The hardest part of all that letter, I found, was the ending of it. It took me a long time to decide just what to sign myself, just how to pilot my pen between the rocks of candor and dignity. So I ended up by signing it “Chaddie” and nothing more, for already the fires of emotion had cooled and a perplexed little reaction of indifferency had set in. It was only a surface-stir, but it was those surface-stirs, I remembered, which played such a lamentably important part in life.
When Whinstane Sandy came in at noon for his dinner, a full quarter of an hour ahead of Peter, I had his meal all ready for him by the time he had watered and fed his team. I cut that meal short, in fact, by handing him my carefully sealed letter and telling him I wanted him to take it straight over to Casa Grande.
I knew by his face as I helped him hitch Water-Light to the buckboard—for Whinnie’s foot makes it hard for him to ride horseback—that he nursed a pretty respectable inkling of the situation. He offered no comments, and he even seemed averse to having his eye meet mine, but he obviously knew what he knew.
He was off with a rattle of wheels and a drift of trail-dust even before Peter and his cool amending eyes arrived at the shack to “stoke up” as he expresses it. I tried to make Peter believe that nothing was wrong, and cavorted about with Bobs, and was able to laugh when Dinkie got some of the new marmalade in his hair, and explained how we’d have to take our mower-knives over to Teetzel’s to have them ground, and did my best to direct silent reproofs at the tight-lipped and tragic-eyed Struthers, who moved about like a head-mourner not unconscious of her family obligations. But Peter, I suspect, sniffed something untoward in the air, for after a long study of my face—which made me color a little, in spite of myself—he became about as abstracted and solemn-eyed as Struthers herself.
To my dying day I shall never forget that wait for Whinnie to come back. It threatened to become an endless one. I felt like Bluebeard’s wife up in the watch tower—no, it was her Sister Anne, wasn’t it, who anxiously mounted the tower to search for the first sign of deliverance? At any rate I felt like Luck—now before the Relief, or a prisoner waiting for the jury to file in, or a gambler standing over an invisible roulette-table and his last throw, wondering into what groove the little ivory ball was to run. And when Whinnie finally appeared his seamed old face wore such a look of dour satisfaction that for a weak flutter or two of the heart I thought he’d brought Dinky-Dunk straight back with him.
But that hope didn’t live long.
“Your maun’s awa’,” said Whinnie, with quite unnecessary curtness, as he held my own letter out to me.
“He’s away?” I echoed in a voice that was just a wee bit trembly, as I took the note from Whinnie, “what do you mean by away?”
“He left three hours ago for Chicago,” Whinstane Sandy retorted, still with that grim look of triumph in his gloomy old eyes.
“But what could be taking him to Chicago?” I rather weakly inquired.