The House That Was Not

by Elia W. Peattie

　　

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BART FLEMING took his bride outto his ranch on the plains when shewas but seventeen years old, and thetwo set up housekeeping in threehundred and twenty acres of corn and rye.Off toward the west there was an unbrokensea of tossing corn at that time of the yearwhen the bride came out, and as her sewingwindow was on the side of the house whichfaced the sunset, she passed a good part ofeach day looking into that great rustling mass,breathing in its succulent odors and listeningto its sibilant melody. It was her picturegallery, her opera, her spectacle, and, beingsensible, -- or perhaps, being merely happy,-- she made the most of it.When harvesting time came and the cornwas cut, she had much entertainment in discoveringwhat lay beyond. The town waseast, and it chanced that she had never riddenwest. So, when the rolling hills of thisnewly beholden land lifted themselves for hercontemplation, and the harvest sun, all in anangry and sanguinary glow sank in the veiledhorizon, and at noon a scarf of golden vaporwavered up and down along the earth line, itwas as if a new world had been made forher. Sometimes, at the coming of a storm,a whip-lash of purple cloud, full of electricagility, snapped along the western horizon."Oh, you'll see a lot of queer things onthese here plains," her husband said whenshe spoke to him of these phenomena. "Iguess what you see is the wind.""The wind!" cried Flora. "You can't seethe wind, Bart.""Now look here, Flora," returned Bart, withbenevolent emphasis, "you're a smart one,but you don't know all I know about this herecountry. I've lived here three mortal years,waitin' for you to git up out of your mother'sarms and come out to keep me company,and I know what there is to know. Somethings out here is queer -- so queer folkswouldn't believe 'em unless they saw. An'some's so pig-headed they don't believe theirown eyes. As for th' wind, if you lay downflat and squint toward th' west, you can seeit blowin' along near th' ground, like a bigribbon; an' sometimes it's th' color of air,an' sometimes it's silver an' gold, an' sometimes,when a storm is comin', it's purple.""If you got so tired looking at the wind,why didn't you marry some other girl, Bart,instead of waiting for me?"Flora was more interested in the first partof Bart's speech than in the last."Oh, come on!" protested Bart, and hepicked her up in his arms and jumped hertoward the ceiling of the low shack as if shewere a little girl -- but then, to be sure, shewasn't much more.Of all the things Flora saw when the cornwas cut down, nothing interested her so muchas a low cottage, something like her own,which lay away in the distance. She couldnot guess how far it might be, because distancesare deceiving out there, where the altitudeis high and the air is as clear as one ofthose mystic balls of glass in which the sallowmystics of India see the moving shadows ofthe future.She had not known there were neighborsso near, and she wondered for several daysabout them before she ventured to say anythingto Bart on the subject. Indeed, forsome reason which she did not attempt to explainto herself, she felt shy about broachingthe matter. Perhaps Bart did not want herto know the people. The thought came toher, as naughty thoughts will come, even tothe best of persons, that some handsomeyoung men might be "baching" it out thereby themselves, and Bart didn't wish her tomake their acquaintance. Bart had flatteredher so much that she had actually begun tothink herself beautiful, though as a matter offact she was only a nice little girl with a lotof reddish-brown hair, and a bright pair ofreddish-brown eyes in a white face."Bart," she ventured one evening, as thesun, at its fiercest, rushed toward the greatblack hollow of the west, "who lives overthere in that shack?"She turned away from the window whereshe had been looking at the incarnadineddisk, and she thought she saw Bart turn pale.But then, her eyes were so blurred with theglory she had been gazing at, that she mighteasily have been mistaken."I say, Bart, why don't you speak? Ifthere's any one around to associate with, Ishould think you'd let me have the benefitof their company. It isn't as funny as youthink, staying here alone days and days.""You ain't gettin' homesick, be you, sweetheart?"cried Bart, putting his arms aroundher. "You ain't gettin' tired of my society,be yeh?"It took some time to answer this questionin a satisfactory manner, but at length Florawas able to return to her original topic."But the shack, Bart! Who lives there,anyway?""I'm not acquainted with 'em," said Bart,sharply. "Ain't them biscuits done, Flora?"Then, of course, she grew obstinate."Those biscuits will never be done, Bart,till I know about that house, and why younever spoke of it, and why nobody ever comesdown the road from there. Some one livesthere I know, for in the mornings and at nightI see the smoke coming out of the chimney.""Do you now?" cried Bart, opening hiseyes and looking at her with unfeigned interest.Well, do you know, sometimes I'vefancied I seen that too?""Well, why not," cried Flora, in half anger."Why shouldn't you?""See here, Flora, take them biscuits out an'listen to me. There ain't no house there.Hello! I didn't know you'd go for to drop thebiscuits. Wait, I'll help you pick 'em up.By cracky, they're hot, ain't they? What youputtin' a towel over 'em for? Well, you setdown here on my knee, so. Now you lookover at that there house. You see it, don'tyeh? Well, it ain't there! No! I saw it thefirst week I was out here. I was jus' halfdyin', thinkin' of you an' wonderin' why youdidn't write. That was the time you was madat me. So I rode over there one day -- lookin'up company, so t' speak -- and there wa'n't nohouse there. I spent all one Sunday lookin'for it. Then I spoke to Jim Geary about it.He laughed an' got a little white about th'gills, an' he said he guessed I'd have to looka good while before I found it. He said thatthere shack was an ole joke.""Why -- what --""Well, this here is th' story he tol' me.He said a man an' his wife come out here t'live an' put up that there little place. An'she was young, you know, an' kind o' skeery,and she got lonesome. It worked on her an'worked on her, an' one day she up an' killedthe baby an' her husband an' herself. Th'folks found 'em and buried 'em right thereon their own ground. Well, about two weeksafter that, th' house was burned down. Don'tknow how. Tramps, maybe. Anyhow, itburned. At least, I guess it burned!""You guess it burned!""Well, it ain't there, you know.""But if it burned the ashes are there.""All right, girlie, they're there then. Nowlet's have tea."This they proceeded to do, and were happyand cheerful all evening, but that didn't keepFlora from rising at the first flush of dawn andstealing out of the house. She looked awayover west as she went to the barn and there,dark and firm against the horizon, stood thelittle house against the pellucid sky of morning.She got on Ginger's back -- Gingerbeing her own yellow broncho -- and set off ata hard pace for the house. It didn't appearto come any nearer, but the objects which hadseemed to be beside it came closer into view,and Flora pressed on, with her mind steeledfor anything. But as she approached thepoplar windbreak which stood to the northof the house, the little shack waned like ashadow before her. It faded and dimmedbefore her eyes.She slapped Ginger's flanks and kept himgoing, and she at last got him up to the spot.But there was nothing there. The bunch grassgrew tall and rank and in the midst of it laya baby's shoe. Flora thought of picking itup, but something cold in her veins withheldher. Then she grew angry, and set Ginger'shead toward the place and tried to drive himover it. But the yellow broncho gave onesnort of fear, gathered himself in a bunch,and then, all tense, leaping muscles, madefor home as only a broncho can.

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