# An Indiana Girl/Chapter 22

When the days had become permanently warm the whole community was in the happy humor of occupation. Snellins' return was but the wonder of an hour, as busy minds had little time to question his going or coming. His frequent departures or returns had long since ceased to provoke other than a desultory kind of comment, and they questioned not but that this had been one of his usual migrations. At first he felt insecure in his secret, but his suspicions were soon allayed by the treatment he received, and he slowly assumed a stronger manhood than he had ever displayed. His gratitude was unbounded for the care both Kent and Landy had given him. With the restoration of the money he had once secreted, and that Kent had carefully guarded for him, he became excessively happy. It was not long, however, with this small power at his command, until he cunningly devised plans for another trip. Permitting no one to share his confidence he awaited patiently an opportunity for successfully eluding those who had so recently had his care-taking. There were days when he felt the time had come, yet some unexpected obstacle presented itself, causing him to postpone his running away. Not until Virgie had established her little household, taking Landy and Martin and Gyp, did the real opportunity occur. Martin had forgotten and left behind some small thing that Kent thought she might urgently need, and, expressing this belief in Snellins' presence, Snell at once grasped the possibility. With slyly-expressed desires that he might again visit the Brandt place, he prevailed upon the parson to allow him to be the messenger to Martin, and Kent, entirely unsuspicious, yet wholly reluctant, permitted him to go. After this two days elapsed ere Kent learned that Snellins had never arrived at the Brandt farm, when it was much too late to attempt to seek for him. Landy became alarmed to the extent of wild agitation. Kent set his lips firmly, but was calm. He swore Landy to secrecy, cautioning him against alarming the folks at his new home, and sent him away surprised and wondering.
The first cares of Virgie's home-coming had filled her thoughts amply and taken her out of herself for the time. She was too weak to work much, if any, but Landy and Martin needed instructing, and she was happily busied with directing them. Once, while in the spirit of unusual elation, she had thrown off her partial resentment toward Harvey owing to his never having answered her last letter, and set herself to tell him of the things that had transpired that he might, in turn, inform her relatives. On her father's death she dwelt at length, the tender reverence that hallowed her thoughts leading her to a composition of spiritualistic beauty. Of her own long illness she wrote but little, seeming rather resentful that she had ever been so. Then, knowing he would be interested in Snellins, she filled the body of the letter about him, alternating between sympathy and humor because of their fruitless waiting, while Kent might have informed them had he not been so loyal to poor Snell. Ending she hinted at his long neglect, with an implied suggestion that he must explain his carelessness satisfactorily to be forgiven.
She was sitting one afternoon, some two weeks later, out in the yard far from the house, in a tiny arbor, most effectually shaded by the cherry-tree limbs that hung drooping. The air was heavily sweet from the blossoms all about and above her. Kent, making the rounds of his country-side calls, sought her out and found her there. She greeted him seriously, motioning him to a seat upon the grass, and to his look of inquiry tossed him the letter that had lain in her lap, meantime appearing utterly indifferent as to his progress with it.
"Well, what do you think of that?" he said in surprise, smiling benignly, and, as Virgie did not respond even so much as with a smile, he looked at her with quick suspicion, hurting him deeply. Controlling his voice as best he could he resumed: "They're married now—three days, according to this. Well—I wish them all happiness!"
"I do, too," Virgie said quickly. "But it seems so unfair; they might have let us know. He could not have cared much," she ended resentfully.
Kent laughed insecurely, hoping that her resentment was no deeper than her expressed opinion, yet fearful of the possibilities.
"It must have been a mean opinion that he held of his future kinsfolk—or else he was too absorbed by his future happiness, either of which are unpardonable. But you will forgive him? You forgive everybody."
Virgie turned and looked at him with sudden inquisitiveness, and, as he did not meet her gaze, responded: "I am not so sure about that. It will be a long wait, anyway, before he has my forgiveness. Laugh if you will, but I'm not always forgiving," she said, and as he gazed at her steadfastly she colored perceptibly.
"I was not laughing at that," he replied, part-seriously. "I only thought how fortunate he is to be so situated; that, now you are unforgiving, he has your cousin to console him, and later on—well, you know that your anger is short-lived."
"That is nothing to laugh at," she said good-humoredly.
"It is for me," Kent replied. "Not to laugh for ridicule, but for mirth and joy that it has been so, else—"
"Else we would still be at odds," she replied proudly.
"Just that," he said.
