Chapter V: Part III (1)

It was the day before Christmas—an Oregon Christmas. It had rained mistily at dawn; but at ten o’clock the clouds had parted and moved away reluctantly. There was a blue and dazzling sky overhead. The rain-drops still sparkled on the windows and on the green grass, and the last roses and chrysanthemums hung their beautiful heads heavily beneath them; but there was to be no more rain. Oregon City’s mighty barometer—the Falls of the Willamette—was declaring to her people by her softened roar that the morrow was to be fair.

Mrs. Orville Palmer was in the large kitchen making preparations for the Christmas dinner. She was a picture of dainty loveliness in a lavender gingham dress, made with a full skirt and a shirred waist and big leg-o’-mutton sleeves. A white apron was tied neatly around her waist.

Her husband came in, and paused to put his arm around her and kiss her. She was stirring something on the stove, holding her dress aside with one hand.

“It’s goin’ to be a fine Christmas, Emarine,” he said, and sighed unconsciously. There was a wistful and careworn look on his face.

“Beautiful!” said Emarine, vivaciously. “Goin’ down-town, Orville?”

“Yes. Want anything?”

“Why, the cranberries ain’t come yet. I’m so uneasy about ’em. They’d ought to ’a’ b’en stooed long ago. I like ’em cooked down an’ strained to a jell. I don’t see what ails them groc’rymen! Sh’u’d think they c’u’d get around some time before doomsday! Then, I want—here, you’d best set it down.” She took a pencil and a slip of paper from a shelf over the table and gave them to him. “Now, let me see.” She commenced stirring again, with two little wrinkles between her brows. “A ha’f a pound o’ citron; a ha’f a pound o’ candied peel; two pounds o’ cur’nts; two pounds o’ raisins—git ’em stunned, Orville; a pound o’ sooet—make ’em give you some that ain’t all strings! A box o’ Norther’ Spy apples; a ha’f a dozen lemons; four-bits’ worth o’ walnuts or a’monds, whichever’s freshest; a pint o’ Puget Sound oysters fer the dressin’, an’ a bunch o’ cel’ry. You stop by an’ see about the turkey, Orville; an’ I wish you’d run in ’s you go by mother’s an’ tell her to come up as soon as she can. She’d ought to be here now.”

Her husband smiled as he finished the list. “You’re a wonderful housekeeper, Emarine,” he said.

Then his face grew grave. “Got a present fer your mother yet, Emarine?”

“Oh, yes, long ago. I got ’er a black shawl down t’ Charman’s. She’s b’en wantin’ one.”

He shuffled his feet about a little. “Unh-hunh. Yuh—that is—I reckon yuh ain’t picked out any present fer—fer my mother, have yuh, Emarine?”

“No,” she replied, with cold distinctness. “I ain’t.”

There was a silence. Emarine stirred briskly. The lines grew deeper between her brows. Two red spots came into her cheeks. “I hope the rain ain’t spoilt the chrysyanthums,” she said then, with an air of ridding herself of a disagreeable subject.

Orville made no answer. He moved his feet again uneasily. Presently he said: “I expect my mother needs a black shawl, too. Seemed to me her’n looked kind o’ rusty at church Sunday. Notice it, Emarine?”

“No,” said Emarine.

“Seemed to me she was gittin’ to look offul old. Emarine”—his voice broke; he came a step nearer—“it’ll be the first Christmas dinner I ever eat without my mother.”

She drew back and looked at him. He knew the look that flashed into her eyes, and shrank from it.

“You don’t have to eat this ’n’ without ’er, Orville Parmer! You go an’ eat your dinner with your mother, ’f you want! I can get along alone. Are you goin’ to order them things? If you ain’t, just say so, an’ I’ll go an’ do ’t myself!”

He put on his hat and went without a word.

Mrs. Palmer took the saucepan from the stove and set it on the hearth. Then she sat down and leaned her cheek in the palm of her hand, and looked steadily out of the window. Her eyelids trembled closer together. Her eyes held a far-sighted look. She saw a picture; but it was not the picture of the blue reaches of sky, and the green valley cleft by its silver-blue river. She saw a kitchen, shabby, compared to her own, scantily furnished, and in it an old, white-haired woman sitting down to eat her Christmas dinner alone.

After a while she arose with an impatient sigh. “Well, I can’t help it!” she exclaimed. “If I knuckled-down to her this time, I’d have to do ’t ag’in. She might just as well get ust to ’t, first as last. I wish she hadn’t got to lookin’ so old an’ pitiful, though, a-settin’ there in front o’ us in church Sunday after Sunday. The cords stand out in her neck like well-rope, an’ her chin keeps a-quiv’rin’ so I can see Orville a-watchin’ her——”

The door opened suddenly and her mother entered. She was bristling with curiosity. “Say, Emarine!” She lowered her voice, although there was no one to hear. “Where d’ you s’pose the undertaker’s a-goin’ up by here? Have you hear of anybody——”

“No,” said Emarine. “Did Orville stop by an’ tell you to hurry up?”

“Yes. What’s the matter of him? Is he sick?”

“Not as I know of. Why?”

“He looks so. Oh, I wonder if it’s one o’ the Peterson childern where the undertaker’s a-goin’! They’ve all got the quinsy sore throat.”

“How does he look? I don’t see ’s he looks so turrable.”

“Why, Emarine Parmer! Ev’rybody in town says he looks _so_! I only hope they don’t know what ails him!”

“What _does_ ail him?” cried out Emarine, fiercely. “What are you hintin’ at?”

“Well, if you don’t know what ails him, you’d ort to; so I’ll tell you. He’s dyin’ by inches ever sence you turned his mother out o’ doors.”

Emarine turned white. Sheet lightning played in her eyes.

“Oh, you’d ought to talk about my turnin’ her out!” she burst out, furiously. “After you a-settin’ here a-quar’l’n’ with her in this very kitchen, an’ eggin’ me on! Wa’n’t she goin’ to turn you out o’ your own daughter’s home? Wa’n’t that what I turned her out fer? I didn’t turn her out, anyhow! I only told Orville this house wa’n’t big enough fer his mother an’ me, an’ that neither o’ us ’u’d knuckle-down, so he’d best take his choice. You’d ought to talk!”

