CHAPTER IX

SNAP SHOTS

"A letter from Montana for Miss Jane Bell," observed Peter, distributing the mail at the breakfast-table one May morning, nine months after the picnic at Grandfather Bell's farm. "It strikes me these Montana letters are beginning to arrive with astonishing regularity."

"They began," declared Ross, enjoying the sight of the sudden colour in Jane's face, as she tucked the letter into her belt and tried vainly to look unconscious as she went on serving the family from a big dish of oatmeal porridge, "by coming modestly once in about three or four weeks. Then they got to once a fortnight--that was in midwinter. Along about April----"

"If I were a big, grown man," murmured Jane, "I 'd never condescend to keep track of----"

"Along in April," pursued Ross, unmoved, "once in ten days was the schedule. But this last, coming as it does just one short week after its predecessor, and carrying, as it does, two large red postage-stamps--which, I am confident, is underpayment----"

"Stop teasing!" cried Nancy, always loyal to her sister. "Every one of you is envying Jane, wishing you could have letters from a real cowboy."

"A real cowboy!" laughed Ross. "I think I see Murray Townsend getting himself up in that rig. With his pale face and thin shoulders he 'd look like the tenderest kind of a tenderfoot."

Jane pulled the letter out of her belt. The previous letter had promised that this one should bring some snap-shot pictures of the writer and his surroundings. She hoped, as she broke the seal, that she should find them, feeling sure that the extra thick letter indicated that it carried the promised enclosures.

As she pulled out the sheets a little packet of blue-prints dropped into her lap. She picked them up and fell to looking at them. Peter, sitting next to her, laughed to himself, as he reached for his dish of oatmeal, Jane having forgotten to serve him. But everybody forgot breakfast, as the blue-prints went round the table. All but one were scenes of ranch and camp life, bringing into view horses and cowboys of all sorts and conditions, each carefully labelled with its descriptive title. But the one at the bottom of the pack was called "the tenderfoot"--the only one of the set in which Jane's correspondent was in evidence.

"Can it be possible this is Murray?" exclaimed Mrs. Bell, studying incredulously the erect figure on horseback, life and energy in every outline, from the tilt of the wide hat to the set of the leg in the saddle. "Why, he looks as if he weighed thirty pounds more than when he went away."

"By George, the fellow has n't roughed it nearly a year for nothing, has he?" admitted Ross. "He doesn't look the stage cowboy, either--I 'll say that for him. Those clothes have seen wear and rain, and that hat has had the true Western shape knocked into it. It makes you envy him, does n't it?"

Peter said nothing, but his eyes dwelt upon the figure in the saddle with a look of longing so intense that if anyone had been observing him it must have told his story plainly. One person was observing him, and as Peter looked up at last, with an involuntary glance at his father, who had just made some observation on the advantage it had been to the rich man's son to get out among the ranchmen and gain a new view of life, he met his father's eyes. Joseph Bell understood just what it meant to Peter to stay at home and work as foreman in a note-paper factory when there were such places as Montana in the world waiting for young men to come and explore them. And there was that in his father's look which told Peter that his sacrifice was appreciated.

Up in her own room, when a dozen duties had been done, Jane read her letter. It was to her a deeply interesting letter, as had been all those which came before it, for Murray wielded a graphic pen, and his pictures of the sort of life he had been living were vivid as colour-sketches. He was rejoicing in the coming of spring and summer, after the long, cold winter, and his delight seemed to Jane so unlike any pleasure in outdoor life she had seen him show at home that it filled her with joy. The letter said, as it neared the close and fell into the personal vein, as letters do:

I never knew before what it was to breathe way down to the bottom of my lungs. My existence--after my accident, and up to the time I came here--seems now to me like that of some pale monk in his cell, feeding on other men's thoughts, but never living them himself. I've learned to live! You, who have long known that secret, will be glad with me, won't you?

