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Ebook has 1851 lines and 115216 words, and 38 pages

THE LAWTON GIRL

New York: Charles Scribner's Sons

THE LAWTON GIRL

This friendly remark was addressed in confidence to a group of three persons at the forward end of the car, who began preparations for the halt as the clanking of the wheels beneath them grew more measured, and the carriage trembled and lurched under the pressure of the brakes. But the cheery grin which went with it was exclusively directed to the two ladies who rose now from their arm-chairs, and who gently relaxed their features in amused response.

Whether the porter was moved only by the comeliness of these faces and their gracious softening, or whether he was aware that they were patrician countenances, so to speak, and belonged to Mrs. and Miss Minster, persons of vast wealth and importance and considerable stockholders in this very railroad, is not clear. But he made a great bustle over getting their parcels down from the racks overhead, and helping them to don their outer garments. He smoothed the rich fur of their sealskin cloaks with almost affectionate strokes of his coffee-colored palms, and made a pile of their belongings on the next seat with an exaggerated show of dexterity and zeal. This done, he turned for a cursory moment to the young man who constituted the third member of the group, peremptorily pulled up the collar of his overcoat to the top of his ears, and was back again with his arms full of the ladies' bundles as the train came to a stop.

"This way, ladies," he said, marching jauntily under his burden toward the door.

"I will bid you good-day, Mr. Boyce," said the elder of the women, speaking with somewhat formal politeness, but offering her hand.

"Good-day, sir," the younger said simply, with a little inclination of the head, but with no "Mr. Boyce," and no proffer of her gloved fingers.

The young man murmured "so delighted to have had the privilege" between low answering bows, and then stood watching the two fur-draped figures move to the door and disappear, with a certain blankness of expression on his face which seemed to say that he had hoped for a more cordial leave-taking. Then he smiled with reassurance, folded up and pocketed his thin car-cap, adjusted his glossy silk hat carefully, and proceeded to tug out his own valise. It was a matter of some difficulty to get the cumbrous bag down off the high icy steps to the ground. It was even more disagreeable to carry it along when he had got it down, and after a few paces he let it fall with a grunt of vexation, and looked about him for assistance. "How much better they do these things in Europe!" was what he thought as he looked.

All day long he had been journeying over a snowbound country--with white-capped houses, white-frozen streams, white-tufted firs, white-mantled fields and roads and hillsides, forever dodging one another in the dissolving panorama before his window. The train drawn up for the moment behind him might have come in from the North Pole, so completely laden with snow was every flat surface--of roof and beam, of platform and window-frame--presented by the dark line of massive coaches. Yet it seemed to him that there was more snow, more bleak and cheerless evidence of winter, here in his native Thessaly, than he had seen anywhere else. It was characteristic, too, he felt, that nobody should appear to care how much inconvenience this snow caused. There was but an indifferently shovelled path leading from where he stood, across the open expanse of side-tracks to the old and dingy d?p?t beyond--cleared for the use of such favored passengers as might alight from the drawing-room section of the train. Those who had arrived in the ordinary cars at the rear were left to flounder through the smoke-begrimed drifts as best they could.

The foremost of these unconsidered travellers were coming up, red and angry with the exertion of carrying their own luggage, and plunging miserably along through the great ridges of discolored snow heaped between the tracks, when Mr. Boyce's impatient eye fell upon somebody he knew.

"Hello there, Lawton!" he shouted. "Come here and help me with this infernal bag, won't you!"

The man to whom he called had been gazing down the yard at the advancing wayfarers. He looked up now, hesitated for a moment, then came forward slowly, shuffling through the snow to the path. He was a middle-aged, thin, and round-shouldered man, weak and unkempt as to face and hair and beard, with shabby clothes and no overcoat. Although he wore mittens, he still from force of habit had his hands plunged half-way into his trousers pockets. Even where it would have been easy to step over the intermittent drifts and mounds at the sides of the tracks, he shiftlessly pushed his feet through them instead.

"Hello, Hod!" he said slowly, with a kind of melancholy hesitation, "is that you?"

Young Mr. Boyce ignored the foolish question, and indicated the valise with a nod of his head.

"I wish you'd get that thing down to the house, Ben. And take these checks for my trunks, too, will you, and see that they're brought down. Where is that expressman, anyway? Why isn't he here, on hand, attending to his business?"

"I don't know as I can, Hod," said the man without an overcoat, idly kicking into a heap of mingled cinders and snow with his wet, patched boots, and glancing uneasily down the yard. "I'm down here a-waitin'--for--that is to say, I've got somethin' else to do. Prob'ly you can get some other fellow outside the deepo."

