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CONTENTS
It was a season of unequalled prosperity in Devil's Ford. The half adozen cabins scattered along the banks of the North Fork, as if by someoverflow of that capricious river, had become augmented during a week offierce excitement by twenty or thirty others, that were huddled togetheron the narrow gorge of Devil's Spur, or cast up on its steep sides. Sosudden and violent had been the change of fortune, that the dwellers inthe older cabins had not had time to change with it, but still kept theirold habits, customs, and even their old clothes. The flour pan in whichtheir daily bread was mixed stood on the rude table side by side with the"prospecting pans," half full of gold washed up from their morning'swork; the front windows of the newer tenements looked upon the one singlethoroughfare, but the back door opened upon the uncleared wilderness,still haunted by the misshapen bulk of bear or the nightly gliding ofcatamount.
Neither had success as yet affected their boyish simplicity and thefrankness of old frontier habits; they played with their new-found richeswith the naive delight of children, and rehearsed their glowing futurewith the importance and triviality of school-boys.
"I've bin kalklatin'," said Dick Mattingly, leaning on his long-handled shovel with lazy gravity, "that when I go to Rome this winter,I'll get one o' them marble sharps to chisel me a statoo o' some kind toset up on the spot where we made our big strike. Suthin' to remember itby, you know."
"What kind o' statoo—Washington or Webster?" asked one of theKearney brothers, without looking up from his work.
"No—I reckon one o' them fancy groups—one o' them Latingoddesses that Fairfax is always gassin' about, sorter leadin', directin'and bossin' us where to dig."
"You'd make a healthy-lookin' figger in a group," responded Kearney,critically regarding an enormous patch in Mattingly's trousers. "Whydon't you have a fountain instead?"
"Where'll you get the water?" demanded the first speaker, in return."You know there ain't enough in the North Fork to do a week's washing forthe camp—to say nothin' of its color."
"Leave that to me," said Kearney, with self-possession. "When I'vebuilt that there reservoir on Devil's Spur, and bring the water over theridge from Union Ditch, there'll be enough to spare for that."
"Better mix it up, I reckon—have suthin' half statoo, halffountain," interposed the elder Mattingly, better known as "MarylandJoe," "and set it up afore the Town Hall and Free Library I'm kalklatin'to give. Do THAT, and you can count on me."
After some further discussion, it was gravely settled that Kearneyshould furnish water brought from the Union Ditch, twenty miles away, ata cost of two hundred thousand dollars, to feed a memorial fountainerected by Mattingly, worth a hundred thousand dollars, as a crowningfinish to public buildings contributed by Maryland Joe, to the extent ofhalf a million more. The disposition of these vast sums by gentlemenwearing patched breeches awakened no sense of the ludicrous, nor did anydoubt, reservation, or contingency enter into the plans of the charmingenthusiasts themselves. The foundation of their airy castles lay alreadybefore them in the strip of rich alluvium on the river bank, where theNorth Fork, sharply curving round the base of Devil's Spur, had forcenturies swept the detritus of gulch and canyon. They had barely crossedthe threshold of this treasure-house, to find themselves rich men; whatpossibilities of affluence might be theirs when they had fully exploitedtheir possessions? So confident were they of that ultimate prospect, thatthe wealth already thus obtained was religiously expended in engines andmachinery for the boring of wells and the conveyance of that preciouswater which the exhausted river had long since ceased to yield. It seemedas if the gold they had taken out was by some ironical compensationgradually making its way back to the soil again through ditch and flumeand reservoir.
Such was the position of affairs at Devil's Ford on the 13th ofAugust, 1860. It was noon of a hot day. Whatever movement there was inthe stifling air was seen rather than felt in a tremulous, quivering,upward-moving dust along the flank of the mountain, through which thespires of the pines were faintly visible. There was no water in the baredand burning bars of the river to reflect the vertical sun, but under itsdirect rays one or two tinned roofs and corrugated zinc cabins struckfire, a few canvas tents became dazzling to the eye, and the white woodedcorral of the stage office and hotel insupportable. For two hours no oneventured in the glare of the open, or even to cross the narrow,unshadowed street, whose dull red dust seemed to glow between the linesof straggling houses. The heated shells of these green unseasonedtenements gave out a pungent odor of scorching wood and resin. The usualhurried, feverish toil in the claim was suspended; the pick and shovelwere left sticking in the richest "pay gravel;" the toiling millionairesthemselves, ragged, dirty, and perspiring, lay panting under the nearestshade, where the pipes went out listlessly, and conversation sank tomonosyllables.
"There's Fairfax," said Dick Mattingly, at last, with a lazy effort.His face was turned to the hillside, where a man had just emerged fromthe woods, and was halting irresolutely before the glaring expanse ofupheaved gravel and glistening boulders that stretched between him andthe shaded group. "He's going to make a break for it," he added, as thestranger, throwing his linen coat over his head, suddenly started into anIndian trot through the pelting sunbeams toward them. This strange actwas perfectly understood by the group, who knew that in that intenselydry heat the danger of exposure was lessened by active exercise and theprofuse perspiration that followed it. In another moment the stranger hadreached their side, dripping as if rained upon, mopping his damp curlsand handsome bearded face with his linen coat, as he threw himselfpantingly on the ground.
"I struck out over here first, boys, to give you a little warning," hesaid, as soon as he had gained breath. "That engineer will be down hereto take charge as soon as the six o'clock stage comes in. He's an oldishchap, has got a family of two daughters, and—I—am—d——d if he is not bringing them down here with him."
"Oh, go long!" exclaimed the five men in one voice, raising themselveson their hands and elbows, and glaring at the speaker.
"Fact, boys! Soon as I found it out I just waltzed into that Jew shopat the Crossing and bought up all the clothes that would be likely tosuit you fellows, before anybody else got a show. I reckon I cleared outthe shop. The duds are a little mixed in style, but I reckon they'reclean and whole, and a man might face a lady in 'em. I left them round atthe old Buckeye Spring, where they're handy without attracting attention.You boys can go there for a general wash-up, rig yourselves up withoutsaying anything, and then meander back careless and easy in your storeclothes, just as the stage is coming in, sabe?"
"Why didn't you let us know earlier?" asked Mattingly aggrievedly;"you've been back here at least an hour."
"I've been getting some place ready for THEM," returned the new-comer. "We might have managed to put the man somewhere, if he'd beenalone, but these women want family accommodation. There was nothing leftfor me to do but to buy up Thompson's saloon."
"No?" interrupted his audience, half in incredulity, half inprotestation.
"Fact! You boys will have to take your drinks under canvas again, Ireckon! But I made Thompson let those gold-framed mirrors that used tostand behind the bar go into the bargain, and they sort of furnish theroom. You know the saloon is one of them patent houses you can take topieces, and I've been reckoning you boys will have to pitch in and helpme to take the whole shanty over to the laurel bushes, and put it up aginKearney's cabin."
"What's all that?" said the younger Kearney, with an odd mingling ofastonishment and bashful gratification.
"Yes, I reckon yours is the cleanest house, because it's the newest,so you'll just step out and let us knock in one o' the gables, and clapit on to the saloon, and make ONE house of it, don't you see? There'll betwo rooms, one for the girls and the other for the old man."
The astonishment and bewilderment of the party had gradually given wayto a boyish and impatient interest.
"Hadn't we better do the job at once?" suggested Dick Mattingly.
"Or throw ourselves into those new clothes, so as to be ready," addedthe younger Kearney, looking down at his ragged trousers. "I say,Fairfax, what are the girls like, eh?"
All the others had been dying to ask the question, yet one and alllaughed at the conscious manner and blushing cheek of the questioner.
"You'll find out quick enough," returned Fairfax, whose curtcarelessness did not, however, prevent a slight increase of color on hisown cheek. "We'd better get that job off our hands before doing anythingelse. So, if you're ready, boys, we'll just waltz down to Thompson's andpack up the shanty. He's out of it by this time, I reckon. You might aswell be perspiring to some purpose over there as gaspin' under this tree.We won't go back to work this afternoon, but knock off now, and call ithalf a day. Come! Hump yourselves, gentlemen. Are you ready? One, two,three, and away!"
In another instant the tree was deserted; the figures of the fivemillionaires of Devil's Ford, crossing the fierce glare of the openspace, with boyish alacrity, glistened in the sunlight, and thendisappeared in the nearest fringe of thickets.
Six hours later, when the shadow of Devil's Spur had crossed theriver, and spread a slight coolness over the flat beyond, the Pioneercoach, leaving the summit, began also to bathe its heated bulk in thelong shadows of the descent. Conspicuous among the dusty passengers, thetwo pretty and youthful faces of the daughters of Philip Carr, miningsuperintendent and engineer, looked from the windows with no littleanxiety towards their future home in the straggling settlement below,that occasionally came in view at the turns of the long zigzagging road.A slight look of comical disappointment passed between them as they gazedupon the sterile flat, dotted with unsightly excrescences that stoodequally for cabins or mounds of stone and gravel. It was so feeble andinconsistent a culmination to the beautiful scenery they had passedthrough, so hopeless and imbecile a conclusion to the preparation of thatlong picturesque journey, with its glimpses of sylvan and pastoral gladesand canyons, that, as the coach swept down the last incline, and theremorseless monotony of the dead level spread out before them, furrowedby ditches and indented by pits, under cover of shielding their cheeksfrom the impalpable dust that rose beneath the plunging wheels, theyburied their faces in their handkerchiefs, to hide a few half-hystericaltears. Happily, their father, completely absorbed in a practical,scientific, and approving contemplation of the topography and materialresources of the scene of his future labors, had no time to notice theirdefection. It was not until the stage drew up before a rambling tenementbearing the inscription, "Hotel and Stage Office," that he became fullyaware of it.
"We can't stop HERE, papa," said Christie Carr decidedly, with a shakeof her pretty head. "You can't expect that."
Mr. Carr looked up at the building; it was half grocery, half saloon.Whatever other accommodations it contained must have been hidden in therear, as the flat roof above was almost level with the raftered ceilingof the shop.
"Certainly," he replied hurriedly; "we'll see to that in a moment. Idare say it's all right. I told Fairfax we were coming. Somebody ought tobe here."
"But they're not," said Jessie Carr indignantly; "and the few thatwere here scampered off like rabbits to their burrows as soon as they sawus get down."
It was true. The little group of loungers before the building hadsuddenly disappeared. There was the flash of a red shirt vanishing in anadjacent doorway; the fading apparition of a pair of high boots and blueoveralls in another; the abrupt withdrawal of a curly blond head from asashless window over the way. Even the saloon was deserted, although aback door in the dim recess seemed to creak mysteriously. Thestage-coach, with the other passengers, had already rattled away.
"I certainly think Fairfax understood that I—" began Mr.Carr.
He was interrupted by the pressure of Christie's fingers on his armand a subdued exclamation from Jessie, who was staring down thestreet.
"What are they?" she whispered in her sister's ear. "Nigger minstrels,a circus, or what?"
The five millionaires of Devil's Ford had just turned the corner ofthe straggling street, and were approaching in single file. One glancewas sufficient to show that they had already availed themselves of thenew clothing bought by Fairfax, had washed, and one or two had shaved.But the result was startling.
Through some fortunate coincidence in size, Dick Mattingly was theonly one who had achieved an entire new suit. But it was of funerealblack cloth, and although relieved at one extremity by a pair of highriding boots, in which his too short trousers were tucked, and at theother by a tall white hat, and cravat of aggressive yellow, the effectwas depressing. In agreeable contrast, his brother, Maryland Joe, wasattired in a thin fawn- colored summer overcoat, lightly worn open, so asto show the unstarched bosom of a white embroidered shirt, and a pair ofnankeen trousers and pumps.
The Kearney brothers had divided a suit between them, the elderwearing a tightly-fitting, single-breasted blue frock-coat and a pair ofpink striped cotton trousers, while the younger candidly displayed thetrousers of his brother's suit, as a harmonious change to a shining blackalpaca coat and crimson neckerchief. Fairfax, who brought up the rear,had, with characteristic unselfishness, contented himself with a Frenchworkman's blue blouse and a pair of white duck trousers. Had they shownthe least consciousness of their finery, or of its absurdity, they wouldhave seemed despicable. But only one expression beamed on the fivesunburnt and shining faces—a look of unaffected boyishgratification and unrestricted welcome.
They halted before Mr. Carr and his daughters, simultaneously removedtheir various and remarkable head coverings, and waited until Fairfaxadvanced and severally presented them. Jessie Carr's half-frightenedsmile took refuge in the trembling shadows of her dark lashes; ChristieCarr stiffened slightly, and looked straight before her.
"We reckoned—that is—we intended to meet you and the youngladies at the grade," said Fairfax, reddening a little as he endeavoredto conceal his too ready slang, "and save you from trapesing—fromdragging yourselves up grade again to your house."
"Then there IS a house?" said Jessie, with an alarming frank laugh ofrelief, that was, however, as frankly reflected in the boyishlyappreciative eyes of the young men.
"Such as it is," responded Fairfax, with a shade of anxiety, as heglanced at the fresh and pretty costumes of the young women, anddubiously regarded the two Saratoga trunks resting hopelessly on theveranda. "I'm afraid it isn't much, for what you're accustomed to. But,"he added more cheerfully, "it will do for a day or two, and perhapsyou'll give us the pleasure of showing you the way there now."
The procession was quickly formed. Mr. Carr, alive only to the actualbusiness that had brought him there, at once took possession of Fairfax,and began to disclose his plans for the working of the mine, occasionallyhalting to look at the work already done in the ditches, and to examinethe field of his future operations. Fairfax, not displeased at being thusrelieved of a lighter attendance on Mr. Carr's daughters, neverthelessfrom time to time cast a paternal glance backwards upon their escorts,who had each seized a handle of the two trunks, and were carrying them incouples at the young ladies' side. The occupation did not offer muchfreedom for easy gallantry, but no sign of discomfiture or uneasiness wasvisible in the grateful faces of the young men. The necessity of changinghands at times with their burdens brought a corresponding change ofcavalier at the lady's side, although it was observed that the youngerKearney, for the sake of continuing a conversation with Miss Jessie, kepthis grasp of the handle nearest the young lady until his hand was nearlycut through, and his arm worn out by exhaustion.
"The only thing on wheels in the camp is a mule wagon, and the mulesare packin' gravel from the river this afternoon," explained DickMattingly apologetically to Christie, "or we'd have toted—I meancarried—you and your baggage up to the shant—the—yourhouse. Give us two weeks more, Miss Carr—only two weeks to wash upour work and realize—and we'll give you a pair of 2.40 steppers anda skeleton buggy to meet you at the top of the hill and drive you over tothe cabin. Perhaps you'd prefer a regular carriage; some ladies do. And anigger driver. But what's the use of planning anything? Afore that timecomes we'll have run you up a house on the hill, and you shall pick outthe spot. It wouldn't take long—unless you preferred brick. Isuppose we could get brick over from La Grange, if you cared for it, butit would take longer. If you could put up for a time with something ofstained glass and a mahogany veranda—"
In spite of her cold indignation, and the fact that she couldunderstand only a part of Mattingly's speech, Christie comprehendedenough to make her lift her clear eyes to the speaker, as she repliedfreezingly that she feared she would not trouble them long with hercompany.
