# An Indiana Girl/Chapter 23

When Saturday came Snellins arrived well-nigh exhausted, but radiantly happy with his—to Kent—important and good news. He was three days late with the tidings. Even so, Kent received him with a warmth that modified his disappointment, and he shared the parson's joyousness with but little diminished satisfaction. On Sunday Kent was happily brilliant. The gladness in his heart was evident to everyone, as quite all his words were filled to overflowing with radiant expressiveness.
On Monday he answered at length both of his letters. Resentment over past wrongs had no place in his reply. It was all love and happiness and gratitude. He made no reference to the practical joke that his friends had perpetrated that night, when the serious outcome of having drugged him frightened them away, and they had left him on his own door-step to be discovered later by his horrified parents. Too much had already been said about it, and there could come no good of recalling by ever so slight a re-utterance of his innocence the circumstances in which his father's anger and his own resentment had come together, with the outcome of his having been turned away from home.
That they had found by themselves the true facts was deeply gratifying, but better still was his knowledge that he might return now, not only on an equal plane to the one he had held, but on a much more exalted one. In his letter he had said but little of his possible return, rather confining himself to the expression of sweet recollections of his old home, and intermingling the gentleness and beauties of his present surroundings with these, that his parents might understand from inference the ties he had lately formed, and how nearly impossible it would be to yield the new for the old. He yearned to be back again with the old and dear associations. He thought over and over again of the still life things that had made up his home. His own room, hallowed by boyish deeds in youthful advancements, when life, to his arrogance, seemed as simple as an open page, even though it be filled by fresh surprises—a paradox of young manhood—was again before him waiting for his occupancy. Frequent mental migrations, however, brought a consciousness of the impossibility of his ever using it again as he had once done, and after his letter had gone he sat himself down, with Harvey's once-spoken words recurring to him, "Why wish for the things once lived out, since one cannot have them back, and if we could they would not fit in with one's later ideas?" Kent pondered long over this thought.
That he could not give up his new associates he well knew. The church, the town, the country, all stepped on the scale of indecision and weighed down one side with unmistakable overweight. But, when he came to place that positive, foregone conclusion of his mother's, wherein he only awaited an assurance of his father's good-will to cause him to return home, together with her love and his duty, against another and dearer tie, he was much in doubt as to where his future would be. He studied for two days and nights over the problem. It was constantly with him, yet as persistently refused to be solved. He grew tired—he was weary, and threw it off; still it returned less pliant than before, and he would have given up in despair if he could.
"I don't know what to do," he mused one afternoon. He had just come from Henderson's, and was walking abstractedly along the road from town. "If someone could only help me—if someone could only help—" Here he paused, his face lighting with the animation of a new thought. "And why can't someone?" he asked himself hopefully. Then the hope slowly died away to doubt as he smiled irresolutely, though he quickened his steps for all that. The audacity and risk of asking aid where he had most naturally thought to do appalled him when he grasped the full import of what success or failure would mean. But it was a chance for the solution of his problem, and his feet showed not the hesitancy of his mind as they accelerated their speed out of all proportion. Borne on, unwilfully, he gave himself, without strong effort, against a habit he had long since suppressed, and the old way of going to her in his hours of perplexity asserted itself so irresistibly that he was glad to have it lead him on.
It was shortly after four o'clock. The door of the district school, setting back just off the point where the roads cross, was being closed by Miss Simms, who wore a wearied look on her careworn face. Kent doffed his hat. Miss Simms courtesied in a very flurried manner, and hurried away over the south road at right angles to his own direction.
Not far ahead of him four barefoot boys and one little girl leapt or ran as they played along the way, their superfluous energy working itself out with misapplied efforts toward homeward progress. Kent smiled over their antics, slowly but surely overtaking them. As he came up John Kinney gave to his sister Nellie the bucket that had contained their noonday meal, and almost as quickly little Charlie Schuffler gallantly relieved her of it. Kent smiled knowingly over the brother's sagacity, and Charlie carried two dinner-pails instead of one the balance of the way, keeping close to his infant charmer, as the group wove and interwove a pattern of footprints in the dust.
On the Brandt's side of the road the farm land was fenced by split-rails, and, as the party came within sight of the field, they saw Landy George far over near the grove following a plow—happy, even if occupied in monotonous labor. When within earshot the children called him over lustily, climbing upon the fence and waving their hats or buckets.
Virgie saw them through the kitchen side-door, and, taking down her sun-bonnet from its nail, cut across the corner of the field, making toward them slowly as she edged along close to the fence. Kent lifted Nellie to the upper rail, where Virgie enclosed her in her loving arms, and, throwing back her own bonnet, she buried her face beneath that of the little girl. Nellie's brother stood throwing clods at the team that stood in calm, dozing attitudes, their heads hung low and their eyelids half-closed. Landy climbed the fence quickly, chasing the boy only a few feet; then stopped and shook his fist at him, while he laughed happily.