All through the winter I was wrapped to the eyes whenever I put my head out of the cabin door. Men dress warmly here in the winter--flannel-lined canvas overcoats--"blanket coats" they call them--felt boots, and all that. But they don't make grannies of themselves as I did--at first. As the winter advanced, though, I began to get hardened to it, and before spring I could stand a pretty low temperature without feeling my blood congeal. But when spring came--spring in this Western country! I wish I could describe it. The air like wine, the sunshine like--nothing I can think of. When spring came I began to expand mentally and physically--and in still another way, I think. Anyhow, I 'm not the same fellow who went to the doctor for an outfit of drugs before he dared start West.

I 've learned a lot from these men I 've been associated with. A rough set they would seem to you, most of them--they did to me at first. But when I got to know them, underneath the roughness I found--men. It's no use trying to put it into a letter. I must talk with you, face to face--and just what that means to me when I think of it I won't venture to say. I 'll be home in the fall, and then--I 'm going into my father's business. I have n't said that before, have I? You 'll please not mention it to anyone, except Peter, if you like; I want to surprise father. That's going to be my reward for doing my duty. It is my duty--I see it plainly at last, and every ounce of determination I can grow from now till fall is going to be just so much more to offer him. But I won't brag about that. Do the best I can, it won't be a wonderful gift, for I 'm afraid my talents don't lie in that direction. But if honest effort can make up--Jane, I have n't watched some of these heroic chaps for nothing. I 'm simply shamed into taking my medicine, and shutting my mouth tight after it. And that's the last word about it's being medicine. I 'm going to get interested in the business if pitching in all over will do it.

This is a long letter, and I 'm done--except to tell you that the West does n't deserve all the credit for my altered views of life. A certain girl I know, who wanted to go to college, but gave up all thought of it because, besides the family, her father and brothers had half a dozen helpless elderly relatives to support, isn't the poorest sort of inspiration to her friend, when he happens to be a fellow who never gave up anything for anybody in his life. He values her friendship far more than he dares to tell her now. Somebody--Ruskin?--said a knight's armour never fitted him quite so well as when the lady's hand had braced it--and I 'm beginning to understand what that rather picturesque metaphor may mean. Do I sound sentimental, and are you laughing at me? Don't do it! I 've not a "gun" in my belt, but I'm rather a rough looking customer nevertheless. I came in an hour ago, wet to the skin--caught out in a cloudburst without my slicker--and while my clothes dry am attired in my cousin's (seven sizes too big!) being averse to putting on any of the clothes in my trunk, the foolish clothes of civilisation.

I weigh one hundred and sixty-five. What do you think of that? And it's not flesh, but worked-on muscle and sinew. Did I say I was done? I am. But I am also

Faithfully your friend, MURRAY TOWNSEND.

"You look it," agreed Jane, studying the photograph. "You certainly look it." She gave the little print one more careful examination, noting the steady gaze the pictured face gave back, a spirited expression very different from the half-moody look she had first known; then she put the photographs away and went about her work. And as she went, a little song sang itself over and over in her heart--the song of trust in a ripening friendship of the sort that makes life worth living.

Spring and summer passed slowly by, marking a growing interchange of amenities between the little house in Gay Street and the big one in Worthington Square. Things had happened during the winter, things kept on happening as the year advanced, to draw the two families together. In January Shirley had had a long and severe illness, during which Mrs. Bell and Jane made their way into the inmost heart of every member of the household. There were nights during that illness when Joseph Bell, feeling that difference of social position counted for nothing when a father was in trouble, went over to shake Harrison Townsend's hand, bidding him be of courage--and found himself detained as a friend in need.

By and by, when the anxiety was over and the Bells ceased coming often in and out, the Townsends began to summon them. Mr. Townsend discovered the shrewd wisdom and genial philosophy of Joseph Bell to be of value, and often went to sit with him in the little front room, where his eyes noted with approval the rows of books. He discovered that Armstrongs's head man knew more that lay between the covers of those books than did Harrison Townsend himself.

