The Girl from the Big Horn Country

by Mary Ellen Chase

CHAPTER X—THANKSGIVING AND MISS WALLACE

Going home for the Thanksgiving holidays, though not forbidden, was discouraged at St. Helen’s. The time was very short, there being less than a week’s vacation allowed; and it had long been the custom, unless urgent demands came from home, for the girls to remain at school. It was not at all a hardship, for every one had such a royal good time. Moreover, the fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers and friends of the girls were always welcome, as far as accommodations in the village and at the school allowed; and for years Thanksgiving at St. Helen’s had been a gala season.

This year it seemed even especially lovely. Indian summer had waited to come with Thanksgiving, and every day of the vacation was a golden one. Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop came to spend the holidays with Priscilla; and Mrs. Williams, a sweet, motherly lady, whom Virginia loved at once, came with Jack to see Mary. Virginia liked Jack, too, and the four of them dreamed what Mary and Jack called “vain dreams” of a summer in Wyoming with Donald and Virginia. But the dreams were lovely anyway, and Mrs. Williams said with a mysterious smile that “perhaps they were not all in vain,” which remark straightway inspired the youthful dreamers to build more air-castles.

Virginia liked Mr. and Mrs. Winthrop, also; and her heart beat fast with happiness when Mrs. Winthrop told her how glad she was to have her daughter room with Virginia. Mrs. Meredith, a flashily dressed woman with too many jewels, came for a day to bring the already over-supplied Imogene some new clothes and candy enough to make her ill for a week. Vivian’s mother came, too. She had the same wistful, half-sad expression about her eyes which Vivian had, and Virginia liked her in spite of her silly clothes, and nervous solicitude over Vivian’s every step. There was something pathetic about Mrs. Winters. She might so easily have been so different! And she did truly want Vivian to be the right kind of a girl. If only she didn’t care so much for dress and style, Virginia thought to herself, then she might see that Imogene was not the best roommate for Vivian.

On Thanksgiving morning, an hour before dinner, Virginia was called to Miss King’s room. Wonderingly she crossed the campus to the office, where to her joy she found dear, brisk Aunt Nan, who had run down just for the day to see how her niece was getting along. Apparently Miss King had satisfied her before Virginia entered, for she seemed very proud of the gray-eyed little girl, who was growing taller every week.

“I really need to stay longer to let your dresses down, dear,” she said. “But at Christmas time we’ll have a seamstress, and you can’t grow much in four weeks. Your grandmother and aunt can hardly wait for Christmas, Virginia.”

This made Virginia happier than ever, for she had dreaded Christmas in Vermont without her father. But now it was really something to look forward to, since even grandmother wanted her so much. She and Aunt Nan talked with Miss King for a while, and then walked about the campus until time to dress for dinner. St. Helen’s had changed a good deal since Aunt Nan’s day. There had been only thirty girls then, she told Virginia, and two cottages, King and Willow. As they walked about, the Williamses and Winthrops, together with Anne and Dorothy, joined them, and Virginia proudly introduced Aunt Nan, who made them all laugh with the tales of her experiences and escapades at St. Helen’s years ago.

Then, the bell on the main building warning them, they hurried in to dress for dinner, which The Hermitage girls and those of Hathaway together with their friends were to have at Hathaway. Each year one cottage was hostess to another. This year Hathaway had bidden The Hermitage, Overlook was entertaining West, and King and Willow were celebrating together. It was a merry, happy family that assembled in Hathaway half an hour later. The tables, arranged in the form of a hollow square, were gay with centerpieces of yellow chrysanthemums, and strewn with yellow leaves, gathered weeks before and pressed for the occasion. There were dainty place-cards upon which the Hathaway girls with skillful fingers had drawn and painted pumpkins, log-houses, turkeys, and miniature Pilgrim Fathers and Mothers; and as each found her place at the table, she discovered also a slip of paper with an appropriate Thanksgiving verse. This form of Thanksgiving grace Miss King had originated. “Each one must give thanks for the day,” she always said; and before the table was seated, each read aloud her verse or bit of prose.

Miss King, who, year by year, dined with each cottage in turn, was this year the guest of the proud Hathaway girls. It was she who gave first the grace she had given on each Thanksgiving for many years:

“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.

“Serve the Lord with gladness: come before His presence with singing.

“Know ye that the Lord He is God: it is He that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep of His pasture.

“Enter into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise: be thankful unto Him, and bless His name.

“For the Lord is good; His mercy is everlasting; and His truth endureth to all generations. Praise ye the Lord.”

The others followed. Virginia’s was her favorite stanza from a new poem, which Miss Wallace had read to her only the night before. Miss Wallace must have selected it for her. She looked toward her gratefully, as she read in her clear voice:

“A haze on the far horizon,

The infinite, tender sky,

The ripe, rich tint of the corn-fields,

And the wild geese sailing high;

“And all over upland and lowland

The charm of the goldenrod;

Some of us call it Autumn,

And others call it God.”

