Little Pard

by Eleanor H. Porter

 

Little Pard

By ELEANOR H. PORTER

 

ILLUSTRATED BY R. EMMET OWEN.

 

FOR twelve years they had lived together, and now, ten days after Jack Arnold's death, Matthewson had not sounded the depths of what it meant to be alone in the shack on the mountainside. Worse still, not yet could he take upon himself the duties—one duty—that Jack's going had entailed.

“I reckon there ain't no shirkin' it, anyhow,” he muttered at last with a long sigh; “an' I might as well do it now as ever.” He raised his eyes and fixed them gloomily upon the portrait of a young girl in a rude birch-bark frame on the shelf over the fireplace. “Poor Little Pard!” he said softly. Suddenly his face changed, and his chin came up aggressively. “Mebbe, after all, I'd better not waste any sympathy—yet,” he muttered, as he roused himself from his reverie.

Matthewson almost felt that he knew this girl “back East.” From the first Jack Arnold had talked of “Little Pard,” and none knew better than Matthewson that a pair of blue eyes was what kept Jack Arnold “straight,” and that a girl's beckoning finger was what kept him dogging Fortune's heels, and begging for success. So well did Matthewson know this, indeed, that in time he, too, came under the sway of the steadfast blue eyes; he, too, worked only for Little Pard. It was because of this, perhaps, that he, almost as keenly as Arnold, felt the sting of the blow when it fell—the letters with the Hinsdale postmark and the curious little twirl to the “A” stopped coming. At first he had urged Arnold to write and ask an explanation of the silence; but Arnold had shaken his head.

“No,” he had said: “Little: “Pard shall stake her own claim, and not be made to give an account of herself. I've seen it comin' fur some time. The letters ain't what they was. She's gettin' tired of waitin—an' no wonder. I hain't panned out as we reckoned I would. Mebbe some time she'll write an' explain. We'll wait.”

And they had waited. They waited a year and more, then Arnold died, and Matthewson was left alone with the portrait, and the great ache in his heart.

For ten days now he had put off writing to this girl. Yet he knew that he must write some time. To some one must be sent the trinkets and the little money that had been Arnold's; and there was no one with any sort of claim upon him, so far as Matthewson knew, except Little Pard. Unquestionably Little Pard must be notified; and with a long breath Matthewson turned from the fire to get his seldom-used paper, pens, and ink.

His first step was arrested by a knock at the door.

“Gorry, Bill!' greeted an unsteady voice, as Matthewson faced the man standing in the dusk outside. “But you give me a start! You look 'nough like poor Jack ter be his ghost. I'd forgot you two looked so much alike. I come ter bring a letter. I s'pose I no need to, seein' it don't belong ter no one now. But it give me the creeps an' haunted me—poor Jack's bein' dead so. I wanted ter git it off my hands.”

Matthewson took the letter. As his glance fell upon it his face changed color, and his hand shook; the letter was for Arnold, and there was a curious little twirl to the “A.”

“Where did you get—this?” he asked thickly.

“Found it 'mong some o' my duds,” retorted Perrin. “Old Peters must ha' give it to me ter bring out with other mail, an' it slipped down an' got in with my own stuff. Jiminy, but it give me a start!' he finished, as he turned away.

Matthewson slept little that night. Always before his eyes was a sealed envelope bearing an “A” with a curious little twirl to it, and a blurred post-mark in the corner. Little Pard had written, but what had she written, and when had she written? On the answer to those two questions hung his own letter, which must now more surely than ever be sent. For Jack's sake this letter must be right—just right. But how was he to make it so if he did not know the contents of Little Pard's letter? All night he pondered the matter. In the morning he reached for the letter and broke the seal. It was for Jack's sake. Jack would want him to know.

At the first glance Matthewson ejaculated a single word—the letter bore a date just one year and one month old. He read with blurred eyes:

Dearest Jack: Do you know, dear, I dreamed about you last night, and I could see you so plainly that it set me to wondering if, after all, I should know you if I saw you now? Fifteen years is a long while, Jack. I wonder if you realize the change it has made in me. I don't look a bit like the “curly sixteen” picture I gave you when you went away. You know I've never sent you any other. I've always said I preferred to have you remember me as I was then. But lately I've begun to be frightened. If you should see me now you'd see such a big change, and you'd see it all at once. The result might be disastrous.

