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At nightfall it began to rain. The wind arose too, and also began tobuffet a small, struggling, nondescript figure, creeping along the trailover the rocky upland meadow towards Rylands's rancho. At times its headwas hidden in what appeared to be wings thrown upward from its shoulders;at times its broad-brimmed hat was cocked jauntily on one side, and againthe brim was fixed over the face like a visor. At one moment a driftingmisshapen mass of drapery, at the next its vague garments, beaten backhard against the figure, revealed outlines far too delicate for that rudeenwrapping. For it was Mrs. Rylands herself, in her husband's hat and her"hired man's" old blue army overcoat, returning from the post-office twomiles away. The wind continued its aggression until she reached the frontdoor of her newly plastered farmhouse, and then a heavier blast shook thepines above the low-pitched, shingled roof, and sent a shower of arrowydrops after her like a Parthian parting, as she entered. She threw asidethe overcoat and hat, and somewhat inconsistently entered thesitting-room, to walk to the window and look back upon the path she hadjust traversed. The wind and the rain swept down a slope, half meadow,half clearing,—a mile away,—to a fringe of sycamores. A milefurther lay the stage road, where, three hours later, her husband wouldalight on his return from Sacramento. It would be a long wet walk forJoshua Rylands, as their only horse had been borrowed by a neighbor.
In that fading light Mrs. Rylands's oval cheek was shining still fromthe raindrops, but there was something in the expression of her worriedface that might have as readily suggested tears. She was strikinglyhandsome, yet quite as incongruous an ornament to her surroundings as shehad been to her outer wrappings a moment ago. Even the clothes she nowstood in hinted an inadaptibility to the weather—thehouse—the position she occupied in it. A figured silk dress,spoiled rather than overworn, was still of a quality inconsistent withher evident habits, and the lace-edged petticoat that peeped beneath itwas draggled with mud and unaccustomed usage. Her glossy black hair,which had been tossed into curls in some foreign fashion, was nowwind-blown into a burlesque of it. This incongruity was still furtheraccented by the appearance of the room she had entered. It was coldly andseverely furnished, making the chill of the yet damp white plasterunpleasantly obvious. A black harmonium organ stood in one corner, setout with black and white hymn-books; a trestle-like table contained alarge Bible; half a dozen black, horsehair-cushioned chairs stood,geometrically distant, against the walls, from which hung four engravingsof "Paradise Lost" in black mourning frames; some dried ferns and autumnleaves stood in a vase on the mantelpiece, as if the chill of the roomhad prematurely blighted them. The coldly glittering grate below was alsodecorated with withered sprays, as if an attempt had been made to burnthem, but was frustrated through damp. Suddenly recalled to a sense ofher wet boots and the new carpet, she hurriedly turned away, crossed thehall into the dining-room, and thence passed into the kitchen. The "hiredgirl," a large-boned Missourian, a daughter of a neighboring woodman, waspeeling potatoes at the table. Mrs. Rylands drew a chair before thekitchen stove, and put her wet feet on the hob.
"I'll bet a cooky, Mess Rylands, you've done forgot the vanillar,"said the girl, with a certain domestic and confidential familiarity.
Mrs. Rylands started guiltily. She made a miserable feint of lookingin her lap and on the table. "I'm afraid I did, Jane, if I didn't bringit in HERE."
"That you didn't," returned Jane. "And I reckon ye forgot that 'arpepper-sauce for yer husband."
Mrs. Rylands looked up with piteous contrition. "I really don't knowwhat's the matter with me. I certainly went into the shop, and had it onmy list,—and—really"—
Jane evidently knew her mistress, and smiled with superior toleration."It's kinder bewilderin' goin' in them big shops, and lookin' round themstuffed shelves." The shop at the cross roads and post-office was 14 x14, but Jane was nurtured on the plains. "Anyhow," she addedgood-humoredly, "the expressman is sure to look in as he goes by, andyou've time to give him the order."
"But is he SURE to come?" asked Mrs. Rylands anxiously. "Mr. Rylandswill be so put out without his pepper-sauce."
"He's sure to come ef he knows you're here. Ye kin always kalkilate onthat."
"Why?" said Mrs. Rylands abstractedly.
"Why? 'cause he just can't keep his eyes off ye! That's why he comesevery day,—'tain't jest for trade!"
This was quite true, not only of the expressman, but of the butcherand baker, and the "candlestick-maker," had there been so advanced avocation at the cross roads. All were equally and curiously attracted byher picturesque novelty. Mrs. Rylands knew this herself, but withoutvanity or coquettishness. Possibly that was why the other woman told her.She only slightly deepened the lines of discontent in her cheek and saidabstractedly, "Well, when he comes, YOU ask him."
She dried her shoes, put on a pair of slippers that had a fadedsplendor about them, and went up to her bedroom. Here she hesitated forsome time between the sewing-machine and her knitting-needles, butfinally settled upon the latter, and a pair of socks for her husbandwhich she had begun a year ago. But she presently despaired of finishingthem before he returned, three hours hence, and so applied herself to thesewing-machine. For a little while its singing hum was heard between theblasts that shook the house, but the thread presently snapped, and themachine was put aside somewhat impatiently, with a discontented drawingof the lines around her handsome mouth. Then she began to "tidy" theroom, putting a great many things away and bringing out a great manymore, a process that was necessarily slow, owing to her falling intoattitudes of minute inspection of certain articles of dress, withintervals of trying them on, and observing their effect in her mirror.This kind of interruption also occurred while she was putting away somebooks that were lying about on chairs and tables, stopping midway to opentheir pages, becoming interested, and quite finishing one chapter, withthe book held close against the window to catch the fading light of day.The feminine reader will gather from this that Mrs. Rylands, thoughcharming, was not facile in domestic duties. She had just glanced at theclock, and lit the candle to again set herself to work, and thus bridgeover the two hours more of waiting, when there came a tap at the door.She opened it to Jane.
"There's an entire stranger downstairs, ez hez got a lame hoss andwants to borry a fresh one."
"We have none, you know," said Mrs. Rylands, a little impatiently.
"Thet's what I told him. Then he wanted to know ef he could lie byhere till he could get one or fix up his own hoss."
"As you like; you know if you can manage it," said Mrs. Rylands, alittle uneasily. "When Mr. Rylands comes you can arrange it between you.Where is he now?"
"In the kitchen."
"The kitchen!" echoed Mrs. Rylands.
"Yes, ma'am, I showed him into the parlor, but he kinder shivered hisshoulders, and reckoned ez how he'd go inter the kitchen. Ye see, ma'am,he was all wet, and his shiny big boots was sloppy. But he ain't one o'the stuck-up kind, and he's willin' to make hisself cowf'ble before thekitchen stove."
"Well, then, he don't want ME," said Mrs. Rylands, with a relievedvoice.
"Yes'm," said Jane, apparently equally relieved. "Only, I thought I'djust tell you."
A few minutes later, in crossing the upper hall, Mrs. Rylands heardJane's voice from the kitchen raised in rustic laughter. Had she beensatirically inclined, she might have understood Jane's willingness torelieve her mistress of the duty of entertaining the stranger; had shebeen philosophical, she might have considered the girl's dreary,monotonous life at the rancho, and made allowance for her joy at thisrare interruption of it. But I fear that Mrs. Rylands was neithersatirical nor philosophical, and presently, when Jane reentered, withcolor in her alkaline face, and light in her huckleberry eyes, and saidshe was going over to the cattle- sheds in the "far pasture," to see ifthe hired man didn't know of some horse that could be got for thestranger, Mrs. Rylands felt a little bitterness in the thought that thegirl would have scarcely volunteered to go all that distance in the rainfor HER. Yet, in a few moments she forgot all about it, and even thepresence of her guest in the house, and in one of her fitful abstractedemployments passed through the dining-room into the kitchen, and hadopened the door with an "Oh, Jane!" before she remembered herabsence.
The kitchen, lit by a single candle, could be only partly seen by heras she stood with her hand on the lock, although she herself was plainlyvisible. There was a pause, and then a quiet, self- possessed, yetamused, voice answered:—
"My name isn't Jane, and if you're the lady of the house, I reckonyours wasn't ALWAYS Rylands."
At the sound of the voice Mrs. Rylands threw the door wide open, andas her eyes fell upon the speaker—her unknown guest—sherecoiled with a little cry, and a white, startled face. Yet the strangerwas young and handsome, dressed with a scrupulousness and elegance whicheven the stress of travel had not deranged, and he was looking at herwith a smile of recognition, mingled with that careless audacity andself-possession which seemed to be the characteristic of his face.
"Jack Hamlin!" she gasped.
"That's me, all the time," he responded easily, "and YOU'RE NellMontgomery!"
"How did you know I was here? Who told you?" she said impetuously.
"Nobody! never was so surprised in my life! When you opened that doorjust now you might have knocked me down with a feather." Yet he spokelazily, with an amused face, and looked at her without changing hisposition.
"But you MUST have known SOMETHING! It was no mere accident," she wenton vehemently, glancing around the room.
"That's where you slip up, Nell," said Hamlin imperturbably. "It WASan accident and a bad one. My horse lamed himself coming down the grade.I sighted the nearest shanty, where I thought I might get another horse.It happened to be this." For the first time he changed his attitude, andleaned back contemplatively in his chair.
She came towards him quickly. "You didn't use to lie, Jack," she saidhesitatingly.
"Couldn't afford it in my business,—and can't now," said Jackcheerfully. "But," he added curiously, as if recognizing something in hiscompanion's agitation, and lifting his brown lashes to her, the window,and the ceiling, "what's all this about? What's your little gamehere?"
"I'm married," she said, with nervous intensity,—"married, andthis is my husband's house!"
"Not married straight out!—regularly fixed?"
"Yes," she said hurriedly.
"One of the boys? Don't remember any Rylands. SPELTER used to be verysweet on you,—but Spelter mightn't have been his real name?"
"None of our lot! No one you ever knew; a—a straight out, squareman," she said quickly.
"I say, Nell, look here! You ought to have shown up your cards withouteven a call. You ought to have told him that you danced at theCasino."
"I did."
"Before he asked you to marry him?"
"Before."
Jack got up from his chair, put his hands in his pockets, and lookedat her curiously. This Nell Montgomery, this music-hall "dance and songgirl," this girl of whom so much had been SAID and so little PROVED!Well, this was becoming interesting.
"You don't understand," she said, with nervous feverishness; "youremember after that row I had with Jim, that night the manager gave us asupper,—when he treated me like a dog?"
"He did that," interrupted Jack.
"I felt fit for anything," she said, with a half-hysterical laugh,that seemed voiced, however, to check some slumbering memory. "I'd havecut my throat or his, it didn't matter which"—
"It mattered something to us, Nell," put in Jack again, with politeparenthesis; "don't leave US out in the cold."
"I started from 'Frisco that night on the boat ready to fling myselfinto anything—or the river!" she went on hurriedly. "There was aman in the cabin who noticed me, and began to hang around. I thought heknew who I was,—had seen me on the posters; and as I didn't feellike foolin', I told him so. But he wasn't that kind. He said he saw Iwas in trouble and wanted me to tell him all."
Mr. Hamlin regarded her cheerfully. "And you told him," he said, "howyou had once run away from your childhood's happy home to go on thestage! How you always regretted it, and would have gone back but that thedoors were shut forever against you! How you longed to leave, but thewicked men and women around you always"—
"I didn't!" she burst out, with sudden passion; "you know I didn't. Itold him everything: who I was, what I had done, what I expected to doagain. I pointed out the men—who were sitting there, whispering andgrinning at us, as if they were in the front row of the theatre—andsaid I knew them all, and they knew me. I never spared myself a thing. Isaid what people said of me, and didn't even care to say it wasn'ttrue!"
"Oh, come!" protested Jack, in perfunctory politeness.
"He said he liked me for telling the truth, and not being ashamed todo it! He said the sin was in the false shame and the hypocrisy; forthat's the sort of man he is, you see, and that's like him always! Heasked if I would marry him—out of hand—and do my best to behis lawful wife. He said he wanted me to think it over and sleep on it,and to-morrow he would come and see me for an answer. I slipped off theboat at 'Frisco, and went alone to a hotel where I wasn't known. In themorning I didn't know whether he'd keep his word or I'd keep mine. But hecame! He said he'd marry me that very day, and take me to his farm inSanta Clara. I agreed. I thought it would take me out of everybody'sknowledge, and they'd think me dead! We were married that day, before aregular clergyman. I was married under my own name,"—she stoppedand looked at Jack, with a hysterical laugh,—"but he made me writeunderneath it, 'known as Nell Montgomery;' for he said HE wasn't ashamedof it, nor should I be."
"Does he wear long hair and stick straws in it?" said Hamlin gravely."Does he 'hear voices' and have 'visions'?"
"He's a shrewd, sensible, hard-working man,—no more mad than youare, nor as mad as I was the day I married him. He's lived up toeverything he's said." She stopped, hesitated in her quick, nervousspeech; her lip quivered slightly, but she recalled herself, and lookingimploringly, yet hopelessly, at Jack, gasped, "And that's what's thematter!"
Jack fixed his eyes keenly upon her. "And you?" he said curtly.
"I?" she repeated wonderingly.
"Yes, what have YOU done?" he said, with sudden sharpness.
The wonder was so apparent in her eyes that his keen glance softened."Why," she said bewilderingly, "I have been his dog, his slave,—asfar as he would let me. I have done everything; I have not been out ofthe house until he almost drove me out. I have never wanted to goanywhere or see any one; but he has always insisted upon it. I would havebeen willing to slave here, day and night, and have been happy. But hesaid I must not seem to be ashamed of my past, when he is not. I wouldhave worn common homespun clothes and calico frocks, and been glad of it,but he insists upon my wearing my best things, even my theatre things;and as he can't afford to buy more, I wear these things I had. I knowthey look beastly here, and that I'm a laughing-stock, and when I go outI wear almost anything to try and hide them; but," her lip quivereddangerously again, "he wants me to do it, and it pleases him."
Jack looked down. After a pause he lifted his lashes towards herdraggled skirt, and said in an easier, conversational tone, "Yes! Ithought I knew that dress. I gave it to you for that walking scene in'High Life,' didn't I?"
"No," she said quickly, "it was the blue one with silvertrimming,— don't you remember? I tried to turn it the first year Iwas married, but it never looked the same."
"It was sweetly pretty," said Jack encouragingly, "and with that bluehat lined with silver, it was just fetching! Somehow I don't quiteremember this one," and he looked at it critically.
"I had it at the races in '58, and that supper Judge Boompointer gaveus at 'Frisco where Colonel Fish upset the table trying to get at Jim. Doyou know," she said, with a little laugh, "it's got the stains of thechampagne on it yet; it never would come off. See!" and she held thecandle with great animation to the breadth of silk before her.
"And there's more of it on the sleeve," said Jack; "isn't there?"
Mrs. Rylands looked reproachfully at Jack.
"That isn't champagne; don't you know what it is?"
"No!"
"It's blood," she said gravely; "when that Mexican cut poor Ned sobad,—don't you remember? I held his head upon my arm while youbandaged him." She heaved a little sigh, and then added, with a faintlaugh, "That's the worst thing about the clothes of a girl in theprofession, they get spoiled or stained before they wear out."
This large truth did not seem to impress Mr. Hamlin. "Why did youleave Santa Clara?" he said abruptly, in his previous critical tone.
"Because of the folks there. They were standoffish and ugly. You see,Josh"—
"Who?"
"Josh Rylands!—HIM! He told everybody who I was, even those whohad never seen me in the bills,—how good I was to marry him, how hehad faith in me and wasn't ashamed,—until they didn't believe wewere married at all. So they looked another way when they met us, anddidn't call. And all the while I was glad they didn't, but he wouldn'tbelieve it, and allowed I was pining on account of it."
"And were you?"
"I swear to God, Jack, I'd have been content, and more, to have beenjust there with him, seein' nobody, letting every one believe I was deadand gone, but he said it was wrong, and weak! Maybe it was," she added,with a shy, interrogating look at Jack, of which, however, he took nonotice. "Then when he found they wouldn't call, what do you think hedid?"
"Beat you, perhaps," suggested Jack cheerfully.
"He never did a thing to me that wasn't straight out, square, andkind," she said, half indignantly, half hopelessly. "He thought if HISkind of people wouldn't see me, I might like to see my own sort. Sowithout saying anything to me, he brought down, of all things! TinkieClifford, she that used to dance in the cheap variety shows at 'Frisco,and her particular friend, Captain Sykes. It would have just killed you,Jack," she said, with a sudden hysteric burst of laughter, "to have seenJosh, in his square, straight-out way, trying to be civil and help thingsalong. But," she went on, as suddenly relapsing into her former attitudeof worried appeal, "I couldn't stand it, and when she got to talking freeand easy before Josh, and Captain Sykes to guzzling champagne, she and mehad a row. She allowed I was putting on airs, and I made her walk, inspite of Josh."
"And Josh seemed to like it," said Hamlin carelessly. "Has he seen hersince?"
"No; I reckon he's cured of asking that kind of company for me. Andthen we came here. But I persuaded him not to begin by going roundtelling people who I was,—as he did the last time,—but toleave it to folks to find out if they wanted to, and he gave in. Then helet me fix up this house and furnish it my own way, and I did!"
"Do you mean to say that YOU fixed up that family vault of asitting-room?" said Jack, in horror.
"Yes, I didn't want any fancy furniture or looking-glasses, and suchlike, to attract folks, nor anything to look like the old times. I don'tthink any of the boys would care to come here. And I got rid of a lot ofsporting travelers, 'wild-cat' managers, and that kind of tramp in thisway. But"— She hesitated, and her face fell again.
"But what?" said Jack.
"I don't think that Josh likes it either. He brought home the otherday 'My Johnny is a Shoemakiyure,' and wanted me to try it on the organ.But it reminded me how we used to get just sick of singing it on and offthe boards, and I couldn't touch it. He wanted me to go to the circusthat was touring over at the cross roads, but it was the old Flanigin'scircus, you know, the one Gussie Riggs used to ride in, with its oldclown and its old ringmaster and the old 'wheezes,' and I chuckedit."
"Look here," said Jack, rising and surveying Mrs. Rylands critically."If you go on at this gait, I'll tell you what that man of yours will do.He'll bolt with some of your old friends!"
She turned a quick, scared face upon him for an instant. But only foran instant. Her hysteric little laugh returned, at once, followed by herweary, worried look. "No, Jack, you don't know him! If it was only that!He cares only for me in his own way,— and," she stammered as shewent on, "I've no luck in making him happy."
She stopped. The wind shook the house and fired a volley of rainagainst the windows. She took advantage of it to draw a torn lace- edgedhandkerchief from her pocket behind, and keeping the tail of her eyes ina frightened fashion on Jack, applied the handkerchief furtively, firstto her nose, and then to her eyes.
"Don't do that," said Jack fastidiously, "it's wet enough outside."Nevertheless, he stood up and gazed at her.
"Well," he began.
She timidly drew nearer to him, and took a seat on the kitchen table,looking up wistfully into his eyes.
"Well," resumed Jack argumentatively, "if he won't 'chuck' you, whydon't you 'chuck' HIM?"
She turned quite white, and suddenly dropped her eyes. "Yes," shesaid, almost inaudibly, "lots of girls would do that."
"I don't mean go back to your old life," continued Jack. "I reckonyou've had enough of that. But get into some business, you know, likeother women. A bonnet shop, or a candy shop for children, see? I'll helpstart you. I've got a couple of hundred, if not in my own pocket insomebody's else, just burning to be used! And then you can look aboutyou; and perhaps some square business man will turn up and you can marryhim. You know you can't live this way, nohow. It's killing you; it ain'tfair on you, nor on Rylands either."
"No," she said quickly, "it ain't fair on HIM. I know it, I know itisn't, I know it isn't," she repeated, "only"— She stopped.
"Only what?" said Jack impatiently.
She did not speak. After a pause she picked up the rolling-pin fromthe table and began absently rolling it down her lap to her knee, as ifpressing out the stained silk skirt. "Only," she stammered, slowlyrolling the pin handles in her open palms, "I—I can't leaveJosh."
"Why can't you?" said Jack quickly.
"Because—because—I," she went on, with a quivering lip,working the rolling-pin heavily down her knee as if she were crushing heranswer out of it,—"because—I—love him!"
There was a pause, a dash of rain against the window, and another dashfrom her eyes upon her hands, the rolling-pin, and the skirts she hadgathered up hastily, as she cried, "O Jack! Jack! I never loved anybodylike him! I never knew what love was! I never knew a man like him before!There never WAS one before!"
To this large, comprehensive, and passionate statement Mr. Jack Hamlinmade no reply. An audacity so supreme had conquered his. He walked to thewindow, looked out upon the dark, rain-filmed pane that, however,reflected no equal change in his own dark eyes, and then returned andwalked round the kitchen table. When he was at her back, without lookingat her, he reached out his hand, took her passive one that lay on thetable in his, grasped it heartily for a single moment, laid it gentlydown, and returned around the table, where he again confronted hercheerfully face to face.
"You'll make the riffle yet," he said quietly. "Just now I don't seewhat I could do, or where I could chip in your little game; but if I DO,or you do, count me in and let me know. You know where to write,—myold address at Sacramento." He walked to the corner, took up his stillwet serape, threw it over his shoulders, and picked up his broad-brimmedriding-hat.
"You're not going, Jack?" she said hesitatingly, as she rubbed her weteyes into a consciousness of his movements. "You'll wait to see HIM?He'll be here in an hour."
"I've been here too long already," said Jack. "And the less you sayabout my calling, even accidentally, the better. Nobody will believeit,—YOU didn't yourself. In fact, unless you see how I can helpyou, the sooner you consider us all dead and buried, the sooner your luckwill change. Tell your girl I've found my own horse so much better that Ihave pushed on with him, and give her that."
He threw a gold coin on the table.
"But your horse is still lame," she said wonderingly. "What will youdo in this storm?"
"Get into the cover of the next wood and camp out. I've done itbefore."
"But, Jack!"
He suddenly made a slight gesture of warning. His quick ear had caughtthe approach of footsteps along the wet gravel outside. A mischievouslight slid into his dark eyes as he coolly moved backward to the doorand, holding it open, said, in a remarkably clear and distinctvoice:—
"Yes, as you say, society is becoming very mixed and frivolouseverywhere, and you'd scarcely know San Francisco now. So delighted,however, to have made your acquaintance, and regret my business preventsmy waiting to see your good husband. So odd that I should have known yourAunt Jemima! But, as you say, the world is very small, after all. I shalltell the deacon how well you are looking,—in spite of the kitchensmoke in your eyes. Good-by! A thousand thanks for your hospitality."