Mr. Boyce's answer to this was to add a bright half-dollar to the brass baggage-checks he already held in his hand. The coin was on the top, and Ben Lawton could not help looking at it. The temptation was very great.

"Well, you can look, can't you, and do this too? There's no hurry about the things. If they're home two hours hence it will be time enough."

Mr. Boyce settled the question by briskly reaching down for his bag. "All right! Please yourself," he said. "I've got no more time to waste with you. I'll do it myself."

Before he had fairly lifted the valise from the ground, the irresolute Lawton made up his mind. "Put her down again, Hod," he said. "I'll manage it somehow."

He took the half-dollar in his mittened hand, and tossed it gently up and down on the striped blue and white surface of yarn. "It's the first money I've earned for over a week," he remarked, as if in self-defence.

Even as he spoke, a young woman in black who had been wandering about in the d?p?t yard came running excitedly up to him. She gave a little inarticulate cry of recognition as she drew near. He turned, saw her, and in a bewildered way opened his arms. She dropped her bundles and bandbox heedlessly into the snow, and threw herself upon his breast, hiding her face on his threadbare coat, and sobbing audibly.

Mr. Boyce had been entirely unprepared for this demonstration, and looked wonderingly upon the couple who stood in the path before him. After a moment or two of silent inspection he made as if to pass them, but they did not move. The girl still hid her face, although she had ceased to weep, and Lawton bent his head down over hers, with tears in his eyes and his gaze fixed vaguely on the snow beyond her, while he tenderly patted her shoulder with the hand that did not hold the half-dollar.

"All right, then, Ben," Mr. Boyce called out. "If you'll just let me pass, I'll walk on. Have the things there by five."

At the first sound of this voice, the girl raised her head. She turned now, her tear-stained face luminous with a deep, wrathful emotion, and looked at the speaker.

The young man did not for more than an instant try to meet this glance. His cheek flushed and his eyes sought the ground. He lifted his hand with a hurried, awkward gesture toward his hat, made a hasty plunge around them through the snow, and walked swiftly away past the gate into the d?p?t.

The girl's intent gaze followed the retiring Mr. Boyce until he disappeared. Then it shifted suddenly and fell upon the face of Ben Lawton, from whose embrace she had now withdrawn.

The poor man made no effort whatsoever to brave its searching and reproachful inquiry. He balanced the half-dollar on his mitten's edge, watched the exercise with a piteously futile pretence of interest, and looked as if he was about to cry.

"What 'things' were those he spoke of, father?" she asked, after a long pause.

The passengers who had temporarily left the train for the doubtful solace of the refreshment counter were beginning now to return. Some of them jostled past the couple who stood blocking the narrow path; and one of these, a stout and choleric man in a silk skull-cap and a fur-lined overcoat, brusquely kicked the big valise out of the way, overturning it in the snow. Lawton had not found the courage necessary for a complete explanation. He bent over now, set the bag on its bottom again, and made partial answer:

"This is one of 'em."

The heavy train, snow-capped and sombre, began to draw out of the yard. The two Lawtons stood and silently watched it unfold its length--saw first the broad, plate-glass panes of the drawing-room and sleeping cars, with their luxurious shadows and glimpses of well-groomed heads and costly stuffs behind, glide slowly, sedately by; then, more rapidly, the closer-set windows of the yellow, common cars, through the steam on which visions of hats and faces dimly crowded; and last, the diminishing rear platform, with its solitary brakeman vehemently whirling the horizontal wheel of the brake--grow small, then indistinct, then vanish altogether. A sense of desertion, of having been left behind, seemed to brood over the old clapboarded d?p?t like a cloud, darkening the ashen masses of snow round about and chilling the very air.

The daughter looked once more at her father.

"Hope-to-die, Jess, I tried as hard as I could to get out of it--made all sorts of excuses," Lawton pleaded, shrinking meantime from her gaze, and furtively but clumsily slipping the coin into his pocket. "But you know the kind of fellow Hod is--" he stammered here with confusion, and made haste to add--"what I mean is--he--well, he just wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Well, I tell you what, Jess," the father answered, with an accession of boldness, "half-dollars don't grow on every bush up this way. I ain't seen one afore in a fortnight. And to-morrow's Thanksgiving, you know--and then you've come home--and what was a fellow to do?"

The girl turned, as if it were fruitless to say more. Then the necessity for relief mastered her: she faced him again, and ground the words from between her set teeth with scornful sadness:

JESSICA Lawton stood on the sidewalk outside the d?p?t, and waited for the return of her father, who had gone in search of the expressman.

