Virginia of Elk Creek Valley Part 11

Fifteen minutes later, still unperceived and to all appearances quite forgotten, she sat in her chair and watched Aunt Nan and Malcolm go down the lane beneath the cottonwoods, and on toward the foot-hills. They had forgotten her very existence. She was all alone--alone with Mr. Crusoe and the silence. At that very instant Mr. Crusoe again pa.s.sed before the porch--again paused to study the house. This time he held a key in his hand--a large key on a string which he twisted and untwisted as it swung from his big, brown finger. Vivian knew that key. It belonged to the root-cellar just beyond the kitchen, and it hung in Mr. Hunter's office above his desk. She had seen Hannah take it a dozen times, and once Mr.

Hunter had given it to Virginia, asking her to get some papers from a desk he kept down there. Why should Mr. Crusoe want to go to the root-cellar?

Something told Vivian that the time for her to act had come; that only she could save the Hunter fortunes from oncoming disaster. As Mr. Crusoe rounded the farther corner of the porch, and started in the direction of the root-cellar, Vivian ran through the house and into Hannah's spotless kitchen. A new sense of responsibility gave birth to a bran-new sense of courage. Vivian, watching from the kitchen window, saw Mr. Crusoe go into the cellar. That was enough.

Running to Virginia's room, she grasped the little rifle which stood in the corner. It was the only gun in the house which Vivian had ever used, and her one experience with it had not given her a far-reaching knowledge of fire-arms. Still, it was a gun, and guns concealed cowardice, and lent power and dignity to one's bearing. Vivian knew that it was loaded.

Virginia always kept it ready in case a gopher poked his inquisitive little nose above the ground. She knew, too, that a quick push of her thumb would drive back the safety and leave the gun ready to shoot.

She ran down the hall and out the back door toward the root cellar. Her heart was in her mouth, her breath came in gasps, her wide-open blue eyes were filled with terror. When she reached the stone steps leading down to the cellar she looked far less a heroine than a much frightened little girl. Still, there was the gun! Vivian's nervous fingers kept pushing the safety on and off--a rather terrifying sound to the ears of a much surprised man, who, papers in hand, was coming up the steps.

Vivian saw the papers. She was right! Mr. Crusoe had been rifling Mr.

Hunter's private possessions. She raised the gun with a trembling hand.

"Mr. Crusoe," she faltered, "this gun is loaded, and if you try to pa.s.s me, I--I'm very sure I shall shoot you. You sit down there in the cellar and wait for Mr. Hunter."

Mr. Crusoe sat down. He was too surprised to do anything else. He had faced guns many times before in his varied existence, but never had he been confronted by a shaking .22 in the trembling hands of a very nervous young lady. Moreover, the sound of a safety clicking nervously back and forth is not conducive to peace. Mr. Crusoe did not expect Vivian to shoot him, but he did entertain a fear that the gun might go off in his direction and in spite of her. Considering silence the better part of valor, he accordingly sought the farthest corner of the cellar and hoped for the best.

Vivian sat upon the top step, the gun upon her knees. She had not looked for such non-resistance on the part of Mr. Crusoe. Indeed, he looked less fierce than she had ever seen him. Could she have observed the amused smile which was quivering beneath Mr. Crusoe's black whiskers as he began more fully to understand this peculiar situation, she would have been much puzzled. To her, he was a cringing suppliant, and she a distinct conqueror.

Still the minutes dragged themselves very slowly away. It seemed two hours, though it was in reality but ten minutes before conqueror and conquered heard the roll of returning wheels, the sound of voices calling for Vivian, the approach of hurrying footsteps. Mr. Crusoe stirred uneasily. He would have willingly saved Vivian from the embarra.s.sment which he knew was bound to follow, but it had been impossible. Vivian's heart beat wildly. Now, at least, they would understand that she had been right all along; now, perhaps, they would no longer think her such a coward!

Embarra.s.sment did follow! Embarra.s.sment and tears and explanations and not a little ill-concealed amus.e.m.e.nt. For one long hour Vivian, in spite of sympathy and understanding and genuine admiration, wished she had never been born. In that hour she discovered that a finer courage is necessary to admit a mistake and to begin anew than to besiege a hobo in a root-cellar. But she proved equal to the task, and Mr. Crusoe in the part he played showed himself the gentleman he really was. For when Vivian was convinced that Mr. Crusoe had been given the key by Mr. Hunter, that he had been told to fetch the papers, and that he really was trustworthy after all, she dried her tears, donned a fresh middy, and went quite alone to offer her apologies.

She found Mr. Crusoe by the bunk-house. He had shaved in the meantime, and when Vivian saw his clean firm chin, she knew it was partly the whiskers which had made her level the gun at him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Crusoe," she stammered. "You see, I thought you were just a tramp, and at home we are always afraid of them. But I know now you aren't. I know I've been wrong all the time, and--oh, I'm awfully glad the gun didn't go off!"