And Jack, bowing profoundly to the ground, backed out upon Jane, thehired man, and the expressman, treading, I grieve to say, with somedeliberation upon the toes of the two latter, in order, possibly, that intheir momentary pain and discomposure they might not scan too closely theface of this ingenious gentleman, as he melted into the night and thestorm.
Jane entered, with a slight toss of her head.
"Here's your expressman,—ef you're wantin' him NOW."
Mrs. Rylands was too preoccupied to notice her handmaiden'ssignificant emphasis, as she indicated a fresh-looking, bashful youngfellow, whose confusion was evidently heightened by the unexpected egressof Mr. Hamlin, and the point-blank presence of the handsome Mrs.Rylands.
"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Rylands quickly. "So kind of him to obligeus. Give him the order, Jane, please."
She turned to escape from the kitchen and these new intruders, whenher eye fell upon the coin left by Mr. Hamlin. "The gentleman wished youto take that for your trouble, Jane," she said hastily, pointing to it,and passed out.
Jane cast a withering look after her retreating skirts, and pickingthe coin from the table, turned to the hired man. "Run to the stableafter that dandified young feller, Dick, and hand that back to him. Yekin say that Jane Mackinnon don't run arrants fur money, nor playgooseberry to other folks fur fun."
Mr. Joshua Rylands had, according to the vocabulary of his class,"found grace" at the age of sixteen, while still in the spiritual stateof "original sin" and the political one of Missouri. He had not indeedfound it by persistent youthful seeking or spiritual insight, butsomewhat violently and turbulently at a camp-meeting. A village boy,naturally gentle and impressible, with an originalcharacter,—limited, however, in education and experience,—hehad, after his first rustic debauch with some vulgar companions, fallenupon the camp-meeting in reckless audacity; and instead of being handedover to the district constable, was taken in and placed upon "the anxiousbench," "rastled with," and exhorted by a strong revivalist preacher,"convicted of sin," and—converted! It is doubtful if the shame of apublic arrest and legal punishment would have impressed his youthfulspirit as much as did this spiritual examination and trial, in which hehimself became accuser. Howbeit, its effect, though punitive, was alsoexemplary. He at once cast off his evil companions; remaining faithful tohis conversion, in spite of their later "backslidings." When, after theWestern fashion, the time came for him to forsake his father's farm andseek a new "quarter section" on some more remote frontier, he carriedinto that secluded, lonely, half-monkish celibacy of pioneerlife—which has been the foundation of so much strong Westerncharacter—more than the usual religious feeling. At onceindustrious and adventurous, he lived by "the Word," as he called it, andNature as he knew it,—tempted by none of the vices or sentiments ofcivilization. When he finally joined the Californian emigration, it wasnot as a gold-seeker, but as a discoverer of new agricultural fields; ifthe hardship was as great and the rewards fewer, he nevertheless knewthat he retained his safer isolation and independence of spirit. Vice andcivilization were to him synonymous terms; it was the natural conditionof the worldly and unregenerate. Such was the man who chanced to meet"Nell Montgomery, the Pearl of the Variety Stage," on the Sacramentoboat, in one of his forced visits to civilization. Without knowing her inher profession, her frank exposition of herself did not startle him; herecognized it, accepted it, and strove to convert it. And as long as thisdaughter of Folly forsook her evil ways for him, it was a triumph inwhich there was no shame, and might be proclaimed from the housetop. Whenhis neighbors thought differently, and avoided them, he saw noinconsistency in bringing his wife's old friends to divert her: she mightin time convert THEM. He had no more fear of her returning to their waysthan he had of himself "backsliding." Narrow as was his creed, he hadnone of the harshness nor pessimism of the bigot. With the keenestself-scrutiny, his credulity regarding others was touching.
The storm was still raging when he alighted that evening from the upcoach at the trail nearest his house. Although incumbered with a heavycarpet-bag, he started resignedly on his two-mile tramp withoutbegrudging the neighborly act of his wife which had deprived him of hishorse. It was "like her" to do these things in her good-humoredabstraction, an abstraction, however, that sometimes worried him, fromthe fear that it indicated some unhappiness with her present lot. He waslonging to rejoin her after his absence of three days, the longest timethey had been separated since their marriage, and he hurried on with acertain lover-like excitement, quite new to his usually calm andtemperate blood.
Struggling with the storm and darkness, but always with the happyconsciousness of drawing nearer to her in that struggle, he labored on,finding his perilous way over the indistinguishable trail by certainlandmarks in the distance, visible only to his pioneer eye. That heaviershadow to the right was not the hillside, but the SLOPE to the distanthill; that low, regular line immediately before him was not a fence orwall, but the line of distant gigantic woods, a mile from his home. Yetas he began to descend the slope towards the wood, he stopped and rubbedhis eyes. There was distinctly a light in it. His first idea was that hehad lost the trail and was nearing the woodman Mackinnon's cabin. But amore careful scrutiny revealed to him that it was really the wood, andthe light was a camp-fire. It was a rough night for camping out, but theywere probably some belated prospectors.
When he had reached the fringe of woodland, he could see quite plainlythat the fire was built beside one of the large pines, and that thelittle encampment, which looked quite comfortable and secluded from thestorm-beaten trail, was occupied apparently by a single figure. By thegood glow of the leaping fire, that figure standing erect before it,elegantly shaped, in the graceful folds of a serape, looked singularlyromantic and picturesque, and reminded Joshua Rylands—whose ideasof art were purely reminiscent of boyish reading—of some picture ina novel. The heavy black columns of the pines, glancing out of theconcave shadow, also seemed a fitting background to what might have beena scene in a play. So strongly was he impressed by it that but for hisanxiety to reach his home, still a mile distant, and the fact that he wasalready late, he would have penetrated the wood and the seclusion of thestranger with an offer of hospitality for the night. The man, however,was evidently capable of taking care of himself, and the outline of atethered horse was faintly visible under another tree. It might be asurveyor or engineer,—the only men of a better class who wereitinerant.
But another and even greater surprise greeted him as he toiled up therocky slope towards his farmhouse. The windows of the sitting- room,which were usually blank and black by night, were glittering withunfamiliar light. Like most farmers, he seldom used the room except forformal company, his wife usually avoiding it, and even he himself nowpreferred the dining-room or the kitchen. His first suggestion that hiswife had visitors gave him a sense of pleasure on her account, mingled,however, with a slight uneasiness of his own which he could not accountfor. More than that, as he approached nearer he could hear the swell ofthe organ above the roar of the swaying pines, and the cadences were notof a devotional character. He hesitated for a moment, as he had hesitatedat the fire in the woods; yet it was surely his own house! He hurried tothe door, opened it; not only the light of the sitting-room streamed intothe hall, but the ruddier glow of an actual fire in the disused grate!The familiar dark furniture had been rearranged to catch some of the glowand relieve its sombreness. And his wife, rising from the music-stool,was the room's only occupant!
Mrs. Rylands gazed anxiously and timidly at her husband's astonishedface, as he threw off his waterproof and laid down his carpet-bag. Herown face was a little flurried with excitement, and his, half hidden inhis tawny beard, and, possibly owing to his self-introspective nature,never spontaneously sympathetic, still expressed only wonder! Mrs.Rylands was a little frightened. It is sometimes dangerous to meddle witha man's habits, even when he has grown weary of them.
"I thought," she began hesitatingly, "that it would be more cheerfulfor you in here, this stormy evening. I thought you might like to putyour wet things to dry in the kitchen, and we could sit here together,after supper, alone."
I am afraid that Mrs. Rylands did not offer all her thoughts. Eversince Mr. Hamlin's departure she had been uneasy and excited, sometimesfalling into fits of dejection, and again lighting up into hystericallevity; at other times carefully examining her wardrobe, and then with asudden impulse rushing downstairs again to give orders for her husband'ssupper, and to make the extraordinary changes in the sitting-room alreadynoted. Only a few moments before he arrived, she had covertly broughtdown a piece of music, and put aside the hymn-books, and taken, with alittle laugh, a pack of cards from her pocket, which she placed behindthe already dismantled vase on the chimney.
"I reckoned you had company, Ellen," he said gravely, kissing her.
"No," she said quickly. "That is," she stopped with a sudden surge ofcolor in her face that startled her, "there was—a man—here,in the kitchen—who had a lame horse, and who wanted to get a freshone. But he went away an hour ago. And he wasn't in this room—atleast, after it was fixed up. So I've had no company."
She felt herself again blushing at having blushed, and a littleterrified. There was no reason for it. But for Jack's warning, she wouldhave been quite ready to tell her husband all. She had never blushedbefore him over her past life; why she should now blush over seeing Jack,of all people! made her utter a little hysterical laugh. I am afraid thatthis experienced little woman took it for granted that her husband knewthat if Jack or any man had been there as a clandestine lover, she wouldnot have blushed at all. Yet with all her experience, she did not knowthat she had blushed simply because it was to Jack that she had confessedthat she loved the man before her. Her husband noted the blush as part ofher general excitement. He permitted her to drag him into the room andseat him before the hearth, where she sank down on one knee to pull offhis heavy rubber boots. But he waved her aside at this, pulled them offwith his own hands, and let her take them to the kitchen and bring backhis slippers. By this time a smile had lighted up his hard face. The roomwas certainly more comfortable and cheerful. Still he was a littleworried; was there not in these changes a falling away from the grace ofself-abnegation which she had so sedulously practiced?
When supper was served by Jane, in the dull dining-room, Mr. Rylands,had he not been more engaged in these late domestic changes, might havenoticed that the Missouri girl waited upon him with a certaincommiserating air that was remarkable by its contrast with the frigidceremonious politeness with which she attended her mistress. It had notescaped Mrs. Rylands, however, who ever since Jack's abrupt departure hadnoticed this change in the girl's demeanor to herself, and with a woman'sintuitive insight of another woman, had fathomed it. The comfortabletete-a- tete with Jack, which Jane had looked forward to, Mrs. Rylandshad anticipated herself, and then sent him off! When Joshua thanked hiswife for remembering the pepper-sauce, and Mrs. Rylands patheticallyadmitted her forgetfulness, the head-toss which Jane gave as she left theroom was too marked to be overlooked by him. Mrs. Rylands gave ahysterical little laugh. "I am afraid Jane doesn't like my sending awaythe expressman just after I had also dismissed the stranger whom she hadtaken a fancy to, and left her without company," she said unwisely.
Mr. Rylands did not laugh. "I reckon," he returned slowly, "that Janemust feel kinder lonely; she bears all the burden of our bein' outer theworld, without any of our glory in the cause of it."
Nevertheless, when supper was over, and the pair were seated in thesitting-room before the fire, this episode was forgotten. Mrs. Rylandsproduced her husband's pipe and tobacco-pouch. He looked around theformal walls and hesitated. He had been in the habit of smoking in thekitchen.
"Why not here?" said Mrs. Rylands, with a sudden little note ofdecision. "Why should we keep this room only for company that don't come?I call it silly."
This struck Mr. Rylands as logical. Besides, undoubtedly the fire hadmellowed the room. After a puff or two he looked at his wife musingly."Couldn't you make yourself one of them cigarettys, as they call 'em?Here's the tobacco, and I'll get you the paper."
"I COULD," she said tentatively. Then suddenly, "What made you thinkof it? You never saw ME smoke!"
"No," said Rylands, "but that lady, your old friend, Miss Clifford,does, and I thought you might be hankering after it."
"How do you know Tinkie Clifford smokes?" said Mrs. Rylandsquickly.
"She lit a cigaretty that day she called."
"I hate it," said Mrs. Rylands shortly.
Mr. Rylands nodded approval, and puffed meditatively.
"Josh, have you seen that girl since?"
"No," said Joshua.
"Nor any other girl like her?"
"No," said Joshua wonderingly. "You see I only got to know her on youraccount, Ellen, that she might see you."
"Well, don't you do it any more! None of 'em! Promise me!" She leanedforward eagerly in her chair.
"But Ellen,"—her husband began gravely.
"I know what you're going to say, but they can't do me any good, andyou can't do them any good as you did ME, so there!"
Mr. Rylands was silent, and smiled meditatively.
"Josh!"
"Yes."
"When you met me that night on the Sacramento boat, and looked at me,did you—did I," she hesitated,—"did you look at me because Ihad been crying?"
"I thought you were troubled in spirit, and looked so."
"I suppose I looked worried, of course; I had no time to change oreven fix my hair; I had on that green dress, and it NEVER was becoming.And you only spoke to me on account of my awful looks?"
"I saw only your wrestling soul, Ellen, and I thought you neededcomfort and help."
She was silent for a moment, and then, leaning forward, picked up thepoker and began to thrust it absently between the bars.
"And if it had been some other girl crying and looking awful, you'dhave spoken to her all the same?"
This was a new idea to Mr. Rylands, but with most men logic issupreme. "I suppose I would," he said slowly.
"And married her?" She rattled the bars of the grate with the poker asif to drown the inevitable reply.
Mr. Rylands loved the woman before him, but it pleased him to thinkthat he loved truth better. "If it had been necessary to her salvation,yes," he said.
"Not Tinkie?" she said suddenly.
"SHE never would have been in your contrite condition."
"Much you know! Girls like that can cry as well as laugh, just as theywant to. Well! I suppose I DID look horrid." Nevertheless, she seemed togain some gratification from her husband's reply, and changed the subjectas if fearful of losing that satisfaction by further questioning.
"I tried some of those songs you brought, but I don't think they gowell with the harmonium," she said, pointing to some music on its rack,"except one. Just listen." She rose, and with the same nervous quicknessshe had shown before, went to the instrument and began to sing and play.There was a hopeless incongruity between the character of the instrumentand the spirit of the song. Mrs. Rylands's voice was rather forced andcrudely trained, but Joshua Rylands, sitting there comfortably slipperedby the fire and conscious of the sheeted rain against the window, felt itgood. Presently he arose, and lounging heavily over to the fairperformer, leaned down and imprinted a kiss on the labyrinthine fringesof her hair. At which Mrs. Rylands caught blindly at his hand nearesther, and without lifting her other hand from the keys, or her eyes fromthe music, said tentatively:—
"You know there's a chorus just here! Why can't you try it withme?"
Mr. Rylands hesitated a moment, then, with a preliminary cough, lifteda voice as crude as hers, but powerful through much camp- meetingexercise, and roared a chorus which was remarkable chiefly for requiringthat archness and playfulness in execution which he lacked. As the wholehouse seemed to dilate with the sound, and the wind outside to withholdits fury, Mr. Rylands felt that physical delight which children feel inpersonal outcry, and was grateful to his wife for the opportunity. Layinghis hand affectionately on her shoulder, he noticed for the first timethat she was in a kind of evening-dress, and that her delicate whiteshoulder shone through the black lace that enveloped it.
For an instant Mr. Rylands was shocked at this unwonted exposure. Hehad never seen his wife in evening-dress before. It was true they werealone, and in their own sitting-room, but the room was still investedwith that formality and publicity which seemed to accent thisindiscretion. The simple-minded frontier man's mind went back to Jane, tothe hired man, to the expressman, the stranger, all of whom might havenoticed it also.
"You have a new dress," he said slowly, "have you worn it allday?"
"No," she said, with a timid smile. "I only put it on just before youcame. It's the one I used to wear in the ballroom scene in 'Gay Times in'Frisco.' You don't know it, I know. I thought I would wear it tonight,and then," she suddenly grasped his hand, "you'll let me put all thesethings away forever! Won't you, Josh? I've seen such nice pretty calicoat the store to-day, and I can make up one or two home dresses, likeJane's, only better fitting, of course. In fact, I asked them to send theroll up here to- morrow for you to see."
Mr. Rylands felt relieved. Perhaps his views had changed about themoral effect of her retaining these symbols of her past, for he consentedto the calico dresses, not, however, without an inward suspicion that shewould not look so well in them, and that the one she had on was morebecoming.
Meantime she tried another piece of music. It was equally incongruousand slightly Bacchantic.
"There used to be a mighty pretty dance went to that," she said,nodding her head in time with the music, and assisting the heavilyspasmodic attempts of the instrument with the pleasant levity of hervoice. "I used to do it."
"Ye might try it now, Ellen," suggested her husband, with a half-frightened, half-amused tolerance.
"YOU play, then," said Mrs. Rylands quickly, offering her seat tohim.
Mr. Rylands sat down to the harmonium, as Mrs. Rylands briskly movedthe table and chairs against the wall. Mr. Rylands played slowly andstrenuously, as from a conscientious regard of the instrument. Mrs.Rylands stood in the centre of the floor, making a rather pretty,animated picture, as she again stimulated the heavy harmonium swell notonly with her voice but her hands and feet. Presently she began toskip.
I should warn the reader here that this was before the "shawl" or"skirt" dancing was in vogue, and I am afraid that pretty Mrs. Rylands'sperformances would now be voted slow. Her silk skirt and frilledpetticoat were lifted just over her small ankles and tiny bronze-kidshoes. In the course of a pirouette or two, there was a slight furtherrevelation of blue silk stockings and some delicate embroidery, butreally nothing more than may be seen in the sweep of a modern waltz.Suddenly the music ceased. Mr. Rylands had left the harmonium and walkedover to the hearth. Mrs. Rylands stopped, and came towards him with aflushed, anxious face.
"It don't seem to go right, does it?" she said, with her nervouslaugh. "I suppose I'm getting too old now, and I don't quite rememberit."
"Better forget it altogether," he replied gravely. He stopped atseeing a singular change in her face, and added awkwardly, "When I toldyou I didn't want you to be ashamed of your past, nor to try to forgetwhat you were, I didn't mean such things as that!"
"What did you mean?" she said timidly.
The truth was that Mr. Rylands did not know. He had known this sort ofthing only in the abstract. He had never had the least acquaintance withthe class to which his wife had belonged, nor known anything of theirmethods. It was a revelation to him now, in the woman he loved, and whowas his wife. He was not shocked so much as he was frightened.
"You shall have the dress to-morrow, Ellen," he said gently, "and youcan put away these gewgaws. You don't need to look like TinkieClifford."
He did not see the look of triumph that lit up her eye, but added, "Goon and play."
She sat down obediently to the instrument. He watched her for a fewmoments from the toe of her kid slipper on the pedals to the swell of hershoulders above the keyboard, with a strange, abstracted face. Presentlyshe stopped and came over to him.
"And when I've got these nice calico frocks, and you can't tell mefrom Jane, and I'm a good housekeeper, and settle down to be a farmer'swife, maybe I'll have a secret to tell you."
"A secret?" he repeated gravely. "Why not now?"
Her face was quite aglow with excitement and a certain timid mischiefas she laughed: "Not while you are so solemn. It can wait."
He looked at his watch. "I must give some orders to Jim about thestock before he turns in," he said.
"He's gone to the stables already," said Mrs. Rylands.
"No matter; I can go there and find him."
"Shall I bring your boots?" she said quickly.
"I'll put them on when I pass through the kitchen. I won't be longaway. Now go to bed. You are looking tired," he said gently, as he gazedat the drawn lines about her eyes and mouth. Her former pretty colorstruck him also as having changed of late, and as being irregular andinharmonious.
As Mrs. Rylands obediently ascended the stairs she heaved a faintsigh, her only recognition of her husband's criticism. He turned andpassed quickly into the kitchen. He wanted to be alone to collect histhoughts. But he was surprised to find Jane still there, sitting boltupright in a chair in the corner. Apparently she had been expecting him,for as he entered she stood up, and wiped her cheek and mouth with onehand, as if to compress her lips the more tightly.
"I reckoned," she began, "that unless you war for forgettin'everythin' in these yer goings on, ye'd be passin' through here to tendto your stock. I've got a word to say to ye, Mr. Rylands. When I firstkem over here to help, I got word from the folks around that your wifeafore you married her was just one o' them bally dancers. Well, that wasYOUR lookout, not mine! Jane Mackinnon ain't the kind to take everybody'ssayin' as gospil, but she kalkilates to treat folks ez she finds 'em.When she finds 'em lyin' and deceivin'; when she finds em purtendin' onething and doin' another; when she finds 'em makin' fools tumble to 'em;playing soots on their own husbands, and turnin' an honest house into amusic-hall and a fandango shop, she kicks! You hear me! Jane Mackinnonkicks!"
"What do you mean?" said Mr. Rylands sternly.
"I mean," said Miss Mackinnon, striking her hips with the back of herhands smartly, and accenting each word that dropped like a bullet fromher mouth with an additional blow,—"I—mean—that—your—wife—had—one—of—her—old—hangers-on—from—'Frisco—here—in—this—very—kitchen—all—the—arternoon;there! I mean that whiles she was waitin' here for you, she wascanoodlin' and cryin' over old times with him! I saw her myself throughthe winder. That's what I mean, Mr. Joshua Rylands."
"It's false! She had some poor stranger here with a lame horse. Shetold me so herself."
Jane Mackinnon laughed shrilly.
"Did she tell you that the poor stranger was young and pretty- faced,with black moustarches? that his store clothes must have cost a fortin,saying nothing of his gold-lined, broadcloth sarrapper? Did she say thathis horse was so lame that when I went to get another he wouldn't WAITfor it? Did she tell you WHO he was?"
"No, she did not know," said Rylands sternly, but with a whiteningface.
"Well, I'll tell you! The gambler, the shooter!—the man whosename is black enough to stain any woman he knows. Jim recognized him likea shot; he sez, the moment he clapped eyes on him at the door, 'Dodblasted, if it ain't Jack Hamlin!'"
Little as Mr. Rylands knew of the world, he had heard that name. Butit was not THAT he was thinking of. He was thinking of the camp-fire inthe wood, the handsome figure before it, the tethered horse. He wasthinking of the lighted sitting-room, the fire, his wife's bareshoulders, her slippers, stockings, and the dance. He saw it all,—alightning-flash to his dull imagination. The room seemed to expand andthen grow smaller, the figure of Jane to sway backwards and forwardsbefore him. He murmured the name of God with lips that were voiceless,caught at the kitchen table to steady himself, held it till he felt hisarms grow rigid, and then recovered himself,—white, cold, andsane.
"Speak a word of this to HER," he said deliberately, "enter her roomwhile I'm gone, even leave the kitchen before I come back, and I'll throwyou into the road. Tell that hired man, if he dares to breathe it to asoul I'll strangle him."
The unlooked-for rage of this quiet, God-fearing man, and dupe, as shebelieved, was terrible, but convincing. She shrank back into the corneras he coolly drew on his boots and waterproof, and without another wordleft the house.
He knew what he was going to do as well as if it had been ordained forhim. He knew he would find the young man in the wood; for whatever werethe truth of the other stories, he and the visitor were identical; he hadseen him with his own eyes. He would confront him face to face and knowall; and until then, he could not see his wife again. He walked onrapidly, but without feverishness or mental confusion. He saw his dutyplainly,—if Ellen had "backslidden," he must give her anothertrial. These were his articles of faith. He should not put her away; butshe should nevermore be wife to him. It was HE who had tempted her, itwas true; perhaps God would forgive her for that reason, but HE couldnever love her again.
