Читать книгу Goose Creek Folks - Isabel Graham Bush - Страница 5

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Joe Bradshaw was a member of the little party which set forth early the next morning with renewed expectations. Not a cloud hovered in the deep blue of the sky as they followed the devious trails across the mountains and along the foothills, valleyward. At the end of ten miles they reached the railroad. It was the first all but three of the party had ever seen. The horse the two girls were riding shied in terror at sight of the monster puffing forth clouds of smoke and steam. The passengers in the coaches looked curiously out at the bright, young faces shadowed by white sunbonnets. Gincy clung to Talitha and drew a long breath of relief as bell and whistle sounded and the train swept on, its rumble and roar re-echoing among the hills.

After that, the rest of the way seemed short indeed, so near were the travellers to their journey’s end. Every few miles now were homes which bore evidences of a thrift and energy which had not yet penetrated far into the mountains. One by one the stars came out, and a full moon climbed over the ridge and made a silvery, elusive pathway across the foothills. Another turn in the trail, and presently the foot-sore pilgrims came to a smooth pike. A half-hour later they looked upon shadowy roofs among tall trees where lights twinkled faintly in the radiance of the moon.

Martin and Joe hurried ahead along the street sure of a welcome, and they were not disappointed.

“Here are our two standbys again, and they didn’t come alone, either,” greeted the secretary with a hearty shake of the hand as the boys entered the office.

The girls were taken in charge by the dean, who whisked them off to the dining-room for a late supper. After that, with much contriving, they were stowed comfortably away for the night.

“You’d better go straight to sleep,” admonished Talitha. “Half-past five will come before you know it and then the rising bell rings. I expect we’ll feel pretty stiff for a day or two.”

Gincy only murmured a drowsy reply. She was already dreaming a beautiful dream, quite unaware of what Mrs. Donnelly, the dean, was saying to Miss Howard, her assistant.

“I don’t see how we can keep the girl who came with Talitha Coyle. We are overflowing already. Two beds in every room upstairs—”

“Can’t we manage some way?” urged Miss Howard for the tenth time that day. “She’s a bright little thing. If she were only a boy now, and yet the boys are coming in at a great rate this year; it’s wonderful!”

“Let me think.” The dean’s smooth forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “Well,” with a sudden inspiration, “if that girl from Kerby Knob doesn’t put in an appearance—she wrote me that her mother was sick and she was afraid she couldn’t—I’ll keep Gincy, but if Urilla does come back we shall be obliged to give her precedence because she will be a junior this year.”

So the matter rested, and blissfully ignorant of the fact that her good fortune was another girl’s misfortune, Gincy arose in the morning supremely happy. She was not to remain long a stranger, for Talitha was a person who made friends—hosts of them—she had such a way of forgetting Talitha Coyle, and in a few hours they were Gincy’s also. She laughed and chatted among the girls as she helped wipe the great stacks of dishes after the early breakfast. There were no lessons yet, but when the morning’s work was done and the services at the chapel over, Kizzie Tipton proposed a walk.

“You know the dean said you needn’t hurry to get registered,” added her new friend. “I’ll meet you on the front porch in five minutes,” and Kizzie ran to her room.

Gincy opened the hall door also in haste. She had thought of something she wished to say to Talitha—who was just going down the steps with her books—and nearly ran against a tall, pale-faced girl carrying a heavy handbag. “Oh!” Gincy ejaculated with a swift glance at the wan face. “Jest let me ketch a holt. I ’most tuk you down, I reckon.”

The weary eyes brightened. “You’re a new girl,” asserted the late arrival confidently as Gincy deposited the baggage in a corner of the hall.

“Yes,” she nodded, “I reckon I be, but I don’t seem ter sense hit much. Hit’s the nicest place I ever see fer findin’ friends,” and Gincy disappeared with a parting smile.

The newcomer sat down in thoughtful silence, forgetting that she had not made known her arrival to the dean. But that lady chanced to espy her from the top of the stairs and slowly descended, inwardly determined that her face should not reveal her embarrassment.