"Where's Gyp, Miss Virgie?" Nellie asked in a sweet, little piping voice.
"Why, Gyp's sick to-day," Virgie answered interestedly; then to Timothy David, whose folks had only come into the neighborhood in the spring, "How's your pa, Tim?"
"All right," Tim answered in great embarrassment, as he scraped one of his feet over the other, swinging from right to left and grinning deep creases into his freckled cheeks.
Kent had said nothing in the preliminary talk, though he seemed to enjoy what the others were saying. Landy re-climbed the fence and went back to the plow, the boys following gleefully, prevailing upon him to permit them to ride in turns after much feigned reluctance on Landy's part. Nellie watched their antics, her eyes dancing with excitement. She moved uneasily in Virgie's arms, then looked into her face appealingly, though out of consideration said no word.
"You want to go, too, don't you? Well, then, kiss me? There! Now be careful you don't get hurt!" She lifted her down, caressed her curls with a last pat and let her run to Landy.
Kent came over to the fence, and leaning both arms, midway between the elbows and wrists, upon it, looked seriously after the fleeing curls and apron-strings.
"That is a happy time of life," he said.
Virgie had been leaning with her back toward him, but she turned quickly in surprise since she had not noticed his serious mood before.
"You speak as if you were a hundred years old," she said simply, though she was made uncomfortable by his words; they seemed so out of tune with their surroundings. Kent did not reply, and, after watching the children in silence for another period, she turned upon him and said cheerily: "Say something. Why don't you talk? Say anything, only don't just stand there so serious."
"I feel as though all that I have to say is out of keeping with all of this happiness," he responded feebly, adding with more force: "I did have a good deal to say, but it is not the right time for it nor the right place. I have gotten back into the old way again, that is, of coming to you for advice. It is too serious to speak of now. This is not a time for seriousness, I'm afraid, so it may be better for me not to talk."
The mere suggestion of a return to his former way of seeking her advice filled her with an undefined delight. She could not conceal her feelings, and needs must turn her face away, though there was in her quiet tones a pleasantness that encouraged him to speak, as she asked:
"What is the trouble?"
"If you really do not mind my telling you," he replied, "I know of no better way to begin than by asking you to read these?" he said, handing her the two letters that he had just drawn from his pocket.
Virgie took them hesitatingly, finally opening that of his father, and read. Afterwards she read his mother's words, and tears sprang to her eyes. Kent was looking far away, toward Landy, down in the remotest corner of the field.
"How perfectly beautiful!" she said sadly, as she read aloud the signature on the last letter, "Your Mother." "Mother!" she repeated. "How you must love her!" They stood in silence for some moments; then she asked: "Is she little?"
"Yes," Kent laughed despite himself. "But, why?"
"And she's beautiful, and has big, loving eyes and sweet, tender ways. I know she has. I know just what she's like!"
"She's the best little mother in the world!" he added happily. "But—I don't know——" he hesitated, then went on feverishly: "I can't go back there now. I have thought it all out dozens of times. They want me and I want them. That's one way. But I want to stay here—where I have gotten on. I never did anywhere else, and I was afraid for so long that something or someone would turn up to bring the story of my old ways, and make me lose the little start I have gotten. I did not know what I would do if that happened. But the danger of it is gone now. I have a right to do and be what I am, and I would like more than anyone can judge to know and enjoy for a while the freedom from that old fear.
"Then you will stay?" she asked quietly.
"I do not know," he replied, shaking his head dubiously, still looking far over the field.
Her wide-opened eyes expressed the sudden fear that pinched her heart, as she turned quickly, looking into his face with searching inquiry.
"It is true," he said, still calm, returning her gaze hopelessly. "I don't know what I shall do. If I don't go they will think me resentful of what they did. That would break her heart. Don't you see how things are there?"
"I believe I do," she replied. "But they ought not expect it of you now."
The rebellion in her words, while at first surprising and almost provoking him to a quick retort, gradually conveyed the sentiment that prompted them. In her eyes was yet that expression of pain, even though it was tempered by resentment against the claims of his parents; and Kent, grasping its full import, brightened at once, losing his hopelessness and scrutinizing her features eagerly.
"If you don't understand their end of it," he said, venturesomely, "you do this end? I wanted you to understand both fully, but, if you cannot you cannot, I suppose. At any rate, you know now how much of a weight has been lifted from me. I can talk of them, as I have never done, for one thing, and another is that I feel better for knowing myself not in the wrong."
"How better?" she asked simply.
"Better because I can have no scruples such as I have had against doing things."
"Have you had scruples?" she questioned, innocently surprised.