Mr. Crusoe removed his battered old hat and offered his freshly-washed hand.

"I'm glad, too, Miss Vivian," he said. "If it had, perhaps I couldn't have told you how much pluck I think you've got stored away inside of you. And as for your being suspicious of the likes o' me, I don't wonder a mite.

Only, you see, there are tramps and tramps. To the best of us, I guess trampin' just means followin' roads that lead to shelters--to _homes_, you see! And now you know I'm not the kind you thought I was, this here ranch looks like a mighty good home to me."

"Then you won't go back to Cripple Creek?" asked Vivian. "If I were you I'd stay right here."

"That's what I'm plannin' on," said Mr. Crusoe.

CHAPTER X

A LETTER FROM DOROTHY

"It seems an age, doesn't it, since we've had a real meeting," said the founder of the Vigilantes, "and yet it's only nine weeks ago this very identical day. I guess it's because the places are so far apart and so different. The last time 'twas on the big rock back of the Retreat, and now it's away out here in the Land of our Dreams. Oh, you'll never, never know what it's meaning to me to have you all out here, because it's one of the things you feel inside but can never, never tell!"

"I guess we know," cried Priscilla, "because we're feeling it, too! Every day I think I'll die if I get any happier, but I guess happiness is one of the things you can keep pouring into your heart like love--without its overflowing."

"It's the very same way about pouring it out, too," said Mary. "There's always plenty left like the oil in the Bible story."

"Aren't the mountains way off there blue?" cried Vivian. "I think blue's the happiest color in the world. I'll never say that I feel _blue_ again now that I've seen the mountains."

They had climbed to the summit of Spruce Ridge for their Vigilante meeting--the first formal one they had held since their arrival in Virginia's country. A letter from Dorothy, coming an hour ago, bore the inscription, "To be read at a Vigilante meeting," and in order to be honest to the letter, as well as in spirit, they had decided upon a place apart and a.s.sembled.

"After all, it's better to come away like this, isn't it?" asked Virginia.

"There's a queer, common feeling that doesn't come when we just sit on the porch and talk. And I love this sweep of country from the Ridge. It's real Vigilante land. Now let's have the letter, Priscilla. I'm wild to hear it.

It's the very first we've had in a month."

The secretary of the order broke a large amount of sealing-wax, unfolded sheets of blue stationery, and began:

"'A PIECE OF HEAVEN IN CALIFORNIA, "'Aug. 11,19--.

"'DEAR FELLOW VIGILANTES:

"'I've been trying desperately to write you for weeks and weeks, but you've no idea what the cares of a household are, especially when you have a child around.'"

"A child!" cried all the Vigilantes at once. "What child?"

Priscilla continued:

"'But before I tell you about _Virginia Winthrop Richards_, I must say that the summer is being even more wonderful than Dad and I ever dreamed. I never got so well-acquainted with my own father in all my life, and he's been a perfect darling to devote days and days to me.

The bungalow is more heavenly than ever. It's positively buried in roses and heliotrope, and you'd never know it had a chimney. You'd think that a huge geranium was growing right out of the roof. The front porch looks out upon the sea. Oh, it's such a dark, deep, sparkly blue! And when the sky is blue, too, and the sand is golden, and the white gulls skim next the water--nothing could be more beautiful in all the world! I think of you a hundred times a day, and wish that you were here. So does Dad. I've told him all about the Vigilantes, and he's so interested. He says he's thankful every day that I have such fine friends at St. Helen's. In fact, I just know he's more pleased with me than ever before. I think he sees there's hope ahead, and it's a very comforting a.s.surance.

"'Now I must tell you about Virginia Winthrop Richards. I know you're consumed with curiosity. If you could see her, you'd be consumed with envy. She is seven years old and all pink and white and blue and gold. Her cheeks are just the color of wild roses, and her eyes deep blue--almost like the water--and her hair golden brown with lights in it. I dress her in pink or blue or white all the time. One day two weeks ago Dad and I went to Los Angeles to buy clothes for her. I don't believe I ever had quite such a good time in all my life. 'Twas just like shopping for one's very own child. I put my hair up high for the occasion, and endeavored to look matronly, but I guess I failed, for when I saw a ravishing pink dress and said, "I guess it's too small for my little girl," the stupid clerk laughed in my face.

"'We bought the sweetest things you ever saw! Hair-ribbons and adorable shoes and socks striped like sticks of candy and little fairy night-dresses all trimmed in lace. Then Dad bought some toys. I let him do that. He bought a doll and books and a cart and horses, for we want Virginia to be a trifle boyish, too, you see. While he was doing it, his eyes just beamed and beamed. He said he felt just as he did when I was little and he bought toys for me. When we reached home and showed the things to Virginia Winthrop Richards, I thought she'd die of happiness. Really, I didn't know but that we'd lose her after all!