“Well, Urilla, you succeeded in getting here after all,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the girl, rising respectfully. “Mother’s able to sit up most of the time, and she wouldn’t hear to my staying home now Sally’s big enough to help. If I can only manage to stay another year.” Urilla gave a long sigh.

The girl was sent to her room to get a little rest before dinner, and Gincy, returning from her walk in a high state of exuberance, was called to the office.

Two hours later, Talitha came unexpectedly upon Mrs. Donnelly. “I have been looking for you,” said that lady soberly.—It was a very difficult thing she had to do.—“I am very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, but we shall be obliged to send Gincy home—”

“Send her home!” echoed Talitha in amazement, turning pale and trembling.

“Yes, Urilla Minter has come back, and there isn’t room for both of them; we’re crowded beyond the limit now. I’ve done my best, but not a place can be found for her. I’ll keep her name on the books so she will have an opportunity to come back next year.” Mrs. Donnelly’s heart was sore at parting with one of her flock who was so eager for an education. There were tears in her eyes as she turned away.

Talitha wandered out to a seat on the campus to think over the dreadful tidings. Gincy going home after working so hard all the summer to come! This would be her last chance, for Dan Gooch would never get over her being sent back, and he would hate the Coyles because Gincy would not have thought of attending the school had it not been for Talitha. All the beautiful, rosy clouds which had glorified the morning sky faded, leaving it dull and grey.

Gincy must not go home; that Talitha instantly decided, but—The girl sat for a long time struggling with herself, her hands clasped over the precious little pile of books in her lap. She was in a far corner, unnoticed by the merry bands of students passing back and forth. She could hear their laughter and happy chatter. Oh, it was hard, so hard!

At last, Talitha rose quickly as though she were afraid her courage might vanish, and hastened to the hall and straight to Mrs. Donnelly’s room. “I’ve come to tell you,” she began breathlessly, with a little tremor in her voice, “that I’ve—I’ve decided to go home. Gincy can stay, then. She mustn’t go, Mrs. Donnelly, she’s been workin’ and lottin’ on it all summer and her folks wouldn’t ever let her come back again. I’ll go and you’ll give her my place, won’t you?”

The dean never forgot the pleading face lifted to hers. It was white and the lips were trembling, but the light of a heroic, self-sacrificing spirit shone in the dark eyes. “Oh, my child,” protested the woman, “I can’t bear to think of your going home. If I could only plan some way, but I’ve tried and tried.”

“I know it,” nodded Talitha, “but I never once thought there wouldn’t be room for everybody who wanted to come. Anyway, I’m glad Gincy’s going to have a chance. You ought to hear her sing, Mrs. Donnelly. And if you’ll sort o’ mother her a little I’ll be real thankful. Gincy’s never been away from home before, and her folks were going to feel so easy because I was with her. Don’t feel bad, it couldn’t be helped, I reckon, and maybe I’ll come back next year.”

Talitha’s heart was heavy indeed as she climbed the stairs to her room. She found Gincy in a corner weeping piteously over the few belongings gathered in a little heap. Talitha knelt beside her and put an arm tenderly around the thin, bowed shoulders.

“Put your things right back, Gincy,” she said, “you’re going to stay after all. I’ve just seen Mrs. Donnelly.”

Gincy looked up in astonishment that at first was too great for words. “You don’t mean hit?” she gasped at last, clutching her friend’s arm.

“Sure I do,” Talitha nodded with a smile. Her own burden lightened wonderfully at the sight of Gincy’s radiant face and suddenly dried tears. She left the girl putting her belongings back in drawers and closet with a joyful haste. Gincy had not even inquired how this transformation had been wrought; it was enough for her to know that she was not to be sent home.

Talitha’s next duty was to find Martin and make known her resolution. After a long search he was discovered in the library with a pile of reference books before him. He looked up with shining eyes. She knew how he rejoiced in the opportunity for another year’s work. It would take away half his pleasure to learn that she would not be there to share it, still she was confident that he would see the wisdom of her resolve. At a sign from her he followed wonderingly out back of the building to a seat under one of the large trees of the campus where they would be unnoticed.

