Part 18

"You poor thing!" This to Virginia. "Truly you deserve a two hours' rest before dinner, for our dinner is always a talk-fest, and to-night, with Senator Bridges here, it will be a convention."

He turned to Virginia. "We were talking old times 'before the war,' and you know it never tires veterans to run over their ancient campaigns--does it, Lee Virginia?"

As they talked Mrs. Redfield studied the girl with increasing interest and favor, and soon got at her point of view. She even secured a little more of her story, which matched fairly well with the account her husband had given. Her prejudices were swept away, and she treated her young guest as one well-born and well-educated woman treats another.

At last she said: "We dress for dinner, but any frock you have will do. We are not ironclad in our rules. There will be some neighbors in, but it isn't in any sense a 'party.'"

Lee Virginia went to her room, borne high upon a new conception of the possibilities of the West. It was glorious to think that one could enjoy the refinement, the comfort of the East at the same time that one dwelt within the inspiring shadow of the range. She caught some prophetic hint in all this of the future age when each of these foot-hills would be peopled by those to whom cleanliness of mind and grace of body were habitual. Standing on the little balcony which filled the front of her windows, she looked away at the towering heights, smoky purple against a sky of burning gold, and her eyes expanded like those of the young eagle when about to launch himself upon the sunset wind.

The roar of a waterfall came to her ears, and afar on the sage-green carpet of the lower mesa a horseman was galloping swiftly. Far to the left of this smoothly sculptured table-land a band of cattle fed, while under her eyes, formal as a suburban home, lay a garden of old-fashioned English flowers. It was a singular and moving union of the old and new--the East and the West.

On her table and on the pretty bookshelves she found several of the latest volumes of poetry and essays, and the bed, with its dainty covering and ample spread, testified quite as plainly of taste and comfort. Her hands were a-tremble as she put on the bright muslin gown which was all she had for evening wear. She felt very much like the school-girl again, and after she had done her best to look nice, she took a seat in the little rocker, with intent to compose herself for her meeting with strangers. "I wish we were dining without visitors," she said, as she heard a carriage drive up. A little later a galloping horse entered the yard and stopped at the door.

"It all sounds like a play," she said to herself, forgetting for the moment that she was miles away from a town and in a lonely ranch-house under the very shadows of the mountains.

She heard voices in the hall, and among them one with a very English accent--one that sounded precisely like those she had heard on the stage. It was the voice of a man, big, hearty, with that thick, throaty gurgle which is so suggestive of London that one is certain to find a tweed suit and riding-breeches associated with it.

At last she dared wait no longer, and taking courage from necessity, descended the stairs--a pleasant picture of vigorous yet somewhat subdued maidenhood.

TWO ON THE VERANDA

REDFIELD met his young guest in dinner-coat, looking extremely urban, and presented his "friend and neighbor, Mr. Enderby."

Enderby turned out to be the owner of the voice with the English accent which Lee Virginia had heard in the hall, but he was very nice, and a moment later Mrs. Redfield entered with Mrs. Enderby, a large lady with a smiling face. Then a voice she knew spoke from behind her: "I don't need a presentation. Miss Wetherford and I have already met."

She turned to meet Ross Cavanagh, the young ranger.

"How did you get here?" she asked, in wonder.

"I rode across the hills; it's not far."

He too was in evening dress, and as she stared at him in surprise he laughingly protested. "Please don't scrutinize this coat too closely. It's the only one I've owned for ten years, and this is the only house in which I'd dare to wear it."

Bridges (who turned out to be a State senator) was a farmer-like elderly man wearing a badly fitting serge suit. He was markedly Western; so was his wife, who looked rather uneasy and hot.

It was all delightfully exciting to Lee Virginia, and to be taken in to dinner by the transfigured ranger completed her appreciation of the charming home and its refined hostess.

Redfield shone as host, presenting an admirable mixture of clubman and Western rancher. His natural sense of humor, sharpened by twenty years of plains life, was Western. His manner, his habits of dress, of dining, of taking wine, were uncorruptedly Manhattan. Enderby, large, high-colored, was naturally a bit of what we know as the "haw-haw type" of Englishman--a thoroughly good fellow, kindly, tolerant, brave, and generous, who could not possibly change his spots. He had failed utterly to acquire the American idiom, and his attempts at cowboy slang were often amusing--especially to Redfield, who prided himself on being quite undistinguishable in a cow-camp.

Virginia and Ross, being the only young folk at the table, were seated together, and Enderby remarked privately: "Ross, you're in luck."

"I know I am," he replied, heartily.

He was (as Redfield had said) highly susceptible, made so by his solitary life in the mountains, and to be seated close beside this maid of the valley stirred his blood to the danger-point. It was only by an effort of the will that he kept in touch with Redfield's remarks.

"Enderby never can grow accustomed to his democratic neighbors," Redfield was saying. "He's been here six years, and yet when one of his cowboy friends tells him to 'go to hell' he's surprised and a bit offended."

"Oh, it isn't that," explained Mrs. Enderby; "it's to have your maids say 'All right' when you ask them to remove the soup. It's a bit shocking also to have your cook or housemaid going about the house singing some wretched ditty. What was that one, Charley, that Irma Maud sang till we were nearly wild (Irma Maud was my chambermaid). What was it? Something about 'Tixey Ann.'"

"Oh, I know it perfectly!" exclaimed Enderby. "'If you want to make a niggah feel good--'"

"No, no; that's another one."

Redfield interposed. "You wouldn't have them go about in sullen stealth, would you? Think how song lightens their drudgery."