Part 26 (1/2)

”Yours &c. L. McLEAN.”

This seemed to point but one way; and (uncharitable though it sound) that this girl, so close upon bereavement, should be able to give herself to a lover was distasteful to me.

But, most extraordinary, Lin had gone away without a word to her, and she was left as plainly in the dark as myself. After her first frank surprise at learning of his departure, his name did not come again from her lips, at any rate to me. Good Mrs. Pierce dropped a word one day as to her opinion of men who deceive women into expecting something from them.

”Let us talk straight,” said I. ”Do you mean that Miss Buckner says that, or that you say it?”

”Why, the poor thing says nothing!” exclaimed the lady. ”It's like a man to think she would. And I'll not say anything, either, for you're all just the same, except when you're worse; and that Lin McLean is going to know what I think of him next time we meet.”

He did. On that occasion the kind old dame told him he was the best boy in the country, and stood on her toes and kissed him. But meanwhile we did not know why he had gone, and Jessamine (though he was never subtle or cruel enough to plan such a thing) missed him, and thus in her loneliness had the chance to learn how much he had been to her.

Though pressed to stay indefinitely beneath Mrs. Pierce's hospitable roof, the girl, after lingering awhile, and going often to that nook in the hill by Riverside, took her departure. She was restless, yet clung to the neighborhood. It was with a wrench that she fixed her going when I told her of my own journey back to the railroad. In Buffalo she walked to the court-house and stood a moment as if bidding this site of one life-memory farewell, and from the stage she watched and watched the receding town and mountains. ”It's awful to be leaving him!” she said.

”Excuse me for acting so in front of you.” With the poignant emptiness overcoming her in new guise, she blamed herself for not waiting in Illinois until he had been sent to Joliet, for then, so near home, he must have gone with her.

How could I tell her that Nate's death was the best end that could have come to him? But I said: ”You know you don't think it was your fault.

You know you would do the same again.” She listened to me, but her eyes had no interest in them. ”He never knew pain,” I pursued, ”and he died doing the thing he liked best in the world. He was happy and enjoying himself, and you gave him that. It's bad only for you. Some would talk religion, but I can't.”

”Yes,” she answered, ”I can think of him so glad to be free. Thank you for saying that about religion. Do you think it's wicked not to want it--to hate it sometimes? I hope it's not. Thank you, truly.”

During our journey she summoned her cheerfulness, and all that she said was wholesome. In the robust, coa.r.s.e soundness of her fibre, the wounds of grief would heal and leave no sickness--perhaps no higher sensitiveness to human sufferings than her broad native kindness already held. We touched upon religion again, and my views shocked her Kentucky notions, for I told her Kentucky locked its religion in an iron cage called Sunday, which made it very savage and fond of biting strangers.

Now and again I would run upon that vein of deep-seated prejudice that was in her character like some fine wire. In short, our disagreements brought us to terms more familiar than we had reached hitherto. But when at last Separ came, where was I? There stood Mr. McLean waiting, and at the suddenness of him she had no time to remember herself, but stepped out of the stage with such a smile that the ardent cow-puncher flushed and beamed.

”So I went away without telling you goodbye!” he began, not wisely.

”Mrs. Pierce has been circulating war talk about me, you bet!”

The maiden in Jessamine spoke instantly. ”Indeed? There was no special obligation for you to call on me, or her to notice if you didn't.”

”Oh!” said Lin, crestfallen. ”Yu' sure don't mean that?”

She looked at him, and was compelled to melt. ”No, neighbor, I don't mean it.”

”Neighbor!” he exclaimed; and again, ”Neighbor,” much pleased. ”Now it would sound kind o' pleasant if you'd call me that for a steady thing.”

”It would sound kind of odd, Mr. McLean, thank you.”

”Blamed if I understand her,” cried Lin. ”Blamed if I do. But you're going to understand me sure quick!” He rushed inside the station, spoke sharply to the agent, and returned in the same tremor of elation that had pushed him to forwardness with his girl, and with which he seemed near bursting. ”I've been here three days to meet you. There's a letter, and I expect I know what's in it. Tubercle has got it here.” He took it from the less hasty agent and thrust it in Jessamine's hand. ”You needn't to fear. Please open it; it's good news this time, you bet!”

He watched it in her hand as the boy of eight watches the string of a Christmas parcel he wishes his father would cut instead of so carefully untie. ”Open it,” he urged again. ”Keeping me waiting this way!”

”What in the world does all this mean?” cried Jessamine, stopping short at the first sentence.

”Read,” said Lin.

”You've done this!” she exclaimed.

”Read, read!”

So she read, with big eyes. It was an official letter of the railroad, written by the division superintendent at Edgeford. It hoped Miss Buckner might feel like taking the position of agent at Separ. If she was willing to consider this, would she stop over at Edgeford, on her way east, and talk with the superintendent? In case the duties were more than she had been accustomed to on the Louisville and Nashville, she could continue east with the loss of only a day. The superintendent believed the salary could be arranged satisfactorily. Enclosed please to find an order for a free ride to Edgeford.

Jessamine turned her wondering eyes on Lin. ”You did do this,” she repeated, but this time with extraordinary quietness.