"Oh, you'll get over that," responded Mattingly, with an exasperatingconfidence that drove her nearly frantic, from the manifest kindliness ofintent that made it impossible for her to resent it. "I felt that waymyself at first. Things will look strange and unsociable for a while,until you get the hang of them. You'll naturally stamp round and cuss alittle—" He stopped in conscious consternation.
With ready tact, and before Christie could reply, Maryland Joe had putdown the trunk and changed hands with his brother.
"You mustn't mind Dick, or he'll go off and kill himself with shame,"he whispered laughingly in her ear. "He means all right, but he's pickedup so much slang here that he's about forgotten how to talk English, andit's nigh on to four years since he's met a young lady."
Christie did not reply. Yet the laughter of her sister in advance withthe Kearney brothers seemed to make the reserve with which she tried tocrush further familiarity only ridiculous.
"Do you know many operas, Miss Carr?"
She looked at the boyish, interested, sunburnt face so near to herown, and hesitated. After all, why should she add to her other realdisappointments by taking this absurd creature seriously?
"In what way?" she returned, with a half smile.
"To play. On the piano, of course. There isn't one nearer here thanSacramento; but I reckon we could get a small one by Thursday. Youcouldn't do anything on a banjo?" he added doubtfully; "Kearney's gotone."
"I imagine it would be very difficult to carry a piano over thosemountains," said Christie laughingly, to avoid the collateral of thebanjo.
"We got a billiard-table over from Stockton," half bashfullyinterrupted Dick Mattingly, struggling from his end of the trunk torecover his composure, "and it had to be brought over in sections on theback of a mule, so I don't see why—" He stopped short again inconfusion, at a sign from his brother, and then added, "I mean, ofcourse, that a piano is a heap more delicate, and valuable, and all thatsort of thing, but it's worth trying for."
"Fairfax was always saying he'd get one for himself, so I reckon it'spossible," said Joe.
"Does he play?" asked Christie.
"You bet," said Joe, quite forgetting himself in his enthusiasm. "Hecan snatch Mozart and Beethoven bald-headed."
In the embarrassing silence that followed this speech the fringe ofpine wood nearest the flat was reached. Here there was a rude "clearing,"and beneath an enormous pine stood the two recently joined tenements.There was no attempt to conceal the point of junction between Kearney'scabin and the newly-transported saloon from the flat—noarchitectural illusion of the palpable collusion of the two buildings,which seemed to be telescoped into each other. The front room or livingroom occupied the whole of Kearney's cabin. It contained, in addition tothe necessary articles for housekeeping, a "bunk" or berth for Mr. Carr,so as to leave the second building entirely to the occupation of hisdaughters as bedroom and boudoir.
There was a half-humorous, half-apologetic exhibition of the rudeutensils of the living room, and then the young men turned away as thetwo girls entered the open door of the second room. Neither Christie norJessie could for a moment understand the delicacy which kept these youngmen from accompanying them into the room they had but a few momentsbefore decorated and arranged with their own hands, and it was not untilthey turned to thank their strange entertainers that they found that theywere gone.
The arrangement of the second room was rude and bizarre, but notwithout a singular originality and even tastefulness of conception. Whathad been the counter or "bar" of the saloon, gorgeous in white and gold,now sawn in two and divided, was set up on opposite sides of the room asseparate dressing-tables, decorated with huge bunches of azaleas, thathid the rough earthenware bowls, and gave each table the appearance of avestal altar.
The huge gilt plate-glass mirror which had hung behind the bar stilloccupied one side of the room, but its length was artfully divided by anenormous rosette of red, white, and blue muslin—one of thesurviving Fourth of July decorations of Thompson's saloon. On either sideof the door two pathetic-looking, convent-like cots, covered withspotless sheeting, and heaped up in the middle, like a snow-coveredgrave, had attracted their attention. They were still staring at themwhen Mr. Carr anticipated their curiosity.
"I ought to tell you that the young men confided to me the fact thatthere was neither bed nor mattress to be had on the Ford. They havefilled some flour sacks with clean dry moss from the woods, and put halfa dozen blankets on the top, and they hope you can get along until themessenger who starts to-night for La Grange can bring some beddingover."
Jessie flew with mischievous delight to satisfy herself of the truthof this marvel. "It's so, Christie," she said laughingly— "threeflour-sacks apiece; but I'm jealous: yours are all marked 'superfine,'and mine 'middlings.'"
Mr. Carr had remained uneasily watching Christie's shadowed face.
"What matters?" she said drily. "The accommodation is all inkeeping."
"It will be better in a day or two," he continued, casting a longinglook towards the door—the first refuge of masculine weakness in animpending domestic emergency. "I'll go and see what can be done," he saidfeebly, with a sidelong impulse towards the opening and freedom. "I'vegot to see Fairfax again to-night any way."
"One moment, father," said Christie, wearily. "Did you know anythingof this place and these—these people—before you came?"
"Certainly—of course I did," he returned, with the suddentestiness of disturbed abstraction. "What are you thinking of? I knew thegeological strata and the—the report of Fairfax and his partnersbefore I consented to take charge of the works. And I can tell you thatthere is a fortune here. I intend to make my own terms, and share init."
"And not take a salary or some sum of money down?" said Christie,slowly removing her bonnet in the same resigned way.
"I am not a hired man, or a workman, Christie," said her fathersharply. "You ought not to oblige me to remind you of that."
"But the hired men—the superintendent and his workmen—werethe only ones who ever got anything out of your last experience withColonel Waters at La Grange, and—and we at least lived amongcivilized people there."
"These young men are not common people, Christie; even if they haveforgotten the restraints of speech and manners, they're gentlemen."
"Who are willing to live like—like negroes."
"You can make them what you please."
Christie raised her eyes. There was a certain cynical ring in herfather's voice that was unlike his usual hesitating abstraction. It bothpuzzled and pained her.
"I mean," he said hastily, "that you have the same opportunity todirect the lives of these young men into more regular, disciplinedchannels that I have to regulate and correct their foolish waste ofindustry and material here. It would at least beguile the time foryou."
Fortunately for Mr. Carr's escape and Christie's uneasiness, Jessie,who had been examining the details of the living-room, broke in upon thisconversation.
"I'm sure it will be as good as a perpetual picnic. George Kearneysays we can have a cooking-stove under the tree outside at the back, andas there will be no rain for three months we can do the cooking there,and that will give us more room for—for the piano when it comes;and there's an old squaw to do the cleaning and washing-up anyday—and—and—it will be real fun."
She stopped breathlessly, with glowing cheeks and sparklingeyes—a charming picture of youth and trustfulness. Mr. Carr hadseized the opportunity to escape.
"Really, now, Christie," said Jessie confidentially, when they werealone, and Christie had begun to unpack her trunk, and to mechanicallyput her things away, "they're not so bad."
"Who?" asked Christie.
"Why, the Kearneys, and Mattinglys, and Fairfax, and the lot, providedyou don't look at their clothes. And think of it! they told me—forthey tell one EVERYTHING in the most alarming way— that thoseclothes were bought to please US. A scramble of things bought at LaGrange, without reference to size or style. And to hear these creaturestalk, why, you'd think they were Astors or Rothschilds. Think of thatlittle one with the curls—I don't believe he is over seventeen, forall his baby moustache—says he's going to build an assembly hallfor us to give a dance in next month; and apologizes the next breath totell us that there isn't any milk to be had nearer than La Grange, and wemust do without it, and use syrup in our tea to-morrow."
"And where is all this wealth?" said Christie, forcing herself tosmile at her sister's animation.
"Under our very feet, my child, and all along the river. Why, what wethought was pure and simple mud is what they call 'gold-bearingcement.'"
"I suppose that is why they don't brush their boots and trousers, it'sso precious," returned Christie drily. "And have they ever translatedthis precious dirt into actual coin?"
"Bless you, yes. Why, that dirty little gutter, you know, that ranalong the side of the road and followed us down the hill all the wayhere, that cost them—let me see—yes, nearly sixty thousanddollars. And fancy! papa's just condemned it—says it won't do; andthey've got to build another."
An impatient sigh from Christie drew Jessie's attention to hertroubled eyebrows.
"Don't worry about our disappointment, dear. It isn't so very great. Idare say we'll be able to get along here in some way, until papa is richagain. You know they intend to make him share with them."
"It strikes me that he is sharing with them already," said Christie,glancing bitterly round the cabin; "sharing everything— ourselves,our lives, our tastes."
"Ye-e-s!" said Jessie, with vaguely hesitating assent. "Yes, eventhese:" she showed two dice in the palm of her little hand. "I found 'emin the drawer of our dressing-table."
"Throw them away," said Christie impatiently.
But Jessie's small fingers closed over the dice. "I'll give them tothe little Kearney. I dare say they were the poor boy's playthings."
The appearance of these relics of wild dissipation, however, hadlifted Christie out of her sublime resignation. "For Heaven's sake,Jessie," she said, "look around and see if there is anything more!"
To make sure, they each began to scrimmage; the broken-spiritedChristie exhibiting both alacrity and penetration in searching obscurecorners. In the dining-room, behind the dresser, three or four books werediscovered: an odd volume of Thackeray, another of Dickens, amemorandum-book or diary. "This seems to be Latin," said Jessie, fishingout a smaller book. "I can't read it."
"It's just as well you shouldn't," said Christie shortly, whose ideasof a general classical impropriety had been gathered from pages ofLempriere's dictionary. "Put it back directly."
Jessie returned certain odes of one Horatius Flaccus to the corner,and uttered an exclamation. "Oh, Christie! here are some letters tied upwith a ribbon."
They were two or three prettily written letters, exhaling a faint odorof refinement and of the pressed flowers that peeped from between theloose leaves. "I see, 'My darling Fairfax.' It's from some woman."
"I don't think much of her, whosoever she is," said Christie, tossingthe intact packet back into the corner.
"Nor I," echoed Jessie.
Nevertheless, by some feminine inconsistency, evidently thecircumstance did make them think more of HIM, for a minute later, whenthey had reentered their own room, Christie remarked, "The idea ofpetting a man by his family name! Think of mamma ever having called papa'darling Carr'!"
"Oh, but his family name isn't Fairfax," said Jessie hastily; "that'shis FIRST name, his Christian name. I forget what's his other name, butnobody ever calls him by it."
"Do you mean," said Christie, with glistening eyes and awfuldeliberation—"do you mean to say that we're expected to fall inwith this insufferable familiarity? I suppose they'll be calling US byour Christian names next."
"Oh, but they do!" said Jessie, mischievously.
"What!"
"They call me Miss Jessie; and Kearney, the little one, asked me ifChristie played."
"And what did you say?"
"I said that you did," answered Jessie, with an affectation ofcherubic simplicity. "You do, dear; don't you? . . . There, don't getangry, darling; I couldn't flare up all of a sudden in the face of thatpoor little creature; he looked so absurd—and so—sohonest."
Christie turned away, relapsing into her old resigned manner, andassuming her household duties in a quiet, temporizing way that was,however, without hope or expectation.
Mr. Carr, who had dined with his friends under the excuse of notadding to the awkwardness of the first day's housekeeping returned lateat night with a mass of papers and drawings, into which he afterwardswithdrew, but not until he had delivered himself of a mysterious packageentrusted to him by the young men for his daughters. It contained acontribution to their board in the shape of a silver spoon and batteredsilver mug, which Jessie chose to facetiously consider as an affectingreminiscence of the youthful Kearney's christening days—which itprobably was.
The young girls retired early to their white snow-drifts: Jessie notwithout some hilarious struggles with hers, in which she was, however,quickly surprised by the deep and refreshing sleep of youth; Christie tolie awake and listen to the night wind, that had changed from the firstcool whispers of sunset to the sturdy breath of the mountain. At timesthe frail house shook and trembled. Wandering gusts laden with the deepresinous odors of the wood found their way through the imperfect jointureof the two cabins, swept her cheek and even stirred her long, wide-openlashes. A broken spray of pine needles rustled along the roof, or a pinecone dropped with a quick reverberating tap-tap that for an instantstartled her. Lying thus, wide awake, she fell into a dreamy reminiscenceof the past, hearing snatches of old melody in the moving pines,fragments of sentences, old words, and familiar epithets in the murmuringwind at her ear, and even the faint breath of long-forgotten kisses onher cheek. She remembered her mother—a pallid creature, who hadslowly faded out of one of her father's vague speculations in a vaguerspeculation of her own, beyond his ken—whose place she had promisedto take at her father's side. The words, "Watch over him, Christie; heneeds a woman's care," again echoed in her ears, as if borne on the nightwind from the lonely grave in the lonelier cemetery by the distant sea.She had devoted herself to him with some little sacrifices of self, onlyremembered now for their uselessness in saving her father thedisappointment that sprang from his sanguine and one- idea'd temperament.She thought of him lying asleep in the other room, ready on the morrow todevote those fateful qualities to the new enterprise that with equallyfateful disposition she believed would end in failure. It did not occurto her that the doubts of her own practical nature were almost asdangerous and illogical as his enthusiasm, and that for that reason shewas fast losing what little influence she possessed over him. With theexample of her mother's weakness before her eyes, she had become anunsparing and distrustful critic, with the sole effect of awakening hisdistrust and withdrawing his confidence from her.
He was beginning to deceive her as he had never deceived her mother.Even Jessie knew more of this last enterprise than she did herself.
All that did not tend to decrease her utter restlessness. It wasalready past midnight when she noticed that the wind had again abated.The mountain breeze had by this time possessed the stifling valleys andheated bars of the river in its strong, cold embraces; the equilibrium ofNature was restored, and a shadowy mist rose from the hollow. Astillness, more oppressive and intolerable than the previous commotion,began to pervade the house and the surrounding woods. She could hear theregular breathing of the sleepers; she even fancied she could detect thefaint impulses of the more distant life in the settlement. The far-offbarking of a dog, a lost shout, the indistinct murmur of some nearerwatercourse—mere phantoms of sound—made the silence moreirritating. With a sudden resolution she arose, dressed herself quietlyand completely, threw a heavy cloak over her head and shoulders, andopened the door between the living-room and her own. Her father wassleeping soundly in his bunk in the corner. She passed noiselesslythrough the room, opened the lightly fastened door, and stepped out intothe night.