The street up and down which she glanced was in a sense familiar to her, for she had been born and reared on a hillside road not far away, and until her eighteenth year had beheld no finer or more important place than this Thessaly--which once had seemed so big and grand, and now, despite the obvious march of "improvement," looked so dwarfed and countrified in its overlarge, misfitting coat of snow.

She found herself puzzled vaguely by the confusion of objects she remembered with things which appeared not at all to belong to the scene. There was the old Dearborn House, for example, on the same old corner, with its high piazza overhanging both streets, and its seedy brown clapboard sides that had needed a fresh painting as long as she could recollect--and had not got it yet. But beside it, where formerly had been a long, straggling line of decrepit sheds, was reared now a tall, narrow, flat-roofed brick building--the village fire-engine house; and through the half-open door, in which a man and a bull-dog stood surveying her, she could see the brassy brightness of a huge modern machine within. It seemed only yesterday that the manhood of Thessaly had rejoiced and perspired over the heavy, unwieldy wheeled pump which was dragged about with ropes and worked by means of long hand-brakes, with twelve men on a side, and a ducking from the hose for all shirkers. And here was a citified brick engine-house, and a "steamer" drawn by horses!

Everywhere, as she looked, this incongruous jumbling of the familiar and the novel forced itself upon the girl's attention. And neither the old nor the new bore on its face any welcome for her.

In a narrower and more compact street than this main thoroughfare of Thessaly, the people in view would have constituted almost a crowd. The stores all seemed to be doing a thriving business, particularly if those who lounged about looking in the windows might be counted upon presently to buy something. Both sides of the road were lined with rustic sleighs, drawn up wherever paths had been cut through the deep snow to the sidewalks; and farmers in big overcoats, comforters, and mittens were visible by scores, spreading buffalo-robes over their horses, or getting out armfuls of turkeys and tubs of butter from the straw in the bottoms of their sleds, or stamping with their heavy boots on the walks for warmth, as they discussed prices and the relative badness of the various snow-blocked roads in the vicinity. Farther down the street a load of hay had tipped over in the middle of the road, and the driver, an old man with a faded army-overcoat and long hair, was hurling loud imprecations at some boys who had snowballed him, and who now, from a safe distance, yelled back impolite rejoinders.

Among all who passed, Jessica caught sight of no accustomed face. In a way, indeed, they were all familiar enough: they were types in feature and voice and dress and manner of the people among whom her whole earlier life had been spent. But she knew none of them--and was at once glad of this, and very melancholy.

She had done a rash and daring thing in coming back to Dearborn County. It had seemed the right thing to do, and she had found the strength and resolution to do it. But there had been many moments of quaking trepidation during the long railroad journey from Tecumseh that day, and she was conscious now, as she looked about her, of a well-nigh complete collapse of courage. The tears would come, and she had more than once furtively to lift her handkerchief to her face.

It was not a face with which one, at first glance, would readily associate tears. The features were regularly, almost firmly cut; and the eyes--large, fine eyes though they were--had commonly a wide awake, steady, practical look, which expressed anything rather than weakness. The effect of the countenance, as a whole, suggested an energetic, self-contained young woman, who knew her way about, who was likely to be neither cheated nor flattered out of her rights, and who distinctly belonged to the managing division of the human race. This conception of her was aided by the erect, independent carriage of her shoulders, which made her seem taller than she really was, and by the clever simplicity of her black tailor-made jacket and dress, and her round, shapely, turban-like hat.

But if one looked closely into this face, here in the snowlight of the November afternoon, there would be found sundry lines and shadows of sensibility and of suffering which were at war with its general expression. And these, when one caught them, had an air of being new, and of not yet having had time to lay definite hold upon the face itself. They were nearer it now, perhaps, as the tears came, than they had often been before, yet even now both they and the moisture glistening on the long lashes, appeared foreign to the calm immobility of the countenance. Tears did not seem to belong there, nor smiles.

Yet a real smile did all at once move to softness the compressed lines of her lips, and bring color to her cheeks and a pleasant mellowing of glance into her eyes. She had been striving to occupy her all-too-introspective mind by reading the signs with which the house-fronts were thickly covered; and here, on a doorway close beside her, was one at sight of which her whole face brightened. And it was a charming face now--a face to remember--with intelligence and fine feeling and frank happiness in every lineament, yet with the same curious suggestion, too, of the smile, like the tears, being rare and unfamiliar.

The sign was a small sheet of tin, painted in yellow letters on a black ground:

REUBEN TRACY,

Attorney and Counsellor at Law,

Second Floor.

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