Each having read her selection, they sang all together, as on every Thanksgiving Day for thirty years the St. Helen’s girls had done, that old, universal song of praise, which the world will never outgrow:

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,

Praise Him all creatures here below,

Praise Him above ye heavenly host,

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

Then, with a renewed feeling of thankfulness and happiness, every one sat down, and the bountiful dinner was served. Virginia sat between Aunt Nan and Mary, and opposite the Blackmore twins, whose father had come to spend the day with them. He was the jolliest man imaginable, “even though he is a minister,” as Jean Blackmore often said, and kept the entire table laughing over his jokes and funny stories. Virginia mentally compared him with the Rev. Samuel Baxter, and could not resist whispering to Aunt Nan:

“Wouldn’t Dr. Baxter be shocked if he were here?”

“I wish he were!” Aunt Nan whispered back. “Maybe he’d be so shocked he couldn’t get back to Webster!”

They sat for a long time after dinner was over, talking with each other and enjoying the informal after-dinner speeches. As they left the dining-room, and passed into the big living-room to listen to some music, a large automobile stopped at the door, and a tall, white-haired gentleman in a gray overcoat stepped out and was about to ring the bell. But, before he had time, he was seized by a gray-eyed girl in a white dress, who had burst open the door, crying:

“Oh, Colonel Standish! Have you really, really come to see me?”

“Why, Miss Virginia,” said the Colonel, pausing to shake hands cordially with Aunt Nan, “I’ve been having Thanksgiving dinner with that grandson of mine at the Gordon school; and I told my man he must drive around this way to give me just a glimpse of you before taking me back to the city. And how goes everything, my dear? Is the ‘making of you’ progressing?” And he smiled in remembrance of their journey together.

Virginia was so delighted to see him that she could hardly speak.

“I think so, sir. Everything’s lovely anyway. Oh, Priscilla, come here!”

“I wonder if you’re not the girl who knows my grandson?” the Colonel asked Priscilla. “He was telling me he knew a St. Helen’s girl at Vineyard Haven this summer named Priscilla Winthrop.”

“Do you mean Carver Standish, sir? Why, of course, I know him. He taught me to swim this summer. I don’t know why I didn’t think of him when Virginia told me that your name was Colonel Standish,” said Priscilla to Virginia’s delight. To think Priscilla knew Colonel Standish’s grandson!

Then the Winthrops must be introduced, and the Williamses and Anne and Dorothy, together with Miss King and Miss Wallace, until the Colonel declared that he felt quite at home. It seemed about a minute to Virginia before he said that he must go, in spite of entreaties and cordial invitations to share the festivities of the afternoon. But he should come again, he said, and the next time he would bring his grandson. Virginia watched the big car as it disappeared below the hill; and later, as they drove together in the early evening to the station, she told Aunt Nan that the Colonel’s coming had made her day complete.

“Give my love to grandmother, Aunt Nan,” she said, as they told each other good-by, “and kiss her twice for me, if you think she’d like it.”

“I’m sure she would, Virginia,” answered Aunt Nan. “She’s counting the days until Christmas.” And the train that carried Aunt Nan northward left a very happy girl on the station platform.

But of all the happiness which Thanksgiving brought, the loveliest was the opportunity it gave her to know Miss Wallace better. Miss Green had gone to Boston for the holidays, and since The Hermitage was filled to overflowing, Priscilla and Virginia stayed in her room, giving their own to the Winthrops. Miss Green’s room was next to Miss Wallace’s; and since Priscilla was constantly with her father and mother, Virginia, though always asked with Dorothy to join the party, seized the privilege afforded her of being with Miss Wallace. Miss Wallace was also glad, for she loved Virginia. Policy, when school was in session, forbade, with total disregard for a teacher’s preferences, a greater intimacy with one girl than with another; but in the vacation days following Thanksgiving, when Virginia was more or less alone, their friendship grew and ripened into a close understanding between them.

Virginia discovered that Miss Wallace loved her best book friends—“Pollyanna,” Pip in “Great Expectations,” poor Smike in “Nicholas Nickleby,” David Balfour, Sydney Carton, Sohrab, and dear Margaret in “The Cloister and the Hearth.” They spent two lovely long evenings reading together before the open fire in Miss Wallace’s cheery room, and some hours out-of-doors. Also, to Virginia’s great delight, Miss Wallace expressed a desire to learn to ride; and thereupon followed a lesson with Miss Wallace on Napoleon, who, to her inexperienced eyes, was a veritable war-horse.

She was doubly glad and thankful for Miss Wallace’s interest and friendship on the Monday following Thanksgiving. It was the last day of the vacation, and golden like the others. The Winthrop family and the Williamses, together with Anne and Dorothy, had motored to Riverside, twenty miles distant, to take their homeward bound train from there instead of Hillcrest. Virginia had been asked to join the party, but had declined, preferring to ride, and secretly hoping that Miss Wallace might be able to ride also. But Miss Wallace had papers to correct, sorry as she was, and Virginia tried to be content with the sunshine, the black horse, and a thick letter from her father, which the postman gave her as she rode past him down the hill.