In the irritation and disgust of her walk hither, she had nevernoticed the situation of the cabin, as it nestled on the slope at thefringe of the woods; in the preoccupation of her disappointment and themechanical putting away of her things, she had never looked once from thewindow of her room, or glanced backward out of the door that she hadentered. The view before her was a revelation—a reproach, asurprise that took away her breath. Over her shoulders the newly risenmoon poured a flood of silvery light, stretching from her feet across theshining bars of the river to the opposite bank, and on up to the verycrest of the Devil's Spur—no longer a huge bulk of crushing shadow,but the steady exaltation of plateau, spur, and terrace clothed withreplete and unutterable beauty. In this magical light that beauty seemedto be sustained and carried along by the river winding at its base,lifted again to the broad shoulder of the mountain, and lost only in thedistant vista of death-like, overcrowning snow. Behind and above whereshe stood the towering woods seemed to be waiting with opened ranks toabsorb her with the little cabin she had quitted, dwarfed intoinsignificance in the vast prospect; but nowhere was there another signor indication of human life and habitation. She looked in vain for thesettlement, for the rugged ditches, the scattered cabins, and theunsightly heaps of gravel. In the glamour of the moonlight they hadvanished; a veil of silver-gray vapor touched here and there with ebonyshadows masked its site. A black strip beyond was the river bank. Allelse was changed. With a sudden sense of awe and loneliness she turned tothe cabin and its sleeping inmates—all that seemed left to her inthe vast and stupendous domination of rock and wood and sky.
But in another moment the loneliness passed. A new and delicious senseof an infinite hospitality and friendliness in their silent presencebegan to possess her. This same slighted, forgotten, uncomprehended, butstill foolish and forgiving Nature seemed to be bending over herfrightened and listening ear with vague but thrilling murmurings offreedom and independence. She felt her heart expand with its wholesomebreath, her soul fill with its sustaining truth.
She felt—
What was that?
An unmistakable outburst of a drunken song at the foot of theslope:—
"Oh, my name it is Johnny from Pike, I'm h-ll on a spree or a strike" . . .
She stopped as crimson with shame and indignation as if the viewlesssinger had risen before her.
"I knew when to bet, and get up and get—"
"Hush! D—n it all. Don't you hear?"
There was the sound of hurried whispers, a "No" and "Yes," and then adead silence.
Christie crept nearer to the edge of the slope in the shadow of abuckeye. In the clearer view she could distinguish a staggering figure inthe trail below who had evidently been stopped by two other expostulatingshadows that were approaching from the shelter of a tree.
"Sho!—didn't know!"
The staggering figure endeavored to straighten itself, and thenslouched away in the direction of the settlement. The two mysteriousshadows retreated again to the tree, and were lost in its deeper shadow.Christie darted back to the cabin, and softly reentered her room.
"I thought I heard a noise that woke me, and I missed you," saidJessie, rubbing her eyes. "Did you see anything?"
"No," said Christie, beginning to undress.
"You weren't frightened, dear?"
"Not in the least," said Christie, with a strange little laugh. "Go tosleep."
The five impulsive millionaires of Devil's Ford fulfilled not a few oftheir most extravagant promises. In less than six weeks Mr. Carr and hisdaughters were installed in a new house, built near the site of thedouble cabin, which was again transferred to the settlement, in order togive greater seclusion to the fair guests. It was a long, roomy,one-storied villa, with a not unpicturesque combination of deep verandaand trellis work, which relieved the flat monotony of the interior andthe barrenness of the freshly- cleared ground. An upright piano, broughtfrom Sacramento, occupied the corner of the parlor. A suite of gorgeousfurniture, whose pronounced and extravagant glories the young girlsinstinctively hid under home-made linen covers, had also been spoils fromafar. Elsewhere the house was filled with ornaments and decorations thatin their incongruity forcibly recalled the gilded plate-glass mirrors ofthe bedroom in the old cabin. In the hasty furnishing of this Aladdin'spalace, the slaves of the ring had evidently seized upon anything thatwould add to its glory, without reference always to fitness.
"I wish it didn't look so cussedly like a robber's cave," said GeorgeKearney, when they were taking a quiet preliminary survey of theunclassified treasures, before the Carrs took possession.
"Or a gambling hell," said his brother reflectively.
"It's about the same thing, I reckon," said Dick Mattingly, who wassupposed, in his fiery youth, to have encountered the similarity.
Nevertheless, the two girls managed to bestow the heterogeneouscollection with tasteful adaptation to their needs. A crystal chandelier,which had once lent a fascinating illusion to the game of Monte, hungunlighted in the broad hall, where a few other bizarre and publicarticles were relegated. A long red sofa or bench, which had done dutybeside a billiard-table found a place here also. Indeed, it is to befeared that some of the more rustic and bashful youths of Devil's Ford,who had felt it incumbent upon them to pay their respects to thenew-comers, were more at ease in this vestibule than in the arcanabeyond, whose glories they could see through the open door. To others, itrepresented a recognized state of probation before their re-entree intocivilization again. "I reckon, if you don't mind, miss," said thespokesman of one party, "ez this is our first call, we'll sorter hang outin the hall yer, until you'r used to us." On another occasion, oneWhiskey Dick, impelled by a sense of duty, paid a visit to the new houseand its fair occupants, in a fashion frankly recounted by him afterwardsat the bar of the Tecumseh Saloon.
"You see, boys, I dropped in there the other night, when some of youfellers was doin' the high-toned 'thankee, marm' business in the parlor.I just came to anchor in the corner of the sofy in the hall, withoutlettin' on to say that I was there, and took up a Webster's dictionarythat was on the table and laid it open— keerless like, on my knees,ez if I was sorter consultin' it—and kinder dozed off there,listenin' to you fellows gassin' with the young ladies, and that yer MissChristie just snakin' music outer that pianner, and I reckon I fellasleep. Anyhow, I was there nigh on to two hours. It's mighty soothin',them fashionable calls; sorter knocks the old camp dust outer a fellow,and sets him up again."
It would have been well if the new life of the Devil's Ford had shownno other irregularity than the harmless eccentricities of its originallocaters. But the news of its sudden fortune, magnified by report, beganpresently to flood the settlement with another class of adventurers. Atide of waifs, strays, and malcontents of old camps along the river beganto set towards Devil's Ford, in very much the same fashion as the debris,drift, and alluvium had been carried down in bygone days and cast uponits banks. A few immigrant wagons, diverted from the highways of travelby the fame of the new diggings, halted upon the slopes of Devil's Spurand on the arid flats of the Ford, and disgorged their sallow freight ofalkali-poisoned, prematurely-aged women and children and maimed andfever-stricken men. Against this rude form of domesticity were opposedthe chromo-tinted dresses and extravagant complexions of a few singleunattended women—happily seen more often at night behind gildedbars than in the garish light of day—and an equal number ofpale-faced, dark-moustached, well-dressed, and suspiciously idle men. Adozen rivals of Thompson's Saloon had sprung up along the narrow mainstreet. There were two new hotels— one a "Temperance House," whoseascetic quality was confined only to the abnegation of whiskey—arival stage office, and a small one-storied building, from which the"Sierran Banner" fluttered weekly, for "ten dollars a year, in advance."Insufferable in the glare of a Sabbath sun, bleak, windy, and flaring inthe gloom of a Sabbath night, and hopelessly depressing on all days ofthe week, the First Presbyterian Church lifted its blunt steeple from thebarrenest area of the flats, and was hideous! The civic improvements soenthusiastically contemplated by the five millionaires in the earlierpages of this veracious chronicle—the fountain, reservoir,town-hall, and free library—had not yet been erected. Their siteshad been anticipated by more urgent buildings and mining works,unfortunately not considered in the sanguine dreams of the enthusiasts,and, more significant still, their cost and expense had been alsoanticipated by the enormous outlay of their earnings in the work uponDevil's Ditch.
Nevertheless, the liberal fulfilment of their promise in the new housein the suburbs blinded the young girls' eyes to their shortcomings in thetown. Their own remoteness and elevation above its feverish life keptthem from the knowledge of much that was strange, and perhaps disturbingto their equanimity. As they did not mix with the immigrantwomen—Miss Jessie's good-natured intrusion into one of theirhalf-nomadic camps one day having been met with rudeness andsuspicion—they gradually fell into the way of trusting theresponsibility of new acquaintances to the hands of their original hosts,and of consulting them in the matter of local recreation. It thusoccurred that one day the two girls, on their way to the main street foran hour's shopping at the Villa de Paris and Variety Store, were stoppedby Dick Mattingly a few yards from their house, with the remark that, asthe county election was then in progress, it would be advisable for themto defer their intention for a few hours. As he did not deem it necessaryto add that two citizens, in the exercise of a freeman's franchise, hadbeen supplementing their ballots with bullets, in front of an admiringcrowd, they knew nothing of that accident that removed from Devil's Fordan entertaining stranger, who had only the night before partaken of theirhospitality.
A week or two later, returning one morning from a stroll in theforest, Christie and Jessie were waylaid by George Kearney and Fairfax,and, under pretext of being shown a new and romantic trail, were divertedfrom the regular path. This enabled Mattingly and Maryland Joe to cutdown the body of a man hanged by the Vigilance Committee a few hoursbefore on the regular trail, and to remonstrate with the committee on theincompatibility of such exhibitions with a maidenly worship ofnature.
"With the whole county to hang a man in," expostulated Joe, "you mightkeep clear of Carr's woods."
It is needless to add that the young girls never knew of this act ofviolence, or the delicacy that kept them in ignorance of it. Mr. Carr wastoo absorbed in business to give heed to what he looked upon as aconvulsion of society as natural as a geological upheaval, and tooprudent to provoke the criticism of his daughters by comment in theirpresence.
An equally unexpected confidence, however, took its place. Mr. Carrhaving finished his coffee one morning, lingered a moment over hisperfunctory paternal embraces, with the awkwardness of a preoccupied manendeavoring by the assumption of a lighter interest to veil anotherabstraction.
"And what are we doing to-day, Christie?" he asked, as Jessie left thedining-room.
"Oh, pretty much the usual thing—nothing in particular. IfGeorge Kearney gets the horses from the summit, we're going to ride overto Indian Spring to picnic. Fairfax—Mr. Munroe—I alwaysforget that man's real name in this dreadfully familiarcountry—well, he's coming to escort us, and take me, Isuppose—that is, if Kearney takes Jessie."
"A very nice arrangement," returned her father, with a slight nervouscontraction of the corners of his mouth and eyelids to indicatemischievousness. "I've no doubt they'll both be here. You know theyusually are—ha! ha! And what about the two Mattinglys and PhilipKearney, eh?" he continued; "won't they be jealous?"
"It isn't their turn," said Christie carelessly; "besides, they'llprobably be there."
"And I suppose they're beginning to be resigned," said Carr,smiling.
"What on earth are you talking of, father?"
She turned her clear brown eyes upon him, and was regarding him withsuch manifest unconsciousness of the drift of his speech, and, withal, alittle vague impatience of his archness, that Mr. Carr was feeblyalarmed. It had the effect of banishing his assumed playfulness, whichmade his serious explanation the more irritating.
"Well, I rather thought that—that young Kearney was payingconsiderable attention to—to—to Jessie," replied her father,with hesitating gravity.
"What! that boy?"
"Young Kearney is one of the original locators, and an equal partnerin the mine. A very enterprising young fellow. In fact, much moreadvanced and bolder in his conceptions than the others. I find nodifficulty with him."
At another time Christie would have questioned the convincing qualityof this proof, but she was too much shocked at her father's firstsuggestion, to think of anything else.
"You don't mean to say, father, that you are talking seriously ofthese men—your friends—whom we see every day—and ouronly company?"
"No, no!" said Mr. Carr hastily; "you misunderstand. I don't supposethat Jessie or you—"
"Or ME! Am I included?"
"You don't let me speak, Christie. I mean, I am not talkingseriously," continued Mr. Carr, with his most serious aspect, "of you andJessie in this matter; but it may be a serious thing to these young mento be thrown continually in the company of two attractive girls."
"I understand—you mean that we should not see so much of them,"said Christie, with a frank expression of relief so genuine as to utterlydiscompose her father. "Perhaps you are right, though I fail to discoveranything serious in the attentions of young Kearney toJessie—or—whoever it may be—to me. But it will be veryeasy to remedy it, and see less of them. Indeed, we might begin to-daywith some excuse."
"Yes—certainly. Of course!" said Mr. Carr, fully convinced ofhis utter failure, but, like most weak creatures, consoling himself withthe reflection that he had not shown his hand or committed himself. "Yes;but it would perhaps be just as well for the present to let things go onas they were. We'll talk of it again— I'm in a hurry now," and,edging himself through the door, he slipped away.
"What do you think is father's last idea?" said Christie, with, Ifear, a slight lack of reverence in her tone, as her sister reentered theroom. "He thinks George Kearney is paying you too much attention."
"No!" said Jessie, replying to her sister's half-interrogative,half-amused glance with a frank, unconscious smile.
"Yes, and he says that Fairfax—I think it's Fairfax—isequally fascinated with ME."
Jessie's brow slightly contracted as she looked curiously at hersister.
"Of all things," she said, "I wonder if any one has put that idea intohis dear old head. He couldn't have thought it himself."
"I don't know," said Christie musingly; "but perhaps it's just as wellif we kept a little more to ourselves for a while."
"Did father say so?" said Jessie quickly.
"No, but that is evidently what he meant."
"Ye-es," said Jessie slowly, "unless—"
"Unless what?" said Christie sharply. "Jessie, you don't for a momentmean to say that you could possibly conceive of anything else?"
"I mean to say," said Jessie, stealing her arm around her sister'swaist demurely, "that you are perfectly right. We'll keep away from thesefascinating Devil's Forders, and particularly the youngest Kearney. Ibelieve there has been some ill-natured gossip. I remember that the otherday, when we passed the shanty of that Pike County family on the slope,there were three women at the door, and one of them said something thatmade poor little Kearney turn white and pink alternately, and dance withsuppressed rage. I suppose the old lady—M'Corkle, that's hername—would like to have a share of our cavaliers for her Euphemyand Mamie. I dare say it's only right; I would lend them the cheruboccasionally, and you might let them have Mr. Munroe twice a week."
She laughed, but her eyes sought her sister's with a certainwatchfulness of expression.
Christie shrugged her shoulders, with a suggestion of disgust.
"Don't joke. We ought to have thought of all this before."
"But when we first knew them, in the dear old cabin, there wasn't anyother woman and nobody to gossip, and that's what made it so nice. Idon't think so very much of civilization, do you?" said the young ladypertly.
Christie did not reply. Perhaps she was thinking the same thing. Itcertainly had been very pleasant to enjoy the spontaneous and chivalroushomage of these men, with no further suggestion of recompense orresponsibility than the permission to be worshipped; but beyond that sheracked her brain in vain to recall any look or act that proclaimed thelover. These men, whom she had found so relapsed into barbarism that theyhad forgotten the most ordinary forms of civilization; these men, even inwhose extravagant admiration there was a certain loss of self-respect,that as a woman she would never forgive; these men, who seemed to belongto another race—impossible! Yet it was so.
"What construction must they have put upon her father's acceptance oftheir presents—of their company—of her freedom in theirpresence? No! they must have understood from the beginning that she andher sister had never looked upon them except as transient hosts andchance acquaintances. Any other idea was preposterous. Andyet—"
It was the recurrence of this "yet" that alarmed her. For sheremembered now that but for their slavish devotion they might claim to beher equal. According to her father's account, they had come from homes asgood as their own; they were certainly more than her equal in fortune;and her father had come to them as an employee, until they had taken himinto partnership. If there had only been sentiment of any kind connectedwith any of them! But they were all alike, brave, unselfish,humorous—and often ridiculous. If anything, Dick Mattingly wasfunniest by nature, and made her laugh more. Maryland Joe, his brother,told better stories (sometimes of Dick), though not so good a mimic asthe other Kearney, who had a fairly sympathetic voice in singing. Theywere all good-looking enough; perhaps they set store on that—menare so vain.
