We were under some queer sort of
suspicion--that was clear. Two or three wives among the emigrants had
tried to get a word with Virginia in private; and some of the men had
grinned and winked at me in a way that I should have been glad to notice
according to my old canal habits; but I had sense enough to see that
that would never do.
Virginia was now as free from care as if she had been traveling with her
brother; and what could I say? What did I want to say? By morning I had
made up my mind that I would take her to my farm and care for her there,
regardless of consequences--and I admit that I was not clear as to the
proprieties. Every one was a stranger to every one else in this country.
Whose business was it anyhow? Doctor Bliven and his companion--I had
worked out a pretty clear understanding of their case by this time--were
settling in the new West and leaving their past behind them. Who could
have anything to say against it if I took this girl with me to my farm,
cared for her, protected her; and gave her the home that nobody else
seemed ready to give?
"Do you ever go to church?" asked Virginia. "It's Sunday."
"Is there preaching here to-day?" I asked.
"Don't you hear the bell?" she inquired.
"Let's go!" said I.
We were late; and the heads of the people were bowed in prayer as we
went in; so we stood by the door until the prayer was over. The preacher
was Elder Thorndyke. I was surprised at seeing him because he had told
me that he and his wife were going to Monterey Centre; but there he was,
laboring with his text, speaking in a halting manner, and once in a
while bogging down in a dead stop out of which he could not pull himself
without giving a sort of honk like a wild goose.
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