The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains by Owen Wister (beach read book txt) 📗

listen to nothing but that; for, my dear, I know your choice would be worthy of the Starks. And now—let me see his picture.”

“Why, aunty!” said Molly.

“Well, I won't pretend to be supernatural,” said the aunt, “but I thought you kept one back when you were showing us those Western views last night.”

Now this was the precise truth. Molly had brought a number of photographs from Wyoming to show to her friends at home. These, however, with one exception, were not portraits. They were views of scenery and of cattle round-ups, and other scenes characteristic of ranch life. Of young men she had in her possession several photographs, and all but one of these she had left behind her. Her aunt's penetration had in a way mesmerized the girl; she rose obediently and sought that picture of the Virginian. It was full length, displaying him in all his cow-boy trappings,—the leathern chaps, the belt and pistol, and in his hand a coil of rope.

Not one of her family had seen it, or suspected its existence. She now brought it downstairs and placed it in her aunt's hand.

“Mercy!” cried the old lady.

Molly was silent, but her eye grew warlike.

“Is that the way—” began the aunt. “Mercy!” she murmured; and she sat staring at the picture.

Molly remained silent.

Her aunt looked slowly up at her. “Has a man like that presumed—”

“He's not a bit like that. Yes, he's exactly like that,” said Molly. And she would have snatched the photograph away, but her aunt retained it.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose there are days when he does not kill people.”

“He never killed anybody!” And Molly laughed.

“Are you seriously—” said the old lady.

“I almost might—at times. He is perfectly splendid.”

“My dear, you have fallen in love with his clothes.”

“It's not his clothes. And I'm not in love. He often wears others. He wears a white collar like anybody.”

“Then that would be a more suitable way to be photographed, I think. He couldn't go round like that here. I could not receive him myself.”

“He'd never think of such a thing. Why, you talk as if he were a savage.”

The old lady studied the picture closely for a minute. “I think it is a good face,” she finally remarked. “Is the fellow as handsome as that, my dear?”

More so, Molly thought. And who was he, and what were his prospects? were the aunt's next inquiries. She shook her head at the answers which she received; and she also shook her head over her niece's emphatic denial that her heart was lost to this man. But when their parting came, the old lady said: “God bless you and keep you, my dear. I'll not try to manage you. They managed me—” A sigh spoke the rest of this sentence. “But I'm not worried about you—at least, not very much. You have never done anything that was not worthy of the Starks. And if you're going to take him, do it before I die so that I can bid him welcome for your sake. God bless you, my dear.”

And after the girl had gone back to Bennington, the great-aunt had this thought: “She is like us all. She wants a man that is a man.” Nor did the old lady breathe her knowledge to any member of the family. For she was a loyal spirit, and her girl's confidence was sacred to her.

“Besides,” she reflected, “if even I can do nothing with her, what a mess THEY'D make of it! We should hear of her elopement next.”

So Molly's immediate family never saw that photograph, and never heard a word from her upon this subject. But on the day that she left for Bear Creek, as they sat missing her and discussing her visit in the evening, Mrs. Bell observed: “Mother, how did you think she was?”—“I never saw her better, Sarah. That horrible place seems to agree with her.”—“Oh, yes, agree. It seemed to me—“—“Well?”—“Oh, just somehow that she was thinking.”—“Thinking?”—“Well, I believe she has something on her mind.”—“You mean a man,” said Andrew Bell.—“A man, Andrew?”—“Yes, Mrs. Wood, that's what Sarah always means.”

It may be mentioned that Sarah's surmises did not greatly contribute to her mother's happiness. And rumor is so strange a thing that presently from the malicious outside air came a vague and dreadful word—one of those words that cannot be traced to its source. Somebody said to Andrew Bell that they heard Miss Molly Wood was engaged to marry a RUSTLER.

“Heavens, Andrew!” said his wife; “what is a rustler?”

It was not in any dictionary, and current translations of it were inconsistent. A man at Hoosic Falls said that he had passed through Cheyenne, and heard the term applied in a complimentary way to people who were alive and pushing. Another man had always supposed it meant some kind of horse. But the most alarming version of all was that a rustler was a cattle thief.

Now the truth is that all these meanings were right. The word ran a sort of progress in the cattle country, gathering many meanings as it went. It gathered more, however, in Bennington. In a very few days, gossip had it that Molly was engaged to a gambler, a gold miner, an escaped stage robber, and a Mexican bandit; while Mrs. Flynt feared she had married a Mormon.

Along Bear Creek, however, Molly and her “rustler” took a ride soon after her return. They were neither married nor engaged, and she was telling him about Vermont.

“I never was there,” said he. “Never happened to strike in that direction.”

“What decided your direction?”

“Oh, looking for chances. I reckon I must have been more ambitious than my brothers—or more restless. They stayed around on farms. But I got out. When I went back again six years afterward, I was twenty. They was talking about the same old things. Men of twenty-five and thirty—yet just sittin' and talkin' about the same old things. I told my mother about what I'd seen here and there, and she liked it, right to her death. But the others—well, when I found this whole world was hawgs and turkeys to them, with a little gunnin' afteh small game throwed in, I put on my hat one mawnin' and told 'em maybe when I was fifty I'd look in on 'em again to see if they'd got any new subjects. But they'll never. My brothers don't seem to want chances.”

“You have lost a good many yourself,” said Molly.

“That's correct.”

“And yet,” said she, “sometimes I think you know a great deal more than I ever shall.”

“Why, of course I do,” said he, quite simply. “I have earned my living since I was fourteen. And that's from old Mexico to British Columbia. I have never stolen or begged a cent. I'd not want yu' to know what I know.”