And as for her own rejected suitor, Fairfax Munroe, except for a kindof grave and proper motherliness about his protecting manner, heabsolutely was the most indistinctive of them all. He had once broughther some rare tea from the Chinese camp, and had taught her how to makeit; he had cautioned her against sitting under the trees at nightfall; hehad once taken off his coat to wrap around her. Really, if this were theonly evidence of devotion that could be shown, she was safe!
"Well," said Jessie, "it amuses you, I see."
Christie checked the smile that had been dimpling the cheek nearestJessie, and turned upon her the face of an elder sister.
"Tell me, have YOU noticed this extraordinary attention of Mr. Munroeto me?"
"Candidly?" asked Jessie, seating herself comfortably on the tablesideways, and endeavoring, to pull her skirt over her little feet."Honest Injun?"
"Don't be idiotic, and, above all, don't be slangy! Of course,candidly."
"Well, no. I can't say that I have."
"Then," said Christie, "why in the name of all that's preposterous, dothey persist in pairing me off with the least interesting man of thelot?"
Jessie leaped from the table.
"Come now," she said, with a little nervous laugh, "he's not so bad asall that. You don't know him. But what does it matter now, as long aswe're not going to see them any more?"
"They're coming here for the ride to-day," said Christie resignedly."Father thought it better not to break it off at once."
"Father thought so!" echoed Jessie, stopping with her hand on thedoor.
"Yes; why do you ask?"
But Jessie had already left the room, and was singing in the hall.
The afternoon did not, however, bring their expected visitors. Itbrought, instead, a brief note by the hands of Whiskey Dick from Fairfax,apologizing for some business that kept him and George Kearney fromaccompanying the ladies. It added that the horses were at the disposal ofthemselves and any escort they might select, if they would kindly givethe message to Whiskey Dick.
The two girls looked at each other awkwardly; Jessie did not attemptto conceal a slight pout.
"It looks as if they were anticipating us," she said, with a half-forced smile. "I wonder, now, if there really has been any gossip? Butno! They wouldn't have stopped for that, unless—" She lookedcuriously at her sister.
"Unless what?" repeated Christie; "you are horribly mysterious thismorning."
"Am I? It's nothing. But they're wanting an answer. Of course you'lldecline."
"And intimate we only care for their company! No! We'll say we'resorry they can't come, and—accept their horses. We can do withoutan escort, we two."
"Capital!" said Jessie, clapping her hands. "We'll showthem—"
"We'll show them nothing," interrupted Christie decidedly. "In ourplace there's only the one thing to do. Where is this—WhiskeyDick?"
"In the parlor."
"The parlor!" echoed Christie. "Whiskey Dick? What—ishe—"
"Yes; he's all right," said Jessie confidently. "He's been herebefore, but he stayed in the hall; he was so shy. I don't think you sawhim."
"I should think not—Whiskey Dick!"
"Oh, you can call him Mr. Hall, if you like," said Jessie, laughing."His real name is Dick Hall. If you want to be funny, you can say AlkyHall, as the others do."
Christie's only reply to this levity was a look of superiorresignation as she crossed the hall and entered the parlor.
Then ensued one of those surprising, mystifying, and utterlyinexplicable changes that leave the masculine being so helpless in thehands of his feminine master. Before Christie opened the door her faceunderwent a rapid transformation: the gentle glow of a refined woman'swelcome suddenly beamed in her interested eyes; the impulsive courtesy ofan expectant hostess eagerly seizing a long- looked-for opportunity brokein a smile upon her lips as she swept across the room, and stopped withher two white outstretched hands before Whiskey Dick.
It needed only the extravagant contrast presented by that gentleman tocomplete the tableau. Attired in a suit of shining black alpaca, thevisitor had evidently prepared himself with some care for a possibleinterview. He was seated by the French window opening upon the veranda,as if to secure a retreat in case of an emergency. Scrupulously washedand shaven, some of the soap appeared to have lingered in his eyes andinflamed the lids, even while it lent a sleek and shining lustre, notunlike his coat, to his smooth black hair. Nevertheless, leaning back inhis chair, he had allowed a large white handkerchief to depend gracefullyfrom his fingers—a pose at once suggesting easy and elegantlangour.
"How kind of you to give me an opportunity to make up for mymisfortune when you last called! I was so sorry to have missed you. Butit was entirely my fault! You were hurried, I think—you conversedwith others in the hall—you—"
She stopped to assist him to pick up the handkerchief that had fallen,and the Panama hat that had rolled from his lap towards the window whenhe had started suddenly to his feet at the apparition of grace andbeauty. As he still nervously retained the two hands he had grasped, thiswould have been a difficult feat, even had he not endeavored at the samemoment, by a backward furtive kick, to propel the hat out of the window,at which she laughingly broke from his grasp and flew to the rescue.
"Don't mind it, miss," he said hurriedly. "It is not worth yourdemeaning yourself to touch it. Leave it outside thar, miss. I wouldn'thave toted it in, anyhow, if some of those high-falutin' fellows hadn'tallowed, the other night, ez it were the reg'lar thing to do; as if,miss, any gentleman kalkilated to ever put on his hat in the house aforea lady!"
But Christie had already possessed herself of the unlucky object, andhad placed it upon the table. This compelled Whiskey Dick to rise again,and as an act of careless good breeding to drop his handkerchief in it.He then leaned one elbow upon the piano, and, crossing one foot over theother, remained standing in an attitude he remembered to have seen in thepages of an illustrated paper as portraying the hero in some drawing-roomscene. It was easy and effective, but seemed to be more favorable torevery than conversation. Indeed, he remembered that he had forgotten toconsult the letterpress as to which it represented.
"I see you agree with me, that politeness is quite a matter ofintention," said Christie, "and not of mere fashion and rules. Now, forinstance," she continued, with a dazzling smile, "I suppose, according tothe rules, I ought to give you a note to Mr. Munroe, accepting his offer.That is all that is required; but it seems so much nicer, don't youthink, to tell it to YOU for HIM, and have the pleasure of your companyand a little chat at the same time."
"That's it, that's just it, Miss Carr; you've hit it in the centrethis time," said Whiskey Dick, now quite convinced that his attitude wasnot intended for eloquence, and shifting back to his own seat, hat andall; "that's tantamount to what I said to the boys just now. 'You want anexcuse,' sez I, 'for not goin' out with the young ladies. So, accorden'to rules, you writes a letter allowin' buzziness and that sorter thingdetains you. But wot's the facts? You're a gentleman, and as gentlemenyou and George comes to the opinion that you're rather playin' it for allit's worth in this yer house, you know—comin' here night and day,off and on, reg'lar sociable and fam'ly like, and makin' people talkabout things they ain't any call to talk about, and, what's a darnedsight more, YOU FELLOWS ain't got any right YET to allow 'em to talkabout, d'ye see?" he paused, out of breath.
It was Miss Christie's turn to move about. In changing her seat to thepiano-stool, so as to be nearer her visitor, she brushed down some loosemusic, which Whiskey Dick hastened to pick up.
"Pray don't mind it," she said, "pray don't, really—let itbe—" But Whiskey Dick, feeling himself on safe ground in thisattention, persisted to the bitter end of a disintegrated and well-worn"Travatore." "So that is what Mr. Munroe said," she remarked quietly.
"Not just then, in course, but it's what's bin on his mind and in histalk for days off and on," returned Dick, with a knowing smile and a nodof mysterious confidence. "Bless your soul, Miss Carr, folks like you andme don't need to have them things explained. That's what I said to him,sez I. 'Don't send no note, but just go up there and hev it out fair andsquare, and say what you do mean.' But they would hev the note, and Ikalkilated to bring it. But when I set my eyes on you, and heard youexpress yourself as you did just now, I sez to myself, sez I, 'Dick,yer's a young lady, and a fash'nable lady at that, ez don't go foolin'round on rules and etiketts'—excuse my freedom, MissCarr—'and you and her, sez I, 'kin just discuss this yer matter ina sociable, off-hand, fash'nable way.' They're a good lot o' boys, MissCarr, a square lot—white men all of 'em; but they're a little softand green, may be, from livin' in these yer pine woods along o' the othersap. They just worship the ground you and your sister treadon—certain! of course! of course!" he added hurriedly, recognizingChristie's half-conscious, deprecating gesture with more exaggerateddeprecation. "I understand. But what I wanter say is that they'd bewillin' to be that ground, and lie down and let you walk overthem—so to speak, Miss Carr, so to speak—if it would keep thehem of your gown from gettin' soiled in the mud o' the camp. But itwouldn't do for them to make a reg'lar curderoy road o' themselves forthe houl camp to trapse over, on the mere chance of your some timepassin' that way, would it now?"
"Won't you let me offer you some refreshment, Mr. Hall?" saidChristie, rising, with a slight color. "I'm really ashamed of myforgetfulness again, but I'm afraid it's partly YOUR fault forentertaining me to the exclusion of yourself. No, thank you, let me fetchit for you."
She turned to a handsome sideboard near the door, and presently facedhim again with a decanter of whiskey and a glass in her hand, and areturn of the bewitching smile she had worn on entering.
"But perhaps you don't take whiskey?" suggested the arch deceiver,with a sudden affected but pretty perplexity of eye, brow, and lips.
For the first time in his life Whiskey Dick hesitated between twoforms of intoxication. But he was still nervous and uneasy; habittriumphed, and he took the whiskey. He, however, wiped his lips with aslight wave of his handkerchief, to support a certain easy elegance whichhe firmly believed relieved the act of any vulgar quality.
"Yes, ma'am," he continued, after an exhilarated pause. "Ez I saidafore, this yer's a matter you and me can discuss after the fashion o'society. My idea is that these yer boys should kinder let up on you andMiss Jessie for a while, and do a little more permiskus attention roundthe Ford. There's one or two families yer with grown-up gals ez oughterbe squared; that is—the boys mighter put in a few fancy touchesamong them—kinder take 'em buggy riding—or tochurch—once in a while—just to take the pizen outer theirtongues, and make a kind o' bluff to the parents, d'ye see? That wouldsorter divert their own minds; and even if it didn't, it would kinder get'em accustomed agin to the old style and their own kind. I want to warnye agin an idea that might occur to you in a giniral way. I don't say youhev the idea, but it's kind o' nat'ral you might be thinkin' of it sometime, and I thought I'd warn you agin it."
"I think we understand each other too well to differ much, Mr. Hall,"said Christie, still smiling; "but what is the idea?"
The delicate compliment to their confidential relations and the slightstimulus of liquor had tremulously exalted Whiskey Dick. Affecting tolook cautiously out of the window and around the room, he ventured todraw nearer the young woman with a half-paternal, half-timidfamiliarity.
"It might have occurred to you," he said, laying his handkerchief asif to veil mere vulgar contact, on Christie's shoulder, "that it would bea good thing on YOUR side to invite down some of your high-tonedgentlemen friends from 'Frisco to visit you and escort you round. Itseems quite nat'ral like, and I don't say it ain't, but—the boyswouldn't stand for it."
In spite of her self-possession, Christie's eyes suddenly darkened,and she involuntarily drew herself up. But Whiskey Dick, guiltilyattributing the movement to his own indiscreet gesture, said, "Excuse me,miss," recovered himself by lightly dusting her shoulder with hishandkerchief, as if to remove the impression, and her smile returned.
"They wouldn't stand for it," said Dick, "and there'd be someshooting! Not afore you, miss—not afore you, in course! But they'dadjourn to the woods some morning with them city folks, and hev it outwith rifles at a hundred yards. Or, seein' ez they're city folks, theboys would do the square thing with pistols at twelve paces. They're goodboys, as I said afore; but they're quick and tetchy—George, beingthe youngest, nat'rally is the tetchiest. You know how it is, Miss Carr;his pretty, gal-like face and little moustaches haz cost him half a dozenscrimmages already. He'z had a fight for every hair that's growed in hismoustache since he kem here."
"Say no more, Mr. Hall!" said Christie, rising and pressing her handslightly on Dick's tremulous fingers. "If I ever had any such idea, Ishould abandon it now; you are quite right in this as in your otheropinions. I shall never cease to be thankful to Mr. Munroe and Mr.Kearney that they intrusted this delicate matter to your hands."
"Well," said the gratified and reddening visitor, "it ain't perhapsthe square thing to them or myself to say that they reckoned to have mediscuss their delicate affairs for them, but—"
"I understand," interrupted Christie. "They simply gave you the letteras a friend. It was my good fortune to find you a sympathizing andliberal man of the world." The delighted Dick, with conscious vanitybeaming from every feature of his shining face, lightly waved thecompliment aside with his handkerchief, as she continued, "But I amforgetting the message. We accept the horses. Of course we COULD dowithout an escort; but forgive my speaking so frankly, are YOU engagedthis afternoon?"
"Excuse me, miss, I don't take—" stammered Dick, scarcelybelieving his ears.
"Could you give us your company as an escort?" repeated Christie witha smile.
Was he awake or dreaming, or was this some trick of liquor in hisoften distorted fancy? He, Whiskey Dick! the butt of his friends, thechartered oracle of the barrooms, even in whose wretched vanity there wasalways the haunting suspicion that he was despised and scorned; he, whohad dared so much in speech, and achieved so little in fact! he, whosehabitual weakness had even led him into the wildest indiscretion here;he—now offered a reward for that indiscretion! He, Whiskey Dick,the solicited escort of these two beautiful and peerless girls! Whatwould they say at the Ford? What would his friends think? It would be allover the Ford the next day. His past would be vindicated, his futuresecured. He grew erect at the thought. It was almost in other voice, andwith no trace of his previous exaggeration, that he said, "Withpleasure."
"Then, if you will bring the horses at once, we shall be ready whenyou return."
In another instant he had vanished, as if afraid to trust the realityof his good fortune to the dangers of delay. At the end of half an hourhe reappeared, leading the two horses, himself mounted on a half-brokenmustang. A pair of large, jingling silver spurs and a stiff sombrero,borrowed with the mustang from some mysterious source, were donned to dohonor to the occasion.
The young girls were not yet ready, but he was shown by the Chineseservant into the parlor to wait for them. The decanter of whiskey andglasses were still invitingly there. He was hot, trembling, and flushedwith triumph. He walked to the table and laid his hand on the decanter,when an odd thought flashed upon him. He would not drink this time. No,it should not be said that he, the selected escort of the elite ofDevil's Ford, had to fill himself up with whiskey before they started.The boys might turn to each other in their astonishment, as he proudlypassed with his fair companions, and say, "It's Whiskey Dick," but he'dbe d——d if they should add, "and full as ever." No, sir! Norwhen he was riding beside these real ladies, and leaning over them atsome confidential moment, should they even know it from his breath! No. .. . Yet a thimbleful, taken straight, only a thimbleful, wouldn't bemuch, and might help to pull him together. He again reached his tremblinghand for the decanter, hesitated, and then, turning his back upon it,resolutely walked to the open window. Almost at the same instant he foundhimself face to face with Christie on the veranda.