The fury of the storm had somewhat abated as he reached the wood. Thefire was still there, but no longer a leaping flame. A dull glow in thedarkness of the forest aisles was all that indicated its position.Rylands at once plunged in that direction; he was near enough to see thered embers when he heard a sharp click, and a voice called:—
"Hold up!"
Mr. Hamlin was a light sleeper. The crackle of underbrush had beenenough to disturb him. The voice was his; the click was the cocking ofhis revolver.
Rylands was no coward, but halted diplomatically.
"Now, then," said Mr. Hamlin's voice, "a little more this way, IN THELIGHT, if you please!"
Rylands moved as directed, and saw Mr. Hamlin lying before the fire,resting easily on one hand, with his revolver in the other.
"Thank you!" said Jack. "Excuse my precautions, but it is night, andthis is, for the present, my bedroom."
"My name is Rylands; you called at my house this afternoon and saw mywife," said Rylands slowly.
"I did," said Hamlin. "It was mighty kind of you to return my call sosoon, but I didn't expect it."
"I reckon not. But I know who you are, and that you are an oldassociate of hers, in the days of her sin and unregeneration. I want youto answer me, before God and man, what was your purpose in coming thereto-day?"
"Look here! I don't think it's necessary to drag in strangers to hearmy answer," said Jack, lying down again, "but I came to borrow ahorse."
"Is that the truth?"
Jack got upon his feet very solemnly, put on his hat, drew down hiswaistcoat, and approached Mr. Rylands with his hands in his pockets.
"Mr. Rylands," he said, with great suavity of manner, "this is thesecond time today that I have had the honor of having my word doubted byyour family. Your wife was good enough to question my assertion that Ididn't know that she was living here, but that was a woman's vanity. Youhave no such excuse. There is my horse yonder, lame, as you may see. Ididn't lame him for the sake of seeing your wife nor you."
There was that in Mr. Hamlin's audacity and perfect self-possessionwhich, even while it irritated, never suggested deceit. He was tooreckless of consequence to lie. Mr. Rylands was staggered and halfconvinced. Nevertheless, he hesitated.
"Dare you tell me everything that happened between my wife andyou?"
"Dare you listen?" said Mr. Hamlin quietly.
Mr. Rylands turned a little white. After a moment he said:—
"Yes."
"Good!" said Mr. Hamlin. "I like your grit, though I don't mindtelling you it's the ONLY thing I like about you. Sit down. Well, Ihaven't seen Nell Montgomery for three years until I met her as yourwife, at your house. She was surprised as I was, and frightened as Iwasn't. She spent the whole interview in telling me the history of hermarriage and her life with you, and nothing more. I cannot say that itwas remarkably entertaining, or that she was as amusing as your wife asshe was as Nell Montgomery, the variety actress. When she had finished, Icame away."
Mr. Rylands, who had seated himself, made a movement as if to rise.But Mr. Hamlin laid his hand on his knee.
"I asked you if you dared to listen. I have something myself to say ofthat interview. I found your wife wearing the old dresses that other menhad given her, and she said she wore them because she thought it pleasedyou. I found that you, who are questioning my calling upon her, hadalready got the worst of her old chums to visit her without asking herconsent; I found that instead of being the first one to lie for her andhide her, you were the first one to tell anybody her history, justbecause you thought it was to the glory of God generally, and of JoshuaRylands in particular."
"A man's motives are his own," stammered Rylands.
"Sorry you didn't see it when you questioned mine just now," said Jackcoolly.
"Then she complained to you?" said Rylands hesitatingly.
"I didn't say that," said Jack shortly.
"But you found her unhappy?"
"Damnably."
"And you advised her"—said Rylands tentatively.
"I advised her to chuck you and try to get a better husband." Hepaused, and then added, with a disgusted laugh, "but she didn't tumble toit, for a d——d silly reason."
"What reason?" said Rylands hurriedly.
"Said she LOVED you," returned Jack, kicking a brand back into thefire. Mr. Rylands's white cheeks flamed out suddenly like the brand.Seeing which, Jack turned upon him deliberately.
"Mr. Joshua Rylands, I've seen many fools in my time. I've seen menholding four aces backed down because they thought they KNEW the otherman had a royal flush! I've seen a man sell his claim for a wild-catshare, with the gold lying a foot below him in the ground he walked on.I've seen a dead shot shoot wild because he THOUGHT he saw something inthe other man's eye. I've seen a heap of God-forsaken fools, but I neversaw one before who claimed God as a pal. You've got a wife ad——d sight truer to you for what you call her 'sin,' thanyou've ever been to her, with all your d——d salvation! And asyou couldn't make her otherwise, though you've tried to hard enough, itseems to me that for square downright chuckle-headedness, you can takethe cake! Good-night! Now, run away and play! You're making metired."
"One moment," said Mr. Rylands awkwardly and hurriedly. "I may havewronged you; I was mistaken. Won't you come back with me and acceptmy—our—hospitality?"
"Not much," said Jack. "I left your house because I thought it betterfor you and her that no one should know of my being there."
"But you were already recognized," said Mr. Rylands. "It was Jane wholied about you, and your return with me will confute her slanders."
"Who?" asked Jack.
"Jane, our hired girl."
Mr. Hamlin uttered an indescribable laugh.
"That's just as well! You simply tell Jane you SAW me; that I wasgreatly shocked at what she said, but that I forgive her. I don't thinkshe'll say any more."
Strange to add, Mr. Hamlin's surmise was correct. Mr. Rylands foundJane still in the kitchen alone, terrified, remorseful, yet ever aftersilent on the subject. Stranger still, the hired man became equallyuncommunicative. Mrs. Rylands, attributing her husband's absence only tocare of the stock, had gone to bed in a feverish condition, and Mr.Rylands did not deem it prudent to tell her of his interview. The nextday she sent for the doctor, and it was deemed necessary for her to keepher bed for a few days. Her husband was singularly attentive andconsiderate during that time, and it was probable that Mrs. Rylandsseized that opportunity to tell him the secret she spoke of the nightbefore. Whatever it was,—for it was not generally known for a fewmonths later,—it seemed to draw them closer together, imparted aprotecting dignity to Joshua Rylands, which took the place of his formerselfish austerity, gave them a future to talk of confidentially,hopefully, and sometimes foolishly, which took the place of their morefoolish past, and when the roll of calico came from the cross roads, itcontained also a quantity of fine linen, laces, small caps, and othertrifles, somewhat in contrast to the more homely materials ordered.
And when three months were past, the sitting-room was often lit up andmade cheerful, particularly on that supreme occasion when, with a greatdeal of enthusiasm, all the women of the countryside flocked to see Mrs.Rylands and her first baby. And a more considerate and devoted couplethan the father and mother they had never known.
In the early days of the Californian immigration, on the extremestpoint of the sandy peninsula, where the bay of San Francisco debouchesinto the Pacific, there stood a semaphore telegraph. Tossing its blackarms against the sky,—with its back to the Golden Gate and thatvast expanse of sea whose nearest shore was Japan,—it signified toanother semaphore further inland the "rigs" of incoming vessels, bycertain uncouth signs, which were again passed on to Telegraph Hill, SanFrancisco, where they reappeared on a third semaphore, and read to theinitiated "schooner," "brig" "ship," or "steamer." But all homesick SanFrancisco had learned the last sign, and on certain days of the monthevery eye was turned to welcome those gaunt arms widely extended at rightangles, which meant "sidewheel steamer" (the only steamer which carriedthe mails) and "letters from home." In the joyful reception accorded tothat herald of glad tidings, very few thought of the lonely watcher onthe sand dunes who dispatched them, or even knew of that desolateStation.
For desolate it was beyond description. The Presidio, with itsvoiceless, dismounted cannon and empty embrasures hidden in a hollow, andthe Mission Dolores, with its crumbling walls and belfry tower lost inanother, made the ultima thule of all San Francisco wandering. The Cliffhouse and Fort Point did not then exist; from Black Point the curvingline of shore of "Yerba Buena"— or San Francisco—showed onlya stretch of glittering wind-swept sand dunes, interspersed withstraggling gullies of half-buried black "scrub oak." The long six months'summer sun fiercely beat upon it from the cloudless sky above; the longsix months' trade winds fiercely beat upon it from the west; themonotonous roll-call of the long Pacific surges regularly beat upon itfrom the sea. Almost impossible to face by day through sliding sands andbuffeting winds, at night it was impracticable through the dense sea-fogthat stole softly through the Golden Gate at sunset. Thence, untilmorning, sea and shore were a trackless waste, bounded only by thewarning thunders of the unseen sea. The station itself, a rudely builtcabin, with two windows,—one furnished with atelescope,—looked like a heap of driftwood, or a stranded wreckleft by the retiring sea; the semaphore—the only object forleagues—lifted above the undulating dunes, took upon itself variousshapes, more or less gloomy, according to the hour or weather,—ablasted tree, the masts and clinging spars of a beached ship, adismantled gallows; or, with the background of a golden sunset across theGate, and its arms extended at right angles, to a more hopeful fancy itmight have seemed the missionary Cross, which the enthusiast Portalalifted on that heathen shore a hundred years before.
Not that Dick Jarman—the solitary station keeper—everindulged this fancy. An escaped convict from one of her BritannicMajesty's penal colonies, a "stowaway" in the hold of an Australian ship,he had landed penniless in San Francisco, fearful of contact with hismore honest countrymen already there, and liable to detection at anymoment. Luckily for him, the English immigration consisted mainly ofgold-seekers en route to Sacramento and the southern mines. He wasprudent enough to resist the temptation to follow them, and accepted thepost of semaphore keeper,—the first work offered him,—whichthe meanest immigrant, filled with dreams of gold, would have scorned.His employers asked him no questions, and demanded no references; hispost could be scarcely deemed one of trust,—there was no propertyfor him to abscond with but the telescope; he was removed from temptationand evil company in his lonely waste; his duties were as mechanical asthe instrument he worked, and interruption of them would be instantlyknown at San Francisco. For this he would receive his board and lodgingand seventy-five dollars a month,—a sum to be ridiculed in those"flush days," but which seemed to the broken-spirited and half- famishedstowaway a princely independence.
And then there was rest and security! He was free from that torturinganxiety and fear of detection which had haunted him night and day forthree months. The ceaseless vigilance and watchful dread he had knownsince his escape, he could lay aside now. The rude cabin on the sand dunewas to him as the long-sought cave to some hunted animal. It seemedimpossible that any one would seek him there. He was spared alike thecontact of his enemies or the shame of recognizing even a friendly face,until by each he would be forgotten. From his coign of vantage on thatdesolate waste, and with the aid of his telescope, no stranger couldapproach within two or three miles of his cabin without undergoing hisscrutiny. And at the worst, if he was pursued here, before him was thetrackless shore and the boundless sea!
And at times there was a certain satisfaction in watching, unseen andin perfect security, the decks of passing ships. With the aid of hisglass he could mingle again with the world from which he was debarred,and gloomily wonder who among those passengers knew their solitarywatcher, or had heard of his deeds; it might have made him gloomier hadhe known that in those eager faces turned towards the golden haven therewas little thought of anything but themselves. He tried to read in faceson board the few outgoing ships the record of their success with astrange envy. They were returning home! HOME! For sometimes—butseldom—he thought of his own home and his past. It was a miserablepast of forgery and embezzlement that had culminated a career of youthfuldissipation and self- indulgence, and shut him out, forever, from thestaid old English cathedral town where he was born. He knew that hisrelations believed and wished him dead. He thought of this past withlittle pleasure, but with little remorse. Like most of his stamp, hebelieved it was ill-luck, chance, somebody else's fault, but never hisown responsible action. He would not repent; he would be wiser only. Andhe would not be retaken—alive!
Two or three months passed in this monotonous duty, in which he partlyrecovered his strength and his nerves. He lost his furtive, restless,watchful look; the bracing sea air and the burning sun put into his facethe healthy tan and the uplifted frankness of a sailor. His eyes grewkeener from long scanning of the horizon; he knew where to look forsails, from the creeping coastwise schooner to the far-roundingmerchantman from Cape Horn. He knew the faint line of haze that indicatedthe steamer long before her masts and funnels became visible. He saw nosoul except the solitary boatman of the little "plunger," who landed hisweekly provisions at a small cove hard by. The boatman thought hissecretiveness and reticence only the surliness of his nation, and caredlittle for a man who never asked for the news, and to whom he brought noletters. The long nights which wrapped the cabin in sea-fog, and at firstseemed to heighten the exile's sense of security, by degrees, however,became monotonous, and incited an odd restlessness, which he was wont tooppose by whiskey,—allowed as a part of his stores,—which,while it dulled his sensibilities, he, however, never permitted tointerfere with his mechanical duties.
He had been there five months, and the hills on the opposite shorebetween Tamalpais were already beginning to show their russet yellowsides. One bright morning he was watching the little fleet of Italianfishing-boats hovering in the bay. This was always a picturesquespectacle, perhaps the only one that relieved the general monotony of hisoutlook. The quaint lateen sails of dull red, or yellow, showing againstthe sparkling waters, and the red caps or handkerchiefs of the fishermen,might have attracted even a more abstracted man. Suddenly one of thelarger boats tacked, and made directly for the little cove where hisweekly plunger used to land. In an instant he was alert and suspicious.But a close examination of the boat through his glass satisfied him thatit contained, in addition to the crew, only two or three women,apparently the family of the fishermen. As it ran up on the beach and theentire party disembarked he could see it was merely a careless, peaceableinvasion, and he thought no more about it. The strangers wandered aboutthe sands, gesticulating and laughing; they brought a pot ashore, built afire, and cooked a homely meal. He could see that from time to time thesemaphore—evidently a novelty to them—had attracted theirattention; and having occasion to signal the arrival of a bark, theworking of the uncouth arms of the instrument drew the children inhalf-frightened curiosity towards it, although the others held aloof, asif fearful of trespassing upon some work of the government, no doubtsecretly guarded by the police. A few mornings later he was surprised tosee upon the beach, near the same locality, a small heap of lumber whichhad evidently been landed in the early morning fog. The next day an oldtent appeared on the spot, and the men, evidently fishermen, began theerection of a rude cabin beside it. Jarman had been long enough there toknow that it was government land, and that these manifestly humble"squatters" upon it would not be interfered with for some time to come.He began to be uneasy again; it was true they were fully half a mile fromhim, and they were foreigners; but might not their reckless invasion ofthe law attract others, in this lawless country, to do the same? It oughtto be stopped. For once Richard Jarman sided with legal authority.
But when the cabin was completed, it was evident from what he saw ofits rude structure that it was only a temporary shelter for thefisherman's family and the stores, and refitting of the fishing- boat,more convenient to them than the San Francisco wharves. The beach wasutilized for the mending of nets and sails, and thus became halfpicturesque. In spite of the keen northwestern trades, the cloudless,sunshiny mornings tempted these southerners back to their native alfresco existence; they not only basked in the sun, but many of theirhousehold duties, and even the mysteries of their toilet, were performedin the open air. They did not seem to care to penetrate into the desolateregion behind them; their half- amphibious habit kept them near thewater's edge, and Richard Jarman, after taking his limited walks for thefirst few mornings in another direction, found it no longer necessary toavoid the locality, and even forgot their propinquity.
But one morning, as the fog was clearing away and the sparkle of thedistant sea was beginning to show from his window, he rose from hisbelated breakfast to fetch water from the "breaker" outside, which had tobe replenished weekly from Sancelito, as there was no spring in hisvicinity. As he opened the door, he was inexpressibly startled by thefigure of a young woman standing in front of it, who, however, halffearfully, half laughingly withdrew before him. But his own manifestdisturbance apparently gave her courage.
"I jess was looking at that thing," she said bashfully, pointing tothe semaphore.
He was still more astonished, for, looking at her dark eyes and olivecomplexion, he had expected her to speak Italian or broken English. And,possibly because for a long time he had seen and known little of women,he was quite struck with her good looks. He hesitated, stammered, andthen said:—
"Won't you come in?"
She drew back still farther and made a rapid gesture of negation withher head, her hand, and even her whole lithe figure. Then she said, witha decided American intonation:—
"No, sir."
"Why not?" said Jarman mechanically.
The girl sidled up against the cabin, keeping her eyes fixed on Jarmanwith a certain youthful shrewdness.
"Oh, you know!" she said.
"I really do not. Tell me why."
She drew herself up against the wall a little proudly, though stillyouthfully, with her hands behind her.
"I ain't that kind of girl," she said simply.
The blood rushed to Jarman's checks. Dissipated and abandoned as hislife had been, small respecter of women as he was, he was shocked andshamed. Knowing too, as he did, how absorbed he was in other things, hewas indignant, because not guilty.
"Do as you please, then," he said shortly, and reentered the cabin.But the next moment he saw his error in betraying an irritation that wasopen to misconstruction. He came out again, scarcely looking at the girl,who was lounging away.
"Do you want me to explain to you how the thing works?" he saidindifferently. "I can't show you unless a ship comes in."
The girl's eyes brightened softly as she turned to him.
"Do tell me," she said, with an anticipatory smile and flash of whiteteeth. "Won't you?"
She certainly was very pretty and simple, in spite of her late speech.Jarman briefly explained to her the movements of the semaphore arms andtheir different significance. She listened with her capped head a littleon one side like an attentive bird, and her arms unconsciously imitatingthe signs. Certainly, for all that she SPOKE like an American, hergesticulation was Italian.
"And then," she said triumphantly when he paused, "when the sailorssee that sign up they know they are coming in the harbor."
Jarman smiled, as he had not smiled since he had been there. Hecorrected this mistake of her eager haste to show her intelligence, and,taking the telescope, pointed out the other semaphore,—a thin blackoutline on a distant inland hill. He then explained how HIS signs wererepeated by that instrument to San Francisco.
"My! Why, I always allowed that was only the cross stuck up in theLone Mountain Cemetery," she said.
"You are a Catholic?"
"I reckon."
"And you are an Italian?"
"Father is, but mother was a 'Merikan, same as me. Mother's dead."
"And your father is the fisherman yonder?"
"Yes,—but," with a look of pride, "he's got the biggest boat ofany."
"And only you and your family are ashore here?"
"Yes, and sometimes Mark." She laughed an odd little laugh.
"Mark? Who's he?" he asked quickly.
He had not noticed the sudden coquettish pose and half-affectedbashfulness of the girl; he was thinking only of the possibility ofdetection by strangers.
"Oh, he is Marco Franti, but I call him 'Mark.' It's the same name,you know, and it makes him mad," said the girl, with the same suggestionof archness and coquetry.
But all this was lost on Jarman.
"Oh, another Italian," he said, relieved. She turned away a littleawkwardly when he added, "But you haven't told me YOUR name, youknow."
"Cara."
"Cara,—that's 'dear' in Italian, isn't it?" he said, with areminiscence of the opera and a half smile.
"Yes," she said a little scornfully, "but it means Carlotta,—Charlotte, you know. Some girls call me Charley," she said hurriedly.
"I see—Cara—or Carlotta Franti."
To his surprise she burst into a peal of laughter.
"I reckon not YET. Franti is Mark's name, not mine. Mine isMurano,—Carlotta Murano. Good-by." She moved away, then stoppedsuddenly and said, "I'm comin' again some time when the thing isworking," and with a nod of her head, ran away. He looked after her;could see the outlines of her youthful figure in her slim cottongown,—limp and clinging in the damp sea air, and the suddenrevelation of her bare ankles thrust stockingless into canvas shoes.
He went back into his cabin, when presently his attention wasengrossed by an incoming vessel. He made the signals, half expecting,almost hoping, that the girl would return to watch him. But her figurewas already lost in the sand dunes. Yet he fancied he still heard theechoes of her voice and his own in this cabin which had so long been dumband voiceless, and he now started at every sound. For the first time hebecame aware of the dreadful disorder and untidiness of its uninvadedprivacy. He could scarcely believe he had been living with his stove, hisbed, and cooking utensils all in one corner of the barnlike room, and hebegan to put them "to rights" in a rough, hard formality, stronglysuggestive of his convict experience. He rolled up his blankets into ahard cylinder at the head of his cot. He scraped out his kettles andsaucepans, and even "washed down" the floor, afterwards sprinkling cleandry sand, hot with the noonday sunshine, on its half-dried boards. Inarranging these domestic details he had to change the position of alittle mirror; and glancing at it for the first time in many days, he wasdissatisfied with his straggling beard,—grown during his voyagefrom Australia,—and although he had retained it as a disguise, heat once shaved it off, leaving only a mustache, and revealing a face fromwhich a healthier life and out-of-door existence had removed the lasttraces of vice and dissipation. But he did not know it.
All the next day he thought of his fair visitor, and found himselfoften repeating her odd remark that she was "not that kind of girl," witha smile that was alternately significant or vacant. Evidently she couldtake care of herself, he thought, although her very good looks no doubthad exposed her to the rude attentions of fishermen or the common driftof San Francisco wharves. Perhaps this was why her father brought herhere. When the day passed and she came not, he began vaguely to wonder ifhe had been rude to her. Perhaps he had taken her simple remark tooseriously; perhaps she had expected he would only laugh, and had foundhim dull and stupid. Perhaps he had thrown away an opportunity. Anopportunity for what? To renew his old life and habits? No, no! Thehorrors of his recent imprisonment and escape were still too fresh in hismemory; he was not safe yet. Then he wondered if he had not grownspiritless and pigeon-livered in his solitude and loneliness. The nextday he searched for her with his glass, and saw her playing with one ofthe children on the beach,—a very picture of child or nymphlikeinnocence. Perhaps it was because she was not "that kind of girl" thatshe had attracted him. He laughed bitterly. Yes; that was very funny; he,an escaped convict, drawn towards honest, simple innocence! Yet heknew—he was positive—he had not thought of any ill when hespoke to her. He took a singular, a ridiculous pride in and credit tohimself for that. He repeated it incessantly to himself. Then what madeher angry? Himself! The devil! Did he carry, then, the record of his pastlife forever in his face—in his speech—in his manners? Thethought made him sullen. The next day he would not look towards theshore; it was wonderful what excitement and satisfaction he got out ofthat strange act of self-denial; it made the day seem full that had beenso vacant before; yet he could not tell why or wherefore. He feltinjured, but he rather liked it. Yet in the night he was struck with theidea that she might have gone back to San Francisco, and he lay awakelonging for the morning light to satisfy him. Yet when the fog cleared,and from a nearer point, behind a sand dune, he discovered, by the aid ofhis glass, that she was seated on the sun-warmed sands combing out herlong hair like a mermaid, he immediately returned to the cabin, and thatmorning looked no more that way. In the afternoon, there being no sailsin sight, he turned aside from the bay and walked westward towards theocean, halting only at the league-long line of foam which marked thebreaking Pacific surges. Here he was surprised to see a little child,half-naked, following barefooted the creeping line of spume, or runningafter the detached and quivering scraps of foam that chased each otherover the wet sand, and only a little further on, to come upon Caraherself, sitting with her elbows on her knees and her round chin in herhands, apparently gazing over the waste of waters before her. A suddenand inexplicable shyness overtook him. He hesitated, and steppedhalf-hidden in a gully between the sand dunes.