It comes over me sometimes that we haven't seen each other since we became engaged. It is rather queer, isn't it? It's all been just letters, you remember, and I suppose we don't really know each other.

I suspect you think I'm running along a queer line, dearie, and I suppose I am. Maybe I never did talk just this way before. 'Twas the dream, perhaps. Then I've been thinking, too, lately. It has occurred to me that even if—if you did change your mind, you wouldn't like to—to tell me. I have fancied lately that your* letters are not just what they used to be. There is a restraint about them, or something, and I can't help wondering. I shouldn't blame you a bit, either. I can't seem more than a shadow to you, after all, while out there, all about you, there must be many realities—flesh and blood, not pen and ink, you know. If it is so, tell me, dear. Don't hesitate. You'll only have ig hint it. I shall understand.

Always your friend,
Mary Stanhope.

If Matthewson's task had seemed hard before he read the letter, it seemed almost impossible afterward. Beyond a doubt Little Pard had been true; but her letter—this dear letter that stirred Matthewson's soul to its depths—had remained all these months unanswered. What, indeed, must she be thinking now, and how was he to break the news of Jack's death?

And then—and not till then—did he suddenly realize that he was not Jack Arnold at all.

Matthewson began four letters during the next hour, and tore each one of them up; then he threw aside his pen. He would try again later. He told himself that a long day's work might steady his nerves. He had grown weak and womanish.

 

For fifteen years William Matthewson, like Jack Arnold, had been dogging Fortune's heels, and for fifteen years, like Jack Arnold, he had found in the fickle goddess only deaf ears and averted glances. To-day, however, there came a change. Fortune turned and smiled at him, and he found at his feet a golden treasure that was beyond his wildest dreams,

Down in the town that night “the boys” discussed with amazed oaths 'Bill's lucky strike.” Not within the memory of the proverbial oldest inhabitant had blow from a pick unlocked the door to such a storehouse of gold. In the shack on the mountainside, however, Matthewson himself sat alone, dazed, incredulous, but beyond all else dejected and dismayed. Why had it all come too late? Of what use was gold to him? He knew now that for vears he had been working only for Jack, and through him for Little Pard. 3ut Jack was dead now, and there remained nothing but the useless gold on one hand, and on the other that dread letter of death that must be sent to the waiting little woman in Hinsdale.

At a slight rustle in the doorway he turned sharply.

In thinking it over afterward Matthewson could not remember what it was that first gave him his idea. Perhaps it was the new-found gold; perhaps it was something in Little Pard's letter; or perhaps it was Jim Perrin's words: “You look enough like poor Jack ter be his ghost.” Whatever it was, it was something that dinned itself into Matthewson's ears until he was forced to listen. And after he had listened for a long seven days, he weakened perceptibly. Four more letters were written to Little Pard—and torn up, however—before he decided. Then he made up his mind. He himself would be Jack, for a time, at least. He himself would go East and bring back Little Pard—if he could.

He spent a busy week then getting his affairs into shape to leave. He could not write to her, he well understood; his handwriting would betray him. For the rest, he trusted to the fifteen years' separation of the lovers and his own intimate knowledge of Jack and his life, to make the deception possible. At the end of the week he telegraphed:

Your last letter just received. Can explain all. Am coming East. Will be there the tenth. Jack.

Nor did he stop to think what might be the effect of such a message coming, as it did, at the end of a fourteen-month-old silence.

Matthewson had never been to Hinsdale; but so vivid had been Arnold's description that the place seemed familiar as soon as he stepped off the train. Even the hotel seemed like an old friend; and Matthewson knew that exactly opposite he might look for the home of Miss Mary Stanhope. A moment later he saw it—a small, red brick house set far back from the street, exactly as Jack had pictured it.

To Matthewson it seemed a veritable homecoming. He himself was Jack. In some way the spirit of the dead man had entered his soul and possessed it. He was but bringing to Little Pard that which had been planned from the first—love, ease, and happiness. He pictured himself as walking up the path to the red brick house and calling for Miss Mary Stanhope. And then—and not till then—did he suddenly realize that he was not Jack Arnold at all. He was Matthewson—an interloper, a liar, and—he feared—a fool.