She looked into his bloodshot eyes, and cast a swift glance at thedecanter.
"Won't you take something before you go?" she said sweetly.
"I—reckon—not, jest now," stammered Whiskey Dick, with aheroic effort.
"You're right," said Christie. "I see you are like me. It's too hotfor anything fiery. Come with me."
She led him into the dining-room, and pouring out a glass of iced teahanded it to him. Poor Dick was not prepared for this terribleculmination. Whiskey Dick and iced tea! But under pretence of seeing ifit was properly flavored, Christie raised it to her own lips.
"Try it, to please me."
He drained the goblet.
"Now, then," said Christie gayly, "let's find Jessie, and be off!"
Whatever might have been his other deficiencies as an escort, WhiskeyDick was a good horseman, and, in spite of his fractious brute, exhibitedsuch skill and confidence as to at once satisfy the young girls of hisvalue to them in the management of their own horses, to whom side-saddleswere still an alarming novelty. Jessie, who had probably already learnedfrom her sister the purport of Dick's confidences, had received him withequal cordiality and perhaps a more unqualified amusement; and now, whenfairly lifted into the saddle by his tremulous but respectful hands, madea very charming picture of youthful and rosy satisfaction. And whenChristie, more fascinating than ever in her riding-habit, took her placeon the other side of Dick, as they sallied from the gate, that gentlemanfelt his cup of happiness complete. His triumphal entree into the worldof civilization and fashion was secure. He did not regret the untastedliquor; here was an experience in after years to lean his back againstcomfortably in bar-rooms, to entrance or defy mankind. He had even got sofar as to formulate in fancy the sentence: "I remember, gentlemen, thatone afternoon, being on a pasear with two fash'nable young ladies," etc.,etc.
At present, however, he was obliged to confine himself to thefunctions of an elegant guide and cicerone—when not engaged in"having it out" with his horse. Their way lay along the slope, crossingthe high-road at right angles, to reach the deeper woods beyond. Dickwould have lingered on the highway—ostensibly to point out to hiscompanions the new flume that had taken the place of the condemned ditch,but really in the hope of exposing himself in his glory to the curiouseyes of the wayfaring world.
Unhappily the road was deserted in the still powerful sunlight, and hewas obliged to seek the cover of the woods, with a passing compliment tothe parent of his charges. Waving his hands towards the flume, he said,"Look at that work of your father's; there ain't no other man inCaliforny but Philip Carr ez would hev the grit to hold up such a bluffagin natur and agin luck ez that yer flume stands for. I don't say it'cause you're his daughters, ladies! That ain't the style, ez YOU know,in sassiety, Miss Carr," he added, turning to Christie as the moresocially experienced. "No! but there ain't another man to be found ezcould do it. It cost already two hundred thousand; it'll cost fivehundred thousand afore it's done; and every cent of it is got out of theyearth beneath it, or HEZ got to be out of it. 'Tain't ev'ry man, MissCarr, ez hev got the pluck to pledge not only what he's got, but what hereckons to git."
"But suppose he don't get it?" said Christie, slightly contracting herbrows.
"Then there's the flume to show for it," said Dick.
"But of what use is the flume, if there isn't any more gold?"continued Christie, almost angrily.
"That's good from YOU, miss," said Dick, giving way to a fit ofhilarity. "That's good for a fash'nable young lady—own daughter ofPhilip Carr. She sez, says she," continued Dick, appealing to the sedatepines for appreciation of Christie's rare humor, "'Wot's the use of aflume, when gold ain't there?' I must tell that to the boys."
"And what's the use of the gold in the ground when the flume isn'tthere to work it out?" said Jessie to her sister, with a cautioningglance towards Dick.
But Dick did not notice the look that passed between the sisters. Thericher humor of Jessie's retort had thrown him into convulsions oflaughter.
"And now SHE says, wot's the use o' the gold without the flume? 'Xcuseme, ladies, but that's just puttin' the hull question that's agitatin'this yer camp inter two speeches as clear as crystal. There's the hullcrowd outside—and some on 'em inside, like Fairfax, hez theirdoubts—ez says with Miss Christie; and there's all of us inside, ezholds Miss Jessie's views."
"I never heard Mr. Munroe say that the flume was wrong," said Jessiequickly.
"Not to you, nat'rally," said Dick, with a confidential look atChristie; "but I reckon he'd like some of the money it cost laid out forsuthin' else. But what's the odds? The gold is there, and WE'RE bound toget it."
Dick was the foreman of a gang of paid workmen, who had replaced themillionaires in mere manual labor, and the WE was a polite figure ofspeech.
The conversation seemed to have taken an unfortunate turn, and boththe girls experienced a feeling of relief when they entered the longgulch or defile that led to Indian Spring. The track now becoming narrow,they were obliged to pass in single file along the precipitous hillside,led by this escort. This effectually precluded any further speech, andChristie at once surrendered herself to the calm, obliterating influencesof the forest. The settlement and its gossip were far behind andforgotten. In the absorption of nature, her companions passed out of hermind, even as they sometimes passed out of her sight in the windings ofthe shadowy trail. As she rode alone, the fronds of breast-high fernsseemed to caress her with outstretched and gently-detaining hands;strange wildflowers sprang up through the parting underbrush; even thegranite rocks that at times pressed closely upon the trail appeared as ifcushioned to her contact with star-rayed mosses, or lightly flung afterher long lassoes of delicate vines. She recalled the absolute freedom oftheir al-fresco life in the old double cabin, when she spent the greaterpart of her waking hours under the mute trees in the encompassingsolitude, and, half regretting the more civilized restraints of thisnewer and more ambitious abode, forgot that she had ever rebelled againstit. The social complication that threatened her now seemed to her ratherthe outcome of her half-civilized parlor than of the sylvan glade. Howeasy it would have been to have kept the cabin, and then to have goneaway entirely, than for her father to have allowed them to be compromisedwith the growing fortunes of the settlement! The suspicions and distrustthat she had always felt of their fortunes seemed to grow with theinvoluntary admission of Whiskey Dick that they were shared by others whowere practical men. She was fain to have recourse to the prospect againto banish these thoughts, and this opened her eyes to the fact that hercompanions had been missing from the trail ahead of her for some time.She quickened her pace slightly to reach a projecting point of rock thatgave her a more extended prospect. But they had evidentlydisappeared.
She was neither alarmed nor annoyed. She could easily overtake themsoon, for they would miss her, and return or wait for her at the spring.At the worst she would have no difficulty in retracing her steps home. Inher present mood, she could readily spare their company; indeed she wasnot sorry that no other being should interrupt that sympathy with thefree woods which was beginning to possess her.
She was destined, however, to be disappointed. She had not proceeded ahundred yards before she noticed the moving figure of a man beyond her inthe hillside chaparral above the trail. He seemed to be going in the samedirection as herself, and, as she fancied, endeavoring to avoid her. Thisexcited her curiosity to the point of urging her horse forward until thetrail broadened into the level forest again, which she now remembered wasa part of the environs of Indian Spring. The stranger hesitated, pausingonce or twice with his back towards her, as if engaged in carefullyexamining the dwarf willows to select a switch. Christie slightly checkedher speed as she drew nearer; when, as if obedient to a suddenresolution, he turned and advanced towards her. She was relieved and yetsurprised to recognize the boyish face and figure of George Kearney. Hewas quite pale and agitated, although attempting, by a jaunty swinging ofthe switch he had just cut, to assume the appearance of ease andconfidence.
Here was an opportunity. Christie resolved to profit by it. She didnot doubt that the young fellow had already passed her sister on thetrail, but, from bashfulness, had not dared to approach her. By invitinghis confidence, she would doubtless draw something from him that woulddeny or corroborate her father's opinion of his sentiments. If he wasreally in love with Jessie, she would learn what reasons he had forexpecting a serious culmination of his suit, and perhaps she might beable delicately to open his eyes to the truth. If, as she believed, itwas only a boyish fancy, she would laugh him out of it with thatcamaraderie which had always existed between them. A half motherlysympathy, albeit born quite as much from a contemplation of his beautifulyearning eyes as from his interesting position, lightened the smile withwhich she greeted him.
"So you contrived to throw over your stupid business and join us,after all," she said; "or was it that you changed your mind at the lastmoment?" she added mischievously. "I thought only we women were permittedthat!" Indeed, she could not help noticing that there was really a strongfeminine suggestion in the shifting color and slightly conscious eyelidsof the young fellow.
"Do young girls always change their minds?" asked George, with anembarrassed smile.
"Not, always; but sometimes they don't know their own mind—particularly if they are very young; and when they do at last, you clevercreatures of men, who have interpreted their ignorance to pleaseyourselves, abuse them for being fickle." She stopped to observe theeffect of what she believed a rather clear and significant exposition ofJessie's and George's possible situation. But she was not prepared forthe look of blank resignation that seemed to drive the color from hisface and moisten the fire of his dark eyes.
"I reckon you're right," he said, looking down.
"Oh! we're not accusing you of fickleness," said Christie gayly;"although you didn't come, and we were obliged to ask Mr. Hall to joinus. I suppose you found him and Jessie just now?"
But George made no reply. The color was slowly coming back to hisface, which, as she glanced covertly at him, seemed to have grown so mucholder that his returning blood might have brought two or three years withit.
"Really, Mr. Kearney," she said dryly, "one would think that somesilly, conceited girl"—she was quite earnest in her epithets, for asudden, angry conviction of some coquetry and disingenuousness in Jessiehad come to her in contemplating its effects upon the young fellow at herside—"some country jilt, had been trying her rustic hand uponyou."
"She is not silly, conceited, nor countrified," said George, slowlyraising his beautiful eyes to the young girl half reproachfully. "It is Iwho am all that. No, she is right, and you know it."
Much as Christie admired and valued her sister's charms, she thoughtthis was really going too far. What had Jessie ever done— what wasJessie—to provoke and remain insensible to such a blind devotion asthis? And really, looking at him now, he was not so VERY YOUNG forJessie; whether his unfortunate passion had brought out all his latentmanliness, or whether he had hitherto kept his serious nature in thebackground, certainly he was not a boy. And certainly his was not apassion that he could be laughed out of. It was getting very tiresome.She wished she had not met him—at least until she had had someclearer understanding with her sister. He was still walking beside her,with his hand on her bridle rein, partly to lead her horse over someboulders in the trail, and partly to conceal his first embarrassment.When they had fairly reached the woods, he stopped.
"I am going to say good-by, Miss Carr."
"Are you not coming further? We must be near Indian Spring, now; Mr.Hall and—and Jessie—cannot be far away. You will keep mecompany until we meet them?"
"No," he replied quietly. "I only stopped you to say good-by. I amgoing away."
"Not from Devil's Ford?" she asked, in half-incredulous astonishment."At least, not for long?"
"I am not coming back," he replied.
"But this is very abrupt," she said hurriedly, feeling that in someridiculous way she had precipitated an equally ridiculous catastrophe."Surely you are not going away in this fashion, without saying good-by toJessie and—and father?"
"I shall see your father, of course—and you will give my regardsto Miss Jessie."
He evidently was in earnest. Was there ever anything so perfectlypreposterous? She became indignant.
"Of course," she said coldly, "I won't detain you; your business mustbe urgent, and I forgot—at least I had forgotten until to-day—that you have other duties more important than that of squireof dames. I am afraid this forgetfulness made me think you would not partfrom us in quite such a business fashion. I presume, if you had not metme just now, we should none of us have seen you again?"
He did not reply.
"Will you say good-by, Miss Carr?"
He held out his hand.
"One moment, Mr. Kearney. If I have said anything which you thinkjustifies this very abrupt leave-taking, I beg you will forgive andforget it—or, at least, let it have no more weight with you thanthe idle words of any woman. I only spoke generally. Youknow—I— I might be mistaken."
His eyes, which had dilated when she began to speak, darkened; hiscolor, which had quickly come, as quickly sank when she had ended.
"Don't say that, Miss Carr. It is not like you, and—it isuseless. You know what I meant a moment ago. I read it in your reply. Youmeant that I, like others, had deceived myself. Did you not?"
She could not meet those honest eyes with less than equal honesty. Sheknew that Jessie did not love him—would not marry him—whatever coquetry she might have shown.
"I did not mean to offend you," she said hesitatingly; "I only halfsuspected it when I spoke."
"And you wish to spare me the avowal?" he said bitterly.
"To me, perhaps, yes, by anticipating it. I could not tell what ideasyou might have gathered from some indiscreet frankness of Jessie—ormy father," she added, with almost equal bitterness.
"I have never spoken to either," he replied quickly. He stopped, andadded, after a moment's mortifying reflection, "I've been brought up inthe woods, Miss Carr, and I suppose I have followed my feelings, insteadof the etiquette of society."
Christie was too relieved at the rehabilitation of Jessie'struthfulness to notice the full significance of his speech.
"Good-by," he said again, holding out his hand.
"Good-by!"
She extended her own, ungloved, with a frank smile. He held it for amoment, with his eyes fixed upon hers. Then suddenly, as if obeying anuncontrollable impulse, he crushed it like a flower again and againagainst his burning lips, and darted away.
Christie sank back in her saddle with a little cry, half of pain andhalf of frightened surprise. Had the poor boy suddenly gone mad, or wasthis vicarious farewell a part of the courtship of Devil's Ford? Shelooked at her little hand, which had reddened under the pressure, andsuddenly felt the flush extending to her cheeks and the roots of herhair. This was intolerable.
"Christie!"
It was her sister emerging from the wood to seek her. In anothermoment she was at her side.
"We thought you were following," said Jessie. "Good heavens! how youlook! What has happened?"
"Nothing. I met Mr. Kearney a moment ago on the trail. He is goingaway, and—and—" She stopped, furious and flushing.
"And," said Jessie, with a burst of merriment, "he told you at last heloved you. Oh, Christie!"
The abrupt departure of George Kearney from Devil's Ford excited butlittle interest in the community, and was soon forgotten. It wasgenerally attributed to differences between himself and his partners onthe question of further outlay of their earnings on miningimprovements—he and Philip Carr alone representing a sanguineminority whose faith in the future of the mine accepted any risks. It wasalleged by some that he had sold out to his brother; it was believed byothers that he had simply gone to Sacramento to borrow money on hisshare, in order to continue the improvements on his own responsibility.The partners themselves were uncommunicative; even Whiskey Dick, whosince his remarkable social elevation had become less oracular, much tohis own astonishment, contributed nothing to the gossip except asuggestion that as the fiery temper of George Kearney brooked noopposition, even from his brother, it was better they should separatebefore the estrangement became serious.
