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Lonesome Land

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<h2> CHAPTER XIV. A WEDDING PRESENT </h2> Sunday it was, and Val had insisted stubbornly upon going back to the ranch; somewhat to her surprise, if one might judge by her face, Arline Hawley no longer demurred, but put up lunch enough for a week almost, and announced that she was going along. Hank would have to drive out, to bring back the team, and she said she needed a rest, after all the work and worry of that dance. Manley, upon whose account it was that Val was so anxious, seemed to have nothing whatever to say about it. He was sullenly acquiescent—as was perhaps to be expected of a man who had slipped into his old habits and despised himself for doing so, and almost hated his wife because she had discovered it and said nothing. Val was thankful, during that long, bleak ride over the prairie, for Arline's incessant chatter. It was better than silence, when the silence means bitter thoughts. “Now,” said Arline, moving excitedly in her seat when they neared Cold Spring Coulee, “maybe I better tell you that the folks round here has kinda planned a little su'prise for you. They don't make much of a showin' about bein' neighborly—not when things go smooth—but they're right there when trouble comes. It's jest a little weddin' present—and if it comes kinda late in the day, why, you don't want to mind that. My dance that I gave was a weddin' party, too, if you care to call it that. Anyway, it was to raise the money to pay for our present, as far as it went—and I want to tell you right now, Val, that you was sure the queen of the ball; everybody said you looked jest like a queen in a picture, and I never heard a word ag'inst your low-neck dress. It looked all right on you, don't you see? On me, for instance, it woulda been something fierce. And I'm real glad you took a hold and danced like you did, and never passed nobody up, like some woulda done. You'll be glad you did, now you know what it was for. Even danced with Polycarp Jenks—and there ain't hardly any woman but what'll turn him down; I'll bet he tromped all over your toes, didn't he?” “Sometimes,” Val admitted. “What about the surprise you were speaking of, Mrs. Hawley?” “It does seem as if you might call me Arline,” she complained irrelevantly. “We're comin' to that—don't you worry.” “Is it—a piano?” “My lands, no! You don't need a fiddle and a piano both, do you? Man, what'd you rather have for a weddin' present?” Manley, upon the front seat beside Hank, gave his shoulders an impatient twitch. “Fifty thousand dollars,” he replied glumly. “I'm glad you're real modest about it,” Arline retorted sharply. She was beginning to tell herself quite frequently that she “didn't have no time for Man Fleetwood, seeing he wouldn't brace up and quit drinkin.” Val's lips curled as she looked at Manley's back. “What I should like,” she said distinctly, “is a great, big pile of wood, all cut and ready for the stove, and water pails that never would go empty. It's astonishing how one's desires eventually narrow down to bare essentials, isn't it? But as we near the place, I find those two things more desirable than a piano!” Then she bit her lip angrily because she had permitted herself to give the thrust. “Why, you poor thing! Man Fleetwood, do you—” Val impulsively caught her by the arm. “Oh, hush! I was only joking,” she said hastily. “I was trying to balance Manley's wish for fifty thousand dollars, don't you see? It was stupid of me, I know.” She laughed unconvincingly. “Let me guess what the surprise is. First, is it large or small?” “Kinda big,” tittered Arline, falling into the spirit of the joke. “Bigger than a—wait, now. A sewing machine?” Arline covered her mouth with her hand and nodded dumbly. “You say all the neighbors gave it and the dance helped pay for it—let me see. Could it possibly be—what in the world could it be? Manley, help me guess! Is it something useful, or just something nice?” “Useful,” said Arline, and snapped her jaws together as if she feared to let another word loose. “Larger than a sewing machine, and useful.” Val puckered her brows over the puzzle. “And all the neighbors gave it. Do you know, I've been thinking all sorts of nasty things about our poor neighbors, because they refused to sell Manley any hay. And all the while they were planning this sur—” She never finished that sentence, or the word, even. With a jolt over a rock, and a sharp turn to the right, Hank had brought them to the very brow of the hill, where they could look down into the coulee, and upon the house standing in its tiny, unkempt yard, just beyond the sparse growth of bushes which marked the spring creek. Involuntarily every head turned that way, and every pair of eyes looked downward. Hank chirped to the horses, threw all his weight upon the brake, and they rattled down the grade, the brake block squealing against the rear wheels. They were half-way down before any one spoke. It was Val, and she almost whispered one word: “Manley!” Arline's