“Well, if I egged you on, I’m sorry fer ’t,” said Mrs. Endey, solemnly. “Ever sence that fit o’ sickness I had a month ago, I’ve feel kind o’ old an’ no account myself, as if I’d like to let all holts go, an’ just rest. I don’t spunk up like I ust to. No, he didn’t go to Peterson’s—he’s gawn right on. My land! I wonder ’f it ain’t old gran’ma Eliot; she had a bad spell—no, he didn’t turn that corner. I can’t think where he’s goin’ to!”

She sat down with a sigh of defeat.

A smile glimmered palely across Emarine’s face and was gone. “Maybe if you’d go up in the antic you could see better,” she suggested, dryly.

“Oh, Emarine, here comes old gran’ma Eliot herself! Run an’ open the door fer ’er. She’s limpin’ worse ’n usual.”

Emarine flew to the door. Grandma Eliot was one of the few people she loved. She was large and motherly. She wore a black dress and shawl and a funny bonnet, with a frill of white lace around her brow.

Emarine’s face softened when she kissed her. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said, and her voice was tender.

Even Mrs. Endey’s face underwent a change. Usually it wore a look of doubt, if not of positive suspicion, but now it fairly beamed. She shook hands cordially with the guest and led her to a comfortable chair.

“I know your rheumatiz is worse,” she said, cheerfully, “because you’re limpin’ so. Oh, did you see the undertaker go up by here? We can’t think where he’s goin’ to. D’ you happen to know?”

“No, I don’t; an’ I don’t want to, neither.” Mrs. Eliot laughed comfortably. “Mis’ Endey, you don’t ketch me foolin’ with undertakers till I have to.” She sat down and removed her black cotton gloves. “I’m gettin’ to that age when I don’t care much where undertakers go to so long ’s they let _me_ alone. Fixin’ fer Christmas dinner, Emarine dear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Emarine in her very gentlest tone. Her mother had never said “dear” to her, and the sound of it on this old lady’s lips was sweet. “Won’t you come an’ take dinner with us?”

The old lady laughed merrily. “Oh, dearie me, dearie me! You don’t guess my son’s folks could spare me now, do you? I spend ev’ry Christmas there. They most carry me on two chips. My son’s wife, Sidonie, she nearly runs her feet off waitin’ on me. She can’t do enough fer me. My, Mrs. Endey, you don’t know what a comfort a daughter-in-law is when you get old an’ feeble!”

Emarine’s face turned red. She went to the table and stood with her back to the older woman; but her mother’s sharp eyes observed that her ears grew scarlet.

“An’ I never will,” said Mrs. Endey, grimly.

“You’ve got a son-in-law, though, who’s worth a whole townful of most son-in-laws. He was such a good son, too; jest worshipped his mother; couldn’t bear her out o’ his sight. He humored her high an’ low. That’s jest the way Sidonie does with me. I’m gettin’ cranky ’s I get older, an’ sometimes I’m reel cross an’ sassy to her; but she jest laffs at me, an’ then comes an’ kisses me, an’ I’m all right ag’in. It’s a blessin’ right from God to have a daughter-in-law like that.”

The knife in Emarine’s hand slipped, and she uttered a little cry.

“Hurt you?” demanded her mother, sternly.

Emarine was silent, and did not turn.

“Cut you, Emarine? Why don’t you answer me? Aigh?”

“A little,” said Emarine. She went into the pantry, and presently returned with a narrow strip of muslin which she wound around her finger.

“Well, I never see! You never will learn any gumption! Why don’t you look what you’re about? Now, go around Christmas with your finger all tied up!”

“Oh, that’ll be all right by to-morrow,” said Mrs. Eliot, cheerfully. “Won’t it, Emarine? Never cry over spilt milk, Mrs. Endey; it makes a body get wrinkles too fast. O’ course Orville’s mother’s comin’ to take dinner’ with you, Emarine.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Emarine, in a sudden flutter. “I don’t see why them cranberries don’t come! I told Orville to hurry ’em up. I’d best make the floatin’ island while I wait.”

“I stopped at Orville’s mother’s as I came along.”

“How?” Emarine turned in a startled way from the table.

“I say, I stopped at Orville’s mother’s as I come along, Emarine.”

“Oh!”

“She well?” asked Mrs. Endey.

“No, she ain’t; shakin’ like she had the Saint Vitus dance. She’s failed harrable lately. She’d b’en cryin’; her eyes was all swelled up.”

There was quite a silence. Then Mrs. Endey said—“What she b’en cryin’ about?”

“Why, when I asked her she jest laffed kind o’ pitiful, an’ said: ‘Oh, only my tomfoolishness, o’ course.’ Said she always got to thinkin’ about other Christmases. But I cheered her up. I told her what a good time I always had at my son’s, and how Sidonie jest couldn’t do enough fer me. An’ I told her to think what a nice time she’d have here ’t Emarine’s to-morrow.”

Mrs. Endey smiled. “What she say to that?”

“She didn’t say much. I could see she was thankful, though, she had a son’s to go to. She said she pitied all poor wretches that had to set out their Christmas alone. Poor old lady! she ain’t got much spunk left. She’s all broke down. But I cheered her up some. Sech a _wishful_ look took holt o’ her when I pictchered her dinner over here at Emarine’s. I can’t seem to forget it. Goodness! I must go. I’m on my way to Sidonie’s, an’ she’ll be comin’ after me if I ain’t on time.”

When Mrs. Eliot had gone limping down the path, Mrs. Endey said: “You got your front room red up, Emarine?”

“No; I ain’t had time to red up anything.”

“Well, I’ll do it. Where’s your duster at?”

“Behind the org’n. You can get out the wax cross again. Mis’ Dillon was here with all her childern, an’ I had to hide up ev’rything. I never see childern like her’n. She lets ’em handle things so!”