"But you deserve to be forgiven, and he never will," Virgie said, and, as he only smiled, she grew earnest. Beginning with the things about him that had first come to her learning, she talked with halting insecurity as if she were unsure of the correctness of her speaking her thoughts so freely to him. But once she had begun there was no going back, and she poured forth unstinted praise for his many good deeds.
"I have had a world of reasons for forgiving you," she said. "One of them was because I was wholly at fault." Here Kent looked at her in blank amazement. "And, had I not been, your goodnesses would have melted any ugly coldness out of me. You have been magnanimous and good, gentle and brave, and befriended us all when most we needed help. Listen!" she insisted, as he endeavored to check her by a gesture. The praise, however sweet, was causing him great embarrassment. "You told me that Ben had been ill. You did not say how much you had risked to reclaim him from everlasting night. You are surprised to learn that I know that; but even more has been told me. Landy, and Martin as well, have been dependent upon your bounty, and you would still have them so if I had not simply forced them to come out here. By either of these generous deeds you merit a friendship higher than mine and praise and love from all of us."
"Have you finished?" he asked, with assumed carelessness, sure that she had, because of her well-rounded last sentence, that sounded as if her speech had spent itself. He intended to continue in a self-disparaging vein when she had expressed herself as having ended.
"No; I have not!" she replied, much to his surprise, resuming at once a continuance for which he was entirely unprepared, and leaving his unspoken sentences still unexpressed. Then adding: "There is more, and it is of a personal nature. 'Doc' has told me of your premeditated attack upon my stubborn will that, in all probability, saved me from worse than what I did suffer."
"If this was all," he thought relievedly, "he could accept her words of thanks with partial grace." His changed expression was at once apparent to her, and, knowing its significance, she hesitated before resuming. Yet she was started now, and she might best let him know that she was acquainted with all that he had done for her; so she continued, though it was under slight protest with herself.
"Royal Kent," she said slowly, "you have made me ashamed of myself—ashamed because you have grown better, while I have not even stood still—I have grown worse. These things of which I have spoken are not like your old self. They could not have come from you in those days. You know that as well as I do. More is the grandness of your changing. I do not ask forgiveness now for what happened then, for I was not wrong in what I did; but I do regret the time that has gone between, since I would not or could not encourage and recognize you." The parson hung his head in confusion as she talked thus straightforwardly, desiring to interrupt, yet without the words to do so. "Then, to add the climax, you prevented them from taking my home from me while I was incapable of defending it."
Kent rose agitatedly at this.
"Please, stop!" he said pleadingly, as if the great humiliation that entirely hid the gratitude in her tones was hurting him.
"Why did you do that?" she asked, her voice wavering piteously. "Why was it you, when your kindnesses are such a reproach? Do you want me to always fear and hate you?"
With both hands upon her breast she breathed deeply. Her head hung forward slightly, and through the tears that had started in her eyes she looked steadfastly into his.
Kent's heart gave an impulsive bound as his eyes rested upon hers. From the depths of her innermost being she seemed calling for his pity and his love. He dropped his head upon his chest, partly in the consciousness that he must not again be led to err, but more for shame that, he had thought for the instant, to trade upon her gratitude.
"I am sorry," he said.
The words stung her as a sharp rebuke. "If your regret comes because of my words," she said, "then I am not sorry."
"But it will make our friendship harder."
"Indeed it will, if we let it," she replied, and in the latter words he found much comfort.
"How can I help it?" he asked. "Now that you know of them my past deeds will all have seemed to have tended toward one point, and in the future—that will be the hardest part—each word, each action, each sentence and all my life with you will seem to hang from those simple kindnesses. They will always supply a motive, obviously the fundamental idea of all that I may do. I wish—so earnestly wish that you had not known. Believe me, Virgie, I have been but working out an atonement—objectless, save for my own satisfaction, and as remote from a desire of commanding your friendship as it well could have been. How I wish that I could explain! You will never understand until I can. I must clothe my acts of the near past and the future with a mystery that will not permit you to see the why of them. That I may not be too vague, and that, in the time to come you will not think me designing toward the end, you naturally would, I must tell you that I am striving to do things as I should do them wherever and whenever I can. You have said that I am changed, and to your words I find two sets of emotion responding. One is of unusual elation, and the other of amazement that the change did not come sooner. Away back in the time when I first came here I had an idea of reformation. It was an idea that impressed with its novelty—something to experiment with: a pastime, a diversion; that was the beginning, and the idea was the inspiration of dejection, sorrow, humiliation—all of these. I did not intend that it should sink in too deeply. Exterior reformation would be sufficient and fill amply my sense of a just return for past misconduct." Kent paused, his face lighting with a smile that was part self-pity and part contempt, as he so accurately reviewed his old self. It was the first time that he had given himself leave to analyze. Putting the past against the present he found the sharpest contrast readily, and, as Virgie followed his words, their underlying motive struggling for expression in her sympathetic face, he was spurred to the severest self-censure.