"'But here I am dressing my child for you, and you don't even know who she is! She wasn't anybody but _Minnie_ and _No. 31_ until three weeks ago. I've always thought it would be a heavy cross enough to be named _Minnie_ anyway, even though you had a respectable surname, but to be _Minnie_ without any surname at all, and _No. 31_ in addition, seem to me the depths of misery. We found her in the Home for Friendless Children, and I'll always believe that an angel led us there! Dad and I went to the city three weeks ago this very Sunday and walked by the Home. We didn't even know 'twas there--just stumbled upon it while we were roaming around in search of adventure.

Poor little _31_ was sitting under a tree on the lawn holding a shingle and singing to it. I'll never forget how she looked. Her curls were braided up tight, and tied with a shoe-string, and she was dressed in a hideous blue-checked thing, but even those drawbacks couldn't spoil her. Dad and I just stopped and stared, and then we walked up the steps and in at the door.

"'"Whose child is that out there on the lawn?" Dad asked the matron who greeted us at the office entrance.

"'She was a tall, stern-looking person in a shirtwaist and a high, starched collar. You just couldn't imagine her holding a baby, or one cuddling up against her neck. She said _No. 31_ was n.o.body's child.

She had been left in an old basket on the steps six years ago. You see, she isn't one of those children you read about with beautifully embroidered clothes and gold lockets and one thousand dollars in bills under her pillow. She didn't have any name or notes or requests for whoever took her to call at the bank for a fortune when she was twenty-one. She was just wrapped in an old blanket and left there.

But Dad and I don't care!

"'When the matron saw that we were interested, she asked if we didn't want to borrow _No. 31_ for a few days. She said they sometimes lent children for two weeks or so. When she said it, she sounded just as though a child were a typewriter or a vacuum cleaner, sent on ten days' free trial. I looked at Dad and Dad looked at me, and then he said, "We'll take her!" It didn't take long for the matron to do up her few clothes and to get her ready. She was so glad to make the loan that she hurried. Little No. 31 was so surprised that she didn't know whether to be happy or not. Perhaps she didn't understand what it was to be really happy, but she knows now! She's positively radiant!

"'I can't explain how it seemed when we brought her home. Somehow 'twas as though we'd just begun to be a _real_ family. She snuggled between Dad and me on the front seat of the car, and kept looking from one to the other of us. I think it was her name that first gave us the idea of keeping her. We couldn't call that adorable child _No.

31_, and we wouldn't call her _Minnie_. Of course we couldn't name a borrowed child, and so after I'd given her a bath, and we'd seen how truly sweet and adorable she was, we decided that at all events she should never, never go back to that Home, which is a satire on the word. At first Dad thought he knew of a fine home for her with some friends of his who haven't any children, but after the ten days' free trial were over we knew we just couldn't give her up. Best of all, Mrs. Shute, the housekeeper, who's been with us all summer, loves her to death, and she's promised to stay right on with Dad, and keep house for him next winter in Los Angeles. So you see Dad has a home and another child, and he's the happiest man in California.

"'He let me do the naming, and, of course, I consulted my child. I couldn't think of anything lovelier than to name her for the two founders of the Vigilantes, and after I'd told her all about you she was pleased as pleased could be. I let her choose between _Priscilla Hunter Richards_ and _Virginia Winthrop Richards_, and she took Virginia and named her new doll _Priscilla_. I wish I could have named her for you and Mary, Vivian, dear, but Dad thought two names were enough.

"'We're the very happiest family you ever saw. Virginia fits in better every day. She's learning such sweet manners--I tell Dad it just shows she must be sweet inside! She's learning to read and to write, too. We have a lesson every morning after breakfast. The other day I bought the pattern of a little dress, and Mrs. Shute helped me cut it out and make it. I never felt so proud in all my life. I'm obliged to be more _vigilant_ than ever, because Virginia does and says everything that I do. The other day I said I should certainly die if I didn't get a letter from some of you, and she was quite frightened. So I guess I'll have to be more moderate in speech after this.

"'There's one thing more I must tell you before I stop. I saw Imogene the other day. Dad and Virginia and I were walking by one of the big hotels here, when an automobile came up to the curbing. You can just imagine how surprised I was when Imogene and Mrs. Meredith stepped out. There was a young man with them whom I didn't like very well. He had a queer way of looking at you, and was over-dressed, I thought.

Imogene looked very handsome, and, oh, loads older! I felt a perfect baby beside her! Mrs. Meredith was just the same, only even more elaborately gowned than she used to be when she visited Imogene.

Imogene was as surprised as I was, I think, though she didn't show it. She and her mother shook hands with me, and she introduced her friend. I was so excited I didn't hear his name at all. She told me she was going to be married at Christmas time, and so wouldn't be back at St. Helen's, and Mr. Whoever-he-was laughed and said Imogene had been to school long enough. Dad and I asked them to tea with us, but they said they were just hurrying through and couldn't come.