The Price of the Prairie Part 20

"An' then," Grandpa spoke with mock persuasion, "Amos, ye know ye've been married oncet. An' ye're not so young an' ye're a leetle bald. D'ye just notice Phil's hair, layin' in soft thick waves? Allers curled that way sence he was a little feller."

Amos Judson went into an explosive combustion.

"I've treated my wife's memory and remains as good as a man ever did.

She's got the biggest stone in the cemet'ry, an' I've put a memorial window in the church. An' what more could a man do? It's more than any of you have done." Amos was too wrought up to reason.

"Well, I acknowledge," said Cam, "I've ben a leetle slack about gittin'

a grave-stun up fur Dollie, seein' she's still livin', but I have threatened her time an' agin to put a winder to her memory in the church an' git her in shape to legalize it if she don't learn how to git me up a good meal. Darned poor cook my wife is."

"An' as for this boy," Judson broke in, not noticing Cam's joke, "as to his looks," he stroked his slick light brown hair, "a little baldness gives dignity, makes a man look like a man. Who'd want to have hair like a girl's? But Mrs. Whately's too wise not to do well by her daughter.

She knows the value of a dollar, and a man makin' it himself."

"Well, why not set your cap fur the widder? You'd make a good father to her child, an' Phil would jest na'ch.e.l.ly be proud of you for a daddy-in-law." This from the stage driver, Dever, who had caught the spirit of the game in hand. "Anyhow you'd orter seen them two young folks meet when he first got back home, out there where the crowd of 'em helt up the stage. Well, sir, she was the last to say 'howdy do.'

Everybody was lookin' the other way then, 'cept me, and I didn't have sense enough. Well, sir, he jist took her hand like somethin' he'd been reachin' fur about two year, an' they looked into each other's eyes, hungry like, an' a sort of joy such as any of us 'ud long to possess come into them two young faces. I tell you, if you're goin' to gossip jist turn it onto Judson er me, but let them two alone."

Judson was too violently angry to be discreet.

"It's all silly scand'lous foolishness, and I won't hear another word of it," he shouted.

Just as he spoke, Marjie herself came in. Judson stepped forward in an officious effort to serve her, and unable to restrain himself, he called out to O'mie, "Put four yards of towelling, twelve and a half cents a yard, to Mrs. Whately's standing account."

It was not the words that offended, so much as the tone, the proprietary sound, the sense of obligation it seemed to put upon the purchaser, unrelieved by his bland smile and attempt at humor in his after remark, "We don't run accounts with everybody, but I guess we can trust you."

It cut Marjie's spirit. A flush mounted to her cheeks, as she took her purchase and hurried out of the door and plump into my father, who was pa.s.sing just then.

Judge Baronet was a man of courtly manners. He gently caught Marjie's arm to steady her.

"Good-morning, Marjie. How is your mother to-day?"

The little girl did not speak for a moment. Her eyes were full of tears.

Presently she said, "May I come up to your office pretty soon? I want to ask you something--something of our business matters."

"Yes, yes, come now," he replied, taking her bundle and putting himself on the outer side of the walk. He had forgotten my appointment for the moment.

When they reached the courthouse he said: "Just run into my room there; I've got to catch Sheriff Karr before he gets away."

He opened the door of his private office, thrusting her gently inside, and hurried away. I turned to meet my father, and there was Marjie. Tear drops were on her long brown lashes, and her cheeks were flushed.

"Why, my little girl!" I exclaimed in surprise as she started to hurry away.

"I didn't know you were in here; your father sent me in"--and then the tears came in earnest.

I couldn't stand for that.

"What is it, Marjie?" I had put her in my father's chair and was bending over her, my face dangerously near her cheek.

"It's Amos Judson--Oh, Phil, I can't tell you. I was going to talk to your father."

"All right," I said gayly. "Ask papa. It's the proper thing. He must be consulted, of course. But as to Judson, don't worry. O'mie promised me just this morning to sew him up in a sack and throw him off the cliff above the Hermit's Cave into the river. O'mie says it's safe; he's so light he'll float."

Marjie smiled through her tears. A noise in the outer office reminded us that some one was there, and that the outer door was half ajar. Then my father came in. His face was kindly impenetrable.

"I had forgotten my son was here. Phil, take these papers over to the county attorney's office. I'll call you later." He turned me out and gave his attention to Marjie.

I loafed about the outer office until she and my father came out. He led her to the doorway and down the steps with a courtesy he never forgot toward women. When we were alone in his private office I longed to ask Marjie's errand, but I knew my father too well.

"You wanted to see me, Phil?" He was seated opposite to me, his eyes were looking steadily into mine, and clear beyond them down into my soul.

"Yes, Father," I replied; "I am a man now--twenty-one years and one day over. And there are a few things, as a man, I want to know and to have you know."

He was sharpening a pencil carefully. "I'm listening," he said kindly.

"Well, Father--" I hesitated. It was so much harder to say than I had thought it would be. I toyed with the ta.s.sel of the window cord confusedly. "Father, you remember when you were twenty-one?"

"Yes, my son, I was just out of Harvard. And like you I had a father to whom I went to tell him I was in love, just as you are. When your own son comes to you some day, help him a little."

I felt a weight lifted from my mind. It was good of him to open the way.

"Father, I have never seen any other girl like Marjie."

"No, there isn't any--for you. But how about her?"

"I think, I know she--does care. I think--" I was making poor work of it after all his help. "Well, she said she did, anyhow." I blurted out defiantly.

"The court accepts the evidence," he remarked, and then more seriously he went on: "My son, I am happy in your joy. I may have been a little slow. There was much harmless coupling of her name with young Tillhurst's while you were away. I did not give it much thought.

Letters from Rockport were also giving you and Rachel Melrose some consideration. Rachel is an only child and pretty well fixed financially."

"Oh, Father, I never gave her two thoughts."

"So the letters intimated, but added that the Melrose blood is persistent, and that Rachel's mother was especially willing. She is of a good family, old friends of Candace's and mine. She will have money in her own right, is handsome and well educated. I thought you might be satisfied there."

"But I don't care for her money nor anybody else's. n.o.body but Marjie will ever suit me," I cried.

"So I saw when I looked at you two in church yesterday. It was a revelation, I admit; but I took in the situation at once." And then more affectionately he added: "I was very proud of you, Phil. You and Marjie made a picture I shall keep. When you want my blessing, I have part of it in the strong box in my safe. All I have of worldly goods will be yours, Phil, if you do it no dishonor; and as to my good-will, my son, you are my wife's child, my one priceless treasure. When by your own efforts you can maintain a home, nor feel yourself dependent, then bring a bride to me. I shall do all I can to give you an opportunity. I hope you will not wait long. When Irving Whately lay dying at Chattanooga he told me his hopes for Marjie and you. But he charged me not to tell you until you should of your own accord come to me. You have his blessing, too."

How good he was to me! His hand grasped mine.

"Phil, let me say one thing; don't ever get too old to consult your father. It may save some losses and misunderstandings and heart-aches.

And now, what else?"

"Father, when O'mie seemed to be dying, Le Claire told me something of his story one evening. He said you knew it."

My father looked grave.

"How does this concern you, Phil?"

"Only in this. I promised Le Claire I would see that O'mie's case was cared for if he lived and you never came back," I replied. "He is of age now, and if he knows his rights he does not use them."

"Have you talked to O'mie of this?" he asked quickly.