly, as they drove home after services, and then, addressing the horse, he continued: "Gee up Billie. Thanksgiving dinner is waiting fer you and me!"
"I don't know; I suppose that it is," she replied abstractedly.
"What?" he asked in surprise. "You suppose that it is? Good gracious! What is the matter to put you so out of touch with everything? I thought that you were the happiest of us all!"
"Well, I am not," she replied, in quick anger with herself.
"But what is wrong?" he laughed.
"I have disobeyed you," she said bluntly. But, catching her breath, she hurriedly resumed; "Not exactly disobeyed, but, then, I have gone outside your confidence and perhaps your wishes, and it makes me miserable to feel that I will have angered you when you know what I have done."
She waited then for him to reply, but he only appeared strangely serious, and studiously avoided her anxious glances. Twice she essayed to speak, yet held herself in check, hoping that he might relieve and aid her confession. But he continued silent, and she finally resumed:
"I had a letter yesterday from Washington—from Mr. Harvey, and in it he has told me some of the things you never wished me to know!"
"And—" he interposed as she ended, while he turned his head away to conceal the relief his face uncontrollably expressed.
"They were about your family and other things that you would never talk to me about, and I have felt as if I were spying when I read them. They have made me awfully unhappy. My night was spoiled, as my day has been, because I did not tell you about it sooner."
"How came Mr. Harvey to write?" he asked, regaining his composure.
"He asked if he might the day he left, and I wanted to know what it seemed like to have letters, and I wanted to know about the things in his world, so I did not refuse when he spoke of it; but I am so sorry now that I did not," she ended, her voice burdened with contrition and supplication.
"Well, I wouldn't worry about it," he said, re-assuringly. "Of course I should like to have known, but, then, Mr. Harvey is all right without doubt, so there you are—and I will not scold. But never do it again, mind you!" he ended, raising his finger warningly and covering her hand with his own in the same gesture as he smiled forgivingly.
"You are the dearest old father in the world!" she burst out happily, patting the hand in her lap lovingly.
He laughed in delighted embarrassment as he sat silently enjoying her relieved change, but after a time he asked:
"I suppose your correspondence is secret—or is it?"
"Why, of course not!" she replied quickly, and, drawing off her mitten, she dove for the letter, offering by a gesture to relieve him of the reins as she held it toward him.
"No; you read the parts you want me to hear," he said teasingly, with a significant glance.
"You old simple!" she replied, confused. "As if there were any things in it that you should not hear!" She spread the large pages out on the lap-robe, where the great, scrawly words were very distinct, and, with a last slap at them, began:
"MY DEAR MISS BRANDT:— Back in town again in an environment of rush and hurry, with all its attendant clatter, I find myself drawn to the quiet of your life irresistibly, and this, too, after but a month here. It is a strange thing how humors take hold of us at times, and we want just what we have not and grow sick in the wanting, because we must take other things willy-nilly. Nothing new in that sentiment I know. I do not mention it to say anything new, but only to get up to what I want to say, and that is, that I have become an apostle of country life. It led me into a strange thing the other night, this talking about having the smell of earth in one's nostrils instead of dust as we have it here, and a lot of other like observations. I had only been back about a week when it happened, and intended to write to you then about it, but waited and followed it up, and now I am glad that I did, for I can tell you better, as I know more.
"As I say, I was talking like a farmer would, and telling all I knew about you of the good kind—the nutting contest, Mr. Kent and your father and all, when one of the boys asked: 'What's that name again?' And I said 'Brandt,' and asked him if he knew your father. Of course he said that he did not, but he went on to say that he was with a Brandt, a lawyer, and that maybe you were all related. But yesterday he asked me to come up to his office and see his employer, and, surprise of surprises, I found your uncle, I think, if you have one! Ask your father if Stanley Brandt isn't his brother?"
Here she paused and turned to her father a look of inquiry.
"Yes," he answered quietly, motioning her to proceed.
"If Stanley Brandt isn't your uncle he was immensely interested—asked me a lot of questions I could not answer and some that I could. I asked him why he didn't write and find out if you were related, and he started to tell me something, but caught himself before he had said a word, and coughed and took your address, and that's all. This all struck me as being strange, so I thought that I would tell you, because I don't believe he thinks your father and himself brothers, and being a big man, hard-pressed for time, I concluded he would forget it in the press of business, so that, if you care anything about following it up, I give you his address on a card, and this explanation may help you some."
"The rest isn't anything much—just wishes to be remembered to Mr. Kent, and then says some clever things about city people and city life to make me think it all tiresome," she explained, as she absorbedly folded the letter. "But I will not believe a word of that," she asserted, and turned to her father with a doubting laugh that died away into silence, as she beheld his face filled with pain and without a sign of having heard her last words.