"I don't like to hear you speak that way," she said, when he paused. "You are unjust—you are not at all fair to yourself."
"But those days are gone," he replied seriously. "And from them I learned; therefore, they have given me much. Ashville is hardly the place, though—" he began. Then, as she smiled appreciatively, he hesitated.
"Not the place for what?" she asked.
"I was about to say that Ashville was hardly the place in which to practise deception; but I scarcely mean that—it is too severe. What I wanted to say was that they are not to be deceived by mere pretense. Truth knows truth here with unerring certainty. Why, I tell you, Virgie, a man simply could not live two selves in this atmosphere of instinctive understanding. I found myself antagonizing myself and, in consequence, everybody else. The exterior reformation was a good beginning because it was in continual pride and vanity, consequently always fighting with the internal comfort of conceit, and that was the birth of conscience in me. But the placid self-satisfaction soon became broken into a tumult of reproaches. To appease it I had to do things—lots of them. Activity got hold on me, and there you are. It was all so natural that I marvel at it now. The things that I have done I simply had to do. Can you understand? You, or anyone else, it would probably have been the same," he ended, looking at her with an inquisitive expression that invited an affirmative reply; but, since she remained silent, her face depicting no little disappointment over his last sentence, he resumed quickly: "Of course, not just exactly the same," he said, but stopped suddenly under her look of startled surprise. The words sounded decidedly foolish at this juncture, coming as they did at the end of a deeply analytical thought. Unaware that he had read the trend of her thoughts he had unerringly apologized to her unspoken disappointment. Virgie was startled and confused, not knowing how clearly apparent she had made the disappointment that she felt. Kent's confusion was heightened by a sudden elation over the happy guess and its import. They had reached a crisis, and each was painfully silent.
She rather felt than saw his unwavering gaze, and, waiting for him to resume, she feared, yet hoped for his next words. Kent also was fearful for the outcome. Hoping against that fear, yet too cautious to precipitate them into another estrangement by declaring his desire at this the first opportunity.
Concluding that he was not to continue his advantage her embarrassment waned slowly, and looking up she smiled. Kent felt that the situation demanded something from him, and, unable to grasp at that instant another topic for conversation, said stumblingly: "We are to be friends, aren't we?"
"Why should we not be?" she asked, with charming assurance, in return.
"I don't know," he replied happily, though dimly questioning himself whether or not he had done enough in asking only what he had. All through their talk he had been aware of the propitiousness of both their surroundings and her good humor. It was this consciousness that led them on to the climax of their self-hidden thoughts. He had not debated in his mind whether he would submit himself to so supreme an assault upon his feelings. The end had come about as the influences of surroundings and inclinations had aided it. From above them came the sweetness and warmth of delicious blossoms and sun. About them were patches of variegated green. Where the light came through between the white, fluffy-banked trees the grass was opalescent and brown-green. Under the trees the shade stretched away to the orchard fence, making patches of blue-green that were beautifully flecked with the falling petals. Kent's happiness suddenly took a facetious bent. He reached above his head and shook the limb nearest to his grasp. The shower of loosened petals fell over both of them like gentle messages of pure happiness, and they laughed joyously out of the great ecstasy within their hearts.
"May care fall as lightly on your cousin and Harvey," Kent was saying, when Gyp came running from the house.
"Oh! Auntie Virgie," she began, picking up Virgie's hand from her lap and pulling excitedly. "Have you seen th' new bees 'at pa's got? Come quick! He's fixin' 'em."
Rising at once Virgie simulated as great an excitement as Gyp had shown, and all three went back to the edge of the berry bushes, where Landy, with cumbersome mittens and a face mask, was working earnestly.
"Where did you ever learn the bee business?" Kent asked of him in surprise.
Landy looked back over his shoulder at the group, smiled respectfully to Kent, but made no reply.
"There is the most resourceful man I ever knew," the parson observed admiringly. "He should have been made a general or placed at the head of some big business. His confidence is colossal. Feels himself equal to anything whether he knows anything about it or not. Better watch him or he will drive every bee you have off of the place!"
"Well, let him," Virgie laughed. "What's the use of having bees if you can't drive them?"
"Oh, ho!" Kent responded. "So that is the kind of acquaintance you two have gotten around to. Guess I had better reserve my remarks to myself and go! Well, he is worthy, anyway."