eyes were wet, and there was a croak in her voice when she cried jubilantly: “Well, ain't that better 'n a sewin' machine—or a piano?” But Val did not attempt an answer. She was staring—staring as if she could not convince herself of the reality. Even Manley was jarred out of his gloomy meditations, and half rose in the seat that he might see over Hank's shoulder. “That's what your neighbors have done,” Arline began eagerly, “and they nearly busted tryin' to git through in time, and to keep it a dead secret. They worked like whiteheads, lemme tell you, and never even stopped for the storm. The night of the dance I heard all about how they had to hurry. And I guess Kent's there an' got a fire started, like I told him to. I was afraid it might be colder'n what it is. I asked him if he wouldn't ride over an' warm up the house t'day—and I see there's a smoke, all right.” She looked at Manley, and then turned to Val. “Well, ain't you goin' to say anything? You dumb, both of you?” Val took a deep breath. “We should be dumb,” she said contritely. “We should go down on our knees and beg their pardon and yours—I especially. I think I've never in my life felt quite so humbled—so overwhelmed with the goodness of my fellows, and my own unworthiness. I—I can't put it into words—all the resentment I have felt against the country and the people in it—as if—oh, tell them all how I want them to forgive me for—for the way I have felt. And—Arline—” “There, now—I didn't bargain for you to make it so serious,” Arline expostulated, herself near to crying. “It ain't nothing much—us folks believe in helpin' when help's needed, that's all. For Heaven's sake, don't go 'n' cry about it!” Hank pulled up at the gate with a loud whoa and a grip of the brake. From the kitchen stovepipe a blue ribbon of smoke waved high in the clear air. Kent appeared, grinning amiably, in the doorway, but Val was looking beyond, and scarcely saw him—beyond, where stood a new stable upon the ashes of the old; a new corral, the posts standing solidly in the holes dug for those burned away; a new haystack—when hay was almost priceless! A few chickens wandered about near the stable, and Val recognized them as Arline's prized Plymouth Rocks. Small wonder that she and Manley were stunned to silence. Manley still looked as if some one had dealt him an unexpected blow in the face. Val was white and wide-eyed. Together they walked out to the stable. When they stopped, she put her hand timidly upon his aim. “Dear,” she said softly, “there is only one way to thank them for this, and that is to be the very best it is in us to be. We will, won't we? We—we haven't been our best, but we'll start in right now. Shall we, Manley?” Manley looked down at her for a moment, saying nothing. “Shall we, Manley? Let us start now, and try again. Let's play the fire burned up our old selves, and we're all new, and strong—shall we? And we won't feel any resentment for what is past, but we'll work together, and think together, and talk together, without any hidden thing we can't discuss freely. Please, Manley!” He knew what she meant, well enough. For the last two days he had been drinking again. On the night of the dance he had barely kept within the limit of decent behavior. He had read Val's complete understanding and her disgust the morning after—and since then they had barely spoken except when speech was necessary. Oh, he knew what she meant! He stood for another minute, and she let go his arm and stood apart, watching his face. A good deal depended upon the next minute, and they both knew it, and hardly breathed. His hand went slowly into a deep pocket of his overcoat, his fingers closed over something, and drew it reluctantly to the light. Shamefaced, he held it up for her to see—a flat bottle of generous size, full to within a inch of the cork with a pale, yellow liquid. “There—take it, and break it into a million pieces,” he said huskily. “I'll try again.” Her yellow-brown eyes darkened perceptibly. “Manley Fleetwood, you must throw it away. This is your fight—be a man and fight.” “Well—there! May God damn me forever if I touch liquor again! I'm through with the stuff for keeps!” He held the bottle high, without looking at it, and sent it crashing against the stable door. “Manley!” She stopped her ears, aghast at his words, but for all that her eyes were ashine. She went up to him and put her arms around him. “Now we can start all over again,” she said. “We'll count our lives from this minute, dear, and we'll keep them clean and happy. Oh, I'm so glad! So glad and so proud, dear!” Kent had got half-way down the path from the house; he stopped when Manley threw the bottle, and waited. Now he turned abruptly and retraced his steps, and he did not look particularly happy, though he had been smiling when he left the kitchen. Arline turned from the window as he entered. “Looks like Man has swore off ag'in,” she observed dryly. “Well, let's hope 'n' pray he stays swore off.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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