Mrs. Endey went into the “front room” and began to dust the organ. She was something of a diplomat, and she wished to be alone for a few minutes. “You have to manage Emarine by contrairies,” she reflected. It did not occur to her that this was a family trait. “I’m offul sorry I ever egged her on to turnin’ Orville’s mother out o’ doors, but who’d ’a’ thought it ’u’d break her down so? She ain’t told a soul either. I reckoned she’d talk somethin’ offul about us, but she ain’t told a soul. She’s kep’ a stiff upper lip an’ told folks she al’ays expected to live alone when Orville got married. Emarine’s all worked up. I believe the Lord hisself must ’a’ sent gran’ma Eliot here to talk like an angel unawares. I bet she’d go an’ ask Mis’ Parmer over here to dinner if she wa’n’t afraid I’d laff at her fer knucklin’-down. I’ll have to aggravate her.”

She finished dusting, and returned to the kitchen. “I wonder what gran’ma Eliot ’u’d say if she knew you’d turned Orville’s mother out, Emarine?”

There was no reply. Emarine was at the table mixing the plum pudding. Her back was to her mother.

“I didn’t mean what I said about bein’ sorry I egged you on, Emarine. I’m glad you turned her out. She’d _ort_ to be turned out.”

Emarine put a handful of floured raisins into the mixture and stirred it all together briskly.

“Gran’ma Eliot can go talkin’ about her daughter-in-law Sidonie all she wants, Emarine. You keep a stiff upper lip.”

“I can ’tend to my own affairs,” said Emarine, fiercely.

“Well, don’t flare up so. Here comes Orville. Land, but he does look peakid!”

* * * * *

After supper, when her mother had gone home for the night, Emarine put on her hat and shawl.

Her husband was sitting by the fireplace, looking thoughtfully at the bed of coals.

“I’m goin’ out,” she said, briefly. “You keep the fire up.”

“Why, Emarine, its dark. Don’t choo want I sh’u’d go along?”

“No; you keep the fire up.”

He looked at her anxiously, but he knew from the way she set her heels down that remonstrance would be useless.

“Don’t stay long,” he said, in a tone of habitual tenderness. He loved her passionately, in spite of the lasting hurt she had given him when she parted him from his mother. It was a hurt that had sunk deeper than even he realized. It lay heavy on his heart day and night. It took the blue out of the sky, and the green out of the grass, and the gold out of the sunlight; it took the exaltation and the rapture out of his tenderest moments of love.

He never reproached her, he never really blamed her; certainly he never pitied himself. But he carried a heavy heart around with him, and his few smiles were joyless things.

For the trouble he blamed only himself. He had promised Emarine solemnly before he married her that if there were any “knuckling-down” to be done, his mother should be the one to do it. He had made the promise deliberately, and he could no more have broken it than he could have changed the color of his eyes. When bitter feeling arises between two relatives by marriage, it is the one who stands between them—the one who is bound by the tenderest ties to both—who has the real suffering to bear, who is torn and tortured until life holds nothing worth the having.

Orville Palmer was the one who stood between. He had built his own cross, and he took it up and bore it without a word.

Emarine hurried through the early winter dark until she came to the small and poor house where her husband’s mother lived. It was off the main-traveled street.

There was a dim light in the kitchen; the curtain had not been drawn. Emarine paused and looked in. The sash was lifted six inches, for the night was warm, and the sound of voices came to her at once. Mrs. Palmer had company.

“It’s Miss Presly,” said Emarine, resentfully, under her breath. “Old gossip!”

“—goin’ to have a fine dinner, I hear,” Miss Presly was saying. “Turkey with oyster dressin’, an’ cranberries, an’ mince an’ pun’kin pie, an’ reel plum puddin’ with brandy poured over ’t an’ set afire, an’ wine dip, an’ nuts, an’ raisins, an’ wine itself to wind up on. Emarine’s a fine cook. She knows how to get up a dinner that makes your mouth water to think about. You goin’ to have a spread, Mis’ Parmer?”

“Not much of a one,” said Orville’s mother. “I expected to, but I c’u’dn’t get them fall patatas sold off. I’ll have to keep ’em till spring to git any kind o’ price. I don’t care much about Christmas, though”—her chin was trembling, but she lifted it high. “It’s silly for anybody but childern to build so much on Christmas.”

Emarine opened the door and walked in. Mrs. Palmer arose slowly, grasping the back of her chair. “Orville’s dead?” she said, solemnly.

Emarine laughed, but there was the tenderness of near tears in her voice. “Oh, my, no!” she said, sitting down. “I run over to ask you to come to Christmas dinner. I was too busy all day to come sooner. I’m goin’ to have a great dinner, an’ I’ve cooked ev’ry single thing of it myself! I want to show you what a fine Christmas dinner your daughter-’n-law can get up. Dinner’s at two, an’ I want you to come at eleven. Will you?”

Mrs. Palmer had sat down, weakly. Trembling was not the word to describe the feeling that had taken possession of her. She was shivering. She wanted to fall down on her knees and put her arms around her son’s wife, and sob out all her loneliness and heartache. But life is a stage; and Miss Presly was an audience not to be ignored. So Mrs. Palmer said: “Well, I’ll be reel glad to come, Emarine. It’s offul kind o’ yuh to think of ’t. It ’u’d ’a’ be’n lonesome eatin’ here all by myself, I expect.”

Emarine stood up. Her heart was like a thistle-down. Her eyes were shining. “All right,” she said; “an’ I want that you sh’u’d come just at eleven. I must run right back now. Good-night.”

“Well, I declare!” said Miss Presly. “That girl gits prettier ev’ry day o’ her life. Why, she just looked full o’ _glame_ to-night!”

* * * * *

Orville was not at home when his mother arrived in her rusty best dress and shawl. Mrs. Endey saw her coming. She gasped out, “Why, good grieve! Here’s Mis’ Parmer, Emarine!”

“Yes, I know,” said Emarine, calmly. “I ast her to dinner.”