For five miserable minutes he contemplated flight; then he remembered the telegram, and squared his chin. It was too late for retreat. There was nothing to do but to march forward. And he did it, straight across the street and up the worn brick walk to the door.

An old woman answered his ring.

“Will you tell Miss Stanhope, please, that Mr. Arnold is here?” he said in a voice that shook a little.

“Yes, sir. Come in,” returned the woman, motioning him to enter a room at her right.

Left alone, Matthewson drew a long breath and squared his shoulders. It was for Jack—for Jack and Little Pard. He would carry it through!

At a faint rustle of skirts he turned sharply. In the doorway stood a small, fair-haired woman, whose eyes met his with a frightened questioning that dimmed his own with quick tears.

“Little Pard,” he said softly, opening his arms; and like a tired child that has found its home, she walked straight into them.

“No, no, I—I ” she cried faintly, a moment later, struggling to free herself.

He released her instantly. Under the tan his face showed white. For the first time he saw what it meant—this masquerade.

“I frightened ye, Little Pard,” he said humbly. “I didn't mean ter do that.”

She drew back, her face and neck a painful red.

“No, no, you don't understand,” she faltered. “You see, I—I only know you by—by——”

Her words stung him into instant fear.

“Of course ye don't,” he interposed feverishly. “But ye will, dear, right away. That's what I come on for, so's ye could know me. Then when I take ye back with me

She stopped him with a hurried gesture, her eyes averted.

“But you—the letter—I didn't——”

Again he interrupted her.

“Of course ye didn't, and no wonder! But it was all a mistake, Little Pard. The letter was lost, and never reached me until just a few days before I left. You—you never had an instant's cause ter doubt Jack Arnold's love for ye, dearie. There never was a thought in his heart but for you—just you.”

“Yes; but I—I——” She stopped, and covered her face with her hands. The next moment, to Matthewson's dismay, she sank into a chair, her slender figure shaking with sobs.

There was a dazed silence; then Matthewson, with an inarticulate cry, dropped on his knee and laid a trembling hand on the bowed head.

They walked and drove and read together, and talked more or less earnestly on numberless subjects.

“I was a brute, Little Pard, ter take ye so by surprise. You ain't used ter great, rough men what come tumblin' down out of nowhere, and say they're goin' ter carry ye away with 'em. I hain't no business tryin' ter stake out a claim till I've proved my right. You can't forget the long year when nobody answered yer letter, and no wonder. But we'll go easy, Little Pard. You sha'n't be hurried a mite. If you'll jest let me set up camp 'round here somewhere, and try ter make ye like me, it'll be all I ask. Come, dearie, look up, an' let me see ye smile. 1 didn't mean ter make ye cry—sure thing, I didn't!”

There came a stifled sob and a half-drawn breath from the depths of the chair; then a slim hand crept slowly out and fluttered toward him. He caught it and held it fast. Very gently then he carried it to his lips.

“I'll try ter be worthy of yer trust,” he said; but even as the words fell from his lips, he winced and straightened himself. For the second time in the last few minutes it came to him—just what this masquerade meant.

It was a curious courtship. They walked and read and drove together, and talked more or less earnestly on numberless subjects, both near and remote. But not once after that first meeting did Matthewson kiss more than the tips of her fingers, and not once did he take her in his arms.

To Matthewson this little woman that he was trying to win was very much of an enigma. It was not only that she was shy, but there seemed to be a curious restraint or nervousness in her manner, for which he was at loss to account. It was not always there, to be sure. Sometimes there was a delightful comradeship, which was frankness itself, and sometimes there was only the shy sweet happiness of a girl who is with the man she loves. Then back would come the old restraint and nervousness, and away would fly the comradeship and the happiness, leaving only the enigma that was becoming more and more unsolvable every day.

For a week Matthewson was Jack Arnold, gentle, considerate, earnestly striving to please, and to keep Jack Arnold's promise to Little Pard. At the end of the week he became Matthewson, ashamed, appalled, and very much in love—Matthewson, in his own eyes a liar, a coward, and a thief.

It was then that he vowed to end it. Shutting himself up in his room at the hotel, with paper, pens, and ink, he determined to lay the whole thing bare before her.