Mr. Carr did not disguise his annoyance at the loss of his youngdisciple and firm ally. But an unlucky allusion to his previous remarkson Kearney's attentions to Jessie, and a querulous regret that he hadpermitted a disruption of their social intimacy, brought such an ominousand frigid opposition, not only from Christie, but even the frivolousJessie herself, that Carr sank back in a crushed and terrified silence."I only meant to say," he stammered after a pause, in which he, however,resumed his aggrieved manner, "that FAIRFAX seems to come here still, andHE is not such a particular friend of mine."
"But she is—and has your interest entirely at heart," saidJessie, stoutly, "and he only comes here to tell us how things are goingon at the works."
"And criticise your father, I suppose," said Mr. Carr, with an attemptat jocularity that did not, however, disguise an irritatedsuspiciousness. "He really seems to have supplanted ME as he has poorKearney in your estimation."
"Now, father," said Jessie, suddenly seizing him by the shoulders inaffected indignation, but really to conceal a certain embarrassment thatsprang quite as much from her sister's quietly observant eye as herfather's speech, "you promised to let this ridiculous discussion drop.You will make me and Christie so nervous that we will not dare to openthe door to a visitor, until he declares his innocence of any matrimonialintentions. You don't want to give color to the gossip that agreementwith your views about the improvements is necessary to getting on withus."
"Who dares talk such rubbish?" said Carr, reddening; "is that the kindof gossip that Fairfax brings here?"
"Hardly, when it's known that he don't quite agree with you, and DOEScome here. That's the best denial of the gossip."
Christie, who had of late loftily ignored these discussions, waiteduntil her father had taken his departure.
"Then that is the reason why you still see Mr. Munroe, after what yousaid," she remarked quietly to Jessie.
Jessie, who would have liked to escape with her father, was obliged topause on the threshold of the door, with a pretty assumption of blankforgetfulness in her blue eyes and lifted eyebrows.
"Said what? when?" she asked vacantly.
"When—when Mr. Kearney that day—in the woods—wentaway," said Christie, faintly coloring.
"Oh! THAT day," said Jessie briskly; "the day he just gloved your handwith kisses, and then fled wildly into the forest to conceal hisemotion."
"The day he behaved very foolishly," said Christie, with reproachfulcalmness, that did not, however, prevent a suspicion of indignantmoisture in her eyes—"when you explained"—
"That it wasn't meant for ME," interrupted Jessie.
"That it was to you that MR. MUNROE'S attentions were directed. Andthen we agreed that it was better to prevent any further advances of thiskind by avoiding any familiar relations with either of them."
"Yes," said Jessie, "I remember; but you're not confounding my seeingFairfax occasionally now with that sort of thing. HE doesn't kiss my handlike anything," she added, as if in abstract reflection.
"Nor run away, either," suggested the trodden worm, turning.
There was an ominous silence.
"Do you know we are nearly out of coffee?" said Jessie choking, butmoving towards the door with Spartan-like calmness.
"Yes. And something must be done this very day about the washing,"said Christie, with suppressed emotion, going towards the oppositeentrance.
Tears stood in each other's eyes with this terrible exchange ofdomestic confidences. Nevertheless, after a moment's pause, theydeliberately turned again, and, facing each other with frightfulcalmness, left the room by purposeless and deliberate exits other thanthose they had contemplated—a crushing abnegation of self, that, tosome extent, relieved their surcharged feelings.
Meantime the material prosperity of Devil's Ford increased, if aprosperity based upon no visible foundation but the confidences and hopesof its inhabitants could be called material. Few, if any, stopped toconsider that the improvements, buildings, and business were simply theoutlay of capital brought from elsewhere, and as yet the settlement ortown, as it was now called, had neither produced nor exported capital ofitself equal to half the amount expended. It was true that some land wascultivated on the further slope, some mills erected and lumber furnishedfrom the inexhaustible forest; but the consumers were the inhabitantsthemselves, who paid for their produce in borrowed capital or unlimitedcredit. It was never discovered that while all roads led to Devil's Ford,Devil's Ford led to nowhere. The difficulties overcome in getting thingsinto the settlement were never surmounted for getting things out of it.The lumber was practically valueless for export to other settlementsacross the mountain roads, which were equally rich in timber. The theoryso enthusiastically held by the original locators, that Devil's Ford wasa vast sink that had, through ages, exhausted and absorbed the tricklingwealth of the adjacent hills and valleys, was suffering an ironicalcorroboration.
One morning it was known that work was stopped at the Devil's FordDitch—temporarily only, it was alleged, and many of the old workmensimply had their labor for the present transferred to excavating theriver banks, and the collection of vast heaps of "pay gravel." Specimensfrom these mounds, taken from different localities, and at differentlevels, were sent to San Francisco for more rigid assay and analysis. Itwas believed that this would establish the fact of the permanent richnessof the drifts, and not only justify past expenditure, but a renewedoutlay of credit and capital. The suspension of engineering work gave Mr.Carr an opportunity to visit San Francisco on general business of themine, which could not, however, prevent him from arranging furthercombinations with capital. His two daughters accompanied him. It offeredan admirable opportunity for a shopping expedition, a change of scene,and a peaceful solution of their perplexing and anomalous socialrelations with Devil's Ford. In the first flush of gratitude to theirfather for this opportune holiday, something of harmony had been restoredto the family circle that had of late been shaken by discord.
But their sanguine hopes of enjoyment were not entirely fulfilled.Both Jessie and Christie were obliged to confess to a certaindisappointment in the aspect of the civilization they were nowreentering. They at first attributed it to the change in their own habitsduring the last three months, and their having become barbarous andcountrified in their seclusion. Certainly in the matter of dress theywere behind the fashions as revealed in Montgomery Street. But when thebrief solace afforded them by the modiste and dressmaker was past, thereseemed little else to be gained. They missed at first, I fear, thechivalrous and loyal devotion that had only amused them at Devil's Ford,and were the more inclined, I think, to distrust the conscious and morecivilized gallantry of the better dressed and more carefully presentedmen they met. For it must be admitted that, for obvious reasons, theircriticisms were at first confined to the sex they had been most incontact with. They could not help noticing that the men were more eager,annoyingly feverish, and self-asserting in their superior elegance andexternal show than their old associates were in their frank, unrestrainedhabits. It seemed to them that the five millionaires of Devil's Ford, intheir radical simplicity and thoroughness, were perhaps nearer the typeof true gentlemanhood than these citizens who imitated a civilizationthey were unable yet to reach.
The women simply frightened them, as being, even more than the men,demonstrative and excessive in their fine looks, their fine dresses,their extravagant demand for excitement. In less than a week they foundthemselves regretting—not the new villa on the slope of Devil'sFord, which even in its own bizarre fashion was exceeded by the barbarousostentation of the villas and private houses around them—but thedouble cabin under the trees, which now seemed to them almostaristocratic in its grave simplicity and abstention. In the mysteriousforests of masts that thronged the city's quays they recalled thestraight shafts of the pines on Devil's slopes, only to miss the sedaterepose and infinite calm that used to environ them. In the feverish,pulsating life of the young metropolis they often stopped oppressed,giddy, and choking; the roar of the streets and thoroughfares wasmeaningless to them, except to revive strange memories of the deep,unvarying monotone of the evening wind over their humbler roof on theSierran hillside. Civic bred and nurtured as they were, the recurrence ofthese sensations perplexed and alarmed them.
"It seems so perfectly ridiculous," said Jessie, "for us to feel asout of place here as that Pike County servant girl in Sacramento who hadnever seen a steamboat before; do you know, I quite had a turn the otherday at seeing a man on the Stockton wharf in a red shirt, with a rifle onhis shoulder."
"And you wanted to go and speak to him?" said Christie, with a sadsmile.
"No, that's just it; I felt awfully hurt and injured that he did notcome up and speak to ME! I wonder if we got any fever or that sort ofthing up there; it makes one quite superstitious."
Christie did not reply; more than once before she had felt thatinexplicable misgiving. It had sometimes seemed to her that she had neverbeen quite herself since that memorable night when she had slipped out oftheir sleeping-cabin, and stood alone in the gracious and commandingpresence of the woods and hills. In the solitude of night, with the humof the great city rising below her— at times even in theatres orcrowded assemblies of men and women— she forgot herself, and againstood in the weird brilliancy of that moonlight night in mute worship atthe foot of that slowly-rising mystic altar of piled terraces, hangingforests, and lifted plateaus that climbed forever to the lonely skies.Again she felt before her the expanding and opening arms of theprotecting woods. Had they really closed upon her in some pantheisticembrace that made her a part of them? Had she been baptized in thatmoonlight as a child of the great forest? It was easy to believe in themyths of the poets of an idyllic life under those trees, where, free fromconventional restrictions, one loved and was loved. If she, with her ownworldly experience, could think of this now, why might not George Kearneyhave thought? . . . She stopped, and found herself blushing even in thedarkness. As the thought and blush were the usual sequel of herreflections, it is to be feared that they may have been at times theimpelling cause.
Mr. Carr, however, made up for his daughters' want of sympathy withmetropolitan life. To their astonishment, he not only plunged into thefashionable gayeties and amusements of the town, but in dress and mannerassumed the role of a leader of society. The invariable answer to theirhalf-humorous comment was the necessities of the mine, and the policy offrequenting the company of capitalists, to enlist their support andconfidence. There was something in this so unlike their father, that whatat any other time they would have hailed as a relief to his habitualabstraction now half alarmed them. Yet he was not dissipated—he didnot drink nor gamble. There certainly did not seem any harm in hisfrequenting the society of ladies, with a gallantry that appeared to beforced and a pleasure that to their critical eyes was certainlyapocryphal. He did not drag his daughters into the mixed society of thatperiod; he did not press upon them the company of those he mostfrequented, and whose accepted position in that little world of fashionwas considered equal to their own. When Jessie strongly objected to thepronounced manners of a certain widow, whose actual present wealth andpecuniary influence condoned for a more uncertain prehistoric past, Mr.Carr did not urge a further acquaintance. "As long as you're not thinkingof marrying again, papa," Jessie had said finally, "I don't see thenecessity of our knowing her." "But suppose I were," had replied Mr. Carrwith affected humor. "Then you certainly wouldn't care for any one likeher," his daughter had responded triumphantly. Mr. Carr smiled, anddropped the subject, but it is probable that his daughters' want ofsympathy with his acquaintances did not in the least interfere with hissocial prestige. A gentleman in all his relations and under allcircumstances, even his cold scientific abstraction was provocative; richmen envied his lofty ignorance of the smaller details of money-making,even while they mistrusted his judgment. A man still well preserved, andfree from weakening vices, he was a dangerous rival to younger and fasterSan Francisco, in the eyes of the sex, who knew how to value a reposethey did not themselves possess.
Suddenly Mr. Carr announced his intention of proceeding to Sacramento,on further business of the mine, leaving his two daughters in the familyof a wealthy friend until he should return for them. He opposed theirready suggestion to return to Devil's Ford with a new and unnecessaryinflexibility: he even met their compromise to accompany him toSacramento with equal decision.
"You will be only in my way," he said curtly. "Enjoy yourselves herewhile you can."
Thus left to themselves, they tried to accept his advice. Possiblysome slight reaction to their previous disappointment may have alreadyset in; perhaps they felt any distraction to be a relief to their anxietyabout their father. They went out more; they frequented concerts andparties; they accepted, with their host and his family, an invitation toone of those opulent and barbaric entertainments with which a noted SanFrancisco millionaire distracted his rare moments of reflection in hisgorgeous palace on the hills. Here they could at least be once more inthe country they loved, albeit of a milder and less heroic type, and alittle degraded by the overlapping tinsel and scattered spangles of thepalace.
It was a three days' fete; the style and choice of amusements left tothe guests, and an equal and active participation by no means necessaryor indispensable. Consequently, when Christie and Jessie Carr proposed aride through the adjacent canyon on the second morning, they had nodifficulty in finding horses in the well- furnished stables of theiropulent entertainers, nor cavaliers among the other guests, who were toohappy to find favor in the eyes of the two pretty girls who were supposedto be abnormally fastidious and refined. Christie's escort was agood-natured young banker, shrewd enough to avoid demonstrativeattentions, and lucky enough to interest her during the ride with hisclear and half- humorous reflections on some of the business speculationsof the day. If his ideas were occasionally too clever, and not alwaysconsistent with a high sense of honor, she was none the less interestedto know the ethics of that world of speculation into which her father hadplunged, and the more convinced, with mingled sense of pride and anxiety,that his still dominant gentlemanhood would prevent his coping with it onequal terms. Nor could she help contrasting the conversation of thesharp-witted man at her side with what she still remembered of the vague,touching, boyish enthusiasm of the millionaires of Devil's Ford. Had herescort guessed the result of this contrast, he would hardly have been asgratified as he was with the grave attention of her beautiful eyes.
The fascination of a gracious day and the leafy solitude of the canyonled them to prolong their ride beyond the proposed limit, and it becamenecessary towards sunset for them to seek some shorter cut home.
"There's a vaquero in yonder field," said Christie's escort, who wasriding with her a little in advance of the others, "and those fellowsknow every trail that a horse can follow. I'll ride on, intercept him,and try my Spanish on him. If I miss him, as he's galloping on, you mighttry your hand on him yourself. He'll understand your eyes, Miss Carr, inany language."
As he dashed away, to cover his first audacity of compliment, Christielifted the eyes thus apostrophized to the opposite field. The vaquero,who was chasing some cattle, was evidently too preoccupied to heed theshouts of her companion, and wheeling round suddenly to intercept one ofthe deviating fugitives, permitted Christie's escort to dash past himbefore that gentleman could rein in his excited steed. This brought thevaquero directly in her path. Perceiving her, he threw his horse back onits haunches, to prevent a collision. Christie rode up to him, suddenlyuttered a cry, and halted. For before her, sunburnt in cheek and throat,darker in the free growth of moustache and curling hair, clad in thecoarse, picturesque finery of his class, undisguised only in his boyishbeauty, sat George Kearney.
The blood, that had forsaken her astonished face, rushed as quicklyback. His eyes, which had suddenly sparkled with an electrical glow, sankbefore hers. His hand dropped, and his cheek flushed with a darkembarrassment.
"You here, Mr. Kearney? How strange!—but how glad I am to meetyou again!"
She tried to smile; her voice trembled, and her little hand shook asshe extended it to him.
He raised his dark eyes quickly, and impulsively urged his horse toher side. But, as if suddenly awakening to the reality of the situation,he glanced at her hurriedly, down at his barbaric finery, and threw asearching look towards her escort.
In an instant Christie saw the infelicity of her position, and itsdangers. The words of Whiskey Dick, "He wouldn't stand that," flashedacross her mind. There was no time to lose. The banker had already gainedcontrol over his horse, and was approaching them, all unconscious of thefixed stare with which George was regarding him. Christie hastily seizedthe hand which he had allowed to fall at his side, and saidquickly:—
"Will you ride with me a little way, Mr. Kearney?"
He turned the same searching look upon her. She met it clearly andsteadily; he even thought reproachfully.
"Do!" she said hurriedly. "I ask it as a favor. I want to speak toyou. Jessie and I are here alone. Father is away. YOU are one of ouroldest friends."