Securing her reins to the horn of her saddle, she tore open her letter. So motionless did she sit while she read its contents that the black horse quite forgot he had a rider, and stopped to nibble at the bare, wayside bushes. A few moments later he must have been surprised to feel a pair of arms about his neck, and a head against his mane; but he still nibbled on unconscious that the girl on his back was sobbing, and saying between her sobs,

“Oh, if you were Pedro, you might understand, but you haven’t any heart at all!”

Still he chewed the alder bushes. It was not often that he was allowed to take refreshment when this girl rode him, and he intended to make the best of his advantages. He felt her raise her head after some long moments; but as yet there was no signal for departure. Virginia was reading her letter again through blinding tears.

“I have something to tell you, my clear little daughter, which I know will grieve you deeply,” her father had written. It was this that had at first made her heart stand still. “Still, I feel that I should tell you, for sooner or later you must know. Dear old Jim left us last night to begin life over again Somewhere Else. He had been gradually failing for weeks, but he would not give up his work. Yesterday morning Pedro was taken ill, and Jim refused to leave him, saying over and over again that you had always trusted Pedro to him. He worked over him all day, undoubtedly saving Pedro’s life, and refusing to leave him, even though the other men insisted upon his giving place to them. At night the men left him to eat supper, for he still would not leave his post; and when they had finished and went back to the stable, Pedro was quite himself again, but they found Jim—asleep.

“I think you will feel as I do, dear, that it was like Jim to go that way—faithful to the end. We laid him to rest this morning in the side of the Spruce Ridge, near the great old tree to which you and he used to climb so often, especially when you were a little girl. You will remember how he loved the sweep of country from there. The morning was beautiful and clear—the very kind of day he loved best; and as we carried him up the hill, and laid him to rest, a meadow-lark sat on the stump of a quaking-asp and sang over and over again. That was the only prayer there was—that and our thoughts—but I am sure Jim would have chosen that for his farewell song.”

Virginia could read no more. She pulled the head of the startled black horse away from the alders, and struck him with her spur. He started furiously down the hill, through the pines, and out into the country road. On and on they went, mile after mile, but still in Virginia’s ears rang her father’s words, “Dear old Jim left us last night to begin life over again Somewhere Else.” Jim, the comrade of her life, her trusted friend and adviser, whom she would never see again!

Again she struck the black horse with her spur. But the pounding of his feet on the hard road could not drown her father’s words. And no one would understand, she cried to herself—not even Mary and Priscilla. To them Jim was a dear, interesting old man; to Dorothy a “character”; to Imogene a “common hired helper”! They would not be able to comprehend her grief, just as they had never been able to understand her love for him.

But riding did not help as she had hoped. She would go back. A half hour later she left the horse at the stable, and walked homeward, alone with her grief. She could not bear to see the girls just yet, so she turned aside and followed the woodsy little path that led to St. Helen’s Retreat. It was still there—comfortingly still. She pushed open the door, and entered the little chapel, through whose long and narrow windows the sunlight fell in golden shafts upon the floor, and upon the white cloth that covered the little altar. Obeying something deep within her heart, Virginia knelt by the altar rail; and somehow in the stillness, the beauty and faithfulness of Jim’s honest life overcame a little the sadness of his death.

“Virginia knelt by the altar rail.”

How long she knelt there she did not know, but all at once she felt an arm around her, and heard Miss Wallace’s voice say:

“Why, my dear child, what is it? Come out into the sunlight and tell me. You will take cold in here!”

Together they went out under the pines where the sun was warm and bright; and sitting there, with Miss Wallace’s arms around her, Virginia told of her sorrow, and of dear old Jim, of whom Miss Wallace had already heard. Then she read her father’s letter, and the tears which stood in Miss Wallace’s eyes quite overflowed when she came to the part about the meadow-lark.

“And he loved the meadow-lark so!” sobbed Virginia. “It seems as though that one must have known!”

“Perhaps it did,” Miss Wallace said with dear comfort. “I like to think that birds know many things that we cannot—many of the sweetest things like that.”

“Oh, you’re such a help!” breathed Virginia, the burden upon her heart already lighter. “You see, the others can’t understand why I loved him so. But you just seem to know some way.”

“I think I do know, dear,” Miss Wallace told her as they rose to go up the hill. “I want you always to tell me the things that trouble you, Virginia, and the things that make you glad, because we’re real friends now, you know; real friends for always!”

And even in the midst of her grief, Virginia was happy—happy in the knowledge that she had gained a friend—a “real friend for always.” In the hard days that followed, when so few understood why it was that the merry girl from Wyoming had suddenly grown less merry, that friendship was a tower of strength to Virginia—giving her courage and happiness when she most needed both; and proving, as it has proven so many times, that there is no sweeter, finer influence in life than the mutual helpfulness born of a friendship between a teacher and one of “her girls.”