"You have already proven that," she replied, and continued talking of the new bee enthusiast as they walked to the front gate, while Gyp remained behind, a most earnest observer of her step-father's work.
Kent marched along the road with buoyant step. The love that he had so long refused the privilege of recognition grew in its new freedom of an hour to vigorous sturdiness. That he loved her he had long known, but from the time of their trouble he had not let himself think of it. The first love—the love that he had declared had been for months a shame and a regret. The new awakening pressed all recollection of that out of his thoughts, though, now, and he was supremely happy. He loved now as a good man should, and he was proud to feel that he might love her this way always. He became heated from the rapid walking, and the relief of removing his coat occurred to him. Then the question of propriety presented itself, and his coat came off almost at the thought. He was teaching himself to ignore silly yielding to questions of this sort, and as soon as they presented themselves just so soon did he disobey their demands upon his false pride. A farmer-boy passed by and grinned to see the parson coatless, but Kent caught the friendliness his smile contained, and was still more happy in his new, growing strength.
Through the main street coatless he went, vigorously punishing his pride for its better subjection. Orrig was sitting in front of the drug-store perusing the weekly paper when Kent came up.
"Anything new?" the parson asked, swinging his coat from one shoulder to the other.
"Ain't tuk up th' news yit," the druggist responded, resetting his reading glasses and looking up amiably. "I wuz jest readin' th' advertisements first. Oh! yes, they be some news," he added quickly. "I fergot when y' asked. They's a letter fer y' over t' th' postoffice. I jest come from there."
"Thanks!" Kent replied delightedly, turning to go.
"Ain't very sociable now, air y'?" Orrig observed; but, taking up his paper again, he re-arranged his glasses, hitched his chair about a little and resumed reading.
Kent crossed the road and went straight to the postoffice. John Carey wiped his hands free of the kerosene that he had been handling, as he saw the parson coming, and greeted him at the door with the letter extended. Kent received it with a start that awakened Carey's keenest curiosity, but, as he simply slipped it into his pocket with an agitated "Thank you!" the postmaster's disappointment was deep. He returned to the lamps speculating greatly.
Once within his study Kent broke the envelope with hasty excitement, then hesitated, as he stood and looked at the superscription. His face was a study of doubt, hope or dread, as his thoughts flew along the paths of old memories. Then he withdrew the contents from the envelope with a hand that trembled, and read:
"DEAR ROYAL:—
My darling boy—yesterday, and all the months gone by, were black and filled with unhappiness because my boy was gone, and I knew not where. To-day my broken heart is happy and lighter than I have ever known it to be, because I know that you still live, and are well and happy and good. Why have you never let me know? Why did you not permit me your confidence? I do not ask this to scold you, for I am far too overjoyed to do that; but, had you sent your messenger to me, my anxiety would have been lessened. I learned from your father that your friend has been here before, and that he already knew where you were, though his pride kept it secret from me. To-day he came again, and this time your father received him. I did not know that it was of you they were talking, and learned it only by partly overhearing what they said. When I pressed, and would not be refused, he put his arm about my waist in the dear old way, like before the trouble came, and said: 'Mother, I was preparing to surprise you. Mr. Snellins, here, brings good word of our boy!' Oh! Royal, I was so happy; and he was happy, too. He smiled upon your friend, and told him the good news that for weeks we have known, and your friend was overjoyed with us.
"Your father is completely reconciled and longs to give you his forgiveness, and ask yours in return. He had hoped to see you first and then surprise me, but, failing in this, he bade your friend take you the news in a letter that he gave him. But I cannot wait—I must reach you first, so that you may know all and be able to understand. First of all, we have found that you are truthful, and the others wrong. This was next to as great a joy to me as knowing that you are to return to us.
"I knew. I would not believe what they said against my boy. But your long-continued high spirits and ungovernable will had caused your father to misjudge you. You were both proud; you were both wrong. Naturally he felt that you should be governed by his advice. Perhaps that advice was too severe; perhaps you ignored it too much. Whatever it was, the long interval of silence was just the thing to make the end harder for both of you. It broke my heart to see you daily farther apart. When he found you on the porch that night and, in his anger, believing what he had heard, called you a disgrace; and turning you away from home, and closing the door against you—I felt that I must die. But that is all gone now. The boys of your set have convinced him of their horrible joke upon you, and he will be happy, I know, to welcome you back again. And I—I love you! Mother has always believed in you. Her heart is and always will be open for her boy, no matter what may come.
"Hoping that this will reach you, and that you will forgive us for our wrong, and write at once. And with all my love for my darling always.
Lovingly,
"MOTHER."