He hesitated. She turned to the astonished young banker, who rodeup.
"I have just met an old friend. Will you please ride back as quicklyas you can, and tell Jessie that Mr. Kearney is here, and ask her to joinus?"
She watched her dazed escort, still speechless from the spectacle ofthe fastidious Miss Carr tete-a-tete with a common Mexican vaquero,gallop off in the direction of the canyon, and then turned to George.
"Now take me home, the shortest way, as quick as you can."
"Home?" echoed George.
"I mean to Mr. Prince's house. Quick! before they can come up tous."
He mechanically put spurs to his horse; she followed. They presentlystruck into a trail that soon diverged again into a disused logging trackthrough the woods.
"This is the short cut to Prince's, by two miles," he said, as theyentered the woods.
As they were still galloping, without exchanging a word, Christiebegan to slacken her speed; George did the same. They were safe fromintrusion at the present, even if the others had found the short cut.Christie, bold and self-reliant a moment ago, suddenly found herselfgrowing weak and embarrassed. What had she done?
She checked her horse suddenly.
"Perhaps we had better wait for them," she said timidly.
George had not raised his eyes to hers.
"You said you wanted to hurry home," he replied gently, passing hishand along his mustang's velvety neck, "and—and you had somethingto say to me."
"Certainly," she answered, with a faint laugh. "I'm so astonished atmeeting you here. I'm quite bewildered. You are living here; you haveforsaken us to buy a ranche?" she continued, looking at himattentively.
His brow colored slightly.
"No, I'm living here, but I have bought no ranche. I'm only a hiredman on somebody else's ranche, to look after the cattle."
He saw her beautiful eyes fill with astonishment and—somethingelse. His brow cleared; he went on, with his old boyish laugh:
"No, Miss Carr. The fact is, I'm dead broke. I've lost everythingsince I saw you last. But as I know how to ride, and I'm not afraid ofwork, I manage to keep along."
"You have lost money in—in the mines?" said Christiesuddenly.
"No"—he replied quickly, evading her eyes. "My brother has myinterest, you know. I've been foolish on my own account solely. You knowI'm rather inclined to that sort of thing. But as long as my folly don'taffect others, I can stand it."
"But it may affect others—and THEY may not think of it asfolly—" She stopped short, confused by his brightening color andeyes. "I mean— Oh, Mr. Kearney, I want you to be frank with me. Iknow nothing of business, but I know there has been trouble about themine at Devil's Ford. Tell me honestly, has my father anything to do withit? If I thought that through any imprudence of his, you hadsuffered—if I believed that you could trace any misfortune of yoursto him—to US—I should never forgive myself"—she stoppedand flashed a single look at him—"I should never forgive YOU forabandoning us."
The look of pain which had at first shown itself in his face, whichnever concealed anything, passed, and a quick smile followed her feminineanticlimax.
"Miss Carr," he said, with boyish eagerness, "if any man suggested tome that your father wasn't the brightest and best of his kind— toowise and clever for the fools about him to understand—I'd—I'dshoot him."
Confused by his ready and gracious disclaimer of what she had NOTintended to say, there was nothing left for her but to rush upon what shereally intended to say, with what she felt was shamefulprecipitation.
"One word more, Mr. Kearney," she began, looking down, but feeling thecolor come to her face as she spoke. "When you spoke to me the day youleft, you must have thought me hard and cruel. When I tell you that Ithought you were alluding to Jessie and some feeling you had forher—"
"For Jessie!" echoed George.
"You will understand that—that—"
"That what?" said George, drawing nearer to her.
"That I was only speaking as she might have spoken had you talked toher of me," added Christie hurriedly, slightly backing her horse awayfrom him.
But this was not so easy, as George was the better rider, and by animperceptible movement of his wrist and foot had glued his horse to herside. "He will go now," she had thought, but he didn't.
"We must ride on," she suggested faintly.
"No," he said with a sudden dropping of his boyish manner and a slightlifting of his head. "We must ride together no further, Miss Carr. I mustgo back to the work I am hired to do, and you must go on with your party,whom I hear coming. But when we part here you must bid megood-by—not as Jessie's sister—but as Christie—theone—the only woman that I love, or that I ever have loved."
He held out his hand. With the recollection of their previous parting,she tremblingly advanced her own. He took it, but did not raise it to hislips. And it was she who found herself half confusedly retaining his handin hers, until she dropped it with a blush.
"Then is this the reason you give for deserting us as you havedeserted Devil's Ford?" she said coldly.
He lifted his eyes to her with a strange smile, and said, "Yes,"wheeled his horse, and disappeared in the forest.
He had left her thus abruptly once before, kissed, blushing, andindignant. He was leaving her now, unkissed, but white and indignant. Yetshe was so self-possessed when the party joined her, that the singularrencontre and her explanation of the stranger's sudden departure excitedno further comment. Only Jessie managed to whisper in her ear,—
"I hope you are satisfied now that it wasn't me he meant?"
"Not at all," said Christie coldly.
A few days after the girls had returned to San Francisco, theyreceived a letter from their father. His business, he wrote, would detainhim in Sacramento some days longer. There was no reason why they shouldreturn to Devil's Ford in the heat of the summer; their host had writtento beg him to allow them a more extended visit, and, if they wereenjoying themselves, he thought it would be well not to disoblige an oldfriend. He had heard they had a pleasant visit to Mr. Prince's place, andthat a certain young banker had been very attentive to Christie.
"Do you know what all this means, dear?" asked Jessie, who had beenwatching her sister with an unusually grave face.
Christie whose thoughts had wandered from the letter, repliedcarelessly,—
"I suppose it means that we are to wait here until father sends forus."
"It means a good deal more. It means that papa has had anotherreverse; it means that the assay has turned out badly for the mine—that the further they go from the flat the worse it gets—that allthe gold they will probably ever see at Devil's Ford is what they havealready found or will find on the flat; it means that all Devil's Ford isonly a 'pocket,' and not a 'lead.'" She stopped, with unexpected tears inher eyes.
"Who told you this?" asked Christie breathlessly.
"Fairfax—Mr. Munroe," stammered her sister, "writes to me as ifwe already knew it—tells me not to be alarmed, that it isn't sobad— and all that."
"How long has this happened, Jessie?" said Christie, taking her hand,with a white but calm face.
"Nearly ever since we've been here, I suppose. It must be so, for hesays poor papa is still hopeful of doing something yet."
"And Mr. Munroe writes to you?" said Christie abstractedly.
"Of course," said Jessie quickly. "He feels interestedin—us."
"Nobody tells ME anything," said Christie.
"Didn't—"
"No," said Christie bitterly.
"What on earth DID you talk about? But people don't confide in youbecause they're afraid of you. You're so—"
"So what?"
"So gently patronizing, and so 'I-don't-suppose-you-can-help-it,-poor-thing,' in your general style," said Jessie, kissing her. "There! Ionly wish I was like you. What do you say if we write to father thatwe'll go back to Devil's Ford? Mr. Munroe thinks we will be of servicethere just now. If the men are dissatisfied, and think we're spendingmoney—"
"I'm afraid Mr. Munroe is hardly a disinterested adviser. At least, Idon't think it would look quite decent for you to fly back without yourfather, at his suggestion," said Christie coldly. "He is not the onlypartner. We are spending no money. Besides, we have engaged to go to Mr.Prince's again next week."
"As you like, dear," said Jessie, turning away to hide a faintsmile.
Nevertheless, when they returned from their visit to Mr. Prince's, andone or two uneventful rides, Christie looked grave. It was only a fewdays later that Jessie burst upon her one morning.
"You were saying that nobody ever tells you anything. Well, here'syour chance. Whiskey Dick is below."
"Whiskey Dick?" repeated Christie. "What does he want?"
"YOU, love. Who else? You know he always scorns me as not beinghigh-toned and elegant enough for his social confidences. He asked foryou only."
With an uneasy sense of some impending revelation, Christie descendedto the drawing-room. As she opened the door, a strong flavor of thattoilet soap and eau de Cologne with which Whiskey Dick was in the habitof gracefully effacing the traces of dissipation made known his presence.In spite of a new suit of clothes, whose pristine folds refused to adaptthemselves entirely to the contour of his figure, he was somewhat subduedby the unexpected elegance of the drawing-room of Christie's host. But aglance at Christie's sad but gracious face quickly reassured him. Takingfrom his hat a three-cornered parcel, he unfolded a handsome saffronarose, which he gravely presented to her. Having thus reestablished hisposition, he sank elegantly into a tete-a-tete ottoman. Finding theposition inconvenient to face Christie, who had seated herself on achair, he transferred himself to the other side of the ottoman, andaddressed her over its back as from a pulpit.
"Is this really a fortunate accident, Mr. Hall, or did you try to findus?" said Christie pleasantly.
"Partly promiskuss, and partly coincident, Miss Christie, one up andt'other down," said Dick lightly. "Work being slack at present at Devil'sFord, I reck'ned I'd take a pasear down to 'Frisco, and dip into thevortex o' fash'nable society and out again." He lightly waved a newhandkerchief to illustrate his swallow-like intrusion. "This yer minglin'with the bo-tong is apt to be wearisome, ez you and me knows, unlesscombined with experience and judgment. So when them boys up there allowsthat there's a little too much fash'nable society and San Franciscocapital and high- falutin' about the future goin' on fer square surfacemining, I sez, 'Look yere, gentlemen,' sez I, 'you don't see the pint.The pint is to get the pop'lar eye fixed, so to speak, on Devil's Ford.When a fash'nable star rises above the 'Frisco horizon—like MissCarr—and, so to speak, dazzles the gineral eye, people want to knowwho she is. And when people say that's the accomplished daughter o' theaccomplished superintendent of the Devil's Ford claim—otherwiseknown as the Star-eyed Goddess o' Devil's Ford— every eye is fixedon the mine, and Capital, so to speak, tumbles to her.' And when they sezthat the old man—excuse my freedom, but that's the way the boystalk of your father, meaning no harm— the old man, instead o'trying to corral rich widders—grass or otherwise—to spendtheir money on the big works for the gold that ain't thereyet—should stay in Devil's Ford and put all his sabe and geniusinto grindin' out the little gold that is there, I sez to them that itain't your father's style. 'His style,' sez I, 'ez to go in and buildthem works.' When they're done he turns round to Capital, and sezhe—'Look yer,' sez he, 'thar's all the works you want, firstquality—cost a million; thar's all the water you want,onlimited—cost another million; thar's all the pay gravel you wantin and outer the ground—call it two millions more. Now my time'stoo vally'ble; my professhun's too high-toned to WORK mines. I MAKE 'em.Hand me over a check for ten millions and call it square, and work it foryourself.' So Capital hands over the money and waltzes down to run themine, and you original locators walks round with yer hands in yer pocketsa-top of your six million profit, and you let's Capital take the work andthe responsibility."
Preposterous as this seemed from the lips of Whiskey Dick, Christiehad a haunting suspicion that it was not greatly unlike the theoriesexpounded by the clever young banker who had been her escort. She did notinterrupt his flow of reminiscent criticism; when he paused for breath,she said, quietly:
"I met Mr. George Kearney the other day in the country."
Whiskey Dick stopped awkwardly, glanced hurriedly at Christie, andcoughed behind his handkerchief.
"Mr.Kearney—eh—er—certengly—yes—er—methim, you say. Was he—er—er—well?"
"In health, yes; but otherwise he has lost everything," said Christie,fixing her eyes on the embarrassed Dick.
"Yes—er—in course—in course—" continued Dick,nervously glancing round the apartment as if endeavoring to find anopening to some less abrupt statement of the fact.
"And actually reduced to take some menial employment," added Christie,still regarding Dick with her clear glance.
"That's it—that's just it," said Dick, beaming as he suddenlyfound his delicate and confidential opportunity. "That's it, MissChristie; that's just what I was sayin' to the boys. 'Ez it the squarething,' sez I, 'jest because George hez happened to hypothecate everydollar he has, or expects to hev, to put into them works, only to pleaseMr. Carr, and just because he don't want to distress that intelligentgentleman by letting him see he's dead broke—for him to go anddemean himself and Devil's Ford by rushing away and hiring out as aMexican vaquero on Mexican wages? Look,' sez I, 'at the disgrace hebrings upon a high-toned, fash'nable girl, at whose side he's walked anddanced, and passed rings, and sentiments, and bokays in the changes o'the cotillion and the mizzourka. And wot,' sez I, 'if some day, prancingalong in a fash'nable cavalcade, she all of a suddents comes across himdrivin' a Mexican steer?' That's what I said to the boys. And so you methim, Miss Christie, as usual," continued Dick, endeavoring under theappearance of a large social experience to conceal an eager anxiety toknow the details—"so you met him; and, in course, you didn't let onyer knew him, so to speak, nat'rally, or p'raps you kinder like asked himto fix your saddle-girth, and give him a five-dollar piece—eh?"
Christie, who had risen and gone to the window, suddenly turned a verypale face and shining eyes on Dick.
"Mr. Hall," she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, "we are oldfriends, and I feel I can ask you a favor. You once before acted as ourescort—it was for a short but a happy time—will you accept alarger trust? My father is busy in Sacramento for the mine: will you,without saying anything to anybody, take Jessie and me back at once toDevil's Ford?"
"Will I? Miss Christie," said Dick, choking between an intensegratification and a desire to keep back its vulgar exhibition, "I shallbe proud!"
"When I say keep it a secret"—she hesitated—"I don't meanthat I object to your letting Mr. Kearney, if you happen to know where heis, understand that we are going back to Devil's Ford."
"Cert'nly—nat'rally," said Dick, waving his hand gracefully;"sorter drop him a line, saying that bizness of a social and delicatenature—being the escort of Miss Christie and Jessie Carr to Devil'sFord—prevents my having the pleasure of calling."
"That will do very well, Mr. Hall," said Christie, faintly smilingthrough her moist eyelashes. "Then will you go at once and secure ticketsfor to-night's boat, and bring them here? Jessie and I will arrangeeverything else."
"Cert'nly," said Dick impulsively, and preparing to take a gracefulleave.
"We'll be impatient until you return with the tickets," said Christiegraciously.
Dick shook hands gravely, got as far as the door, and paused.
"You think it better to take the tickets now?" he said dubiously.
"By all means," said Christie impetuously. "I've set my heart on goingto-night—and unless you secure berths early—"
"In course—in course," interrupted Dick nervously."But—"
"But what?" said Christie impatiently.
Dick hesitated, shut the door carefully, and, looking round the room,lightly shook out his handkerchief, apparently flicked away anembarrassing suggestion, and said, with a little laugh:
"It's ridiklous, perfectly ridiklous, Miss Christie; but not bein' inthe habit of carryin' ready money, and havin' omitted to cash a draft onWells, Fargo Co.—"
"Of course," said Christie rapidly. "How forgetful I am! Pray forgiveme, Mr. Hall. I didn't think. I'll run up and get it from our host; hewill be glad to be our banker."
"One moment, Miss Christie," said Dick lightly, as his thumb andfinger relaxed in his waistcoat pocket over the only piece of money inthe world that had remained to him after his extravagant purchase ofChristie's saffrona rose, "one moment: in this yer monetary transaction,if you like, you are at liberty to use MY name."