Brandt was gone back with rapid strides to his early days, when he and his brothers were at home. Instantly Harvey's hurting words brought up each failure of his own in those unfortunate times, as well as the contrasting successes of his brothers, that had been forever to his shame. Years of peace and solitude had uprooted, bit by bit, caustic remembrances and dulled each incident into an easier forgetfulness. He had remembered them lately only at times, and then with but the vagueness that desire and time made easier. He saw again, as the living image of his brother Stanley was brought before him, all of that intrepid young man's triumphs, all of his achievements, and his final opportunity coming out of them to go to Washington. He saw also his other brother, Wesley, who had reached a fair medical practice at home, while George was still successively failing. It was not in envy at that time that he had found his humiliation, no more was it that that reached him now, but, his having served as a contrast to their successes always at the beginning and even now, was the thrust that hurt, and it wounded his pride sorely. He could not tell his daughter how he had failed and how he had run away—hers was not the nature to understand. Of her sympathy he was sure, but her ideas of himself were that exalted that the running away, and leaving the stigma of utter defeat to cling to the memory of his name, would be a sad awakening, and he dreaded the loss of position he had always held with her. In her happier moods he had often thought to tell her, but as often remained dumb for fear of saddening the mood, or at least this was the reason he gave himself for retaining the thought; and yet it was more that he could not tell the story and spare himself without holding his honor in greater contempt than silence gave him. In her serious moods he feared the thoroughness of her questioning, but, now that she seemed about to learn that which he had held from her for so long, he was sore perplexed.
Virgie, impressed by the gravity of his expression, respectfully restrained the running comment she would have liked to express, and permitted no word to escape her to break his, as she judged, reminiscent thought. They rode along in silence until he had resolved upon the course of accepting things as they were, and trusting that circumstances might deal with him leniently. He assumed to take her letter happily, and re-opened the conversation in a manner and tone so buoyant that she was at once radiantly responsive.
At dinner he railed her about her correspondent, and asked, in feigned seriousness, if there was aught in her mind that she believed would prove of interest to her "city" correspondent. To this she replied with happy assurance, though the suggestion of her answering rather appalled her.
"Well, never mind," he said, on noticing her weakening. "I will write to him for you. Perhaps he would rather that I would anyway?"
"Oh, you tease!" was all that she could reply. But he persisted.
"And you can convey his regards to the parson, so as to have a little part in it. That is, unless you wish to turn it all over to me?"
"You may have it all or none," she said quickly.
"Woe is me," he responded; "and Kent coming over this afternoon too, and I thought that you would let me tell him. I do believe that you are becoming selfish!"
"Is he honestly coming?" she asked, hopeful that this was a part of his joke.
"Honestly!" he answered, unconscious of her chagrin on his re-assurance, as she arose hastily and went to the kitchen with no evident excuse.
"Speaking of Kent," he began when she had returned, "brings back this mornin's sermon—and such a sermon as it was. The boy is changing wonderfully. He is, as he says, getting nearer to his people and their lives. I am glad that he begins to see, for this is the only way. People about him are different people from his own. Youth would not excuse him in his position. I know that it hurt his pride to come down from the notions he had formed, but then he is all the better off for having formed them, as burning a young man at the stake of disappointment like that will bring out his better side most surely, and his selfish instincts will become unselfish instincts. I tell you, daughter, his words conveyed to me the beginning of a new life of thought and feeling in him. He spoke cheerily and extemporaneously the happiness he felt, but back of that I listened to his sobs as he must have sobbed in silence. It is a hard experience, but he will know its reward."
"Are such changes usually so sudden?" she asked incredulously.
"The ways of the mind are less inscrutable than those of the heart," he said: "But, be assured, his heart is becoming the dictator."
Impressed with her father's words she reasoned hopefully in an effort to reach his plane of deduction.
She saw, after his having pointed out the signs of regeneration, but she could not, try as she would, accept them as a true indication of Kent's inward self. Doubt's anguish had hold upon her, and those other thoughts intruded to spoil the admiration she sincerely desired to bestow. All the afternoon the enigma was with her work and leisure. Brandt, filled with a renewed vividness of his past, sought seclusion for himself and left her to her own devices. At the first, in her after-dinner work, when most under the spell of her father's laudatory words, she felt guilty to hold another conception than his usually keen and correct one, but as the hours wore on, and she had not his combative influence, the sway of self gained strength and brought her again to her original opinion.
From his library Brandt was the first to see the parson on his arrival, and he opened the door most hospitably ere Kent had passed the gate. Welcoming him he drew him to his own chair, and talked readily in pleased relief. In surprised gratitude the younger man accepted the courtesy, uncertain of his standing, and scarcely comprehending the situation. Brandt talked freely of the day, the people and things sage with an unsual volubility, and Kent grew less self-conscious as his interest deepened until he had forgotten altogether his original lack of assurance.
"Would you know an ungrateful man? Would you know an unfeeling man? You should look at him!" Brandt said warmly, after he had spoken of Snellins for some moments. "Eccentric? Perhaps. But, however valid that excuse may be to you or me, it is yet without the foundation that will make his actions forgivable."
"Without doubt," Kent replied, "his taking off was other than under his own control."
"Then why have we not heard something? It was evident that he feared Harvey's coming, from that which was said at Orrig's the last time he was seen, and, if anyone has caused him to go away, why have I been unable to learn of it?"
