Читать книгу The Lieutenant's Lady - Bess Streeter Aldrich - Страница 7

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The first of March came in, and now after years of agitation and heated quarreling the old Nebraska territory was a state, for President Johnson, with some delay over civil rights wording, had signed the decree.

Although there was no official celebration, Uncle Henry and a few choice souls solemnized the date later in his back office, the joy of their convivial rites tempered by the knowledge that the capital itself was to be moved from Omaha, the majority of the legislators having so decreed. Uncle Henry told the womenfolks frankly there were times when the majority acted like jackasses, so that they all jumped at the strong language.

The new capital was to be named Lincoln. The irony of the whole thing was that, because the legislators who had led the fight for the removal had been opposed to President Lincoln, those members who wished to keep the capital at Omaha had moved to name the new and as yet unfounded town Lincoln, with the bright thought that the others would oppose a place so named. But the bright idea had backfired, and now this coming summer the committee was to choose the site of Lincoln, the new capital city (according to Uncle Henry’s terse phrase), “in some God-forsaken spot out on the prairie.”

All this bored Cynthia to distraction. “Who cares about the old white capitol on the hill?” she asked irritably. “And state or territory ... I don’t feel one bit different.”

It had been weeks since she had heard from Norman, and she was less worried now than angry.

Linnie spoke her own fears: “Did you ever think that something could have happened?”

“Oh, pooh! Nothing has happened. He just isn’t being nice to me. I’m the one who is doing everything to get ready ... seeing to all my clothes. Or do you think something has happened?” She burst into tears. “Oh, Linnie, I’m so miserable.”

Love was not like that. Love was loyalty. It was deep and abiding. It was like the river under its ice-bound surface, running below. Army wives had to have faith in their men. Army wives had to wait—and watch—and wait some more, without question. Some way she knew intuitively how an army wife would have to be different from other wives.

Suddenly winter returned. All the little streams congealed again as though a giant hand, held up before them, had bade them cease their flowing. The snows came, thick and blinding, and of all the women only strong Swedish Olga and the hard old dressmaker bucked the blizzards.

On an early afternoon with the sun out again from behind deflated clouds, sidewalks cleared and paths partly shoveled, Cynthia went downtown to get more thread and rickrack braid for the sewing. She looked very pretty in her dark mantle, fur-trimmed muff, and winter bonnet with red ribbon against her light hair.

All afternoon Linnie and Aunt Louise basted multitudinous yards of ruffling by hand, and the dressmaker pedaled the new Singer machine. The pale sunshine flickered out, the dressmaker went home, and Cynthia had not come.

Uncle Henry jinglingly arrived in the cutter, coming in the back way, stomping snow. Only a few moments later there was more sleighbell-jingling at the front of the house. Then the big door opened and Cynthia, too, was stomping snow on the threshold of the hall. And George Hemming was with her.

They came on through to the back parlor where George, with no preliminary training in a tactful approach to Aunt Louise, blurted it out: “Get ready for the surprise. We’re married. Meet Mr. and Mrs. George Hemming.” This was the joke supreme.

Cynthia’s voice was a mixture of gaiety and fear. “Yes, it’s true.” She giggled nervously.

The bridegroom laughed, too, but, in the face of Aunt Louise’s pallor, not spiritedly.

Before any one could come out of the awful silence into which the news had thrown them, Cynthia was explaining in a high tense voice: “George is going clear to Chicago to-morrow. The store’s sending him and paying his way. They say no more depending on drummers for everything. He wanted me to marry him and go with him.”

As long as she lived Linnie never would forget the confusion of the hour which followed. Aunt Louise, clutching her heart and taking to the sofa. Uncle Henry, striding about the room, scolding and blowing, apparently more provoked that it had been done in this way than that it had been done at all, reminding them that a lot of people knew about Cynthia’s betrothal and that they could expect unfriendly gossip. George, trying to explain further how the great joke came about. Cynthia, breaking into nervous crying. Olga, coming to the dining-room to set the table and scuttling back to the kitchen and Magnus in excitement. Polly, moved to a frenzy by the commotion, jumping from the perch to the floor of her cage and back again, with her raucous “Ha! Ha! Fit to kill.”

Linnie, standing back of the perturbed family circle, kept thinking of only one thing: what about Norman? While all the loud words surged around and about her like high spring waters, only one thought was uppermost: Norman. One feeling took precedence over all others: sympathy for Norman. Sympathy—and something else. Something new and strangely stirring. Something approaching an exciting light-heartedness.

For a time the storm raged, but gradually Uncle Henry calmed down. While the bride and Linnie were putting hot packs on Aunt Louise, and Olga was frantically trying to change a fried-potato supper into a wedding feast, Uncle Henry began to tell George the news which had just come in that afternoon, about the government buying that hunk of ice up in the corner of the world called Alaska, and saying that all the fools weren’t dead yet.

George laughed so uproariously at Uncle Henry that Uncle Henry swelled visibly, and by the time Olga’s very good meal was over and his new son-in-law had told some funny jokes, Uncle Henry seemed quite affable.

“Well, one thing, Mother.” He settled back in portly comfort. “She won’t be trying to follow the army all around Robin Hood’s barn.”

Aunt Louise, taking her cue from his changing attitude, echoed that she, too, was glad to think her girl wouldn’t have to follow the army all around Robin Hood’s barn. Cynthia flushed and began to talk about something else.

After supper the two girls came together in embarrassed silence in the upstairs hall.