She opened the door, and shook hands with her mother-in-law, giving her mother a look of defiance that almost upset that lady’s gravity.

“You set right down, Mother Parmer, an’ let me take your things. Orville don’t know you’re comin’, an’ I just want to see his face when he comes in. Here’s a new black shawl fer your Christmas. I got mother one just like it. See what nice long fringe it’s got. Oh, my, don’t go to cryin’! Here comes Orville.”

She stepped aside quickly. When her husband entered his eyes fell instantly on his mother, weeping childishly over the new shawl. She was in the old splint rocking-chair with the high back. “_Mother!_” he cried; then he gave a frightened, tortured glance at his wife. Emarine smiled at him, but it was through tears.

“Emarine ast me, Orville—she ast me to dinner o’ herself! An’ she give me this shawl. I’m—cryin’—fer—joy——”

“I ast her to dinner,” said Emarine, “but she ain’t ever goin’ back again. She’s goin’ to _stay_. I expect we’ve both had enough of a lesson to do us.”

Orville did not speak. He fell on his knees and laid his head, like a boy, in his mother’s lap, and reached one strong but trembling arm up to his wife’s waist, drawing her down to him.

Mrs. Endey got up and went to rattling things around on the table vigorously. “Well, I never see sech a pack o’ loonatics!” she exclaimed. “Go an’ burn all your Christmas dinner up, if I don’t look after it! Turncoats! I expect they’ll both be fallin’ over theirselves to knuckle-down to each other from now on! I never see!”

But there was something in her eyes, too, that made them beautiful.

THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN

THE CUTTIN’-OUT OF BART WINN

“Lavin-ee!”

“Well?”

Mrs. Vaiden came to the foot of the stairs.

“You up there?” she said.

“Yes, maw. What you want?”

“Somebody’s comin’,” said Mrs. Vaiden, lowering her voice to a tone of important mystery.

“I guess not here,” said Lavinia, lightly. She sat down on the top step and smiled at her mother.

“Yes, it is here, too,” retorted Mrs. Vaiden, with some irritation. “If you couldn’t conterdict a body ’t wouldn’t be you! You’re just like your paw!” She paused, and then added: “It’s a man a-foot. He’s comin’ up the path slow, a-stoppin’ to look at the flowers.”

“Maybe it’s the minister,” said the girl, still regarding her mother with a good-natured, teasing smile.

“No, it ain’t the minister, either. As if I didn’t know the minister when I see him! You do aggravate me so! It’s a young fello’, an’ he’s all dressed up. You’ll have to go to the door.”

“Oh, maw!” cried Lavinia, reproachfully. “I just can’t! In this short dress?”

She stood up, with a look of dismay, and began pulling nervously at her fresh gingham skirt. It was short, showing very prettily-arched insteps and delicate ankles.

“Well, you just can, an’ haf to,” said Mrs. Vaiden, shortly. “I’ve told you often enough to put a ruffle on the bottom o’ that dress, an’ I’m glad you’re caught. Mebbe you’ll do’s I tell you after this—”

She started guiltily as a loud rap sounded upon the door behind her, and began to tiptoe heavily down the hall toward the kitchen. The girl looked after her in mingled amusement and chagrin. Then she leaned forward slightly, drawing the skirt back closely on both sides, and looked at her feet, with her head turned on one side like a bird. When the cessation of her mother’s labored breathing announced silently that she had reached the kitchen in safety, Lavinia shrugged her beautiful shoulders—which no gown could conceal—and opened the door. A young man in a light traveling-suit stood before her. In his hand was a bunch of her own sweet-peas.

At sight of her he whisked off his hat in a way that brought a lovely color to her face and throat. For a little while it seemed as if he were not going to say or do anything but just look at her. She was well worth looking at. She had the rare beauty of velvet eyes of a reddish-brown color, hair wavy and brown, with red glints in it, and a clear complexion, unfreckled and of exquisite coloring.

Lavinia’s eyes went to the sweet-peas, and then, with a deeper blush under them, to his face.

“Won’t you come in?” she said.

“Why, yes, if you’ll let me.” The young man smiled, and Lavinia found her lips and eyes responding, in all the lightness of youth and a clear conscience.

“I couldn’t help taking some of your sweet-peas,” he said, following her into the parlor. It was a large, solemn-looking room. The blinds were lowered over the windows, but the girl raised one slightly, letting a splash of pale autumnal sunshine flicker across the hit-and-miss rag carpet. There was an organ in one corner and a hair-cloth sofa in another. Eight slender-legged hair-cloth chairs were placed at severely equal distances around the room, their backs resting firmly against the walls. All tipped forward slightly, their front legs being somewhat shorter than the others. On the back of each was a small, square crocheted tidy. There were some family portraits on the walls, in oval gilt frames; and there was a large picture of George Washington and family, on their stateliest behavior; another, named in large letters “The Journey of Life,” of an uncommonly roomy row-boat containing at least a dozen persons, who were supposed to represent all ages from the cradle to the grave; in the wide, white margin beneath this picture were two verses of beautiful, descriptive poetry, and in one corner appeared, with apparent irrelevancy, the name of an illustrated newspaper. There was also a chromo of a scantily-attired woman clinging to a cross which was set in the midst of dashing sea-waves; and there was a cheerful photograph, in a black cloth frame, of flowers—made into harps, crosses, anchors and hearts—which had been sent at some time of bereavement by sympathetic but misguided friends. A marble-topped centre-table held a large plush album, a scrap book, a book of autographs, a lamp with a pale-green shade, and a glass case containing a feather-wreath.

“Oh, we’ve got lots of sweet-peas,” said Lavinia, adjusting the blind carefully. Then she looked at him.

“May I see Mrs. Vaiden?” he asked, easily.