As for Mrs. Townsend and Mrs. Bell, while they were too different in temperament and taste to get far into each other's lives, they found enough in common to bring them together rather oftener than could naturally have been expected. There was a quiet poise about Mrs. Bell which the other woman, accomplished woman of the world though she was, could only study in despair of ever being able to attain. But she found a rest and refreshment in her neighbour's society which none of her more fashionable friends could give her, and she sent often for Mrs. Bell to keep her company.

"Olive's taken one big step in advance," Peter said to his mother, one day in early summer. "She has begun to write regularly to Forrest."

"I'm very glad," said Mrs. Bell. "Does he answer her letters?"

"He does--only too glad to, I should say. She's shown me some of his letters. There 's a homesick grunt to them, that's sure. Life in the army, and particularly life in the Philippines, is n't unmitigated bliss, and he's finding it out. He does n't exactly squeal, but you can see how it is with him."

"It will do Olive good to take up such a sisterly duty. Was it your suggestion?" asked Mrs. Bell.

"How did you guess that? I did give her a talk one day, when she happened to say that Shirley was the only one of the family who wrote to Forrest with any regularity. She was pretty angry with me for a day or two, but she came round, and now she writes once a fortnight. There 's really more to that girl than you would think."

"She is improving very much, I am sure," agreed his mother, warmly. "With a different early training, Olive would have been by now a much more lovable girl than she has seemed. But, happily, it 's not too late to give her new ideals, and I think you have helped in that direction."

"Ideals?" mused Peter. "I don't think I have any of those--at least, I don't call them by that name. Rules of the game--how will that do, instead? The foreman of Room 8 in a note-paper factory is n't supposed to have ideals, is he?"

"I don't know about that. Suppose you ask the men and women under you. I fancy they would protest your ideals were pretty hard for them to live up to?"

Peter laughed to himself. "Maybe they would. But they would n't put it that way. 'The boss is a tough one to suit,' they 'd say."

"Call it what you will--rules of the game, if you like. But, as the children used to say, 'Peter Bell plays fair!'"

"I hope he does. If he does n't, it is n't the fault of his trainer." And the gray eyes met the brown ones for an instant in a glance which said many things Peter could not have spoken.

The days went on; June gave place to July; August heat melted into September mildness; and October, with its falling leaves, marked the end of the days of outdoor life lived from April to November in the little garden.

"The twenty-fifth is Jane's birthday," observed Nancy to Shirley, several days before that event. "We 're wondering what to do in celebration."

"Why, it's mine, too!" cried Shirley. "How funny that we did n't know it! We ought to celebrate it together."

This remark was duly reported to Mrs. Bell, who said at once that they must invite Shirley over to have her birthday cake with Jane's. But before this plan could be carried into effect, an invitation arrived from the big house, asking every member of the Bell household to be present at a small dinner of Shirley's own planning.

"This is the first time we 've all been asked over there together--it's quite an occasion," declared Peter, on the evening of the twenty-fifth, as he stood waiting in the doorway for everybody to be ready. "I say," he exclaimed, "but we're gorgeous!"

And he fastened admiring eyes on his mother, who was dressed in a pale gray gown of her own making, and therefore of faultless effect. The quality was fine also, for Peter had looked after that.

"Gorgeous does n't seem exactly the word," Ross commented. "Demure but coquettish, I should call that gown."

The party proceeded in a body to the corner of Worthington Square, where Jane, under escort of Peter, came to a sudden halt. "Oh, I 've forgotten something to go with my present to Shirley," she said to him. "Give me the key, please. I 'll run back and get it. Don't wait. I want to slip into the dining-room over there, anyway, before I see anybody, and I 'll come in by the side door."