Morning had come when he wrote the closing paragraph:

And so I'm going away. Not until my whole heart cried out with love for you did L realize what I had done. It may be cowardly to write instead of facing you and telling you the truth. But I can't face you. I can't see your dear eyes turn away from me in scorn, and know all the time that I have made your sorrow only harder to bear.

The first train out of Hinsdale did not leave until ten o'clock, and there was still a dreary waste of hours that must be lived through somehow. Matthewson packed his few belongings, and tramped up and down his room till breakfast-time; then he paid his bill, and left a fat white envelope with directions that it should be delivered immediately after his departure at ten o'clock. Thrusting his hat far down over his eyes, he strode through the open hotel doorway and turned up the street that led to the hills back of the town. Somewhere there must-be an escape from the sight of that red brick house set well back from the street!

The stage had just driven up to the hotel doorway some time later when Matthewson appeared, ready for departure.

“Letter, sir,” said the clerk, laying a detaining hand on his arm. “It come half an hour ago.”

“Mr. Jack Arnold,” read Matthewson, frowning at the unfamiliar writing on the envelope. The next moment his dazed eyes were reading these words:

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I am not Mary Stanhope, but Margaret Stanhope, her cousin. Mary died suddenly three months ago, leaving this house to me. I have no excuse to offer—there is none—that would count in the least, of course. I understand that. But I will say that every day of this past miserable week I have tried to tell you the truth—tried, and failed. That first shameful minute when I—I met you, had sealed my lips.

Please don't think I planned this thing. It has been even more of a surprise to me than it is now to you. Two weeks ago I would not have believed these last seven days possible. Not by way of excuse, but by way of explanation, let me say this. Ever since I was a young girl I had known of you as Mary Stanhope's lover. All her life I had her confidence, and when she died I promised her that nothing concerning her death should be written to the lover who, she was sure, had forgotten her. I knew, of course, of her unanswered letter, and when your telegram came, you cannot know how my heart ached for you. You can guess, perhaps, when I tell you that it was that which made me do as I did when I met you. I saw you standing there, your eyes shining with love and hope, and your arms open to take to your heart the Little Pard whom I knew you were never to see again. My eyes blurred. I, too, loved her, and “you and I were all that were left who knew and cared for her. Without realizing what I was doing, I walked straight toward you and into your arms.

At the first touch of your lips I came to myself. You had taken me for Little Pard. With my light hair and blue eyes I was not unlike what you might have expected her to be after fifteen years' absence. I struggled to free myself,.and tried to speak—to explain; but every word you said only made it more impossible after I had—had met you as I did. I told myself that when we were quieter and more composed, it would be easier. But each day it grew harder, more impossible to speak. You were so gentle, so considerate of the little sweetheart you thought so shy, that sometimes I forgot and for a moment would be happy in your cheery companionship. This last was easier, perhaps, because nearly all my life I have been alone in the world. Very early I lost father mother, and sisters. Mary was all that had left.

I hope that you will forgive me, though I suppose it is more than I ought to expect. I wish that you might forgive me enough to go away and not ask to see me. But if you will not do that, if you insist upon seeing me, I will see you, of course, and tell you all that I can about—her. But I hope, I very much hope, that you will be kind, and let this be good-by. Margaret Stanhope.

Matthewson crumpled the letter in his fingers and drew a long breath. He became conscious then that some one was shouting an angry summons from across the room.

“The stage, sir! All aboard! Say, be you deef?”

Matthewson lifted his head.

“Stage? Oh, I reckon mebbe I won't go, after all,” he retorted, with so beaming a smile that the driver forgot to swear at the delay.

Matthewson turned to the desk.

“The letter I left—you hain't sent it yet?” he demanded eagerly.

“Why, no, sir. You said——”

“Yes, I know,” cut in Matthewson, as if minutes were precious. “But I've struck another trail. I reckon mebbe I'll take that 'ere letter myself. Thank ye.

Two minutes later the somewhat puzzled clerk saw a stalwart form striding up the worn brick walk to the little red brick house opposite.

“Gosh!” he muttered under his breath; then, in a higher key: “Here, Pete, take them bags an' things up-stairs. I cal'late the front room's let again!"