"Because I would not—could not give you the sorrow of knowing."
"You do not mean—" And he paused as he leaned forward excitedly.
"Yes, it is I who knows; but it is not of his end that I must tell you. It is worse than that—worse than death," Kent replied, his voice filled with a pathos of a double sympathy. "Snellins' eccentricity has taken a more violent form," he went on, adding re-assuringly, "but he is at my house now, and I have brought Landy in to take care of him. It is a good arrangement, since Martin is already there, and all that can will be done for him. I must swear you to secrecy, for your daughter should not know until we find out what hope there is, and if the public should learn they would be sure to apprise her at the first opportunity."
Brandt was stunned beyond accepting details, and he stared at the speaker blankly.
"I must go to him at once!" he finally said. "Tell Virginia anything—any excuse will do; but I must see him."
"Calm yourself; calm yourself," Kent said soothingly, and wait until this evening, when you come in. I have anticipated your desire to convince yourself of the seriousness of his trouble, and Landy will invite you to the house this evening so as to cause no comment."
"But I cannot wait," Brandt persisted.
"You must. If you will be reasonable you can see how it would excite your daughter's curiosity for you to rush off this way. You must exercise some caution, and to-night I tell you—it will only be four hours or so until you shall see him. So be calm for her sake!"
"Oh, this is terrible!" he said, arising and walking nervously back and forth across the room. Then, turning quickly, he asked fiercely:
"Why should she not know?"
Kent looked at him in amazement and anger, surprised at his extreme agitation and angry because of his excited forgetfulness.
"Why should she know?" he responded with like words, but in a tone of masterful rigidity.
Brandt stood before him and, after his reply, watched his face closely; but he bore the gaze and returned it unflinchingly, and the older man slowly turned and resumed his walking.
Kent followed his movements back and forth until he grew tired of watching, and then relaxed his attention, as he no longer remained expectant of words from the absorbed man.
Brandt walked unceasingly save when he raised his head and halted for an instant and afterward began again.
"You are right," he said finally, stopping opposite Kent. "You are right. It would only worry her and could do no good, but I cannot see her now; she will be sure to observe my agitation. Give me my hat and coat, Royal—my hat and coat. I will go out somewhere. What a horrible thing it all is!"
"Promise not to go in town?" Kent said suspiciously, assisting him with his coat.
"I will not go until you say," he replied quietly, and Kent closed the door after him in full confidence.
When Virgie entered the room later she was startled into speechlessness to find Kent alone, giving himself over to abject meditation in the gloaming. She stood undecided as to what she should do, and as her confusion grew she became less and less mistress of her actions. He finally turned, and, discovering her thus close, arose to his feet with hasty respect.
"Miss Brandt, good evening!" he said jerkily, and she disregarded the salutation from sheer embarrassment.
"Your father has just stepped out," he ventured guiltily, pointing toward the door as if to prove this statement, and then she turned her eyes in the direction indicated only to bring them back upon him, where they slowly dilated with the arising anger that was back of them. He read aright in the gradual change the impending storm and attempted to avert it by a pleasantry.
"Yes, he went out and left me all alone with my thoughts here in the sticky gloaming," he said, and laughed lamely.
"Why have you come here?" she asked.
"Your father asked me to," he responded quickly, and then he could have bitten his tongue for the very stupidity of that ready excuse. She would think him so mean as to return at the first opportunity, and he had only used it to cover the real object of his visit. But it was said now, and, think what she would, he could not enlighten her if silence was to cost him the last vestige of her respect.
"Was that sufficient to bring you back?" she asked and her scorn hurt him like a sting. "After the other how dare you come?" she went on angrily, her cheeks aglow with burning indignation. "Oh! are men so base?"
"Miss Brandt, stop. I pray you, stop! You do not—you cannot understand. It was not only because your father asked me that I came to-day, but there is more——"
"But father does not know," she interposed. "It was only I who saw you."
"What?" he cried in astonishment, as he divined the reason of her anger. "Is it of last night that you are talking? You did see me, then?" and he smiled faintly in relief, knowing how he would have her full forgiveness when she should learn the reason of that escapade. But she only flushed the hotter to see that he had thought her so bold as to introduce again the subject of his proposal, and they stood facing each other confusedly. It was the tragedy of errors!
But she could not hold her anger long, and, even though she strove to nurse the indignity of his presence, her hopes relaxed the vigilance over the goodness in her heart, and involuntarily she asked:
"Can you explain, then?"
"Certainly I can," he replied, with a readiness that bespoke a happy ending. Then he paused, appalled to realize that he had bound himself to secrecy that would not permit him to do so.
"Well?" she asked eagerly.
"I can," he resumed, "but—" and then he paused again, looking helpless, and after a time he added abruptly—" but I cannot. Good afternoon!" and rushed away, leaving her in astonishment.
Slowly, resistlessly the doubting crept back into her heart after he had gone, leaving her more deeply indignant and farther away from the charity she had tried to force into it; and he, guessing what she would feel, magnified her hatred against himself, and was miserable to know that he could not help the situation by even so much as a word of explanation.