As yet he had not been observed; the young girl called to the childand, suddenly rising, threw off her red cap and shawl and quietly beganto disrobe herself. A couple of coarse towels were at her feet. Jarmaninstantly comprehended that she was going to bathe with the child. Sheundoubtedly knew as well as he did that she was safe in that solitude;that no one could intrude upon her privacy from the bay shore, nor fromthe desolate inland trail to the sea, without her knowledge. Of his owncontiguity she had evidently taken no thought, believing him safelyhoused in his cabin beside the semaphore. She lifted her hands, and witha sudden movement shook out her long hair and let it fall down her backat the same moment that her unloosened blouse began to slip from hershoulders. Richard Jarman turned quickly and walked noiselessly andrapidly away, until the little hillock had shut out the beach.
His retreat was as sudden, unreasoning, and unpremeditated as hisintrusion. It was not like himself, he knew, and yet it was as perfectlyinstinctive and natural as if he had intruded upon a sister. In the SouthSeas he had seen native girls diving beside the vessels for coins, butthey had provoked no such instinct as that which possessed him now. Morethan that, he swept a quick, wrathful glance along the horizon on eitherside, and then, mounting a remote hillock which still hid him from thebeach, he sat there and kept watch and ward. From time to time the strongsea-breeze brought him the sound of infantine screams and shouts ofgirlish laughter from the unseen shore; he only looked the more keenlyand suspiciously for any wandering trespasser, and did not turn his head.He lay there nearly half an hour, and when the sounds had ceased, roseand made his way slowly back to the cabin. He had not gone many yardsbefore he heard the twitter of voices and smothered laughter behind him.He turned; it was Cara and the child,—a girl of six or seven.Cara's face was rosy,—possibly from her bath, and possibly fromsome shame-faced consciousness. He slackened his pace, and as they rangedbeside him said, "Good- morning!"
"Lord!" said Cara, stifling another laugh, "we didn't know you werearound; we thought you were always 'tending your telegraph, didn't we,Lucy?" (to the child, who was convulsed with mirth and sheepishness)."Why, we've been taking a wash in the sea." She tried to gather up herlong hair, which had been left to stray over her shoulders and dry in thesunlight, and even made a slight pretense of trying to conceal the wettowels they were carrying.
Jarman did not laugh. "If you had told me," he said gravely, "I couldhave kept watch for you with my glass while you were there. I could seefurther than you."
"Tould you see US?" asked the little girl, with hopeful vivacity.
"No!" said Jarman, with masterly evasion. "There are little sandhillsbetween this and the beach."
"Then how tould other people see us?" persisted the child.
Jarman could see that the older girl was evidently embarrassed, andchanged the subject. "I sometimes go out," he said, "when I can see thereare no vessels in sight, and I take ray glass with me. I can always getback in time to make signals. I thought, in fact," he said, glancing atCara's brightening face, "that I might get as far as your house on theshore some day." To his surprise, her embarrassment suddenly seemed toincrease, although she had looked relieved before, and she did not reply.After a moment she said abruptly:—
"Did you ever see the sea-lions?"
"No," said Jarman.
"Not the big ones on Seal Rock, beyond the cliffs?" continued thegirl, in real astonishment.
"No," repeated Jarman. "I never walked in that direction." He vaguelyremembered that they were a curiosity which sometimes attracted partiesthither, and for that reason he had avoided the spot.
"Why, I have sailed all around the rock in father's boat," continuedCara, with importance. "That's the best way to see 'em, and folks fromFrisco sometimes takes a sail out there just on purpose,—it's toosandy to walk or drive there. But it's only a step from here. Look here!"she said suddenly, and frankly opening her fine eyes upon him. "I'm goingto take Lucy there to-morrow, and I'll show you." Jarman felt his cheeksflush quickly with a pleasure that embarrassed him. "It won't take long,"added Cara, mistaking his momentary hesitation, "and you can leave yourtelegraph alone. Nobody will be there, so no one will see you and nobodyknow it."
He would have gone then, anyway, he knew, yet in his absurd self-consciousness he was glad that her last suggestion had relieved him of asense of reckless compliance. He assented eagerly, when with a wave ofher hand, a flash of her white teeth, and the same abruptness she hadshown at their last parting, she caught Lucy by the arm and darted awayin a romping race to her dwelling. Jarman started after her. He had notwanted to go to her father's house particularly, but why was SHEevidently as averse to it? With the subtle pleasure that this admissiongave him there was a faint stirring of suspicion.
It was gone when he found her and Lucy the next morning, radiant withthe sunshine, before his door. The restraint of their previous meetingshad been removed in some mysterious way, and they chatted gayly as theywalked towards the cliffs. She asked him frankly many questions abouthimself, why he had come there, and if he "wasn't lonely;" she answeredfrankly—I fear much more frankly than he answered her—themany questions he asked her about herself and her friends. When theyreached the cliffs they descended to the beach, which they founddeserted. Before them—it seemed scarce a pistol shot from the shorearose a high, broad rock, beaten at its base by the long Pacific surf, onwhich a number of shapeless animals were uncouthly disporting. This wasSeal Rock, the goal of their journey.
Yet after a few moments they no longer looked at it, but seated on thesand, with Lucy gathering shells at the water's edge, they continuedtheir talk. Presently the talk became eager confidences, andthen,—there were long and dangerous lapses of silence, when bothwere fain to make perfunctory talk with Lucy on the beach. After one ofthose silences Jarman said:—
"Do you know I rather thought yesterday you didn't want me to come toyour father's house. Why was that?"
"Because Marco was there," said the girl frankly.
"What had HE to do with it?" said Jarman abruptly.
"He wants to marry me."
"And do you want to marry HIM?" said Jarman quickly.
"No," said the girl passionately.
"Why don't you get rid of him, then?"
"I can't, he's hiding here,—he's father's friend."
"Hiding? What's he been doing?"
"Stealing. Stealing gold-dust from miners. I never cared for himanyway. And I hate a thief!"
She looked up quickly. Jarman had risen to his feet, his face turnedto sea.
"What are you looking at?" she said wonderingly.
"A ship," said Jarman, in a strange, hoarse voice. "I must hurry backand signal. I'm afraid I haven't even time to walk with you,— Imust run for it. Good-by!"
He turned without offering his hand and ran hurriedly in the directionof the semaphore.
Cara, discomfited, turned her black eyes to the sea. But it seemedempty as before, no sail, no ship on the horizon line, only a littleschooner slowly beating out of the Gate. Ah, well! It no doubt wasthere,—that sail,—though she could not see it; how keen andfar-seeing his handsome, honest eyes were! She heaved a little sigh, and,calling Lucy to her side, began to make her way homeward. But she kepther eyes on the semaphore; it seemed to her the next thing to seeinghim,—this man she was beginning to love. She waited for the gauntarms to move with the signal of the vessel he had seen. But, strange tosay, it was motionless. He must have been mistaken.
All this, however, was driven from her mind in the excitement that shefound on her return thrilling her own family. They had been warned that apolice boat with detectives on board had been dispatched from SanFrancisco to the cove. Luckily, they had managed to convey the fugitiveFranti on board a coastwise schooner,—Cara started as sheremembered the one she had seen beating out of the Gate,—and he wasnow safe from pursuit. Cara felt relieved; at the same time she felt astrange joy at her heart, which sent the conscious blood to her cheek.She was not thinking of the escaped Marco, but of Jarman. Later, when thepolice boat arrived,—whether the detectives had been forewarned ofMarco's escape or not,—they contented themselves with a formalsearch of the little fishing-hut and departed. But their boat remainedlying off the shore.
That night Cara tossed sleeplessly on her bed; she was sorry she hadever spoken of Marco to Jarman. It was unnecessary now; perhaps hedisbelieved her and thought she loved Marco; perhaps that was the reasonof his strange and abrupt leave-taking that afternoon. She longed for thenext day, she could tell him everything now.
Towards morning she slept fitfully, but was awakened by the sound ofvoices on the sands outside the hut. Its flimsy structure, already warpedby the fierce day-long sun, allowed her through chinks and crevices notonly to recognize the voices of the detectives, but to hear distinctlywhat they said. Suddenly the name of Jarman struck upon her ear. She satupright in bed, breathless.
"Are you sure it's the same man?" asked a second voice.
"Perfectly," answered the first. "He was tracked to 'Frisco, butdisappeared the day he landed. We knew from our agents that he never leftthe bay. And when we found that somebody answering his description gotthe post of telegraph operator out here, we knew that we had spotted ourman and the L250 sterling offered for his capture."
"But that was five months ago. Why didn't you take him then?"
"Couldn't! For we couldn't hold him without the extradition papersfrom Australia. We sent for 'em; they're due to-day or to-morrow on themail steamer."
"But he might have got away at any time?"
"He couldn't without our knowing it. Don't you see? Every time thesignals went up, we in San Francisco knew he was at his post. We had himsafe, out here on these sandhills, as if he'd been under lock and key in'Frisco. He was his own keeper, and reported to us."
"But since you're here and expect the papers to-morrow, why don't you'cop' him now?"
"Because there isn't a judge in San Francisco that would hold him amoment unless he had those extradition papers before him. He'd bedischarged, and escape."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"As soon as the steamer is signaled in 'Frisco, we'll board her in thebay, get the papers, and drop down upon him."
"I see; and as HE'S the signal man, the darned fool"—
"Will give the signal himself."
The laugh that followed was so cruel that the young girl shuddered.But the next moment she slipped from the bed, erect, pale, anddetermined.
The voices seemed gradually to retreat. She dressed herself hurriedly,and passed noiselessly through the room of her still sleeping parent, andpassed out. A gray fog was lifting slowly over the sands and sea, and thepolice boat was gone. She no longer hesitated, but ran quickly in thedirection of Jarman's cabin. As she ran, her mind seemed to be sweptclear of all illusion and fancy; she saw plainly everything that hadhappened; she knew the mystery of Jarman's presence here,—thesecret of his life,—the dreadful cruelty of her remark tohim,—the man that she knew now she loved. The sun was painting theblack arms of the semaphore as she toiled over the last stretch of sandand knocked loudly at the door. There was no reply. She knocked again;the cabin was silent. Had he already fled?—and without seeing herand knowing all! She tried the handle of the door; it yielded; shestepped boldly into the room, with his name upon her lips. He was lyingfully dressed upon his couch. She ran eagerly to his side and stopped. Itneeded only a single glance at his congested face, his lips parted withhis heavy breath, to see that the man was hopelessly, helplesslydrunk!
Yet even then, without knowing that it was her thoughtless speechwhich had driven him to seek this foolish oblivion of remorse and sorrow,she saw only his HELPLESSNESS. She tried in vain to rouse him; he onlymuttered a few incoherent words and sank back again. She lookeddespairingly around. Something must be done; the steamer might be visibleat any moment. Ah, yes,—the telescope! She seized it and swept thehorizon. There was a faint streak of haze against the line of sea andsky, abreast the Golden Gate. He had once told her what it meant. It WASthe steamer! A sudden thought leaped into her clear and active brain. Ifthe police boat should chance to see that haze too, and saw no warningsignal from the semaphore, they would suspect something. That signal mustbe made, BUT NOT THE RIGHT ONE! She remembered quickly how he hadexplained to her the difference between the signals for a coastingsteamer and the one that brought the mails. At that distance the policeboat could not detect whether the semaphore's arms were extended toperfect right angles for the mail steamer, or if the left arm slightlydeflected for a coasting steamer. She ran out to the windlass and seizedthe crank. For a moment it defied her strength; she redoubled herefforts: it began to creak and groan, the great arms were slowlyuplifted, and the signal made.
But the familiar sounds of the moving machinery had pierced throughJarman's sluggish consciousness as no other sound in heaven or earthcould have done, and awakened him to the one dominant sense he hadleft,—the habit of duty. She heard him roll from the bed with anoath, stumble to the door, and saw him dash forward with an affrightedface, and plunge his head into a bucket of water. He emerged from it paleand dripping, but with the full light of reason and consciousness in hiseyes. He started when he saw her; even then she would have fled, but hecaught her firmly by the wrist.
Then with a hurried, trembling voice she told him all and everything.He listened in silence, and only at the end raised her hand gravely tohis lips.
"And now," she added tremulously, "you must fly—quick—atonce; or it will be too late!"
But Richard Jarman walked slowly to the door of his cabin, stillholding her hand, and said quietly, pointing to his onlychair:—
"Sit down; we must talk first."
What they said was never known, but a few moments later they left thecabin, Jarman carrying in a small bag all his possessions, and Caraleaning on his arm. An hour later the priest of the Mission Dolores wascalled upon to unite in matrimony a frank, honest- looking sailor and anItalian gypsy-looking girl. There were many hasty unions in those days,and the Holy Church was only too glad to be able to give them its legalindorsement. But the good Padre was a little sorry for the honest sailor,and gave the girl some serious advice.
The San Francisco papers the next morning threw some dubious lightupon the matter in a paragraph headed, "Another Police Fiasco."
"We understand that the indefatigable police of San Francisco, afterascertaining that Marco Franti, the noted gold-dust thief, was hiding onthe shore near the Presidio, proceeded there with great solemnity, andarrived, as usual, a few hours after their man had escaped. But theclimax of incapacity was reached when, as it is alleged, the sweetheartof the absconding Franti, and daughter of a brother fisherman, elopedstill later, and joined her lover under the very noses of the police. Theattempt of the detectives to excuse themselves at headquarters byreporting that they were also on the track of an alleged escaped SydneyDuck was received with the derision and skepticism it deserved, as itseemed that these worthies mistook the mail steamer, which they shouldhave boarded to get certain extradition papers, for a coastingsteamer."
It was not until four years later that Murano was delighted torecognize in the husband of his long-lost daughter a very richcattle-owner in Southern California, called Jarman; but he never knewthat he had been an escaped convict from Sydney, who had lately receiveda full pardon through the instrumentality of divers distinguished peoplein Australia.
It is to be feared that the hero of this chronicle began life as animpostor. He was offered to the credulous and sympathetic family of a SanFrancisco citizen as a lamb, who, unless bought as a playmate for thechildren, would inevitably pass into the butcher's hands. A combinationof refined sensibility and urban ignorance of nature prevented them fromdiscerning certain glaring facts that betrayed his caprid origin. So aribbon was duly tied round his neck, and in pleasing emulation of thelegendary "Mary," he was taken to school by the confiding children. Here,alas the fraud was discovered, and history was reversed by his beingturned out by the teacher, because he was NOT "a lamb at school."Nevertheless, the kind-hearted mother of the family persisted inretaining him, on the plea that he might yet become "useful." To herhusband's feeble suggestion of "gloves," she returned a scornfulnegative, and spoke of the weakly infant of a neighbor, who might laterreceive nourishment from this providential animal. But even this hope wasdestroyed by the eventual discovery of his sex. Nothing remained now butto accept him as an ordinary kid, and to find amusement in hisaccomplishments,—eating, climbing, and butting. It must beconfessed that these were of a superior quality; a capacity to eateverything from a cambric handkerchief to an election poster, an agilitywhich brought him even to the roofs of houses, and a power of overturningby a single push the chubbiest child who opposed him, made him a fearfuljoy to the nursery. This last quality was incautiously developed in himby a negro boy- servant, who, later, was hurriedly propelled down aflight of stairs by his too proficient scholar. Having once tastedvictory, "Billy" needed no further incitement to his performances. Thesmall wagon which he sometimes consented to draw for the benefit of thechildren never hindered his attempts to butt the passer-by. On thecontrary, on well-known scientific principles he added the impact of thebodies of the children projected over his head in his charge, and theinfelicitous pedestrian found himself not only knocked off his legs byBilly, but bombarded by the whole nursery.
Delightful as was this recreation to juvenile limbs, it was felt to bedangerous to the adult public. Indignant protestations were made, and asBilly could not be kept in the house, he may be said to have at lastbutted himself out of that sympathetic family and into a hard andunfeeling world. One morning he broke his tether in the small back yard.For several days thereafter he displayed himself in guilty freedom on thetops of adjacent walls and outhouses. The San Francisco suburb where hiscredulous protectors lived was still in a volcanic state of disruption,caused by the grading of new streets through rocks and sandhills. Inconsequence the roofs of some houses were on the level of the doorstepsof others, and were especially adapted to Billy's performances. Oneafternoon, to the admiring and perplexed eyes of the nursery, he wasdiscovered standing on the apex of a neighbor's new Elizabethan chimney,on a space scarcely larger than the crown of a hat, calmly surveying theworld beneath him. High infantile voices appealed to him in vain; babyarms were outstretched to him in hopeless invitation; he remained exaltedand obdurate, like Milton's hero, probably by his own merit "raised tothat bad eminence." Indeed, there was already something Satanic in hisbudding horns and pointed mask as the smoke curled softly around him.Then he appropriately vanished, and San Francisco knew him no more. Atthe same time, however, one Owen M'Ginnis, a neighboring sandhillsquatter, also disappeared, leaving San Francisco for the southern mines,and he was said to have taken Billy with him,—for no conceivablereason except for companionship. Howbeit, it was the turning-point ofBilly's career; such restraint as kindness, civilization, or evenpolicemen had exercised upon his nature was gone. He retained, I fear, acertain wicked intelligence, picked up in San Francisco with thenewspapers and theatrical and election posters he had consumed. Hereappeared at Rocky Canyon among the miners as an exceedingly agilechamois, with the low cunning of a satyr. That was all that civilizationhad done for him!
If Mr. M'Ginnis had fondly conceived that he would make Billy"useful," as well as companionable, he was singularly mistaken. Horsesand mules were scarce in Rocky Canyon, and he attempted to utilize Billyby making him draw a small cart, laden with auriferous earth, from hisclaim to the river. Billy, rapidly gaining strength, was quite equal tothe task, but alas! not his inborn propensity. An incautious gesture fromthe first passing miner Billy chose to construe into the usual challenge.Lowering his head, from which his budding horns had been already prunedby his master, he instantly went for his challenger, cart and all. Againthe scientific law already pointed out prevailed. With the shock of theonset the entire contents of the cart arose and poured over theastonished miner, burying him from sight. In any other but a Californianmining-camp such a propensity in a draught animal would have beencondemned, on account of the damage and suffering it entailed, but inRocky Canyon it proved unprofitable to the owner from the very amusementand interest it excited. Miners lay in wait for Billy with a "greenhorn,"or new-comer, whom they would put up to challenge the animal by someindiscreet gesture. In this way hardly a cartload of "pay-gravel" everarrived safely at its destination, and the unfortunate M'Ginnis wascompelled to withdraw Billy as a beast of burden. It was whispered thatso great had his propensity become, under repeated provocation, thatM'Ginnis himself was no longer safe. Going ahead of his cart one day toremove a fallen bough from the trail, Billy construed the act of stoopinginto a playful challenge from his master,—with the inevitableresult.
The next day M'Ginnis appeared with a wheelbarrow, but without Billy.From that day he was relegated to the rocky crags above the camp, fromwhence he was only lured occasionally by the mischievous miners, whowished to exhibit his peculiar performances. For although Billy had amplefood and sustenance among the crags, he had still a civilized longing forposters; and whenever a circus, a concert, or a political meeting was"billed" in the settlement, he was on hand while the paste was yet freshand succulent. In this way it was averred that he once removed a gigantictheatre bill setting forth the charms of the "Sacramento Pet," and beingcaught in the act by the advance agent, was pursued through the mainstreet, carrying the damp bill on his horns, eventually affixing it,after his own peculiar fashion, on the back of Judge Boompointer, who wasstanding in front of his own court-house.
In connection with the visits of this young lady another storyconcerning Billy survives in the legends of Rocky Canyon. ColonelStarbottle was at that time passing through the settlement on electionbusiness, and it was part of his chivalrous admiration for the sex to paya visit to the pretty actress. The single waiting- room of the littlehotel gave upon the veranda, which was also level with the street. Aftera brief yet gallant interview, in which he oratorically expressed thegratitude of the settlement with old-fashioned Southern courtesy, ColonelStarbottle lifted the chubby little hand of the "Pet" to his lips, and,with a low bow, backed out upon the veranda. But the Pet was astounded byhis instant reappearance, and by his apparently casting himselfpassionately and hurriedly at her feet! It is needless to say that he wasfollowed closely by Billy, who from the street had casually noticed him,and construed his novel exit into an ungentlemanly challenge.
Billy's visits, however, became less frequent, and as Rocky Canyonunderwent the changes incidental to mining settlements, he was presentlyforgotten in the invasion of a few Southwestern families, and theadoption of amusements less practical and turbulent than he had afforded.It was alleged that he was still seen in the more secluded fastnesses ofthe mountains, having reverted to a wild state, and it was suggested byone or two of the more adventurous that he might yet become edible, and afair object of chase. A traveler through the Upper Pass of the canyonrelated how he had seen a savage-looking, hairy animal like a small elkperched upon inaccessible rocks, but always out of gunshot. But these andother legends were set at naught and overthrown by an unexpectedincident.
The Pioneer Coach was toiling up the long grade towards Skinners Passwhen Yuba Bill suddenly pulled up, with his feet on the brake.
"Jimminy!" he ejaculated, drawing a deep breath.
The startled passenger beside him on the box followed the direction ofhis eyes. Through an opening in the wayside pines he could see, a fewhundred yards away, a cuplike hollow in the hillside of the vividestgreen. In the centre a young girl of fifteen or sixteen was dancing andkeeping step to the castanet "click" of a pair of "bones," such as negrominstrels use, held in her hands above her head. But, more singularstill, a few paces before her a large goat, with its neck roughlywreathed with flowers and vines, was taking ungainly bounds and leaps inimitation of its companion. The wild background of the Sierras, thepastoral hollow, the incongruousness of the figures, and the vivid colorof the girl's red flannel petticoat showing beneath her calico skirt,that had been pinned around her waist, made a striking picture, which bythis time had attracted all eyes. Perhaps the dancing of the girlsuggested a negro "break-down" rather than any known sylvan measure; butall this, and even the clatter of the bones, was made gracious by thedistance.
"Esmeralda! by the living Harry!" shouted the excited passenger on thebox.
Yuba Bill took his feet off the brake, and turned a look of deep scornupon his companion as he gathered the reins again.