“She’s—busy,” said Lavinia, with a look of embarrassment. “But I’ll see—”

“Oh, don’t,” interrupted the young man lightly. “They told me at the postoffice she took boarders sometimes, and I came to see if there was a chance for me.” He handed a card to the girl with an air of not knowing that he was doing it. Her very eyelids seemed to blush as she looked at it and read the name—Mr. C. Daun Diller. “I am writing up the Puget Sound country for a New York paper, and I should like to make my headquarters here at Whatcom, but I can’t stand the hotels in your new towns. It’s the most amazing thing!” he went on, smiling at her as she stood twisting the card in her fingers, not knowing exactly what to do with it. “You go to sleep at night in a Puget Sound village with the fronts of the stores painted green, blue and red, spasmodic patches of sidewalk here and there, dust ankle deep, and no street-lights—and you wake in the morning in a _city_! A city with fine stone blocks and residences, stone pavements, electric lights and railways, gas, splendid water-works,”—he was checking off now, excitedly, on his fingers,—“sewerage, big mills, factories, canneries, public schools that would make the East stare, churches, libraries”—he stopped abruptly, and, dropping his arms limply to his sides, added—“and not a hotel! Not a comfortable bed or a good meal to be had for love or money!”

“Yes, that’s so,” said Lavinia, reluctantly. “But you can’t expect us to get everything all at onct. Why, Whatcom’s boom only started in six months ago.”

Mr. C. Daun Diller looked amused. “Oh, if it were this town only,” he said, sitting down on one of the hair-cloth chairs and feeling himself slide gently forward, “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. But the truth is, there are only three decent hotels in the whole Puget Sound country. But I know”—here he smiled at her again—“that it’s not safe to breathe a word against Puget Sound to a Puget-Sounder.”

“No, it ain’t,” said the girl, responding to the smile and the respectfully bantering tone. Then she moved to the door. “Well, I’ll see what maw says to it,” she said, and vanished.

Mr. C. Daun Diller stood up and pushed his hands down into his pockets, whistling softly. He walked over to the organ and looked at the music. There were three large books: “The Home Circle,” “The Golden Chord,” and “The Family Treasure;” a “simplified” copy of “The Maiden’s Prayer,” and a book of “Gospel Songs.”

The young man smiled.

“All the same,” he said, as if in answer to a disparaging remark made by some one else, “she’s about the handsomest girl I ever saw. I’m getting right down anxious to see myself what ‘maw’ will ‘say to it.’”

After a long while Mrs. Vaiden appeared in a crisply-starched gingham dress and a company manner—both of which had been freshly put on for the occasion. Mr. Diller found her rather painfully polite, and he began to wonder, after paying his first week’s board, whether he could endure two or three months of her; but he was quite, quite sure that he could endure a full year of the daughter.

A couple of evenings later he was sitting by the window in his quaint but exquisitely neat room, writing, when a light rap came upon his door. Upon opening it he found Lavinia standing, bashfully, a few steps away. There was a picturesque, broad-brimmed hat set coquettishly on her splendid hair.

“Maw wanted I sh’u’d ask you if you’d like to see an Indian canoe-race,” she said.

“_Would_ I?” he ejaculated, getting into a great excitement at once. “Well, I should say so! Awfully good of your mother to think—but where is it—when is it? How can I see it?”

“It’s down by the viaduck—right now,” said Lavinia. Then she added, shyly, pretending to be deeply engrossed with her glove: “I’m just goin’.”

“Oh, are you?” said Diller, seizing his hat and stick and coming eagerly out to her. “And may I go with you? Will you take me in hand? I haven’t the ghost of an idea where the viaduct is.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll show you,” she said, with a glad little laugh, and they went swiftly down the stairs and out into the sweet evening.

“You know,” she said, as he opened the gate for her with a deference to which she was not accustomed, and which gave her a thrill of innocent exultation, “the Alaska Indians are just comin’ back from hop-pickin’ down around Puyallup an’ Yakima an’ Seattle, an’ they alwus stop here an’ have races with the Lummies an’ the Nooksacks.”

Mr. Diller drew a deep breath.

“Do you know,” he said, “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything—not for anything I can think of. And yet I should if it hadn’t been for”—he hesitated, and then added—“your mother.” They looked into each other’s eyes and laughed, very foolishly and happily.

The sun was setting—moving slowly, scarlet and of dazzling brilliancy, down the western sky, which shaded rapidly from pale blue to salmon, and from salmon to palest pea-green. Beneath, superbly motionless, at full tide, the sound stretched mile on mile away to Lummi peninsula, whose hills the sun now touched—every fir-tree on those noble crests standing out against that burnished background. A broad, unbroken path of gold stretched from shore to shore. Some sea-gulls were circling in endless, silvery rings through the amethystine haze between sea and sky. The old, rotten pier running a mile out to sea shone like a strip of gold above the deep blue water. It was crowded with people, indifferent to danger in their eagerness to see the races. Indeed, there seemed to be people everywhere; on the high banks, the piers, and the mills scattered over the tide-flats, and out in row boats. Two brass bands were playing stirring strains alternately. There was much excitement—much shouting, hurrying, running. The crowd kept swaying from the viaduct over to the pier, and from the pier back to the viaduct. Nobody seemed to be quite sure where the start would be; even the three judges, when asked, yelled back, as they clambered down to their row-boat: “We don’t know. Wait and see!”

“What accommodating persons,” said Mr. Diller, cheerfully. “Shall we go over to the pier? The tide seems to be running that way.”

“Oh, the tide’s not running now,” said Lavinia. “It’s full.”

Diller looked amused. “I meant the people,” he said.

The girl laughed and looked around on the pushing crowd. “I guess we’d best stop right here on the viaduck; here’s just where they started last year an’ the year before. Oh, see, here’s the Alaskas camped pretty near under us!”

As she lifted her voice a little Diller saw a young man standing near start and turn toward her with a glad look of recognition; but at once his glance rested on Diller, and his expression changed to a kind of puzzled bewilderment. The girl was leaning over the railing and did not see him, but he never took his eyes away from her and Diller.