So Jane ran back alone, and let herself into the dark house, the lamps having, for safety, been all extinguished before the family went out. She hurriedly lighted the lamp in the front room, for she meant to fill out a card with a certain appropriate quotation, to put with Shirley's gift, and the book she needed was in this room.

The quotation was not as easily found as she had thought it would be, and hurriedly searching for it, Jane consumed considerable time, but did not want to give it up, for the words fitted Shirley delightfully, and would give point to the gift.

So bending over the book, still unsuccessful, she heard with regret the sound of a quick step upon the porch, followed by a ring at the bell. She sprang up, book in hand, wishing she had taken her affairs, with her light, into the dining-room. Hoping that her appearance, in her evening frock, would warn the chance visitor that the time was inopportune, she opened the door.

"Jane!" exclaimed a joyful voice. "Ah, but this is good luck!" And Jane looked up into a face so brown and rugged and strong that for an instant she did not know it. But the eyes gazing eagerly into her own told her in the next breath who stood before her. She put out both hands, speechless with surprise. They were grasped and held, as Murray Townsend closed the door behind him with a sturdy shoulder.

"I--you--why, I thought you were n't coming for a month yet," she said, half shyly, for in spite of the smile and the warm handclasp, it seemed as if this must be a stranger who stood before her, radiating health and happiness, and looking so different from the pale young man who had gone away a year before.

"I was hit by a sudden wave of homesickness that swept me off my feet," Murray explained, releasing the hands which were gently drawing themselves away, but continuing to stare down at the engaging young figure in its modest evening attire, as if he had seen nothing so attractive in all Montana, in spite of his fine tales of its glories. "I began to think about it, and that was fatal. Once the notion of coming home a bit ahead of the date I 'd set took hold of me, I was no more use to anybody. They told me to pack up and start, for I was n't fit to brand a calf, and could n't earn my salt." He laughed. "Tell me you 're not sorry."

"Indeed, I'm not. This happens to be my birthday, and it's the nicest surprise I've had yet."

"Thank you--that's the welcome I wanted. But"--he glanced at her dress again, and his face fell--"you were going out?"

"Only to Worthington Square," laughed Jane. "It's Shirley's birthday, too, and we're all to be there at dinner. Why, you must know! You 've just come from there."

"That is a joke on me. I rang--no latch-key, you know--and a new maid I 've never seen let me in. I saw everything lighted up and flowers all about, and asked if they were entertaining. She said they were, and everybody was dressing. So I just turned and ran, thinking I 'd slip over here and see you first, since I could n't see much of my family till the affair was over. Well, well--so I may spend the evening in your company. Talk about luck!"

They stood there, exchanging questions and replies in the laughing, disconnected way in which people are wont to address each other in the first excitement of an unexpected and welcome meeting, neither of them knowing quite what they were saying, but each feeling that something of great importance had happened. Then Jane gathered up her wraps and Shirley's gift, and said, with a startled glance at the clock, "It is later than I thought! We must go this minute."

"Shall I put out the light?" and Murray strode across the floor. Jane noted with gladness that his walk was the walk of a strong man.

They crossed the street to the hedge gate, and came to the side entrance. As he put his thumb to the bell, Murray said, half under his breath, "I've imagined all sorts of home-comings, but never one quite so nice as this. To make my entrance with you----"

"Oh, you 're not going to make it with me!" said Jane, gaily. "I shall stay in the dining-room, arranging Shirley's plate, until you are safe in the midst of them."

And plead as he would, Murray found there was no way to make her change this decision. So, at last, hearing the voices of the others in the big hall, where they were gathered about the fireplace, in which roared a royal October fire, he went to the door and opened it a crack. From this position, he looked back at Jane, where she stood by Shirley's chair watching him across the gala decorations of roses which crowned the handsome table.

"I 'm at home again!" he called to her softly, and she nodded, smiling.

Then, hat in hand, he threw the door wide and marched through, shoulders back, head up, eyes intent upon the faces which, at the opening of the door, had turned that way.