"It's that blanked goat, outer Rocky Canyon beyond, and PollyHarkness! How did she ever come to take up with HIM?"
Nevertheless, as soon as the coach reached Rocky Canyon, the story wasquickly told by the passengers, corroborated by Yuba Bill, and highlycolored by the observer on the box-seat. Harkness was known to be anew-comer who lived with his wife and only daughter on the other side ofSkinners Pass. He was a "logger" and charcoal- burner, who had eaten hisway into the serried ranks of pines below the pass, and established inthese efforts an almost insurmountable cordon of fallen trees, strippedbark, and charcoal pits around the clearing where his rude log hutstood,—which kept his seclusion unbroken. He was said to be ahalf-savage mountaineer from Georgia, in whose rude fastnesses he haddistilled unlawful whiskey, and that his tastes and habits unfitted himfor civilization. His wife chewed and smoked; he was believed to make afiery brew of his own from acorns and pine nuts; he seldom came to RockyCanyon except for provisions; his logs were slipped down a "shoot" orslide to the river, where they voyaged once a month to a distant mill,but HE did not accompany them. The daughter, seldom seen at Rocky Canyon,was a half-grown girl, brown as autumn fern, wild-eyed, disheveled, in ahomespun skirt, sunbonnet, and boy's brogans. Such were the plain factswhich skeptical Rocky Canyon opposed to the passengers' legends.Nevertheless, some of the younger miners found it not out of their way togo over Skinners Pass on the journey to the river, but with what successwas not told. It was said, however, that a celebrated New York artist,making a tour of California, was on the coach one day going through thepass, and preserved the memory of what he saw there in a well-knownpicture entitled "Dancing Nymph and Satyr," said by competent critics tobe "replete with the study of Greek life." This did not affect RockyCanyon, where the study of mythology was presumably displaced by anexperience of more wonderful flesh-and-blood people, but later it wasremembered with some significance.
Among the improvements already noted, a zinc and wooden chapel hadbeen erected in the main street, where a certain popular revivalistpreacher of a peculiar Southwestern sect regularly held exhortatoryservices. His rude emotional power over his ignorant fellow- sectarianswas well known, while curiosity drew others. His effect upon the femalesof his flock was hysterical and sensational. Women prematurely aged byfrontier drudgery and child-bearing, girls who had known only the rigorsand pains of a half-equipped, ill-nourished youth in their battling withthe hard realities of nature around them, all found a strange fascinationin the extravagant glories and privileges of the unseen world he picturedto them, which they might have found in the fairy tales and nurserylegends of civilized children, had they known them. Personally he was notattractive; his thin pointed face, and bushy hair rising on either sideof his square forehead in two rounded knots, and his long, straggling,wiry beard dropping from a strong neck and shoulders, were indeed of acommon Southwestern type; yet in him they suggested something more. Thiswas voiced by a miner who attended his first service, and as the ReverendMr. Withholder rose in the pulpit, the former was heard to audiblyejaculate, "Dod blasted!—if it ain't Billy!" But when on thefollowing Sunday, to everybody's astonishment, Polly Harkness, in a newwhite muslin frock and broad-brimmed Leghorn hat, appeared before thechurch door with the real Billy, and exchanged conversation with thepreacher, the likeness was appalling.
I grieve to say that the goat was at once christened by Rocky Canyonas "The Reverend Billy," and the minister himself was Billy's "brother."More than that, when an attempt was made by outsiders, during theservice, to inveigle the tethered goat into his old butting performances,and he took not the least notice of their insults and challenges, theepithet "blanked hypocrite" was added to his title.
Had he really reformed? Had his pastoral life with his nymph-likemistress completely cured him of his pugnacious propensity, or had hesimply found it was inconsistent with his dancing, and seriouslyinterfered with his "fancy steps"? Had he found tracts and hymn- bookswere as edible as theatre posters? These were questions that Rocky canyondiscussed lightly, although there was always the more serious mystery ofthe relations of the Reverend Mr. Withholder, Polly Harkness, and thegoat towards each other. The appearance of Polly at church was no doubtdue to the minister's active canvass of the districts. But had he everheard of Polly's dancing with the goat? And where in this plain, angular,badly dressed Polly was hidden that beautiful vision of the dancing nymphwhich had enthralled so many? And when had Billy ever given anysuggestion of his Terpsichorean abilities—before or since? Werethere any "points" of the kind to be discerned in him now? None! Was itnot more probable that the Reverend Mr. Withholder had himself beendancing with Polly, and been mistaken for the goat? Passengers who couldhave been so deceived with regard to Polly's beauty might have as easilymistaken the minister for Billy. About this time another incidentoccurred which increased the mystery.
The only male in the settlement who apparently dissented from thepopular opinion regarding Polly was a new-comer, Jack Filgee. Whilediscrediting her performance with the goat,—which he had neverseen,—he was evidently greatly prepossessed with the girl herself.Unfortunately, he was equally addicted to drinking, and as he wasexceedingly shy and timid when sober, and quite unpresentable at othertimes, his wooing, if it could be so called, progressed but slowly. Yetwhen he found that Polly went to church, he listened so far to theexhortations of the Reverend Mr. Withholder as to promise to come to"Bible class" immediately after the Sunday service. It was a hotafternoon, and Jack, who had kept sober for two days, incautiouslyfortified himself for the ordeal by taking a drink before arriving. Hewas nervously early, and immediately took a seat in the empty church nearthe open door. The quiet of the building, the drowsy buzzing of flies,and perhaps the soporific effect of the liquor caused his eyes to closeand his head to fall forward on his breast repeatedly. He was recoveringhimself for the fourth time when he suddenly received a violent cuff onthe ear, and was knocked backward off the bench on which he was sitting.That was all he knew.
He picked himself up with a certain dignity, partly new to him, andpartly the result of his condition, and staggered, somewhat bruised anddisheveled, to the nearest saloon. Here a few frequenters who had seenhim pass, who knew his errand and the devotion to Polly which had inducedit, exhibited a natural concern.
"How's things down at the gospel shop?" said one. "Look as ef you'dbeen wrastlin' with the Sperit, Jack!"
"Old man must hev exhorted pow'ful," said another, glancing at hisdisordered Sunday attire.
"Ain't be'n hevin' a row with Polly? I'm told she slings an awfulleft."
Jack, instead of replying, poured out a dram of whiskey, drank it, andputting down his glass, leaned heavily against the counter as he surveyedhis questioners with a sorrow chastened by reproachful dignity.
"I'm a stranger here, gentlemen," he said slowly "ye've known me onlya little; but ez ye've seen me both blind drunk and sober, I reckon ye'vecaught on to my gin'ral gait! Now I wanter put it to you, ez fair-mindedmen, ef you ever saw me strike a parson?"
"No," said a chorus of sympathetic voices. The barkeeper, however,with a swift recollection of Polly and the Reverend Withholder, and somepossible contingent jealousy in Jack, added prudently, "Not yet."
The chorus instantly added reflectively, "Well, no not yet."
"Did ye ever," continued Jack solemnly, "know me to cuss, sass,bully-rag, or say anything agin parsons, or the church?"
"No," said the crowd, overthrowing prudence in curiosity, "ye neverdid,—we swear it! And now, what's up?"
"I ain't what you call 'a member in good standin','" he went on,artistically protracting his climax. "I ain't be'n convicted o' sin; Iain't 'a meek an' lowly follower;' I ain't be'n exactly what I orterbe'n; I hevn't lived anywhere up to my lights; but is thet a reason why aparson should strike me?"
"Why? What? When did he? Who did?" asked the eager crowd, with onevoice.
Jack then painfully related how he had been invited by the ReverendMr. Withholder to attend the Bible class. How he had arrived early, andfound the church empty. How he had taken a seat near the door to be handywhen the parson came. How he just felt "kinder kam and good," listenin'to the flies buzzing, and must have fallen asleep,—only he pulledhimself up every time,—though, after all, it warn't no crime tofall asleep in an empty church! How "all of a suddent" the parson camein, "give him a clip side o' the head," and knocked him off the bench,and left him there!
"But what did he SAY?" queried the crowd.
"Nuthin'. Afore I could get up, he got away."
"Are you sure it was him?" they asked. "You know you SAY you wasasleep."
"Am I sure?" repeated Jack scornfully. "Don't I know thet face andbeard? Didn't I feel it hangin' over me?"
"What are you going to do about it?" continued the crowd eagerly.
"Wait till he comes out—and you'll see," said Jack, withdignity.
This was enough for the crowd; they gathered excitedly at the door,where Jack was already standing, looking towards the church. The momentsdragged slowly; it might be a long meeting. Suddenly the church dooropened and a figure appeared, looking up and down the street. Jackcolored—he recognized Polly—and stepped out into the road.The crowd delicately, but somewhat disappointedly, drew back in thesaloon. They did not care to interfere in THAT sort of thing.
Polly saw him, and came hurriedly towards him. She was holdingsomething in her hand.
"I picked this up on the church floor," she said shyly, "so I reckonedyou HAD be'n there,—though the parson said you hadn't,— and Ijust excused myself and ran out to give it ye. It's yourn, ain't it?" Sheheld up a gold specimen pin, which he had put on in honor of theoccasion. "I had a harder time, though, to git this yer,—it's yourntoo,—for Billy was laying down in the yard, back o' the church, andjust comf'bly swallerin' it."
"Who?" said Jack quickly.
"Billy,—my goat."
Jack drew a long breath, and glanced back at the saloon. "Ye ain'tgoin' back to class now, are ye?" he said hurriedly. "Ef you ain't,I'll—I'll see ye home.
"I don't mind," said Polly demurely, "if it ain't takin' ye outer y'urway."
Jack offered his arm, and hurrying past the saloon, the happy pairwere soon on the road to Skinners Pass.
Jack did not, I regret to say, confess his blunder, but left theReverend Mr. Withholder to remain under suspicion of having committed anunprovoked assault and battery. It was characteristic of Rocky Canyon,however, that this suspicion, far from injuring his clerical reputation,incited a respect that had been hitherto denied him. A man who could hitout straight from the shoulder had, in the language of the critics,"suthin' in him." Oddly enough, the crowd that had at first sympathizedwith Jack now began to admit provocations. His subsequent silence, adisposition when questioned on the subject to smile inanely, and, later,when insidiously asked if he had ever seen Polly dancing with the goat,his bursting into uproarious laughter completely turned the current ofopinion against him. The public mind, however, soon became engrossed by amore interesting incident.
The Reverend Mr. Withholder had organized a series of Biblicaltableaux at Skinnerstown for the benefit of his church. Illustrationswere to be given of "Rebecca at the Well," "The Finding of Moses,""Joseph and his Brethren;" but Rocky Canyon was more particularly excitedby the announcement that Polly Harkness would personate "Jephthah'sDaughter." On the evening of the performance, however, it was found thatthis tableau had been withdrawn and another substituted, for reasons notgiven. Rocky Canyon, naturally indignant at this omission to representnative talent, indulged in a hundred wild surmises. But it was generallybelieved that Jack Filgee's revengeful animosity to the Reverend Mr.Withholder was at the bottom of it. Jack, as usual, smiled inanely, butnothing was to be got from him. It was not until a few days later, whenanother incident crowned the climax of these mysteries, that a fulldisclosure came from his lips.
One morning a flaming poster was displayed at Rocky Canyon, with acharming picture of the "Sacramento Pet" in the briefest of skirts,disporting with a tambourine before a goat garlanded with flowers, whobore, however, an undoubted likeness to Billy. The text in enormousletters, and bristling with points of admiration, stated that the "Pet"would appear as "Esmeralda," assisted by a performing goat, especiallytrained by the gifted actress. The goat would dance, play cards, andperform those tricks of magic familiar to the readers of Victor Hugo'sbeautiful story of the "Hunchback of Notre Dame," and finally knock downand overthrow the designing seducer, Captain Phoebus. The marvelousspectacle would be produced under the patronage of the Hon. ColonelStarbottle and the Mayor of Skinnerstown.
As all Rocky Canyon gathered open-mouthed around the poster, Jackdemurely joined the group. Every eye was turned upon him.
"It don't look as if yer Polly was in THIS show, any more than she wasin the tablows," said one, trying to conceal his curiosity under a slightsneer. "She don't seem to be doin' any dancin'!"
"She never DID any dancin'," said Jack, with a smile.
"Never DID! Then what was all these yarns about her dancin' up at thepass?"
"It was the Sacramento Pet who did all the dancin'; Polly only LENTthe goat. Ye see, the Pet kinder took a shine to Billy arter he bowledStarbottle over thet day at the hotel, and she thought she might teachhim tricks. So she DID, doing all her teachin' and stage-rehearsin' upthere at the pass, so's to be outer sight, and keep this thing dark. Shebribed Polly to lend her the goat and keep her secret, and Polly neverlet on a word to anybody but me."
"Then it was the Pet that Yuba Bill saw dancin' from the coach?"
"Yes."
"And that yer artist from New York painted as an 'Imp andSatire'?"
"Yes."
"Then that's how Polly didn't show up in them tablows at Skinnerstown?It was Withholder who kinder smelt a rat, eh? and found out it was only atheayter gal all along that did the dancin'?"
"Well, you see," said Jack, with affected hesitation, "thet's anotheryarn. I don't know mebbe ez I oughter tell it. Et ain't got anything todo with this advertisement o' the Pet, and might be rough on old manWithholder! Ye mustn't ask me, boys."
But there was that in his eye, and above all in this lazyprocrastination of the true humorist when he is approaching his climax,which rendered the crowd clamorous and unappeasable. They WOULD have thestory!
Seeing which, Jack leaned back against a rock with great gravity, puthis hands in his pockets, looked discontentedly at the ground, and began:"You see, boys, old Parson Withholder had heard all these yarns aboutPolly and thet trick-goat, and he kinder reckoned that she might do forsome one of his tablows. So he axed her if she'd mind standin' with thegoat and a tambourine for Jephthah's Daughter, at about the time when oldJeph comes home, sailin' in and vowin' he'll kill the first thing hesees,—jest as it is in the Bible story. Well, Polly didn't like tosay it wasn't HER that performed with the goat, but the Pet, for thetwould give the Pet dead away; so Polly agrees to come thar with the goatand rehearse the tablow. Well, Polly's thar, a little shy; andBilly,—you bet HE'S all there, and ready for the fun; but thedarned fool who plays Jephthah ain't worth shucks, and when HE comes inhe does nothin' but grin at Polly and seem skeert at the goat. This makesold Withholder jest wild, and at last he goes on the platform hisself toshow them how the thing oughter be done. So he comes bustlin' andprancin' in, and ketches sight o' Polly dancin' in with the goat towelcome him; and then he clasps his hands—so—and drops on hisknees, and hangs down his head—so—and sez, 'Me chyld! me vow!Oh, heavens!' But jest then Billy—who's gettin' rather tired o' allthis foolishness—kinder slues round on his hind legs, and ketchessight o' the parson!" Jack paused a moment, and thrusting his hands stilldeeper in his pockets, said lazily, "I don't know if you fellers havenoticed how much old Withholder looks like Billy?"
There was a rapid and impatient chorus of "Yes! yes!" and "Go on!"
"Well," continued Jack, "when Billy sees Withholder kneelin' thar withhis head down, he gives a kind o' joyous leap and claps his hoofstogether, ez much ez to say, 'I'm on in this scene,' drops his own head,and jest lights out for the parson!"
"And butts him clean through the side scenes into the street,"interrupted a delighted auditor.
But Jack's face never changed. "Ye think so?" he said gravely. "Butthet's jest whar ye slip up; and thet's jest whar Billy slipped up!" headded slowly. "Mebbe ye've noticed, too, thet the parson's built kindersolid about the head and shoulders. It mought hev be'n thet, or thetBilly didn't get a fair start, but thet goat went down on his fore legslike a shot, and the parson gave one heave, and jest scooted him off theplatform! Then the parson reckoned thet this yer 'tablow' had better beleft out, as thar didn't seem to be any other man who could playJephthah, and it wasn't dignified for HIM to take the part. But theparson allowed thet it might be a great moral lesson to Billy!"
And it WAS, for from that moment Billy never attempted to butt again.He performed with great docility later on in the Pet's engagement atSkinnerstown; he played a distinguished role throughout the provinces; hehad had the advantages of Art from "the Pet," and of Simplicity fromPolly, but only Rocky Canyon knew that his real education had come withhis first rehearsal with the Reverend Mr. Withholder.
There was surprise and sometimes disappointment in Rough and Ready,when it was known that Dick Spindler intended to give a "family"Christmas party at his own house. That he should take an earlyopportunity to celebrate his good fortune and show hospitality was onlyexpected from the man who had just made a handsome "strike" on his claim;but that it should assume so conservative, old- fashioned, andrespectable a form was quite unlooked-for by Rough and Ready, and wasthought by some a trifle pretentious. There were not half-a-dozenfamilies in Rough and Ready; nobody ever knew before that Spindler hadany relations, and this "ringing in" of strangers to the settlementseemed to indicate at least a lack of public spirit. "He might," urgedone of his critics, "hev given the boys,—that had worked alongsideo' him in the ditches by day, and slung lies with him around thecamp-fire by night,—he might hev given them a square 'blow out,'and kep' the leavin's for his old Spindler crew, just as other familiesdo. Why, when old man Scudder had his house-raisin' last year, his familylived for a week on what was left over, arter the boys had waltzedthrough the house that night,—and the Scudders warn't strangers,either." It was also evident that there was an uneasy feeling thatSpindler's action indicated an unhallowed leaning towards the minority ofrespectability and exclusiveness, and a desertion—without theexcuse of matrimony—of the convivial and independent bachelormajority of Rough and Ready.
"Ef he was stuck after some gal and was kinder looking ahead, I'd hevunderstood it," argued another critic.
"Don't ye be too sure he ain't," said Uncle Jim Starbuck gloomily."Ye'll find that some blamed woman is at the bottom of this yer 'family'gathering. That and trouble ez almost all they're made for!"
There happened to be some truth in this dark prophecy, but none of thekind that the misogynist supposed. In fact, Spindler had called a fewevenings before at the house of the Rev. Mr. Saltover, and Mrs. Saltover,having one of her "Saleratus headaches," had turned him over to her widowsister, Mrs. Huldy Price, who obediently bestowed upon him that practicaland critical attention which she divided with the stocking she wasdarning. She was a woman of thirty-five, of singular nerve and practicalwisdom, who had once smuggled her wounded husband home from a borderaffray, calmly made coffee for his deceived pursuers while he lay hiddenin the loft, walked four miles for that medical assistance which arrivedtoo late to save him, buried him secretly in his own "quarter section,"with only one other witness and mourner, and so saved her position andproperty in that wild community, who believed he had fled. There was verylittle of this experience to be traced in her round, fresh-coloredbrunette cheek, her calm black eyes, set in a prickly hedge of stifflashes, her plump figure, or her frank, courageous laugh. The latterappeared as a smile when she welcomed Mr. Spindler. "She hadn't seen himfor a coon's age," but "reckoned he was busy fixin' up his newhouse."
"Well, yes," said Spindler, with a slight hesitation, "ye see, I'mreckonin' to hev a kinder Christmas gatherin' of my"—he was aboutto say "folks," but dismissed it for "relations," and finally settledupon "relatives" as being more correct in a preacher's house.
Mrs. Price thought it a very good idea. Christmas was the naturalseason for the family to gather to "see who's here and who's there, who'sgettin' on and who isn't, and who's dead and buried. It was lucky forthem who were so placed that they could do so and be joyful." Herinvincible philosophy probably carried her past any dangerousrecollections of the lonely grave in Kansas, and holding up the stockingto the light, she glanced cheerfully along its level to Mr. Spindler'sembarrassed face by the fire.
"Well, I can't say much ez to that," responded Spindler, stillawkwardly, "for you see I don't know much about it anyway."
"How long since you've seen 'em?" asked Mrs. Price, apparentlyaddressing herself to the stocking.
Spindler gave a weak laugh. "Well, you see, ef it comes to that, I'venever seen 'em!"
Mrs. Price put the stocking in her lap and opened her direct eyes onSpindler. "Never seen 'em?" she repeated. "Then, they're not nearrelations?
"There are three cousins," said Spindler, checking them off on hisfingers, "a half-uncle, a kind of brother-in-law,—that is, thebrother of my sister-in-law's second husband,—and a niece. That'ssix."
"But if you've not seen them, I suppose they've corresponded withyou?" said Mrs. Price.
"They've nearly all of 'em written to me for money, seeing my name inthe paper ez hevin' made a strike," returned Spindler simply; "and hevin'sent it, I jest know their addresses."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Price, returning to the stocking.
Something in the tone of her ejaculation increased Spindler'sembarrassment, but it also made him desperate. "You see, Mrs. Price," heblurted out, "I oughter tell ye that I reckon they are the folks that'hevn't got on,' don't you see, and so it seemed only the square thingfor me, ez had 'got on,' to give them a sort o' Christmas festival.Suthin', don't ye know, like what your brother-in-law was sayin' lastSunday in the pulpit about this yer peace and goodwill 'twixt man andman."
Mrs. Price looked again at the man before her. His sallow, perplexedface exhibited some doubt, yet a certain determination, regarding theprospect the quotation had opened to him. "A very good idea, Mr.Spindler, and one that does you great credit," she said gravely.
"I'm mighty glad to hear you say so, Mrs. Price," he said, with anaccent of great relief, "for I reckoned to ask you a great favor! Yousee," he fell into his former hesitation, "that is—the factis—that this sort o' thing is rather suddent to me,—a littleouter my line, don't you see, and I was goin' to ask ye ef you'd mindtakin' the hull thing in hand and runnin it for me."
"Running it for you," said Mrs. Price, with a quick eye-shot fromunder the edge of her lashes. "Man alive! What are you thinking of?"
"Bossin' the whole job for me," hurried on Spindler, with nervousdesperation. "Gettin' together all the things and makin' ready for'em,—orderin' in everythin' that's wanted, and fixin' up therooms,—I kin step out while you're doin' it,—and then helpin'me receivin' 'em, and sittin' at the head o' the table, you know,—like ez ef you was the mistress."
"But," said Mrs. Price, with her frank laugh, "that's the duty of oneof your relations,—your niece, for instance,—or cousin, ifone of them is a woman."
"But," persisted Spindler, "you see, they're strangers to me; I don'tknow 'em, and I do you. You'd make it easy for 'em,—and forme,—don't you see? Kinder introduce 'em,—don't you know? Awoman of your gin'ral experience would smooth down all them littledifficulties," continued Spindler, with a vague recollection of theKansas story, "and put everybody on velvet. Don't say 'No,' Mrs. Price!I'm just kalkilatin' on you."
Sincerity and persistency in a man goes a great way with even the bestof women. Mrs. Price, who had at first received Spindler's request as anamusing originality, now began to incline secretly towards it. And, ofcourse, began to suggest objections.