There was a long wait, but the crowd did not lose its patience or its good humor. There was considerable betting going on, and there was the same exciting uncertainty about the start. The sun went down and a bank of apricot-colored clouds piled low over the snow crest of Mount Baker in the East. The pier darkened and the path of gold faded, but splashes of scarlet still lingered on the blue water. A chill, sweet wind started up suddenly, and some of the girl’s bronze curls got loose about her white temples. Diller put her wrap around her carefully, and she smiled up at him deliciously. Then she cried out, “Oh, they’re gettin’ into the boat! They’re goin’ to start. Oh, I’m so glad!” and struck her two hands together gleefully, like a child.

The long, narrow, richly-painted and carven canoe slid down gracefully into the water. Eleven tall, supple Alaskan Indians, bare to the waist, leaped lightly to their places. They sat erect, close to the sides of the boat, holding their short paddles perpendicularly. At a signal the paddles shot straight down into the water, and, with a swift, magnificent straining and swelling of muscles in the powerful bronze arms and bodies, were pushed backward and withdrawn in lightning strokes. The canoe flashed under the viaduct and appeared on the other side, and a great shout belched from thousands of throats. From camping-places farther up the shore the other boats darted out into the water and headed for the viaduct.

“Oh, good! good!” cried Lavinia in a very ecstasy of excitement. “They’re goin’ to start right under us. We’re just in _the_ place!”

“Twenty dollars on the Nooksacks!” yelled a blear-eyed man in a carriage. “Twenty! Twenty ag’inst ten on the Nooksacks!”

The band burst into “Hail, Columbia!” with beautiful irrelevancy. The crowd came surging back from the pier. Diller was excited, too. His face was flushed and he was breathing heavily. “Who’ll you bet on?” he asked, laughing, and thinking, even at that moment, how ravishingly lovely she was with that glow on her face and the loose curls blowing about her face and throat.

“Oh, the _Alaskas_!” cried the girl, striking little blows of impatience on the railing with her soft fists. “They’re so tall an’ fine-lookin’! They’re so strong an’ grand! Look at their muscles—just like ropes! Oh, I’ll bet on the Alaskas! I _love_ tall men!”

“Do you?” said Diller. “I’m tall.”

They looked into each other’s eyes again and laughed. Then a voice spoke over their shoulders—a kind, patient voice. “Oh, Laviny,” it said; “I wouldn’t bet if I was you.”

Lavinia gave a little scream. Both turned instantly. The young man who had been watching them stood close to them. He wore working-clothes—a flannel shirt and cheap-faded trousers and coat. He had a good, strong, honest face, and there was a tenderness in the look he bent on the girl that struck Diller as being almost pathetic.

The glow in Lavinia’s face turned to the scarlet of the sunset.

“_Oh!_” she said, embarrassedly. “That you, Bart? I didn’t know you was back.”

“I just got back,” he replied, briefly. “I got to go back again in the mornin’. I was just on my way up to your house. I guess I’ll go on. I’m tired, an’ I’ve seen lots o’ c’noe races.” He looked at her wistfully.

“Well,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “You go on up, then. Maw an’ paw’s at home, an’ I’ll come as soon ’s the race ’s over.”

“All right,” he said, with a little drop in his voice, and walked away.

“Oh, _dear_!” cried Lavinia. “We’re missin’ the start, ain’t we?”

The canoes were lying side by side, waiting for the signal. Every Indian was bent forward, holding his paddle suspended above the water in both hands. There was what might be termed a rigid suppleness in the attitude. The dark outlines of the paddles showed clearly in the water, which had turned yellow as brass. Suddenly the band ceased playing and the signal rang across the sunset. Thirty-three paddles shot into the water, working with the swift regularity of piston-rods in powerful engines. The crowds cheered and yelled. The canoes did not flash or glide now, but literally plowed and plunged through the water, which boiled and seethed behind them in white, bubbled foam that at times completely hid the bronze figures from sight. There was no shouting now, but tense, breathless excitement. People clung motionless, in dangerous places and stared with straining eyes, under bent brows, after the leaping canoes. The betting had been high. The fierce, rhythmic strokes of the paddles made a noise that was like the rapid pumping of a great ram. To Diller, who stood, pale, with compressed lips, it sounded like the frantic heart-beat of a nation in passionate riot. Mingled with it was a noise that, once heard, cannot be forgotten—a weird, guttural chanting on one tone, that yet seemed to hold a windy, musical note; a sound, regular, and rhythmic as the paddle-strokes, that came from deep in the breasts of the rigidly swaying Indians and found utterance through locked teeth.

A mile out a railroad crossed the tide-lands, and this was the turning point. The Nooksacks made it first, closely followed by the Alaskans, and then, amid wild cheering, the three canoes headed for the viaduct. Faster and faster worked those powerful arms; the paddles whizzed more fiercely through the air; the water spurted in white sheets behind; the canoes bounded, length on length, out of the water; and louder and faster the guttural chant beat time. The Alaskans and the Nooksacks were coming in together, carven prow to carven prow, and the excitement was terrific. Nearer and nearer, neither gaining, they came. Then, suddenly, there burst a mad yell of triumph, and the Alaskan boat arose from the water and leaped almost its full length ahead of the Nooksack’s; and amidst waving hats and handkerchiefs, and almost frantic cheering—the race was won.

“By the eternal!” said Diller, beginning to breathe again and wiping the perspiration from his brow. “If that isn’t worth crossing the plains to see, I don’t know what is!” But his companion did not hear. She was alternately waving her kerchief to the victors and pounding her small fists on the railing in an ecstasy of triumph.

“Lavin-_ee_!”

“Well?”

“You come right down hyeer an’ help me em’ty this renchin’-water. I’d like to know what’s got into you! A-stayin’ upstairs half your time, an’ just a-mopin’ around when you are down. You ain’t b’en worth your salt lately!”

The girl came into the kitchen slowly. “What you jawin’ about now, maw?” she said, smiling.

“I’ll show you what I’m a-jawin’ about, as you call it. Take holt o’ this tub an’ help me em’ty this renchin’-water.”

“Well, don’t holler so; Mr. Diller’ll hear you.”

