CHAPTER V.
HIS WIFE'S LETTER.
In the bosom of Rachel's family strange thoughts had been aroused bythat story of Genesee's escape.
They were wonderfully sparing of their comments in her presence; for,when the story came to her of what he had done when he left her, shelaughed.
"Yet he is a horse-thief," she said, in that tone of depreciation thatexpresses praise, "and he sent me his glove? Well, I am glad he had thegrace to be sorry for scattering me over the floor like that. And we oweit to him that we see you here alive again? We can appreciate hisbravery, even say prayers for him, if the man would only keep out ofsight, but we couldn't ask him to a dinner party, supposing we gavedinner parties, could we, Tillie?"
And Tillie, who had impulsively said "God bless him!" from the shelterof her husband's arms, collapsed, conscience-stricken and tearful.
"You have a horrid way, Rachel, of making people feel badly," she said,in the midst of her thankfulness and remorse; "but wait until I see himagain--I will let him know how much we can appreciate such courage asthat. Just wait until he comes back!"
"Yes," said the girl, with all the irony gone from her voice, only thedreariness remaining, "I'm waiting."
The words started Tillie to crying afresh; for, in the recesses of herown bosom, another secret of Genesee's generosity was hidden forprudential motives--the fact that it was he who had sent the guide forRachel that terrible night of the snow. And Tillie was not a good keeperof secrets--even this thoroughly wise one was hard to retain, in hergladness at having her husband back!
"The man seems a sort of shepherd of everything that gets astray inthese hills," said Lieutenant Murray, who was kindly disposed toward allcreation because of an emotional, unsoldier-like welcome that had beengiven him by the little non-commissioned officer in petticoats. "Hefirst led us out of that corral in the hills and brought us back wherewe belonged, and then dug up that dead Indian and started to take himwhere he belonged. I tell you there was a sort of--of sublimity in theman as he sat there with that horrible load he was to carry, that is,there would have been if he hadn't 'cussed' so much."
"Does he swear?" queried Fred.
"Does he? My child, you would have a finely-trained imagination if youcould conceive the variety of expressions by which he can consign acitizen to the winter resort from which all good citizens keep free. Hisprofanity, they say, is only equaled by his immorality. But, ah--what asoldier he would make! He is the sort of a man that men would walk rightup to cannon with--even if they detested him personally."
"And a man needs no fine attributes or high morality to wield that sortof influence, does he?" asked Rachel, and walked deliberately awaybefore any reply could be made.
But she was no more confident than they of his unimpeachable worth.There was the horse-thieving still unexplained; he had not even deniedit to her. And she came to the conclusion that she herself was sadlylacking in the material for orthodox womanhood, since the more proof shehad of his faults, the more solidly she took her position for hisdefense. It had in it something of the same blind stubbornness thatgoverned his likes and dislikes, and that very similarity might haveaccounted for the sort of understanding that had so long existed betweenthem. And she had more than the horse-stealing to puzzle over. She hadthat letter he had thrust in her hand and told her to read; such apleading letter, filled with the heart-sickness of a lonely woman. Shetook it out and re-read it that time when she walked away from theircomments; and reading over the lines, and trying to read between them,she was sorely puzzled:
"DEAR JACK: I wrote you of my illness weeks ago, but the letter must have been lost, or else your answer, for I have not heard a word from you, and I have wanted it more than I can tell you. I am better, and our little Jack has taken such good care of me. He is so helpful, so gentle; and do you know, dear, he grows to look more like you every day. Does that seem strange? He does not resemble me in the least. You will think me very exacting, I suppose, when I tell you that such a child, and such a home as you have given me, does not suffice for my content. I know you will think me ungrateful, but I must speak of it to you. I wrote you before, but no answer has come. If I get none to this, I will go to find you--if I am strong enough. If I am not, I shall send Jack. He is so manly and strong, I know he could go. I will know then, at least, if you are living. I feel as if I am confessing a fault to you when I tell you I have heard from him at last--and more, that I was so glad to hear!
"Jack--dear Jack--he has never forgotten. He is free now; would marry me yet if it were possible. Write to me--tell me if it can ever be. I know how weak you will think me. Perhaps my late ill-health has made me more so; but I am hungry for the sound of the dear voice, and I am so alone since your father died. You will never come back; and you know, Jack, how loneliness always was so dreadful to me--even our boy is not enough. He does not understand. Come back, or write to me. Let my boy know his father, or else show me how to be patient; this silence is so terrible to YOUR WIFE.
"Jack, what a mockery that word looks--yet I am grateful."
This was the letter he had told her to read and give to Stuart, if henever returned; but she gave it to no one. She mentioned it to no one,only waited to see if he ever came back, and with each reading of thatother woman's longings, there grew stronger in her the determinationthat his life belonged to the writer of that letter and her child--herboy, who looked like him. Surely there was a home and an affection thatshould cure him of this wild, semi-civilized life he was leading. Shewas slipping away that almighty need he had shown of herself. She grimlydetermined that all remembrance of it must be put aside; it was such anunheard-of, reasonless sort of an attraction anyway, and if she reallyhad any influence over him, it should be used to make him answer thatletter as it should be answered, and straighten out the strange puzzlesin it. All this she determined she would tell him--when he got back.
Told in the Hills: A Novel Page 24