"I'm afraid it won't do," she said thoughtfully, awakening to the factthat it would do and could be done. "You see, I've promised to spendChristmas at Sacramento with my nieces from Baltimore. And then there'sMrs. Saltover and my sister to consult."
But here Spindler's simple face showed such signs of distress that thewidow declared she would "think it over,"—a process which thesanguine Spindler seemed to consider so nearly akin to talking it overthat Mrs. Price began to believe it herself, as he hopefullydeparted.
She "thought it over" sufficiently to go to Sacramento and excuseherself to her nieces. But here she permitted herself to "talk it over,"to the infinite delight of those Baltimore girls, who thought thisextravaganza of Spindler's "so Californian and eccentric!" So that it wasnot strange that presently the news came back to Rough and Ready, and hisold associates learned for the first time that he had never seen hisrelatives, and that they would be doubly strangers. This did not increasehis popularity; neither, I grieve to say, did the intelligence that hisrelatives were probably poor, and that the Reverend Mr. Saltover hadapproved of his course, and had likened it to the rich man's feast, towhich the halt and blind were invited. Indeed, the allusion was supposedto add hypocrisy and a bid for popularity to Spindler's defection, for itwas argued that he might have feasted "Wall-eyed Joe" or "Tangle-footBilly,"—who had once been "chawed" by a bear whileprospecting,—if he had been sincere. Howbeit, Spindler's faith wasoblivious to these criticisms, in his joy at Mr. Saltover's adhesion tohis plans and the loan of Mrs. Price as a hostess. In fact, he proposedto her that the invitation should also convey that information in theexpression, "by the kind permission of the Rev. Mr. Saltover," as aguarantee of good faith, but the widow would have none of it. Theinvitations were duly written and dispatched.
"Suppose," suggested Spindler, with a sudden lugubriousapprehension,—"suppose they shouldn't come?"
"Have no fear of that," said Mrs. Price, with a frank laugh.
"Or ef they was dead," continued Spindler.
"They couldn't all be dead," said the widow cheerfully.
"I've written to another cousin by marriage," said Spindler dubiously,"in case of accident; I didn't think of him before, because he wasrich."
"And have you ever seen him either, Mr. Spindler?" asked the widow,with a slight mischievousness.
"Lordy! No!" he responded, with unaffected concern.
Only one mistake was made by Mrs. Price in her arrangements for theparty. She had noticed what the simple-minded Spindler could never haveconceived,—the feeling towards him held by his old associates, andhad tactfully suggested that a general invitation should be extended tothem in the evening.
"You can have refreshments, you know, too, after the dinner, and gamesand music."
"But," said the unsophisticated host, "won't the boys think I'mplaying it rather low down on them, so to speak, givin' 'em a kind o'second table, as ef it was the tailings after a strike?"
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Price, with decision. "It's quite fashionable inSan Francisco, and just the thing to do."
To this decision Spindler, in his blind faith in the widow'smanagement, weakly yielded. An announcement in the "Weekly Banner" that,"On Christmas evening Richard Spindler, Esq., proposed to entertain hisfriends and fellow citizens at an 'at home,' in his own residence," notonly widened the breach between him and the "boys," but awakened anactive resentment that only waited for an outlet. It was understood thatthey were all coming; but that they should have "some fun out of it"which might not coincide with Spindler's nor his relatives' sense ofhumor seemed a foregone conclusion.
Unfortunately, too, subsequent events lent themselves to this irony ofthe situation.
He was so obviously sincere in his intent, and, above all, seemed toplace such a pathetic reliance on her judgment, that she hesitated to lethim know the shock his revelation had given her. And what might his otherrelations prove to be? Good Lord! Yet, oddly enough, she was soprepossessed by him, and so fascinated by his very Quixotism, that it wasperhaps for these complex reasons that she said a littlestiffly:—
"One of these cousins, I see, is a lady, and then there is your niece.Do you know anything about them, Mr. Spindler?"
His face grew serious. "No more than I know of the others," he saidapologetically. After a moment's hesitation he went on: "Now you speak ofit, it seems to me I've heard that my niece was di-vorced. But," headded, brightening up, "I've heard that she was popular."
Mrs. Price gave a short laugh, and was silent for a few minutes. Thenthis sublime little woman looked up at him. What he might have seen inher eyes was more than he expected, or, I fear, deserved. "Cheer up, Mr.Spindler," she said manfully. "I'll see you through this thing, don't youmind! But don't you say anything about—about—this VigilanceCommittee business to anybody. Nor about your niece—it was yourniece, wasn't it?—being divorced. Charley (the late Mr. Price) hada queer sort of sister, who—but that's neither here nor there! Andyour niece mayn't come, you know; or if she does, you ain't bound tobring her out to the general company."
At parting, Spindler, in sheer gratefulness, pressed her hand, andlingered so long over it that a little color sprang into the widow'sbrown cheek. Perhaps a fresh courage sprang into her heart, too, for shewent to Sacramento the next day, previously enjoining Spindler on noaccount to show any answers he might receive. At Sacramento her niecesflew to her with confidences.
"We so wanted to see you, Aunt Huldy, for we've heard something sodelightful about your funny Christmas Party!" Mrs. Price's heart sank,but her eyes snapped. "Only think of it! One of Mr. Spindler's long-lostrelatives—a Mr. Wragg—lives in this hotel, and papa knowshim. He's a sort of half-uncle, I believe, and he's just furious thatSpindler should have invited him. He showed papa the letter; said it wasthe greatest piece of insolence in the world; that Spindler was anostentatious fool, who had made a little money and wanted to use him toget into society; and the fun of the whole thing was that this half-uncleand whole brute is himself a parvenu,—a vulgar, ostentatiouscreature, who was only a"—
"Never mind what he was, Kate," interrupted Mrs. Price hastily. "Icall his conduct a shame."
"So do we," said both girls eagerly. After a pause Kate clasped herknees with her locked fingers, and rocking backwards and forwards, said,"Milly and I have got an idea, and don't you say 'No' to it. We've had itever since that brute talked in that way. Now, through him, we know moreabout this Mr. Spindler's family connections than you do; and we know allthe trouble you and he'll have in getting up this party. You understand?Now, we first want to know what Spindler's like. Is he a savage, beardedcreature, like the miners we saw on the boat?"
Mrs. Price said that, on the contrary, he was very gentle, soft-spoken, and rather good-looking.
"Young or old?"
"Young,—in fact, a mere boy, as you may judge from his actions,"returned Mrs. Price, with a suggestive matronly air.
Kate here put up a long-handled eyeglass to her fine gray eyes, fittedit ostentatiously over her aquiline nose, and then said, in a voice ofsimulated horror, "Aunt Huldy,—this revelation is shocking!"
Mrs. Price laughed her usual frank laugh, albeit her brown cheek tookupon it a faint tint of Indian red. "If that's the wonderful idea yougirls have got, I don't see how it's going to help matters," she saiddryly.
"No, that's not it? We really have an idea. Now look here."
Mrs. Price "looked here." This process seemed to the superficialobserver to be merely submitting her waist and shoulders to the arms ofher nieces, and her ears to their confidential and coaxing voices.
Twice she said "it couldn't be thought of," and "it was impossible;"once addressed Kate as "You limb!" and finally said that she "wouldn'tpromise, but might write!"
It was two days before Christmas. There was nothing in the air, sky,or landscape of that Sierran slope to suggest the season to the Easternstranger. A soft rain had been dropping for a week on laurel, pine, andbuckeye, and the blades of springing grasses and shyly opening flowers.Sedate and silent hillsides that had grown dumb and parched towards theend of the dry season became gently articulate again; there were murmursin hushed and forgotten canyons, the leap and laugh of water among thedry bones of dusty creeks, and the full song of the larger forks andrivers. Southwest winds brought the warm odor of the pine sap swelling inthe forest, or the faint, far-off spice of wild mustard springing in thelower valleys. But, as if by some irony of Nature, this gentle invasionof spring in the wild wood brought only disturbance and discomfort to thehaunts and works of man. The ditches were overflowed, the fords of theFork impassable, the sluicing adrift, and the trails and wagon roads toRough and Ready knee-deep in mud. The stage-coach from Sacramento,entering the settlement by the mountain highway, its wheels and panelsclogged and crusted with an unctuous pigment like mud and blood, passedout of it through the overflowed and dangerous ford, and emerged inspotless purity, leaving its stains behind with Rough and Ready. A weekof enforced idleness on the river "Bar" had driven the miners to the morecomfortable recreation of the saloon bar, its mirrors, its floridpaintings, its armchairs, and its stove. The steam of their wet boots andthe smoke of their pipes hung over the latter like the sacrificialincense from an altar. But the attitude of the men was more critical andcensorious than contented, and showed little of the gentleness of theweather or season.
"Did you hear if the stage brought down any more relations ofSpindler's?"
The barkeeper, to whom this question was addressed, shifted hislounging position against the bar and said, "I reckon not, ez far ez Iknow."
"And that old bloat of a second cousin—that crimsonbeak—what kem down yesterday,—he ain't bin hangin' round heretoday for his reg'lar pizon?"
"No," said the barkeeper thoughtfully, "I reckon Spindler's got himlocked up, and is settin' on him to keep him sober till after Christmas,and prevent you boys gettin' at him."
"He'll have the jimjams before that," returned the first speaker; "andhow about that dead beat of a half-nephew who borrowed twenty dollars ofYuba Bill on the way down, and then wanted to get off at Shootersvilie,but Bill wouldn't let him, and scooted him down to Spindler's andcollected the money from Spindler himself afore he'd give him up?"
"He's up thar with the rest of the menagerie," said the barkeeper,"but I reckon that Mrs. Price hez bin feedin' him up. And ye know the oldwoman—that fifty-fifth cousin by marriage—whom Joe Chandlerswears he remembers ez an old cook for a Chinese restaurant inStockton,—darn my skin ef that Mrs. Price hasn't rigged her out insome fancy duds of her own, and made her look quite decent."
A deep groan here broke from Uncle Jim Starbuck.
"Didn't I tell ye?" he said, turning appealingly to the others. "It'sthat darned widow that's at the bottom of it all! She first put Spindlerup to givin' the party, and now, darn my skin, ef she ain't goin to fixup these ragamuffins and drill 'em so we can't get any fun outer 'emafter all! And it's bein' a woman that's bossin' the job, and notSpindler, we've got to draw things mighty fine and not cut up too rough,or some of the boys will kick."
"You bet," said a surly but decided voice in the crowd.
"And," said another voice, "Mrs. Price didn't live in 'BleedingKansas' for nothing."
"Wot's the programme you've settled on, Uncle Jim?" said the barkeeperlightly, to check what seemed to promise a dangerous discussion.
"Well," said Starbuck, "we kalkilate to gather early Christmas nightin Hooper's Hollow and rig ourselves up Injun fashion, and then start forSpindler's with pitch-pine torches, and have a 'torchlight dance' aroundthe house; them who does the dancin' and yellin' outside takin' theirturn at goin' in and hevin' refreshment. Jake Cooledge, of Boston, sez ifanybody objects to it, we've only got to say we're 'Mummers of the OldenTimes,' sabe? Then, later, we'll have 'Them Sabbath Evening Bells'performed on prospectin' pans by the band. Then, at the finish, JakeCooledge is goin' to give one of his surkastic speeches,—kinderwelcomin' Spindler's family to the Free Openin' o' Spindler's Almshouseand Reformatory." He paused, possibly for that approbation which,however, did not seem to come spontaneously. "It ain't much," he addedapologetically, "for we're hampered by women; but we'll add to theprogramme ez we see how things pan out. Ye see, from what we can hear,all of Spindler's relations ain't on hand yet! We've got to wait, like inelckshun times, for 'returns from the back counties.' Hello! What'sthat?"
It was the swish and splutter of hoofs on the road before the door.The Sacramento coach! In an instant every man was expectant, and Starbuckdarted outside on the platform. Then there was the usual greeting andbustle, the hurried ingress of thirsty passengers into the saloon, and apause. Uncle Jim returned, excitedly and pantingly. "Look yer, boys! Efthis ain't the richest thing out! They say there's two more relations o'Spindler's on the coach, come down as express freight,consigned,—d'ye hear?—consigned to Spindler!"
"Stiffs, in coffins?" suggested an eager voice.
"I didn't get to hear more. But here they are."
There was the sudden irruption of a laughing, curious crowd into thebar-room, led by Yuba Bill, the driver. Then the crowd parted, and out oftheir midst stepped two children, a boy and a girl, the oldest apparentlyof not more than six years, holding each other's hands. They werecoarsely yet cleanly dressed, and with a certain uniform precision thatsuggested formal charity. But more remarkable than all, around the neckof each was a little steel chain, from which depended the regular checkand label of the powerful Express Company, Wells; Fargo Co., and thewords: "To Richard Spindler." "Fragile." "With great care." "Collect ondelivery." Occasionally their little hands went up automatically andtouched their labels, as if to show them. They surveyed the crowd, thefloor, the gilded bar, and Yuba Bill without fear and without wonder.There was a pathetic suggestion that they were accustomed to thisobservation.
"Now, Bobby," said Yuba Bill, leaning back against the bar, with anair half-paternal, half-managerial, "tell these gents how you camehere."
"By Wellth, Fargoth Expreth," lisped Bobby.
"Whar from?"
"Wed Hill, Owegon."
"Red Hill, Oregon? Why, it's a thousand miles from here," said abystander.
"I reckon," said Yuba Bill coolly, "they kem by stage to Portland, bysteamer to 'Frisco, steamer again to Stockton, and then by stage over thewhole line. Allers by Wells, Fargo Co.'s Express, from agent to agent,and from messenger to messenger. Fact! They ain't bin tetched or handledby any one but the Kempany's agents; they ain't had a line or directionexcept them checks around their necks! And they've wanted for nothin'else. Why, I've carried heaps o' treasure before, gentlemen, and once ahundred thousand dollars in greenbacks, but I never carried anythin' thatwas watched and guarded as them kids! Why, the division inspector atStockton wanted to go with 'em over the line; but Jim Bracy, themessenger, said he'd call it a reflection on himself and resign, ef theydidn't give 'em to him with the other packages! Ye had a pretty goodtime, Bobby, didn't ye? Plenty to eat and drink, eh?"
The two children laughed a little weak laugh, turned each otherbashfully around, and then looked up shyly at Yuba Bill and said,"Yeth."
"Do you know where you are goin'?" asked Starbuck, in a constrainedvoice.
It was the little girl who answered quickly and eagerly:—
"Yes, to Krissmass and Sandy Claus."
"To what?" asked Starbuck.
Here the boy interposed with a superior air:—
"Thee meanth Couthin Dick. He'th got Krithmath."
"Where's your mother?"
"Dead."
"And your father?"
"In orthpittal."
There was a laugh somewhere on the outskirts of the crowd. Every onefaced angrily in that direction, but the laugher had disappeared. YubaBill, however, sent his voice after him. "Yes, in hospital! Funny, ain'tit?—amoosin' place! Try it. Step over here, and in five minutes, bythe living Hoky, I'll qualify you for admission, and not charge you acent!" He stopped, gave a sweeping glance of dissatisfaction around him,and then, leaning back against the bar, beckoned to some one near thedoor, and said in a disgusted tone, "You tell these galoots how ithappened, Bracy. They make me sick!"
Thus appealed to, Bracy, the express messenger, stepped forward inYuba Bill's place.
"It's nothing particular, gentlemen," he said, with a laugh, "only itseems that some man called Spindler, who lives about here, sent aninvitation to the father of these children to bring his family to aChristmas party. It wasn't a bad sort of thing for Spindler to do,considering that they were his poor relations, though they didn't knowhim from Adam,—was it?" He paused; several of the bystanderscleared their throats, but said nothing. "At least," resumed Bracy,"that's what the boys up at Red Hill, Oregon, thought, when they heard ofit. Well, as the father was in hospital with a broken leg, and the motheronly a few weeks dead, the boys thought it mighty rough on these poorkids if they were done out of their fun because they had no one to bringthem. The boys couldn't afford to go themselves, but they got a littlemoney together, and then got the idea of sendin' 'em by express. Ouragent at Red Hill tumbled to the idea at once; but he wouldn't take anymoney in advance, and said he would send 'em 'C. O. D.' like any otherpackage. And he did, and here they are! That's all! And now, gentlemen,as I've got to deliver them personally to this Spindler, and get hisreceipt and take off their checks, I reckon we must toddle. Come, Bill,help take 'em up!"
"Hold on!" said a dozen voices. A dozen hands were thrust into a dozenpockets; I grieve to say some were regretfully withdrawn empty, for itwas a hard season in Rough and Ready. But the expressman stepped beforethem, with warning, uplifted hand.
"Not a cent, boys,—not a cent! Wells, Fargo's Express Companydon't undertake to carry bullion with those kids, at least on the samecontract!" He laughed, and then looking around him, said confidentiallyin a lower voice, which, however, was quite audible to the children,"There's as much as three bags of silver in quarter and half dollars inmy treasure box in the coach that has been poured, yes, just showeredupon them, ever since they started, and have been passed over from agentto agent and messenger to messenger,—enough to pay their passagefrom here to China! It's time to say quits now. But bet your life, theyare not going to that Christmas party poor!"
He caught up the boy, as Yuba Bill lifted the little girl to hisshoulder, and both passed out. Then one by one the loungers in thebar-room silently and awkwardly followed, and when the barkeeper turnedback from putting away his decanters and glasses, to his astonishment theroom was empty.
Spindler's house, or "Spindler's Splurge," as Rough and Ready chose tocall it, stood above the settlement, on a deforested hillside, which,however, revenged itself by producing not enough vegetation to cover eventhe few stumps that were ineradicable. A large wooden structure in thepseudo-classic style affected by Westerners, with an incongruous cupola,it was oddly enough relieved by a still more incongruous verandaextending around its four sides, upheld by wooden Doric columns, whichwere already picturesquely covered with flowering vines and sun-lovingroses. Mr. Spindler had trusted the furnishing of its interior to thesame contractor who had upholstered the gilded bar-room of the EurekaSaloon, and who had apparently bestowed the same design and material,impartially, on each. There were gilded mirrors all over the house andchilly marble-topped tables, gilt plaster Cupids in the corners, andstuccoed lions "in the way" everywhere. The tactful hands of Mrs. Pricehad screened some of these with seasonable laurels, fir boughs, andberries, and had imparted a slight Christmas flavor to the house. But thegreater part of her time had been employed in trying to subdue theeccentricities of Spindler's amazing relations; in tranquilizing Mrs."Aunt" Martha Spindler,—the elderly cook before alludedto,—who was inclined to regard the gilded splendors of the house asindicative of dangerous immorality; in restraining "Cousin" MorleyHewlett from considering the dining-room buffet as a bar for"intermittent refreshment;" and in keeping the weak-minded nephew,Phinney Spindler, from shooting at bottles from the veranda, wearing hisuncle's clothes, or running up an account in his uncle's name for variousarticles at the general stores. Yet the unlooked-for arrival of the twochildren had been the one great compensation and diversion for her. Shewrote at once to her nieces a brief account of her miraculousdeliverance. "I think these poor children dropped from the skies here tomake our Christmas party possible, to say nothing of the sympathy theyhave created in Rough and Ready for Spindler. He is going to keep them aslong as he can, and is writing to the father. Think of the poor littletots traveling a thousand miles to 'Krissmass,' as they callit!—though they were so well cared for by the messengers that theirlittle bodies were positively stuffed like quails. So, you see, dear, wewill be able to get along without airing your famous idea. I'm sorry, forI know you're just dying to see it all."
Whatever Kate's "idea" might have been, there certainly seemed now noneed of any extraneous aid to Mrs. Price's management. Christmas came atlast, and the dinner passed off without serious disaster. But the ordealof the reception of Rough and Ready was still to come. For Mrs. Pricewell knew that although "the boys" were more subdued, and, indeed,inclined to sympathize with their host's uncouth endeavor, there wasstill much in the aspect of Spindler's relations to excite their sense ofthe ludicrous.
But here Fortune again favored the house of Spindler with a dramaticsurprise, even greater than the advent of the children had been. In thechange that had come over Rough and Ready, "the boys" had decided, out ofdeference to the women and children, to omit the first part of theirprogramme, and had approached and entered the house as soberly andquietly as ordinary guests. But before they had shaken hands with thehost and hostess, and seen the relations, the clatter of wheels was heardbefore the open door, and its lights flashed upon a carriage andpair,—an actual private carriage,—the like of which had notbeen seen since the governor of the State had come down to open the newditch! Then there was a pause, the flash of the carriage lamps upon whitesilk, the light tread of a satin foot on the veranda and in the hall, andthe entrance of a vision of loveliness! Middle-aged men and old dwellersof cities remembered their youth; younger men bethought themselves ofCinderella and the Prince! There was a thrill and a hush as this lastguest—a beautiful girl, radiant with youth and adornment—puta dainty glass to her sparkling eye and advanced familiarly, withoutstretched hand, to Dick Spindler. Mrs. Price gave a single gasp, anddrew back speechless.
"Uncle Dick," said a laughing contralto voice, which, indeed, somewhatrecalled Mrs. Price's own, in its courageous frankness, "I am sodelighted to come, even if a little late, and so sorry that Mr. M'Kennacould not come on account of business."
Everybody listened eagerly, but none more eagerly and surprisinglythan the host himself. M'Kenna! The rich cousin who had never answeredthe invitation! And Uncle Dick! This, then, was his divorced niece! Yeteven in his astonishment he remembered that of course no one but himselfand Mrs. Price knew it,—and that lady had glanced discreetlyaway.
"Yes," continued the half-niece brightly. "I came from Sacramento withsome friends to Shootersville, and from thence I drove here; and though Imust return to-night, I could not forego the pleasure of coming, if itwas only for an hour or two, to answer the invitation of the uncle I havenot seen for years." She paused, and, raising her glasses, turned apolitely questioning eye towards Mrs. Price. "One of our relations?" shesaid smilingly to Spindler.
"No," said Spindler, with some embarrassment, "a—a friend!"
The half-niece extended her hand. Mrs. Price took it.
But the fair stranger,—what she did and said were the onlythings remembered in Rough and Ready on that festive occasion; no onethought of the other relations; no one recalled them nor theireccentricities; Spindler himself was forgotten. People only recollectedhow Spindler's lovely niece lavished her smiles and courtesies on everyone, and brought to her feet particularly the misogynist Starbuck and thesarcastic Cooledge, oblivious of his previous speech; how she sat at thepiano and sang like an angel, hushing the most hilarious and excited intosentimental and even maudlin silence; how, graceful as a nymph, she ledwith "Uncle Dick" a Virginia reel until the whole assembly joined, eagerfor a passing touch of her dainty hand in its changes; how, when twohours had passed,—all too swiftly for the guests,—they stoodwith bared heads and glistening eyes on the veranda to see the fairycoach whirl the fairy princess away! How—but this incident wasnever known to Rough and Ready.