“How’s Gincy coming on? She isn’t getting homesick a’ready, is she?” he inquired.

“Gincy! Not much; she’s pleased as can be with everything here. That’s what I came to see you about.” Talitha paused and looked down at her folded hands, while Martin sat staring at her in bewilderment. “Mrs. Donnelly came to see me this morning,” she went on presently. “She told me that Gincy must go home, that there is no place for her. So many girls have come this fall the rooms are crowded.”

“Go home!” repeated Martin indignantly. “Oh, we can’t let her; she mustn’t.”

“Of course not. She’s been crying till she’s ’most beat out, but I’ve been thinking it over and Gincy’s going to stay. I’ve just seen Mrs. Donnelly again—”

“Well, I’m mighty glad!” Martin gave a long breath of relief. “How did you manage it, Tally?”

“I’m going home instead,” she answered calmly.

“You!” Her brother sprang up excitedly. “Tally, I won’t hear to it!”

“Yes, you will. Sit down, Mart, you’d do the same thing if you were in my place, you know you would. I’m not going to be selfish. Gincy’s never had any chance and I’ve had a whole year here. Maybe I can come back again some time, but if I knew I couldn’t I should go just the same.”

“But you can’t go home alone,” Martin objected.

“Yes, I can. I’ll take the train to the Gap and I’m not afraid to walk the rest of the way.”

“Well, Tally, I suppose you’re right,” her brother said at last, “but it’ll take the sunshine out of the whole year for me, to know that you’re missing all this. And I’d counted so on the good times we’d have together.”

“Now, Mart, don’t you worry about me one minute. I reckon it’s all for the best. Maybe there’s something special in the mountains for me to do; I’m going to try to think so anyway.”

“What reason are you going to give the folks for going home?”

“I’m going to tell them the truth that there wasn’t room for so many girls. I shan’t say a word about Gincy only that she’s well and having a fine time.”

That afternoon while Gincy was out of the room, Talitha removed the tiny wardrobe she had brought, to make room for Urilla’s. Long before light the next morning, while Gincy slept soundly, all unaware of her friend’s sacrifice, Talitha boarded the train which could only take her so short a distance toward home. She sank into a seat timidly. She had never travelled alone before, and when she reached the Gap the loneliest part was yet to come.

As the train pulled out she tried to wave a cheerful good-bye to Martin, who stood disconsolately outside in the darkness. The coach was full of people who had evidently travelled all night, for they were in all sorts of positions trying to get a little sleep. Talitha’s eyes were sleepless, although she had hardly closed them that night. It was disagreeably warm and stuffy. She longed to open the window, but the girl beside her was propped comfortably in the corner of the seat, oblivious to her surroundings.

Talitha looked at her curiously. She was a mountain girl, that was evident, but not from Goose Creek nor the Settlement—possibly from Redbird. She might be kin to the Twilligers, there were legions of them scattered through the mountains, and she favoured them wonderfully, now Talitha thought of it.

Suddenly the girl opened her eyes and stared at Talitha. “I reckon I must hev been asleep,” she said with a wide yawn. “Whar did you git on?”

“At Bentville.”

“Bentville! What kind of a place is hit? I come purty nigh goin’ thar onct and then I changed my mind. I couldn’t pin myself down ter book larnin’ nohow.”

Talitha viewed the speaker with astonishment. “What’s your name?” she inquired coldly.

“Piny Twilliger.”

“Did you know that Gincy Gooch is going to school at Bentville?” asked Talitha.

“Law me, why Gincy’s my cousin. Whatever put hit into her head? I wouldn’t hev thought hit of her.”

“Then you don’t know Gincy,” was the retort. “She’s as ambitious as can be and loves to study. She’s going to be somebody, I tell you. Abner’s at school too, and their folks are so proud of them.”

“Law me,” said the girl again. “I never heerd of any kin ter the Twilligers takin’ ter larnin’ afore,” and she relapsed into silent amazement. She had not recovered speech when the small station at the Gap was reached.

“Ter think I never asked her name!” murmured Gincy’s cousin in sudden dismay as Talitha left the car.