As Christie and Jessie Carr looked from the windows of the coach,whose dust-clogged wheels were slowly dragging them, as if reluctant,nearer the last stage of their journey to Devil's Ford, they wereconscious of a change in the landscape, which they could not entirelycharge upon their changed feelings. The few bared open spaces on theupland, the long stretch of rocky ridge near the summit, so vivid and sovelvety during their first journey, were now burnt and yellow; even thebrief openings in the forest were seared as if by a hot iron in thescorching rays of a half year's sun. The pastoral slopes of the valleybelow were cloaked in lustre-leather: the rare watercourses along theroad had faded from the waiting eye and ear; it seemed as if the long anddry summer had even invaded the close-set ranks of pines, and had blown asimoom breath through the densest woods, leaving its charred red ashes onevery leaf and spray along the tunnelled shade. As they leaned out of thewindow and inhaled the half-dead spices of the evergreens, they seemed tohave entered the atmosphere of some exhausted passion—of somefierce excitement that was even now slowly burning itself out.
It was a relief at last to see the straggling houses of Devil's Fordfar below come once more into view, as they rounded the shoulder ofDevil's Spur and began the long descent. But as they entered the town achange more ominous and startling than the desiccation of the landscapeforced itself upon them. The town was still there, but where were theinhabitants? Four months ago they had left the straggling street throngedwith busy citizens—groups at every corner, and a chaos ofmerchandise and traders in the open plaza or square beside thePresbyterian church. Now all was changed. Only a few wayfarers liftedtheir heads lazily as the coach rattled by, crossing the deserted squarelittered with empty boxes, and gliding past empty cabins or vacant shopwindows, from which not only familiar faces, but even the window sashesthemselves, were gone. The great unfinished serpent-like flume, crossingthe river on gigantic trestles, had advanced as far as the town, stoopingover it like some enormous reptile that had sucked its life blood and wasgorged with its prey.
Whiskey Dick, who had left the stage on the summit to avail himself ofa shorter foot trail to the house, that would give him half an hour'sgrace to make preparations, met them at the stage office with a buggy. Aglance at the young girls, perhaps, convinced him that the graces ofelegant worldly conversation were out of place with the revelation heread on their faces. Perhaps, he, too, was a trifle indisposed. The shortjourney to the house was made in profound silence.
The villa had been repainted and decorated, and it looked fresher, andeven, to their preoccupied minds, appeared more attractive than ever.Thoughtful hands had taken care of the vines and rose-bushes on thetrellises; water—that precious element in Devil's Ford—hadnot been spared in keeping green through the long drought the plantswhich the girls had so tenderly nurtured. It was the one oasis in whichthe summer still lingered; and yet a singular sense of loss came over thegirls as they once more crossed its threshold. It seemed no longer theirown.
"Ef I was you, Miss Christie, I'd keep close to the house for a day ortwo, until—until—things is settled," said Dick; "there's aheap o' tramps and sich cattle trapsin' round. P'raps you wouldn't feelso lonesome if you was nearer town—for instance, 'bout wher' youuseter live."
"In the dear old cabin," said Christie quickly; "I remember it; I wishwe were there now."
"Do you really? Do you?" said Whiskey Dick, with suddenly twinklingeyes. "That's like you to say it. That's what I allus said," continuedDick, addressing space generally; "if there's any one ez knows how tocome square down to the bottom rock without flinchin', it's yourhigh-toned, fash'nable gals. But I must meander back to town, and let theboys know you're in possession, safe and sound. It's right mean thatFairfax and Mattingly had to go down to Lagrange on some low businessyesterday, but they'll be back to-morrow. So long."
Left alone, the girls began to realize their strange position. Theyhad conceived no settled plan. The night they left San Francisco they hadwritten an earnest letter to their father, telling him that on learningthe truth about the reverses of Devil's Ford, they thought it their dutyto return and share them with others, without obliging him to prefer therequest, and with as little worry to him as possible. He would find themready to share his trials, and in what must be the scene of their workhereafter.
"It will bring father back," said Christie; "he won't leave us herealone; and then together we must come to some understanding withhim—with THEM—for somehow I feel as if this house belonged tous no longer."
Her surmise was not far wrong. When Mr. Carr arrived hurriedly fromSacramento the next evening, he found the house deserted. His daughterswere gone; there were indications that they had arrived, and, for somereason, suddenly departed. The vague fear that had haunted his guiltysoul after receiving their letter, and during his breathless journey, nowseemed to be realized. He was turning from the empty house, whosereproachful solitude frightened him, when he was confronted on thethreshold by the figure of Fairfax Munroe.
"I came to the stage office to meet you," he said; "you must have leftthe stage at the summit."
"I did," said Carr angrily. "I was anxious to meet my daughtersquickly, to know the reason of their foolish alarm, and to know also whohad been frightening them. Where are they?"
"They are safe in the old cabin beyond, that has been put up ready toreceive them again," said Fairfax quietly.
"But what is the meaning of this? Why are they not here?" demandedCarr, hiding his agitation in a burst of querulous rage.
"Do YOU ask, Mr. Carr?" said Fairfax sadly. "Did you expect them toremain here until the sheriff took possession? No one knows better thanyourself that the money advanced you on the deeds of this homestead hasnever been repaid."
Carr staggered, but recovered himself with feeble violence.
"Since you know so much of my affairs, how do you know that this claimwill ever be pressed for payment? How do you know it is not the advanceof a—a—friend?"
"Because I have seen the woman who advanced it," said Fairfaxhopelessly. "She was here to look at the property before your daughterscame."
"Well?" said Carr nervously.
"Well! You force me to tell you something I should like to forget. Youforce me to anticipate a disclosure I expected to make to you only when Icame to ask permission to woo your daughter Jessie; and when I tell youwhat it is, you will understand that I have no right to criticise yourconduct. I am only explaining my own."
"Go on," said Carr impatiently.
"When I first came to this country, there was a woman I lovedpassionately. She treated me as women of her kind only treat men like me;she ruined me, and left me. That was four years ago. I love yourdaughter, Mr. Carr, but she has never heard it from my lips. I would notwoo her until I had told you all. I have tried to do it ere this, andfailed. Perhaps I should not now, but—"
"But what?" said Carr furiously; "speak out!"
"But this. Look!" said Fairfax, producing from his pocket the packetof letters Jessie had found; "perhaps you know the handwriting?"
"What do you mean?" gasped Carr.
"That woman—my mistress—is the woman who advanced youmoney, and who claims this house."
The interview, and whatever came of it, remained a secret with the twomen. When Mr. Carr accepted the hospitality of the old cabin again, itwas understood that he had sacrificed the new house and its furniture tosome of the more pressing debts of the mine, and the act went far torestore his waning popularity. But a more genuine feeling of relief wasexperienced by Devil's Ford when it was rumored that Fairfax Munroe hadasked for the hand of Jessie Carr, and that some promise contingent uponthe equitable adjustment of the affairs of the mine had been given by Mr.Carr. To the superstitious mind of Devil's Ford and its few remaininglocators, this new partnership seemed to promise that unity of interestand stability of fortune that Devil's Ford had lacked. But nothing couldbe done until the rainy season had fairly set in; until thelong-looked-for element that was to magically separate the gold from thedross in those dull mounds of dust and gravel had come of its own freewill, and in its own appointed channels, independent of the feebleauxiliaries that had hopelessly riven the rocks on the hillside, or hungincomplete and unfinished in lofty scaffoldings above the settlement.
The rainy season came early. At first in gathered mists on the higherpeaks that were lifted in the morning sun only to show a fresher field ofdazzling white below; in white clouds that at first seemed to be meredrifts blown across from those fresh snowfields, and obscuring the clearblue above; in far-off murmurs in the hollow hills and gulches; in nearertinkling melody and baby prattling in the leaves. It came with brightflashes of sunlight by day, with deep, monotonous shadow at night; withthe onset of heavy winds, the roar of turbulent woods, the tumultuoustossing of leafy arms, and with what seemed the silent dissolution of thewhole landscape in days of steady and uninterrupted downfall. It cameextravagantly, for every canyon had grown into a torrent, every gulch awaterspout, every watercourse a river, and all pouring into the NorthFork, that, rushing past the settlement, seemed to threaten it withlifted crest and flying mane. It came dangerously, for one night theriver, leaping the feeble barrier of Devil's Ford, swept away houses andbanks, scattered with unconscious irony the laboriously collected heapsof gravel left for hydraulic machinery, and spread out a vast and silentlake across the submerged flat.
In the hurry and confusion of that night the girls had thrown opentheir cabin to the escaping miners, who hurried along the slope that wasnow the bank of the river. Suddenly Christie felt her arm grasped, andshe was half-led, half-dragged, into the inner room. Her father stoodbefore her.
"Where is George Kearney?" he asked tremulously.
"George Kearney!" echoed Christie, for a moment believing theexcitement had turned her father's brain. "You know he is not here; he isin San Francisco."
"He is here—I tell you," said Carr impatiently; "he has beenhere ever since the high water, trying to save the flume andreservoir."
"George—here!" Christie could only gasp.
"Yes! He passed here a few moments ago, to see if you were all safe,and he has gone on towards the flume. But what he is trying to do ismadness. If you see him, implore him to do no more. Let him abandon theaccursed flume to its fate. It has worked already too much woe upon usall; why should it carry his brave and youthful soul down with it?"
The words were still ringing in her ears, when he suddenly passedaway, with the hurrying crowd. Scarcely knowing what she did, she ranout, vaguely intent only on one thought, seeking only the one face,lately so dear in recollection that she felt she would die if she neversaw it again. Perplexed by confused voices in the woods, she lost trackof the crowd, until the voices suddenly were raised in one loud outcry,followed by the crashing of timber, the splashing of water, a silence,and then a dull, continuous roar. She ran vaguely on in the direction ofthe reservoir, with her father's injunction still in her mind, until aterrible idea displaced it, and she turned at right angles suddenly, andran towards the slope leading down to the submerged flat. She had barelyleft the shelter of the trees behind her before the roar of water seemedto rise at her very feet. She stopped, dazed, bewildered, andhorror-stricken, on the edge of the slope. It was the slope no longer,but the bank of the river itself!
Even in the gray light of early morning, and with inexperienced eyes,she saw all too clearly now. The trestle-work had given way; the curvingmile of flume, fallen into the stream, and, crushed and dammed againstthe opposite shore, had absolutely turned the whole river through thehalf-finished ditch and partly excavated mine in its way, a few rodsfurther on to join the old familiar channel. The bank of the river waschanged; the flat had become an island, between which and the slope whereshe stood the North Fork was rolling its resistless yellow torrent. Asshe gazed spellbound, a portion of the slope beneath her suddenly seemedto sink and crumble, and was swallowed up in the rushing stream. Sheheard a cry of warning behind her, but, rooted to the spot by a fearfulfascination, she heeded it not.
Again there was a sudden disruption, and another part of the slopesank to rise no more; but this time she felt herself seized by the waistand dragged back. It was her father standing by her side.
He was flushed and excited, gazing at the water with a strangeexultation.
"Do you see it? Do you know what has happened?" he asked quickly.
"The flume has fallen and turned the river," said Christie hurriedly."But—have you seen him—is he safe?"
"He—who?" he answered vacantly.
"George Kearney!"
"He is safe," he said impatiently. "But, do you see, Christie? Do youknow what this means?"
He pointed with his tremulous hand to the stream before them.
"It means we are ruined," said Christie coldly.
"Nothing of the kind! It means that the river is doing the work of theflume. It is sluicing off the gravel, deepening the ditch, and alteringthe slope which was the old bend of the river. It will do in ten minutesthe work that would take us a year. If we can stop it in time, or controlit, we are safe; but if we can not, it will carry away the bed anddeposit with the rest, and we are ruined again."
With a gesture of impotent fury, he dashed away in the direction of anequally excited crowd, that on a point of the slope nearer the islandwere gesticulating and shouting to a second group of men, who on theopposite shore were clambering on over the choked debris of the flumethat had dammed and diverted the current. It was evident that the sameidea had occurred to them, and they were risking their lives in theattempt to set free the impediments. Shocked and indignant as Christiehad been at the degrading absorption of material interests at such amoment, the element of danger lifted the labors of these men intoheroism, and she began to feel a strange exultation as she watched them.Under the skilful blows of their axes, in a few moments the vast body ofdrift began to disintegrate, and then to swing round and move towards theold channel. A cheer went up, but as suddenly died away again. Anoverlapping fringe of wreckage had caught on the point of the island andarrested the whole mass.
The men, who had gained the shore with difficulty, looked back with acry of despair. But the next moment from among them leaped a figure,alert, buoyant, invincible, and, axe in hand, once more essayed thepassage. Springing from timber to timber, he at last reached the point ofobstruction. A few strokes of the axe were sufficient to clear it; but atthe first stroke it was apparent that the striker was also losing hishold upon the shore, and that he must inevitably be carried away with thetossing debris. But this consideration did not seem to affect him; thelast blow was struck, and as the freed timbers rolled on, over and over,he boldly plunged into the flood. Christie gave a little cry—herheart had bounded with him; it seemed as if his plunge had splashed thewater in her eyes. He did not come to the surface until he had passed thepoint below where her father stood, and then struggling feebly, as ifstunned or disabled by a blow. It seemed to her that he was trying toapproach the side of the river where she was. Would he do it? Could shehelp him? She was alone; he was hidden from the view of the men on thepoint, and no succor could come from them. There was a fringe of aldernearly opposite their cabin that almost overhung the stream. She ran toit, clutched it with a frantic hand, and, leaning over the boiling water,uttered for the first time his name:
"George!"
As if called to the surface by the magic of her voice, he rose a fewyards from her in mid-current, and turned his fading eyes towards thebank. In another moment he would have been swept beyond her reach, butwith a supreme effort he turned on one side; the current, striking himsideways, threw him towards the bank, and she caught him by his sleeve.For an instant it seemed as if she would be dragged down with him. Forone dangerous moment she did not care, and almost yielded to the spell;but as the rush of water pressed him against the bank, she recoveredherself, and managed to lift him beyond its reach. And then she sat down,half-fainting, with his white face and damp curls upon her breast.
"George, darling, speak to me! Only one word! Tell me, have I savedyou?"
His eyes opened. A faint twinkle of the old days came to them—aboyish smile played upon his lips.
"For yourself—or Jessie?"
She looked around her with a little frightened air. They were alone.There was but one way of sealing those mischievous lips, and she foundit!
"That's what I allus said, gentlemen," lazily remarked Whiskey Dick, afew weeks later, leaning back against the bar, with his glass in hishand. "'George,' sez I, 'it ain't what you SAY to a fash'nable,high-toned young lady; it's what you DOES ez makes or breaks you.' Andthat's what I sez gin'rally o' things in the Ford. It ain't what Carr andyou boys allows to do; it's the gin'ral average o' things ez IS done thatgives tone to the hull, and hez brought this yer new luck to youall!"
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