It happened in the sacred dressing-room, where Mrs. Price was cloakingwith her own hands the departing half-niece of Mr. Spindler. Taking thatopportunity to seize the lovely relative by the shoulders and shake herviolently, she said: "Oh, yes, and it's all very well for you, Kate, youlimb! For you're going away, and will never see Rough and Ready and poorSpindler again. But what am I to do, miss? How am I to face it out? Foryou know I've got to tell him at least that you're no half-niece ofhis!"
"Have you?" said the young lady.
"Have I?" repeated the widow impatiently. "Have I? Of course I have!What are you thinking of?"
"I was thinking, aunty," said the girl audaciously, "that from whatI've seen and heard to-night, if I'm not his half-niece now, it's only aquestion of time! So you'd better wait. Good-night, dear."
And, really,—it turned out that she was right!
When the waters were up at "Jules'" there was little else up on thatmonotonous level. For the few inhabitants who calmly and methodicallymoved to higher ground, camping out in tents until the flood hadsubsided, left no distracting wreckage behind them. A dozenhalf-submerged log cabins dotted the tranquil surface of the waters,without ripple or disturbance, looking in the moonlight more like theruins of centuries than of a few days. There was no current to sap theirslight foundations or sweep them away; nothing stirred that silent lakebut the occasional shot-like indentations of a passing raindrop, or,still more rarely, a raft, made of a single log, propelled by somecitizen on a tour of inspection of his cabin roof-tree, where some of hisgoods were still stored. There was no sense of terror in this blandobliteration of the little settlement; the ruins of a single burnt-upcabin would have been more impressive than this stupid and evengrotesquely placid effect of the rival destroying element. People took itnaturally; the water went as it had come,—slowly, impassively,noiselessly; a few days of fervid Californian sunshine dried the cabins,and in a week or two the red dust lay again as thickly before their doorsas the winter mud had lain. The waters of Rattlesnake Creek dropped belowits banks, the stage-coach from Marysville no longer made a detour of thesettlement. There was even a singular compensation to this amicableinvasion; the inhabitants sometimes found gold in those breaches in thebanks made by the overflow. To wait for the "old Rattlesnake sluicing"was a vernal hope of the trusting miner.
The history of "Jules'," however, was once destined to offer asingular interruption of this peaceful and methodical process. The winterof 1859-60 was an exceptional one. But little rain had fallen in thevalleys, although the snow lay deep in the high Sierras. Passes werechoked, ravines filled, and glaciers found on their slopes. And when thetardy rains came with the withheld southwesterly "trades," the regularphenomenon recurred; Jules' Flat silently, noiselessly, and peacefullywent under water; the inhabitants moved to the higher ground, perhaps alittle more expeditiously from an impatience born of the delay. Thestagecoach from Marysville made its usual detour and stopped before thetemporary hotel, express offices, and general store of "Jules'," undercanvas, bark, and the limp leaves of a spreading alder. It deposited asingle passenger,—Miles Hemmingway, of San Francisco, butoriginally of Boston,—the young secretary of a mining company,dispatched to report upon the alleged auriferous value of "Jules'." Ofthis he had been by no means impressed as he looked down upon thesubmerged cabins from the box-seat of the coach and listened to thedriver's lazy recital of the flood, and of the singularly patientacceptance of it by the inhabitants.
It was the old story of the southwestern miner's indolence andincompetency,—utterly distasteful to his northern habits of thoughtand education. Here was their old fatuous endurance of Nature's wildcaprices, without that struggle against them which brought othersstrength and success; here was the old philosophy which accepted theprairie fire and cyclone, and survived them without advancement, yetwithout repining. Perhaps in different places and surroundings asubmission so stoic might have impressed him; in gentlemen who tuckedtheir dirty trousers in their muddy boots and lived only for the goldthey dug, it did not seem to him heroic. Nor was he mollified as he stoodbeside the rude refreshment bar—a few planks laid ontrestles—and drank his coffee beneath the dripping canvas roof,with an odd recollection of his boyhood and an inclement Sunday-schoolpicnic. Yet these men had been living in this shiftless fashion for threeweeks! It exasperated him still more to think that he might have to waitthere a few days longer for the water to subside sufficiently for him tomake his examination and report. As he took a proffered seat on acandle-box, which tilted under him, and another survey of the feeblemakeshifts around him, his irascibility found vent.
"Why, in the name of God, didn't you, after you had been flooded outONCE, build your cabins PERMANENTLY on higher ground?"
Although the tone of his voice was more disturbing than his question,it pleased one of the loungers to affect to take it literally.
"Well, ez you've put it that way,—'in the name ofGod!'"—returned the man lazily, "it mout hev struck us that ez HEwas bossin' the job, so to speak, and handlin' things round heregenerally, we might leave it to Him. It wasn't OUR flood to monkeywith."
"And as He didn't coven-ant, so to speak, to look arter this higherground 'speshally, and make an Ararat of it for us, ez far ez we couldsee, we didn't see any reason for SETTLIN' yer," put in a second speaker,with equal laziness.
The secretary saw his mistake instantly, and had experience enough ofWestern humor not to prolong the disadvantage of his unfortunateadjuration. He colored slightly and said, with a smile, "You know what Imean; you could have protected yourselves better. A levee on the bankwould have kept you clear of the highest watermark."
"Hey you ever heard WHAT the highest watermark was?" said the firstspeaker, turning to another of the loungers without looking at thesecretary.
"Never heard it,—didn't know there was a limit before,"responded the man.
The first speaker turned back to the secretary. "Did you ever knowwhat happened at 'Bulger's,' on the North Fork? They had one o' themlevees."
"No. What happened?" asked the secretary impatiently.
"They was fixed suthin' like us," returned the first speaker. "THEYallowed they'd build a levee above THEIR highest watermark, and did. Itworked like a charm at first; but the water hed to go somewhere, and itkinder collected at the first bend. Then it sorter raised itself on itselbows one day, and looked over the levee down upon whar some of the boyswas washin' quite comf'ble. Then it paid no sorter attention to the limito' that high watermark, but went six inches better! Not slow and quietlike ez it useter to, ez it does HERE, kinder fillin' up from below, butwent over with a rush and a current, hevin' of course the whole height ofthe levee to fall on t'other side where the boys were sluicing." Hepaused, and amidst a profound silence added, "They say that 'Bulger's'was scattered promiscuous-like all along the fort for five miles. I onlyknow that one of his mules and a section of sluicing was picked up at RedFlat, eight miles away!"
Mr. Hemmingway felt that there WAS an answer to this, but, being wise,also felt that it would be unavailing. He smiled politely and saidnothing, at which the first speaker turned to him:—
"Thar ain't anything to see to-day, but to-morrow, ez things go, thewater oughter be droppin'. Mebbe you'd like to wash up now and cleanyourself," he added, with a glance at Hemmingway's small portmanteau. "Ezwe thought you'd likely be crowded here, we've rigged up a corner for youat Stanton's shanty with the women."
The young man's cheek flushed slightly at some possible irony in this,and he protested with considerable stress that he was quite ready "torough it" where he was.
"I reckon it's already fixed," returned the man decisively, "so you'dbetter come and I'll show you the way."
"One moment," said Hemmingway, with a smile; "my credentials areaddressed to the manager of the Boone Ditch Company at 'Jules'.' PerhapsI ought to see him first."
"All right; he's Stanton."
"And"—hesitated the secretary, "YOU, who appear to understandthe locality so well,—I trust I may have the pleasure"—
"Oh, I'm Jules."
The secretary was a little startled and amused. So "Jules" was aperson, and not a place!
"Then you're a pioneer?" asked Hemmingway, a little lessdictatorially, as they passed out under the dripping trees.
"I struck this creek in the fall of '49, comin' over Livermore's Passwith Stanton," returned Jules, with great brevity of speech anddeliberate tardiness of delivery. "Sent for my wife and two children thenext year; wife died same winter, change bein' too sudden for her, andcontractin' chills and fever at Sweetwater. When I kem here first tharwasn't six inches o' water in the creek; out there was a heap of it overthere where you see them yallowish- green patches and strips o' brush andgrass; all that war water then, and all that growth hez sprung upsince."
Hemmingway looked around him. The "higher ground" where they stood wasin reality only a mound-like elevation above the dead level of the flat,and the few trees were merely recent young willows and alders. The areaof actual depression was much greater than he had imagined, and itsresemblance to the bed of some prehistoric inland sea struck himforcibly. A previous larger inundation than Jules' brief experience hadever known had been by no means improbable. His cheek reddened at hisprevious hasty indictment of the settlers' ignorance and shiftlessness,and the thought that he had probably committed his employers to his ownrash confidence and superiority of judgment. However, there was noevidence that this diluvial record was not of the remote past. He smiledagain with greater security as he thought of the geological changes thathad since tempered these cataclysms, and the amelioration brought bysettlement and cultivation. Nevertheless, he would make a thoroughexamination to-morrow.
Stanton's cabin was the furthest of these temporary habitations, andwas partly on the declivity which began to slope to the river's bank. Itwas, like the others, a rough shanty of unplaned boards, but, unlike theothers, it had a base of logs laid lengthwise on the ground and parallelwith each other, on which the flooring and structure were securelyfastened. This gave it the appearance of a box slid on runners, or aNoah's Ark whose bulk had been reduced. Jules explained that the logs,laid in that manner, kept the shanty warmer and free from damp. In replyto Hemmingway's suggestion that it was a great waste of material, Julessimply replied that the logs were the "flotsam and jetsam" of the creekfrom the overflowed mills below.
Hemmingway again smiled. It was again the old story of Western wasteand prodigality. Accompanied by Jules, however, he climbed up the huge,slippery logs which made a platform before the door, and entered.
The single room was unequally divided; the larger part containingthree beds, by day rolled in a single pile in one corner to make room fora table and chairs. A few dresses hanging from nails on the wall showedthat it was the women's room. The smaller compartment was againsubdivided by a hanging blanket, behind which was a rude bunk or berthagainst the wall, a table made of a packing-box, containing a tin basinand a can of water. This was his apartment.
"The women-folks are down the creek, bakin', to-day," said Julesexplanatorily; "but I reckon that one of 'em will be up here in a jiffyto make supper, so you just take it easy till they come. I've got tomeander over to the claim afore I turn in, but you just lie by to-nightand take a rest."
He turned away, leaving Hemmingway standing in the doorway stilldistraught and hesitating. Nor did the young man recognize the delicacyof Jules' leave-taking until he had unstrapped his portmanteau and foundhimself alone, free to make his toilet, unembarrassed by company. Buteven then he would have preferred the rough companionship of the minersin the common dormitory of the general store to this intrusion upon thehalf-civilization of the women, their pitiable little comforts and secretmakeshifts. His disgust of his own indecision which brought him therenaturally recoiled in the direction of his host and hostesses, and aftera hurried ablution, a change of linen, and an attempt to remove thestains of travel from his clothes, he strode out impatiently into theopen air again.
It was singularly mild even for the season. The southwest trades blewsoftly, and whispered to him of San Francisco and the distant Pacific,with its long, steady swell. He turned again to the overflowed Flatbeneath him, and the sluggish yellow water that scarcely broke a rippleagainst the walls of the half-submerged cabins. And this was the waterfor whose going down they were waiting with an immobility as tranquil asthe waters themselves! What marvelous incompetency,—or whatinfinite patience! He knew, of course, their expected compensation inthis "ground sluicing" at Nature's own hand; the long rifts in the banksof the creek which so often showed "the color" in the sparkling scales ofriver gold disclosed by the action of the water; the heaps of reddish mudleft after its subsidence around the walls of the cabins,—a depositthat often contained a treasure a dozen times more valuable than thecabin itself! And then he heard behind him a laugh, a short and pantingbreath, and turning, beheld a young woman running towards him.
In his first astounded sight of her, in her limp nankeen sunbonnet,thrown back from her head by the impetus of her flight, he saw only toomuch hair, two much white teeth, too much eye-flash, and, aboveall,—as it appeared to him,—too much confidence in the powerof these qualities. Even as she ran, it seemed to him that she waspulling down ostentatiously the rolled-up sleeves of her pink calico gownover her shapely arms. I am inclined to think that the young gentleman'stemper was at fault, and his conclusion hasty; a calmer observer wouldhave detected nothing of this in her frankly cheerful voice.Nevertheless, her evident pleasure in the meeting seemed to him onlyobtrusive coquetry.
"Lordy! I reckoned to git here afore you'd get through fixin' up, andin time to do a little prinkin' myself, and here you're out already." Shelaughed, glancing at his clean shirt and damp hair. "But all the same, wekin have a talk, and you kin tell me all the news afore the other wimmenget up here. It's a coon's age since I was at Sacramento and saw anybodyor anything." She stopped and, instinctively detecting some vaguereticence in the man before her, said, still laughing, "You're Mr.Hemmingway, ain't you?"
Hemmingway took off his hat quickly, with a slight start at hisforgetfulness. "I beg your pardon; yes, certainly."
"Aunty Stanton thought it was 'Hummingbird,'" said the girl, with alaugh, "but I reckoned not. I'm Jinney Jules, you know; folks call me 'J.J.' It wouldn't do for a Hummingbird and a Jay Jay to be in the samecamp, would it? It would be just TOO funny!"
Hemmingway did not find the humor of this so singularly exhaustive,but he was already beginning to be ashamed of his attitude towards her."I'm very sorry to be giving you all this trouble by my intrusion, for Iwas quite willing to stay at the store yonder. Indeed," he added, with aburst of frankness quite as sincere as her own, "if you think your fatherwill not be offended, I would gladly go there now."
If he still believed in her coquetry and vanity, he would have beenundeceived and crushed by the equal and sincere frankness with which shemet this ungallant speech.
"No! I reckon he wouldn't care, if you'd be as comf'ble and fit forto-morrow. But ye WOULDN'T," she said reflectively. "The boys thar sit uplate over euchre, and swear a heap, and Simpson, who'd sleep alongside ofye, snores pow'ful, I've heard. Aunty Stanton kin do her level at that,too, and they say"—with a laugh—"that I kin, too, but you'reaway off in that corner, and it won't reach you. So, takin' it all, bythe large, you'd better stay whar ye are. We wimmen, that is, the most ofus, will be off and away down to Rattlesnake Bar shoppin' afore sun up,so ye'll sleep ez long ez ye want to, and find yer breakfast ready whenye wake. So I'll jest set to and get ye some supper, and ye kin tell meall the doin's in Sacramento and 'Frisco while I'm workin'."
In spite of her unconscious rebuff to his own vanity, Hemmingway felta sense of relief and less constraint in his relations to this decidedlyprovincial hostess.
"Can I help you in any way?" he asked eagerly.
"Well, ye MIGHT bring me an armful o' wood from the pile under thealders, ef ye ain't afraid o' dirtyin' your coat," she saidtentatively.
Mr. Hemmingway was not afraid; he declared himself delighted. Hebrought a generous armful of small cut willow boughs, and deposited thembefore a small stove, which seemed a temporary substitute for the usuallarge adobe chimney that generally occupied the entire gable of a miner'scabin. An elbow and short length of stovepipe carried the smoke throughthe cabin side. But he also noticed that his fair companion had used theinterval to put on a pair of white cuffs and a collar. However, shebrushed the green moss from his sleeve with some toweling, and althoughthis operation brought her so near to him that her breath—as softand warm as the southwest trades—stirred his hair, it was evidentthat this contiguity was only frontier familiarity, as far removed fromconscious coquetry as it was, perhaps, from educated delicacy.
"The boys gin'rally kem to take up enough wood for me to begin with,"she said, "but I reckon they didn't know I was comin' up so soon."
Hemmingway's distrust returned a little at this obvious suggestionthat he was only a substitute for their general gallantry, but he smiledand said somewhat bluntly, "I don't suppose you lack for admirershere."
The girl, however, took him literally. "Lordy, no! Me and MamieRobinson are the only girls for fifteen miles along the creek. ADMIRIN'!I call it jest PESTERIN' sometimes! I reckon I'll hev to keep a dog!"
Hemmingway shivered. Yes, she was not only conscious, but spoiltalready. He pictured to himself the uncouth gallantries of thesettlement, the provincial badinage, the feeble rivalries of the youngmen whom he had seen at the general store. Undoubtedly this was what shewas expecting in HIM!
"Well," she said, turning from the fire she had kindled, "while I'msettin' the table, tell me what's a-doin' in Sacramento! I reckon you'vegot heaps of lady friends thar,—I'm told there's lots of fashionsjust from the States."
"I'm afraid I don't know enough of them to interest you," he saiddryly.
"Go on and talk," she replied. "Why, when Tom Flynn kem back fromSacramento, and he warn't thar more nor a week, he jest slung yarns abouthis doin's thar to last the hull rainy season."
Half amused and half annoyed, Hemmingway seated himself on the littleplatform beside the open door, and began a conscientious description ofthe progress of Sacramento, its new buildings, hotels, and theatres, asit had struck him on his last visit. For a while he was somewhatentertained by the girl's vivacity and eager questioning, but presentlyit began to pall. He continued, however, with a grim sense of duty, andpartly as a reason for watching her in her household duties. Certainlyshe was graceful! Her tall, lithe, but beautifully moulded figure, evenin its characteristic southwestern indolence, fell into poses aspicturesque as they were unconscious. She lifted the big molasses- canfrom its shelf on the rafters with the attitude of a Greek water-bearer.She upheaved the heavy flour-sack to the same secure shelf with theupraised palms of an Egyptian caryatid. Suddenly she interruptedHemmingway's perfunctory talk with a hearty laugh. He started, looked upfrom his seat on the platform, and saw that she was standing over him andregarding him with a kind of mischievous pity.
"Look here," she said, "I reckon that'll do! You kin pull up short! Ikin see what's the matter with you; you're jest plumb tired, tuckeredout, and want to turn in! So jest you sit that quiet until I get supperready and never mind me." In vain Hemmingway protested, with a risingcolor. The girl only shook her head. "Don't tell me! You ain't keering totalk, and you're only playin' Sacramento statistics on me," she retorted,with unfeigned cheerfulness. "Anyhow, here's the wimmen comin', andsupper is ready."
There was a sound of weary, resigned ejaculations and pantings, andthree gaunt women in lustreless alpaca gowns appeared before the cabin.They seemed prematurely aged and worn with labor, anxiety, and illnourishment. Doubtless somewhere in these ruins a flower like Jay Juleshad once flourished; doubtless somewhere in that graceful nymph herselfthe germ of this dreary maturity was hidden. Hemmingway welcomed themwith a seriousness equal to their own. The supper was partaken with thekind of joyless formality which in the southwest is supposed to indicatedeep respect, even the cheerful Jay falling under the influence, and itwas with a feeling of relief that at last the young man retired to hisfenced-off corner for solitude and repose. He gathered, however, thatbefore "sun up" the next morning the elder women were going toRattlesnake Bar for the weekly shopping, leaving Jay as before to preparehis breakfast and then join them later. It was already a change in hissentiments to find himself looking forward to that tete-a-tete with theyoung girl, as a chance of redeeming his character in her eyes. He wasbeginning to feel he had been stupid, unready, and withal prejudiced. Heundressed himself in his seclusion, broken only by the monotonous voicesin the adjoining apartment. From time to time he heard fragments andscraps of their conversation, always in reference to affairs of thehousehold and settlement, but never of himself,—not even thesuggestion of a prudent lowering of their voices,—and fell asleep.He woke up twice in the night with a sensation of cold so marked anddistinct from his experience of the early evening, that he was fain topile his clothes over his blankets to keep warm. He fell asleep again,coming once more to consciousness with a sense of a slight jar, butrelapsing again into slumber for he knew not how long. Then he was fullyawakened by a voice calling him, and, opening his eyes, beheld theblanket partition put aside, and the face of Jay thrust forward. To hissurprise it wore a look of excited astonishment dominated byirrepressible laughter.
"Get up quick as you kin," she said gaspingly; "this is about thekillingest thing that ever happened!"
She disappeared, but he could still hear her laughing, and to hisutter astonishment with her disappearance the floor seemed to change itslevel. A giddy feeling seized him; he put his feet to the floor; it wasunmistakably wet and oozing. He hurriedly clothed himself, stillaccompanied by the strange feeling of oscillation and giddiness, andpassed though the opening into the next room. Again his step produced thesame effect upon the floor, and he actually stumbled against her shakingfigure, as she wiped the tears of uncontrollable mirth from her eyes withher apron. The contact seemed to upset her remaining gravity. She droppedinto a chair, and, pointing to the open door, gasped, "Look thar! Lordy!How's that for high?" threw her apron over her head, and gave way to anuproarious fit of laughter.
Hemmingway turned to the open door. A lake was before him on the levelof the cabin. He stepped forward on the platform; the water was right andleft, all around him. The platform dipped slightly to his step. The cabinwas afloat,—afloat upon its base of logs like a raft, the wholestructure upheld by the floor on which the logs were securely fastened.The high ground had disappeared—the river—its banks the greenarea beyond. They, and THEY alone, were afloat upon an inland sea.
He turned an astounded and serious face upon her mirth. "When did ithappen?" he demanded. She checked her laugh, more from a sense of politedeference to his mood than any fear, and said quietly, "That gets me.Everything was all right two hours ago when the wimmen left. It was tooearly to get your breakfast and rouse ye out, and I felt asleep, Ireckon, until I felt a kind o' slump and a jar." Hemmingway rememberedhis own half-conscious sensation. "Then I got up and saw we was adrift. Ididn't waken ye, for I thought it was only a sort of wave that wouldpass. It wasn't until I saw we were movin' and the hull rising groundgettin' away, that I thought o' callin' ye."
He thought of the vanished general store, of her father, the workerson the bank, the helpless women on their way to the Bar, and turnedalmost savagely on her.
"But the others,—where are they?" he said indignantly. "Do youcall that a laughing matter?"
She stopped at the sound of his voice as at a blow. Her face hardenedinto immobility, yet when she replied it was with the deliberateindolence of her father. "The wimmen are up on the hills by this time.The boys hev bin drowned out many times afore this and got clear off, onsluice boxes and timber, without squealing. Tom Flynn went down ten milesto Sayer's once on two bar'ls, and I never heard that HE was cryin' whenthey picked him up."
A flush came to Hemmingway's cheek, but with it a gleam ofintelligence. Of course the inundation was known to them FIRST, and therewas the wreckage to support them. They had clearly saved themselves. Ifthey had abandoned the cabin, it was because they knew its security,perhaps had even seen it safely adrift.
"Has this ever happened to the cabin before?" he asked, as he thoughtof its peculiar base.
"No."