"I thought you knew that I had," he replied with great intensity. "Perhaps, though, the caution was all in my own mind, because you were unaware of any reason for it. Oh! Virgie," he continued, "how I have struggled to keep from telling you for a second time of the love within my heart, and all because I would not offer you the possible chance of future disgrace and sorrow that might come of it!"
He said this much as he had uttered the preceding words, and for the instant neither seemed to realize its full significance, so earnestly were they analyzing this reasoning. Virgie was first to give evidence of its importance. She turned completely around, standing with her back toward him that he might not see her face.
"Do not tell me again by your silence that I have been mistaken in supposing that you knew," he said agitatedly. "Do not tell me that, Virgie; for I am not come to you this time over-confident or arrogantly presumptuous. Far from it. I love you now, not as I loved you then, but with all my heart, and in the way you should be loved. My home and parents claim me, yet I cannot go. Ashville holds me and I would stay, yet I cannot without your love. Tell me, Virgie, what shall I do?"
She uttered no word, nor even moved. A cold dread lest this was a repetition of that other time crept slowly to his heart. The fear that it might be so had made his words halting and unlovely. Blunt and arrogant they sounded in his own ears—why should they not be an offense to hers? He removed his foot from the fence and stood erect, his face distorted as if in physical pain. He moved uneasily. His throat was dry and husky, as his lips were dry. To speak again would be to shut out all hope and cast his life into its greatest sorrow, for the next words must be an abject apology for his double mistake and a farewell to her friendship forever.
"I—I am sorry to have hurt you," he said, hesitatingly. Bitterness against himself occurred to him, but it was for a time so remote that no part of it was in his voice. He was wrestling with his soul. Fortitude bade him go, but the agony of her loss made him stay and speak, giving utterance to such words and passion as he had never dreamed away from her.
"You have taught me goodness," he began. "All that is good—all that is pure. Was it God's mission that I should be shown, then separated from your example? Must I say farewell after all these days of sunshine? Am I to be chastised——"
"Stop!" she said, turning and staring blankly at him in her fright. With an involuntary gesture her hand moved slightly toward him. Kent's heart beat violently. He had caught the gesture, as he caught the terror in her eyes, and moved toward her. A great flood of burning shame suffused her cheeks, and her head fell forward humbly.
"Virgie," he said softly, as he laid his hand upon her arm. There was a note of questioning in his voice, but her head still bent low. "Virgie, my sweetheart!" he repeated, with suppressed joy, and, as she raised her radiant face, he caught the dear cheeks between his hands and pressed her forehead with his lips. "I love you—I love you, sweetheart!" he said. "You are my queen—my queen! Tell me, dear, do you really love me? Do you?" he asked.
"You wouldn't have done that if I'd had my bonnet on!" she said, drawing away from the fence and saucily adjusting that head-piece.
"Who cares for bonnets?" he replied, striking at once the tone she had used, in imitating irrelevancy.
"Well, you better care!" she said, in warning, as she looked about.
Landy and the children were gone. Far away and over the hills the sun's outward half-circle of waning light set the farm lands in a fan-background of red and gold. The quiet of evening was settling down. First disturbed by gentle sounds—the calling of mother cows or the chattering of birds—each announced its coming. Kent's great joy came under the influence of these serener things, and took a serious way of expressing itself.
"Come, let me walk back with you?" he said, taking down the bars. There is so much that I want to tell you. Let me have your hand to re-assure myself that I am not being misled by my own desires?"
Hand in hand they returned slowly along the road to her gate.
"I am asking myself, dear," he resumed, as she leaned against the gate-post. One of her hands held loosely her bonnet by its strings; the other was tightly clasped in his own. "I am asking myself why it is that you should be the one to have taught me, first, the way, then supplied its reward? You have been the inspiration and the harmony of my soul!"
Suddenly his face lighted with a new inspiration, and became radiant with a great expectation.
"Twice I have told you of my love—a thousand times more do I hope to tell you. Just so long as you will listen I will voice the sweet memories that have made me love you, for they are a joy to utter. But sweeter still than this would be these words from you, sweetheart, 'I love you!' Tell me, dear one, tell me that you love me? You have not said so yet."
With rapturous hope he stood awaiting her response, yet as he spoke he placed his arm about her and drew her to him in a quick, passionate embrace.
She wound her fair arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.
"I do love you!" she said.
The squeak of the old well-windlass came to them from back of the house, and when it was silent once more Martin's voice arose cheerily in pre-occupied monotony over supper preparations. Landy's "Soo-ee!" sent his little herd of stock into the sheds for the night, a door slammed, a clasp rattled, and all was still again.
"I know you do!" Kent replied, with deep emotion, and, after a pause, went on: "And you have answered the doubts, dear."
"What doubts?" she asked, scanning his face seriously.
"The doubts as to what I should do. Do you think, though, that I shall longer question where my future lies? My hunger for your sweetness urged me to stay, and, having it, I cannot go. My future is here, love; here with you."