It was Cynthia who broke the strained quiet. “Linnie, I know what you’re thinking.” She clutched at her sleeve. “I’m sorry for Norman. He’ll take it hard, won’t he? But I couldn’t marry them both, could I? And if Norman wouldn’t write to me ... I’m the one that should be angry, shouldn’t I? But I’m not. I still love him. I even think you can love two people, don’t you? But you can’t marry two people, can you? And what do you think George said? ‘All’s fair in love and war, but it’s only the war that’s over.’ Wasn’t that funny?”

Linnie said nothing, only stood looking at the girl who could chatter about a love that was not loyalty.

When she continued her silence, Cynthia went on: “Help me pack, will you? That’s a dear! I’m lucky to have all my new things, but George says when I get to Chicago I can pick out goods for another dress. Linnie, I’d admire to have green this time ... a deep green silk with ...”

Linnie put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and gave them a sudden shake. “Cynthia! You must write him at once ... to-night ... before you go. Spring is almost here. He’ll be waiting for you.”

That paradoxical feeling of sympathy and elation was flooding her. He will take it hard ... but he isn’t Cynthia’s any more. He will be terribly hurt ... but he is free.

Cynthia’s lip quivered and there was a faint suggestion of tears. “Linnie, you write it to him.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”

“Yes, you could. I couldn’t bear to hurt him. And tell him I forgive him for not writing. I just can’t be angry at him now.”

“Oh ... Cynthia ... how could you do it to him?”

“You tell him. Please! And send him back the things he gave me. But stand up for me, Linnie, so he’ll see I couldn’t help it. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

“Oh, Cynthia! Cynthia!”

“Promise me you’ll tell him.”

“I ... promise.”

There was scant time to dwell on the import of Cynthia’s sudden marriage, with all the getting ready and packing for the journey which must follow.

It took many satchels and hatboxes to get Cynthia off, and what with her excitement over finding herself a bride, Aunt Louise’s general bewilderment, and Olga waiting on every one with frantic haste, Linnie was manager of those hurried preparations.

Quite a large group went down to the stage depot to see the newly married couple off. But the stage trip now would be a mere crossing of the ice to the Iowa side and on to the new depot in Council Bluffs. No longer did one have to bounce around in the creaking vehicle all that long trip to Denison. Not a month but made Omaha more like an eastern city, Uncle Henry said.

Cynthia and George were very gay and highly pleased with their new status. Cynthia was all in maroon, with the new broadcloth manteau and matching hat, which ironically she had intended to wear up the river to Fort Berthold. George had a canceled railroad ticket with which he was anticipating fooling the conductor for a time.

Victoria and Virgilla were there and, like the villagers on the green, several of George’s bachelor friends. These with Uncle Henry, Aunt Louise, and Linnie made a fair-sized crowd. It was an extravagant adventure for Aunt Louise, but she would go to bed as soon as she got home. In the midst of the healthy youth of the crowd and Uncle Henry’s animal strength she looked as flat and delicate as one of the velvet pansies on the black bonnet whose ribbon strings, tied behind her ears, accentuated their size.

Uncle Henry was in fine fettle this morning, dominating the scene and carrying on much of the conversation. One might have picked him for the bridegroom.

Just before the stage was leaving, with the frosty air full of good-bys and Cynthia already going up the steps, a peculiar thing happened. Linnie, standing close to Uncle Henry, saw him shake hands with George in farewell, and then for the brief space of a moment sensed something passing between them and overheard a fragmentary conversation about the whole thing turning out well. In reality it was only a gesture and some mumbled words which she could not swear she had heard aright. But, surprisingly, it seemed in that brief second that Uncle Henry and George knew something which no other human being knew.

Over and over on the way home she pondered that flash of understanding she had witnessed, was to do so many times in her life, always wondering but never to know the answer. Did Uncle Henry have knowledge of that sudden marriage before it occurred? So many of the little pieces fitted together. The things he had said about the army. Norman’s refusal to give it up and settle down in Omaha. The time getting close for Cynthia to go. The combination of her stubbornness and indecision. George’s eligibility and his promise of being a money-maker. Uncle Henry’s ability to do things behind closed doors. His stormy attitude when the elopers came home but his almost miraculous change. Not knowing for sure, still the impression was so strong and startling that it gave her a queer feeling of distress and distrust.

The house was very quiet now after Uncle Henry’s and George’s noisiness, with Olga slipping about quietly at her work and Polly sulking on the floor of her cage.

Linnie helped Aunt Louise to bed, picked up debris after the domestic hurricane, and then went to the room she had shared so long with Cynthia and would share no more. Seating herself at the little writing desk, she sat idly looking out toward the river. Poor Norman! What would he think and do? How could he comprehend such disloyalty? She must write the letter at once as she had promised. She could even carry it with her by boat up to Sioux City and send it on to him from there. It would be as though, out of her sympathy and loyalty, she were carrying it personally part-way to him.

As soon as the ice went out she would leave, visit Jessie (the seminary friend), and then go back east. It was really home back there, she told herself, but there was something out here in the new west which held her fancy. She tried to decide just what it was: wide horizons, a sense of lusty growth all about her, the feeling that adventure might be just around the corner. Involuntarily her eyes sought the map on the wall, remembering again a man’s disappointment and bitterness.

She picked up her slim gold pen. To Lieutenant Stafford. Honored Friend. Friend Norman. She tried different openings, could not get started. This message to arrive instead of Cynthia herself! How could one tell him so cruel a thing? Last night she had even thought there might be some pleasure and satisfaction in writing it, but there was neither. And perhaps there was no need for a letter at all. Those many weeks of silence! Perhaps something had happened.

She got up and walked over to the high-boy, standing before the map he had sketched. The long penciled line twisted and turned like the various emotions in a person’s life. Omaha—Sioux City—Fort Randall—Fort Pierre—Fort Rice—Fort Berthold. She read them over so many times that the names became rhythmical like the words of a song.