“I don’t care ’f he _does_ hear me. I can give him his come-up’ans if he goes to foolin’ around, listenin’. I don’t care ’f he does write for a paper in New York! You’ve got to take holt o’ the work more’n you’ve b’en lately. A-traipsin’ around all over the country with him, a-showin’ him things to write about an’ make fun of! I sh’u’d think Bart Winn had just about got enough of it.”

“I wish you’d keep still about Bart Winn,” said Lavinia, impatiently.

“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to keep still about him.” Mrs. Vaiden poured the dish-water into the sink and passed the dish-cloth round and round the pan, inside and outside with mechanical care, before she opened the back door and hung it out on the side of the house. “I guess I don’t haf to ask _you_ when I want to talk. There you was—gone all day yeste’day a-huntin’ star-fish, an’ that renchin’-water a-settin’ there a-ruinin’ that tub because I couldn’t em’ty it all myself. Just as if he never saw star-fish where he come from. An’ then to-day—b’en gone all the mornin’ a-ketchin’ crabs! How many crabs ’d you ketch, I’d like to know!”

“We didn’t ketch many,” said Lavinia, with a soft, aggravating laugh. “The water wa’n’t clear enough to see ’em.”

“No, I guess the water _wa’n’t_ clear enough to see ’em!” The rinsing-water had been emptied, and Mrs. Vaiden was industriously wiping the tub. “I’ve got all the star-fishin’ an’ the crab-ketchin’ I want, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tell that young man that he can go some’ers else for his board. He’s b’en here a month, an’ he’s just about made a fool o’ you. Pret’ soon you’ll be a-thinkin’ you’re too good for Bart Winn.”

“Oh, no,” said Bart Winn’s honest voice in the doorway; “I guess Laviny won’t never be a-thinkin’ that.”

“Mercy!” cried Mrs. Vaiden, starting and coloring guiltily. “That you? How you scairt me! I’m all of a-trimble.”

Bart advanced to Lavinia and kissed her with much tenderness; but instead of blushing, she paled.

“When ’d you come?” she asked, briefly, drawing away, while her mother, muttering something about the sour cream and the spring-house, went out discreetly.

“This mornin’,” said Bart. “I’m a-goin’ to stay home now.”

The girl sat down, taking a pan of potatoes on her lap. “I wonder where the case-knife is,” she said, helplessly.

“I’ll get it,” said Bart, running into the pantry and returning with the knife. “I love to wait on you, Laviny,” he added, with shining eyes. “I guess I’ll get to wait on you a sight, now. I see your paw ’s I come up an’ he said as how I could board hyeer. I’ll do the shores for you—an’ glad to. An’, oh, Laviny! I ’most forgot. I spoke for a buggy ’s I come up, so’s I can take you a-ridin’ to-night.”

“I guess I can’t go,” said Lavinia, holding her head down and paring potatoes as if her life depended upon getting the skins off.

“You can’t? Why can’t you?”

“I—why, I’m goin’ a salmon-spearin’ up at Squalicum Creek, I guess. Salmon’s a-runnin’ like everything now. ’Most half the town goes there soon ’s it gets dark.”

“That a fact?” said Bart, shifting from one foot to the other and looking interested. “I want to know! Well”—his face brightened—“I’ll go down an’ tell ’em I’ll take the rig to-morro’ night, an’ I’ll go a-spearin’ with you. Right down in front o’ Eldridge’s?”

“Yes.” A pulse began thumping violently in the girl’s throat. Her eyelids got so heavy she could not lift them. “I guess—that is, I—why, you see, Bart, I got comp’ny.”

“Well, I guess the girls won’t object to my goin’ along o’ you.”

“It ain’t girls,” said Lavinia, desperately. “It’s—a—it’s Mr. Diller; the gentleman that boards here.”

“Oh,” said Bart, slowly. Then there was a most trying silence, during which the ticking of the clock and the beating of her own heart were the only sounds Lavinia heard. At last she said, feebly: “You see he writes for a New York newspaper—one o’ the big ones. He’s a-writin’ up the whole Puget Sound country. An’ he don’t know just what he’d ort to see, nor just how to see it, unless somebody shows him about—an’ I’ve b’en a-showin’ him.”

“Oh!” said Bart again, but quite in another tone, quite cheerfully. “That’s it, is ’t, Laviny? Well, that’s all right. But I’ll be hanged if you didn’t take my breath away for a minute. I thought you meant—Laviny!”—a sudden seriousness came into his tone and look—“I guess you don’t know how much I think o’ you. My heart’s just _set_ on you, my girl—my whole life’s wrapped up in you.” He paused, but Lavinia did not speak or look at him, and he added, very slowly and thoughtfully—“I reckon it ’u’d just about kill me, ’f anything happened to you.”

“I guess nothin’ ’s a-goin’ to happen.” She dropped one potato into a pan of cold water and took up another.

“No, I guess not.” He took on a lighter tone. “But I’ll tell you what, Laviny! If that’s all, he ain’t comp’ny at all; so you can just tell him I’m a-goin’, too.” He came closer and laid a large but very gentle hand on her shoulder. “You might even tell him I’ve got a right to go, Laviny.”

The girl shrank, and glanced nervously at the door.

“I wouldn’t like to do that, Bart. After his arrangin’ to go, an’ a-hirin’ the skiff hisself. _I_ don’t know but what he’s got somebody else to go along of us.”

“Why, does he ever?”

“Well, I don’t recollect that he ever has; but then he might of, this time, I say, for all I know.”

There was another silence. Then the big hand patted the girl’s shoulder affectionately and the honest eyes bent on her the look of patient tenderness that Diller had considered pathetic.

“All right, Laviny; you go along of him, just by yourself, an’ I’ll stop home with your paw an’ your maw. I want you to know, my girl, that I trust you, an’ believe every word you say to me. I ain’t even thought o’ much else besides you ever sence I saw you first time at the liberry sociable, an’ I won’t ever think o’ much else, I don’t care what happens. Bein’ afraid to trust a body ’s a poor way to show how much you think about ’em, is my religion; so you go an’ have a good time, an’ don’t you worry about me.” He tucked one of her runaway curls behind her ear awkwardly. “I’ll slip down to the liv’ry stable now, an’ tell ’em about the rig.”

