Part 6 (2/2)

”I will tell you on the way home.”

When they had come down into the neighborhood of ranches, and Bisuka's lights were twinkling below them, she asked: ”Who lives now in the grandfather's house on the Hudson?”

”The farmer, Chauncey Dunlop.”

”Is there any other house on the place?”

”Yes. Mother built a new one on the Ridge some years ago.”

”What sort of a house is it?”

”It was called a good house once; but now it's rather everything it shouldn't be. It was one of the few rash things mother ever did; build a house for her children while they were children. Now she will not change it. She says we shall build for ourselves, how and where we please.

Stone Ridge is her shop. Of course, if Chrissy liked it--But Chrissy considers it a 'hole.' Mother goes up there and indulges in secret orgies of economy; one man in the stable, one in the garden--'Economy has its pleasures for all healthy minds.'”

”Economy is as delicious as bread and b.u.t.ter after too much candy. I should love to go up to Stone Ridge and wear out my old clothes. Did any one tell me that place would some day be yours?”

”It will be my wife's on the day we are married.”

”That is where your wife, sir, would like to live.”

”It is a stony Garden, dear! The summer people have their places nearer the river. Our land lies back, with no view but hills. For one who has the world before her where to choose, it strikes me she has picked out a very humble Paradise.”

”Did you think my idea was to travel--a poor army girl who spends her life in trunks? Do we ever buy a book or frame a picture without thinking of our next move? As for houses, who am I that I should be particular? In the Army's House are many mansions, but none that we can call our own. Oh, I'm very primitive; I have the savage instinct to gather sticks and stones, and get a roof over my head before winter sets in.”

To such a speech as this there was but one obvious answer, as she rode at his side, her appealing slenderness within reach of his arm. It did not matter what thousands he proposed to spend upon the roof that should cover her; it was the same as if they were planning a hut of tules or a burrow in the snow.

”It is a poor man's country,” he said; ”stony hillsides, stony roads lined with stone fences. The chief crop of the country is ice and stone.

In one of my grandfather's fields there is a great cairn which Adam Bogardus, they say, picked up, stone by stone, with his bare hands, and carted there when he was fourteen years old. We will build them into the walls of our new house for a blessing.”

”No,” said Moya. ”We will let sleeping stones lie!”

VII

MARKING TIME

There was impatience at the garrison for news that the hunters had started. Every day's delay at Challis meant an abridgment of the bridegroom's leave, and the wedding was now but a fortnight away. It began to seem preposterous that he should go at all, and the colonel was annoyed with himself for his enthusiasm over the plan in the first place. Mrs. Bogardus's watchfulness of dates told the story of her thoughts, but she said nothing.

”Mamsie is restless,” said Christine, putting an arm around her mother's solid waist and giving her a tight little hug apropos of nothing. ”I believe it's another case of 'mail-time fever.' The colonel says it comes on with Moya every afternoon about First Sergeant's call. But Moya is cunning. She goes off and pretends she isn't listening for the bugle.”

”'First Sergeant or Second,' it's all one to me,” said Mrs. Bogardus. ”I never know one call from another, except when the gun goes off.”

”Mamsie! 'When the gun goes off!' What a civilian way of talking. You are not getting on at all with your military training. Now let me give you some useful information. In two seconds the bugle will call the first sergeant--of each company--to the adjutant's office, and there he'll get the mail for his men. The orderly trumpeter will bring it to the houses on the line, and the colonel's orderly--beautiful creature!

There he goes! How I wish we could take him home with us and have him in our front hall. Fancy the feelings of the maids! And the rage on the n.o.ble brow of Parkins--awful Parkins. I should like to give his pride a b.u.mp.”

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