“All right,” said Lavinia.

Her mother came in one door, after a precautionary scraping of her feet and an alarming paroxysm of coughing, and looked rather disappointed to see Bart going out at the other, and to realize that her modest warnings had been thrown away. “Well, ’f I _ever_!” she exclaimed. “Laviny Vaiden, whatever makes you _look_ so? You look just ’s if you’d seen a spook! You’re a kind o’ yellow-gray—just like you had the ja’ndice! What _ails_ you?”

“I got a headache,” said the girl; and then, somehow, the pan slid down off her lap, and the potatoes and the parings went rolling and sprawling all over the floor; Lavinia’s head went down suddenly on the table, and she was sobbing bitterly.

Her mother looked at her keenly, without speaking, for a moment; then she said dryly, “Why, I guess you must have an awful headache. Come on kind o’ sudden like, didn’t it? I guess you’d best go up and lay down, an’ I’ll bring a mustard plaster up an’ put on your head. Ain’t nothin’ like a plaster for a headache—’specially that kind of a headache.”

Bart Winn walked into the livery stable with an air of indifference put on so stiffly that it deceived no one. It was not that he did not feel perfectly satisfied with Lavinia’s explanation, but he was a trifle uneasy lest others should not see the thing with his eyes.

“I guess I won’t want that rig to-night, Billy,” he said, pulling a head of timothy out of a bale of hay that stood near. “I’ll take it to-morro’ night.”

“All right,” said the young fellow, with a smile that Bart did not like. “Girl sick, aigh?”

“No,” said Bart, softly stripping the fuzz off the timothy.

“Well, I guess I understan’,” said Billy, winking one eye, cheerfully. “I’ve b’en there myself. Girls is as much alike ’s peas—_sweet_-peas”—he interjected with a hearty laugh—“in a pod, the world over. It ain’t never safe for a fellow to come home, after bein’ away a good spell, an’ engage a buggy before findin’ out if the girl ain’t engaged to some other fello’—it ain’t noways _safe_. I smiled in my sleeve when you walked in so big an’ ordered your’n.”

Bart Winn was slow to anger, but now a dull red came upon his face and neck, and settled there as if burnt into the flesh. His eyes looked dangerous, but he spoke quietly. “I guess you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Billy. I guess you hadn’t best go any furder.”

Billy came slowly toward him, nettled by his tone—by its very calm, in fact. “D’ you mean to say that Laviny Vaiden ain’t goin’ a-salmon-spearin’ to-night with that dandy from New York?”

Bart swallowed once or twice.

“I don’t mean to say anything that’s none o’ your business,” he said.

“Well, she’s been a-spearin’ with him ev’ry night sence the salmon’s b’en a-runnin’, anyway.”

The strong, powerful trembling of a man who is trying to control himself now seized Bart Winn.

“If you’re goin’ to put on airs with me,” continued Billy, obtusely, “I’ll just tell you a few _fax_! They don’t burn any torch in their boat, an’ they don’t spear any salmon! That’s just a blind. They go off by theirselves—clear away from the spearers, an’ they don’t come back till they see the torches a-goin’ out an’ know that we all’s a-goin’ home. It’s the town talk. Not that they say anything wrong, for we’ve all knowed Laviny sence she was a baby; but it’s as plain as the nose on a man’s face that you ain’t in it there since that dood come.”

A panorama of colors flamed over Bart’s face; his hands clenched till the nails cut into the flesh and the blood spurted; who has seen the look in the eyes of the lion that cowers and obeys under the terrible lash of the trainer will know the look that was in the man’s eyes while the lash of his own will conquered him; his broad chest swelled and sunk. At last he spoke, in a deep, shaking voice. “Billy,” he said, “you’re a liar—a liar! _Damn you!_” He struggled a moment longer with himself, and then turned and hurried away as if possessed of the devil.

But Billy followed him to the door and called after him—“Oh, damn me, aigh? Now, I don’t want I sh’u’d have a fight with you, Bart. I was tryin’ to do you a favor. If you think I’m a liar, it’s a mighty easy thing for you to go down there to-night an’ see for yourself. That’s all _I_ ask.”

Bart went on in a passion of contending emotions. “He’s a liar! He’s a liar!” he kept saying, deep in his throat; but all the time he had the odd feeling that somebody, or something, was contradicting him. A warm wind had arisen, and it beat against his temples so persistently that they felt numb by the time he reached the Vaiden’s. He cleaned his boots on the neat mat of gunny-sacking laid at the door for that purpose, and entered the kitchen. “Where’s Laviny?” he asked.

“She’s upstairs with a headache,” replied Mrs. Vaiden, promptly.

“It must ’a’ come on sudden.”

“Yes, I guess it must.” Mrs. Vaiden spoke cautiously. She was sure there had been a quarrel, and she was afraid her own remark, overheard by Bart, had brought it on.

“Well, I want to see her.”

“Right away?”

“Yes,” said Bart, after a little hesitation, “right away, I reckon.”

Mrs. Vaiden went upstairs, and returned presently, followed by Lavinia. The girl looked pale; a white kerchief bound about her brow increased her pallor; her eyes were red. She sat down weakly in a splint-bottom chair and crossed her hands in her lap.

At sight of the girl’s suffering, Bart knew instantly that he had been doubting her without realizing it, because his faith in her came back with such a strong rush of tenderness.

“Sick, Laviny?” he asked, in a tone that was a caress of itself—it was so very gentle a thing to come from so powerful a man.

“I got a headache,” said Lavinia, looking at the floor. “It came on right after you left. It aches awful.”

Bart went to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. It was a strong hand to be shaking so.

“Laviny, I’m a brute to get you up out o’ bed; but I’m more of a brute to ’a’ believed”—He stopped, and she lifted her eyes, fearfully, to his face. “I’ve been listenin’ to things about you.”

“What things?” She looked at the floor again.