He looked at the water again. There was a decided current. Theoverflow was evidently no part of the original inundation. He put hishand in the water. It was icy cold. Yes, he understood it now. It was thesudden melting of snow in the Sierras which had brought this volume downthe canyon. But was there more still to come?
"Have you anything like a long pole or stick in the cabin?"
"Nary," said the girl, opening her big eyes and shaking her head witha simulation of despair, which was, however, flatly contradicted by herlaughing mouth.
"Nor any cord or twine?" he continued.
She handed him a ball of coarse twine.
"May I take a couple of these hooks?" he asked, pointing to some roughiron hooks in the rafters, on which bacon and jerked beef werehanging.
She nodded. He dislodged the hooks, greased them with the bacon rind,and affixed them to the twine.
"Fishin'?" she asked demurely.
"Exactly," he replied gravely.
He threw the line in the water. It slackened at about six feet,straightened, and became taut at an angle, and then dragged. After one ortwo sharp jerks he pulled it up. A few leaves and grasses were caught inthe hooks. He examined them attentively.
"We're not in the creek," he said, "nor in the old overflow. There'sno mud or gravel on the hooks, and these grasses don't grow nearwater."
"Now, that's mighty cute of you," she said admiringly, as she kneltbeside him on the platform. "Let's see what you've caught. Look yer!" sheadded, suddenly lifting a limp stalk, "that's 'old man,' and thar ain't ascrap of it grows nearer than Springer's Rise,— four miles fromhome."
"Are you sure?" he asked quickly.
"Sure as pop! I used to go huntin' it for smellidge."
"For what?" he said, with a bewildered smile.
"For this,"—she thrust the leaves to his nose and then to herown pink nostrils; "for—for"—she hesitated, and then with amischievous simulation of correctness added, "for the perfume."
He looked at her admiringly. For all her five feet ten inches, what amere child she was, after all! What a fool he was to have taken aresentful attitude towards her! How charming and graceful she looked,kneeling there beside him!
"Tell me," he said suddenly, in a gentler voice, "what were youlaughing at just now?"
Her brown eyes wavered for a moment, and then brimmed with merriment.She threw herself sideways, in a leaning posture, supporting herself onone arm, while with her other hand she slowly drew out her apron string,as she said, in a demure voice:—
"Well, I reckoned it was jest too killin' to think of you, who didn'twant to talk to me, and would hev given your hull pile to hev skipped outo' this, jest stuck here alongside o' me, whether you would or no, forLord knows how long!"
"But that was last night," he said, in a tone of raillery. "I wastired, and you said so yourself, you know. But I'm ready to talk now.What shall I tell you?"
"Anything," said the girl, with a laugh.
"What I am thinking of?" he said, with frankly admiring eyes.
"Yes."
"Everything?"
"Yes, everything." She stopped, and leaning forward, suddenly caughtthe brim of his soft felt hat, and drawing it down smartly over hisaudacious eyes, said, "Everything BUT THAT."
It was with some difficulty and some greater embarrassment that hesucceeded in getting his eyes free again. When he did so, she had risenand entered the cabin. Disconcerted as he was, he was relieved to seethat her expression of amusement was unchanged. Was her act a piece ofrustic coquetry, or had she resented his advances? Nor did her next wordssettle the question.
"Ye kin do yer nice talk and philanderin' after we've settled whar weare, what we're goin', and what's goin' to happen. Jest now it 'pears tome that ez these yere logs are the only thing betwixt us and 'kingdomcome,' ye'd better be hustlin' round with a few spikes to clinch 'em tothe floor."
She handed him a hammer and a few spikes. He obediently set to work,with little confidence, however, in the security of the fastening. Therewas neither rope nor chain for lashing the logs together; a strongercurrent and a collision with some submerged stump or wreckage wouldloosen them and wreck the cabin. But he said nothing. It was the girl whobroke the silence.
"What's your front name?"
"Miles."
"MILES,—that's a funny name. I reckon that's why you war so FAROFF and DISTANT at first."
Mr. Hemmingway thought this very witty, and said so. "But," he added,"when I was a little nearer a moment ago, you stopped me."
"But you was moving faster than the shanty was. I reckon you don'ttake that gait with your lady friends at Sacramento! However, you kintalk now."
"But you forget I don't know 'where we are,' nor 'what's going tohappen.'"
"But I do," she said quietly. "In a couple of hours we'll be pickedup, so you'll be free again."
Something in the confidence of her manner made him go to the dooragain and look out. There was scarcely any current now, and the cabinseemed motionless. Even the wind, which might have acted upon it, waswanting. They were apparently in the same position as before, but hissounding-line showed that the water was slightly falling. He came backand imparted the fact with a certain confidence born of her previouspraise of his knowledge. To his surprise she only laughed and saidlazily, "We'll be all right, and you'll be free, in about two hours."
"I see no sign of it," he said, looking through the door again.
"That's because you're looking in the water and the sky and the mudfor it," she said, with a laugh. "I reckon you've been trained to watchthem things a heap better than to study the folks about here."
"I daresay you're right," said Hemmingway cheerfully, "but I don'tclearly see what the folks about here have to do with our situation justnow."
"You'll see," she said, with a smile of mischievous mystery. "All thesame," she added, with a sudden and dangerous softness in her eyes, "Iain't sayin' that YOU ain't kinder right neither."
An hour ago he would have laughed at the thought that a mere look andsentence like this from the girl could have made his heart beat. "Then Imay go on and talk?"
She smiled, but her eyes said, "Yes," plainly.
He turned to take a chair near her. Suddenly the cabin trembled, therewas a sound of scraping, a bump, and then the whole structure tilted toone side and they were both thrown violently towards the corner, with aswift inrush of water. Hemmingway quickly caught the girl by the waist;she clung to him instinctively, yet still laughing, as with a desperateeffort he succeeded in dragging her to the upper side of the slantingcabin, and momentarily restoring its equilibrium. They remained for aninstant breathless. But in that instant he had drawn her face to his andkissed her.
She disengaged herself gently with neither excitement nor emotion, andpointing to the open door said, "Look there!"
Two of the logs which formed the foundation of their floor werequietly floating in the water before the cabin! The submerged obstacle orsnag which had torn them from their fastening was still holding the cabinfast. Hemmingway saw the danger. He ran along the narrow ledge to thepoint of contact and unhesitatingly leaped into the icy cold water. Itreached his armpits before his feet struck the obstacle,—evidentlya stump with a projecting branch. Bracing himself against it, he shovedoff the cabin. But when he struck out to follow it, he found that the lognearest him was loose and his grasp might tear it away. At the samemoment, however, a pink calico arm fluttered above his head, and a stronggrasp seized his coat collar. The cabin half revolved as the girl draggedhim into the open door.
"You bantam!" she said, with a laugh, "why didn't you let ME do that?I'm taller than you! But," she added, looking at his dripping clothes anddragging out a blanket from the corner, "I couldn't dry myself as quickas you kin!" To her surprise, however, Hemmingway tossed the blanketaside, and pointing to the floor, which was already filmed with water,ran to the still warm stove, detached it from its pipe, and threw itoverboard. The sack of flour, bacon, molasses, and sugar, and all theheavier articles followed it into the stream. Relieved of their weightthe cabin base rose an inch or two higher. Then he sat down and said,"There! that may keep us afloat for that 'couple of hours' you speak of.So I suppose I may talk now!"
"Ye haven't no time," she said, in a graver voice. "It won't be aslong as a couple of hours now. Look over thar!"
He looked where she pointed across the gray expanse of water. At firsthe could see nothing. Presently he saw a mere dot on its face which attimes changed to a single black line.
"It's a log, like these," he said.
"It's no log. It's an Injun dug-out*—comin' for me."
* A canoe made from a hollowed log.
"Your father?" he said joyfully.
She smiled pityingly. "It's Tom Flynn. Father's got suthin' else tolook arter. Tom Flynn hasn't."
"And who's Tom Flynn?" he asked, with an odd sensation.
"The man I'm engaged to," she said gravely, with a slight color.
The rose that blossomed on her cheek faded in his. There was a momentof silence. Then he said frankly, "I owe you some apology. Forgive myfolly and impertinence a moment ago. How could I have known this?"
"You took no more than you deserved, or that Tom would have objectedto," she said, with a little laugh. "You've been mighty kind andhandy."
She held out her hand; their fingers closed together in a frankpressure. Then his mind went back to his work, which he hadforgotten,—to his first impressions of the camp and of her. Theyboth stood silent, watching the canoe, now quite visible, and the manthat was paddling it, with an intensity that both felt was insincere.
"I'm afraid," he said, with a forced laugh, "that I was a little toohasty in disposing of your goods and possessions. We could have keptafloat a little longer."
"It's all the same," she said, with a slight laugh; "it's jest as wellwe didn't look too comf'ble—to HIM."
He did not reply; he did not dare to look at her. Yes! It was the samecoquette he had seen last night. His first impressions were correct.
The canoe came on rapidly now, propelled by a powerful arm. In a fewmoments it was alongside, and its owner leaped on the platform. It wasthe gentleman with his trousers tucked in his boots, the second voice inthe gloomy discussion in the general store last evening. He nodded simplyto the girl, and shook Hemmingway's hand warmly.
Then he made a hurried apology for his delay: it was so difficult tofind "the lay" of the drifted cabin. He had struck out first for the mostdangerous spot,—the "old clearing," on the right bank, with itsstumps and new growths,—and it seemed he was right. And all therest were safe, and "nobody was hurt."
"All the same, Tom," she said, when they were seated and paddling offagain, "you don't know HOW NEAR YOU CAME TO LOSING ME." Then she raisedher beautiful eyes and looked significantly, not at HIM, but atHemmingway.
When the water was down at "Jules'" the next day, they found certaincurious changes and some gold, and the secretary was able to make afavorable report. But he made none whatever of his impressions "when thewater was up at 'Jules','" though he often wondered if they were strictlytrustworthy.
The editorial sanctum of the "Calaveras Clarion" opened upon the"composing-room" of that paper on the one side, and gave apparently uponthe rest of Calaveras County upon the other. For, situated on the veryoutskirts of the settlement and the summit of a very steep hill, thepines sloped away from the editorial windows to the long valley of theSouth Fork and—infinity. The little wooden building had invadedNature without subduing it. It was filled night and day with the murmurof pines and their fragrance. Squirrels scampered over its roof when itwas not preoccupied by woodpeckers, and a printer's devil had once seen anest-building blue jay enter the composing window, flutter before one ofthe slanting type-cases with an air of deliberate selection, and then flyoff with a vowel in its bill.
Amidst these sylvan surroundings the temporary editor of the "Clarion"sat at his sanctum, reading the proofs of an editorial. As he wasoccupying that position during a six weeks' absence of the bona fideeditor and proprietor, he was consequently reading the proof with someanxiety and responsibility. It had been suggested to him by certaincitizens that the "Clarion" needed a firmer and more aggressive policytowards the Bill before the Legislature for the wagon road to the SouthFork. Several Assembly men had been "got at" by the rival settlement ofLiberty Hill, and a scathing exposure and denunciation of such methodswas necessary. The interests of their own township were also to be"whooped up." All this had been vigorously explained to him, and he hadgrasped the spirit, if not always the facts, of his informants. It is tobe feared, therefore, that he was perusing his article more withreference to its vigor than his own convictions. And yet he was not sogreatly absorbed as to be unmindful of the murmur of the pines without,his half-savage environment, and the lazy talk of his solecompanions,—the foreman and printer in the adjoining room.
"Bet your life! I've always said that a man INSIDE a newspaper officecould hold his own agin any outsider that wanted to play rough or triedto raid the office! Thar's the press, and thar's the printin' ink androller! Folks talk a heap o' the power o' the Press!—I tell ye, yedon't half know it. Why, when old Kernel Fish was editin' the 'SierraBanner,' one o' them bullies that he'd lampooned in the 'Banner' foughthis way past the Kernel in the office, into the composin'-room, to wreckeverythin' and 'pye' all the types. Spoffrel—ye don't rememberSpoffrel?—little red- haired man?—was foreman. Spoffrelfended him off with the roller and got one good dab inter his eyes thatblinded him, and then Spoffrel sorter skirmished him over to thepress,—a plain lever just like ours,—whar the locked-up formof the inside was still a-lyin'! Then, quick as lightnin', Spoffrel tiltshim over agin it, and HE throws out his hand and ketches hold o' the formto steady himself, when Spoffrel just runs the form and the hand underthe press and down with the lever! And that held the feller fast as grimdeath! And when at last he begs off, and Spoff lets him loose, the hullo' that 'ere lampooning article he objected to was printed right onto theskin o' his hand! Fact, and it wouldn't come off, either."
"Gosh, but I'd like to hev seen it," said the printer. "There ain'tany chance, I reckon, o' such a sight here. The boss don't take no riskslampoonin', and he" (the editor knew he was being indicated by someunseen gesture of the unseen workman) "ain't that style."
"Ye never kin tell," said the foreman didactically, "what mighthappen! I've known editors to get into a fight jest for a littleinnercent bedevilin' o' the opposite party. Sometimes for a misprint. Oldman Pritchard of the 'Argus' oncet had a hole blown through his armbecause his proofreader had called Colonel Starbottle's speech an'ignominious' defense, when the old man hed written 'ingenuous'defense."
The editor paused in his proof-reading. He had just come upon thesentence: "We cannot congratulate Liberty Hill—in its superiorelevation—upon the ignominious silence of the representative of allCalaveras when this infamous Bill was introduced." He referred to hiscopy. Yes! He had certainly written "ignominious,"—that was whathis informants had suggested. But was he sure they were right? He had avague recollection, also, that the representative alludedto—Senator Bradley—had fought two duels, and was a "good"though somewhat impulsive shot! He might alter the word to "ingenuous" or"ingenious," either would be finely sarcastic, but then—there washis foreman, who would detect it! He would wait until he had finished theentire article. In that occupation he became oblivious of the next room,of a silence, a whispered conversation, which ended with a rapping at thedoor and the appearance of the foreman in the doorway.
"There's a man in the office who wants to see the editor," hesaid.
"Show him in," replied the editor briefly. He was, however, consciousthat there was a singular significance in his foreman's manner, and aneager apparition of the other printer over the foreman's shoulder.
"He's carryin' a shot-gun, and is a man twice as big as you be," saidthe foreman gravely.
The editor quickly recalled his own brief and as yet blameless recordin the "Clarion." "Perhaps," he said tentatively, with a gentle smile,"he's looking for Captain Brush" (the absent editor).
"I told him all that," said the foreman grimly, "and he said he wantedto see the man in charge."
In proportion as the editor's heart sank his outward crest arose."Show him in," he said loftily.
"We KIN keep him out," suggested the foreman, lingering a moment; "meand him," indicating the expectant printer behind him, "is enough forthat."
"Show him up," repeated the editor firmly.
The foreman withdrew; the editor seated himself and again took up hisproof. The doubtful word "ignominious" seemed to stand out of theparagraph before him; it certainly WAS a strong expression! He was aboutto run his pencil through it when he heard the heavy step of his visitorapproaching. A sudden instinct of belligerency took possession of him,and he wrathfully threw the pencil down.
The burly form of the stranger blocked the doorway. He was dressedlike a miner, but his build and general physiognomy were quite distinctfrom the local variety. His upper lip and chin were clean-shaven, stillshowing the blue-black roots of the beard which covered the rest of hisface and depended in a thick fleece under his throat. He carried a smallbundle tied up in a silk handkerchief in one hand, and a "shot-gun" inthe other, perilously at half-cock. Entering the sanctum, he put down hisbundle and quietly closed the door behind him. He then drew an emptychair towards him and dropped heavily into it with his gun on his knees.The editor's heart dropped almost as heavily, although he quitecomposedly held out his hand.
"Shall I relieve you of your gun?"
"Thank ye, lad—noa. It's moor coomfortable wi' me, and it's maindangersome to handle on the half-cock. That's why I didn't leave 'im onthe horse outside!"
At the sound of his voice and occasional accent a flash ofintelligence relieved the editor's mind. He remembered that twenty milesaway, in the illimitable vista from his windows, lay a settlement ofEnglish north-country miners, who, while faithfully adopting the methods,customs, and even slang of the Californians, retained many of theirnative peculiarities. The gun he carried on his knee, however, wasevidently part of the Californian imitation.
"Can I do anything for you?" said the editor blandly.
"Ay! I've coom here to bill ma woife."
"I—don't think I understand," hesitated the editor, with asmile.
"I've coom here to get ye to put into your paaper a warnin', a notiss,that onless she returns to my house in four weeks, I'll have nowt to dowi' her again."
"Oh!" said the editor, now perfectly reassured, "you want anadvertisement? That's the business of the foreman; I'll call him." He wasrising from his seat when the stranger laid a heavy hand on his shoulderand gently forced him down again.
"Noa, lad! I don't want noa foreman nor understrappers to take thisjob. I want to talk it over wi' you. Sabe? My woife she bin up and awaathese six months. We had a bit of difference, that ain't here nor there,but she skedaddled outer my house. I want to give her fair warning, andlet her know I ain't payin' any debts o' hers arter this notiss, and Iain't takin' her back arter four weeks from date."
"I see," said the editor glibly. "What's your wife's name?"
"Eliza Jane Dimmidge."
"Good," continued the editor, scribbling on the paper before him;"something like this will do: 'Whereas my wife, Eliza Jane Dimmidge,having left my bed and board without just cause or provocation, this isto give notice that I shall not be responsible for any debts of hercontracting on or after this date.'"
"Ye must be a lawyer," said Mr. Dimmidge admiringly.
It was an old enough form of advertisement, and the remark showedincontestably that Mr. Dimmidge was not a native; but the editor smiledpatronizingly and went on: "'And I further give notice that if she doesnot return within the period of four weeks from this date, I shall takesuch proceedings for relief as the law affords.'"
"Coom, lad, I didn't say THAT."
"But you said you wouldn't take her back."
"Ay."
"And you can't prevent her without legal proceedings. She's your wife.But you needn't take proceedings, you know. It's only a warning."
Mr. Dimmidge nodded approvingly. "That's so."
"You'll want it published for four weeks, until date?" asked theeditor.
"Mebbe longer, lad."
The editor wrote "till forbid" in the margin of the paper andsmiled.
"How big will it be?" said Mr. Dimmidge.
The editor took up a copy of the "Clarion" and indicated about an inchof space. Mr. Dimmidge's face fell.
"I want it bigger,—in large letters, like a play-card," he said."That's no good for a warning."
"You can have half a column or a whole column if you like," said theeditor airily.
"I'll take a whole one," said Mr. Dimmidge simply.
The editor laughed. "Why! it would cost you a hundred dollars."
"I'll take it," repeated Mr. Dimmidge.
"But," said the editor gravely, "the same notice in a small space willserve your purpose and be quite legal."
"Never you mind that, lad! It's the looks of the thing I'm arter, andnot the expense. I'll take that column."
The editor called in the foreman and showed him the copy. "Can youdisplay that so as to fill a column?"
The foreman grasped the situation promptly. It would be big businessfor the paper. "Yes," he said meditatively, "that bold- faced electiontype will do it."
Mr. Dimmidge's face brightened. The expression "bold-faced" pleasedhim. "That's it! I told you. I want to bill her in a portion of thepaper."
"I might put in a cut," said the foreman suggestively; "something likethis." He took a venerable woodcut from the case. I grieve to say it wasone which, until the middle of the present century, was common enough inthe newspaper offices in the Southwest. It showed the running figure of anegro woman carrying her personal property in a knotted handkerchiefslung from a stick over her shoulder, and was supposed to represent "afugitive slave."
Mr. Dimmidge's eyes brightened. "I'll take that, too. It's a littledark-complected for Mrs. P., but it will do. Now roon away, lad," he saidto the foreman, as he quietly pushed him into the outer office again andclosed the door. Then, facing the surprised editor, he said, "Theer'sanother notiss I want ye to put in your paper; but that's atween US. Nota word to THEM," he indicated the banished foreman with a jerk of histhumb. "Sabe? I want you to put this in another part o' your paper, quiteinnocent-like, ye know." He drew from his pocket a gray wallet, andtaking out a slip of paper read from it gravely, "'If this should meetthe eye of R. B., look out for M. J. D. He is on your track. When thisyou see write a line to E. J. D., Elktown Post Office.' I want this to goin as 'Personal and Private'—sabe?—like them notisses in thebig 'Frisco papers."
"I see," said the editor, laying it aside. "It shall go in the sameissue in another column."
Apparently Mr. Dimmidge expected something more than this reply, forafter a moment's hesitation he said with an odd smile:
"Ye ain't seein' the meanin' o' that, lad?"
"No," said the editor lightly; "but I suppose R. B. does, and it isn'tintended that any one else should."
"Mebbe it is, and mebbe it isn't," said Mr. Dimmidge, with a self-satisfied air. "I don't mind saying atween us that R. B. is the man asI've suspicioned as havin' something to do with my wife goin' away; andye see, if he writes to E. J. D.—that's my wife's initials—atElktown, I'LL get that letter and so make sure."
"But suppose your wife goes there first, or sends?"
"Then I'll ketch her or her messenger. Ye see?"
The editor did not see fit to oppose any argument to this phenomenalsimplicity, and Mr. Dimmidge, after settling his bill with the foreman,and enjoining the editor to the strictest secrecy regarding the origin ofthe "personal notice," took up his gun and departed, leaving the treasuryof the "Clarion" unprecedentedly enriched, and the editor to hisproofs.
The paper duly appeared the next morning with the columnadvertisement, the personal notice, and the weighty editorial on thewagon road. There was a singular demand for the paper, the edition wasspeedily exhausted, and the editor was proportionately flattered,although he was surprised to receive neither praise nor criticism fromhis subscribers. Before evening, however, he learned to his astonishmentthat the excitement was caused by the column advertisement. Nobody knewMr. Dimmidge, nor his domestic infelicities, and the editor and foreman,being equally in the dark, took refuge in a mysterious and impressiveevasion of all inquiry. Never since the last San Francisco VigilanceCommittee had the office been so besieged. The editor, foreman, and eventhe apprentice, were buttonholed and "treated" at the bar, but to noeffect. All that could be learned was that it was a bona fideadvertisement, for which one hundred dollars had been received! Therewere great discussions and conflicting theories as to whether the valueof the wife, or the husband's anxiety to get rid of her, justified theenormous expense and ostentatious display. She was supposed to be anexceedingly beautiful woman by some, by others a perfect Sycorax; in onebreath Mr. Dimmidge was a weak, uxorious spouse, wasting his substance ona creature who did not care for him, and in another a maddened,distracted, henpecked man, content to purchase peace and rest at anyprice. Certainly, never was advertisement more effective in itspublicity, or cheaper in proportion to the circulation it commanded. Itwas copied throughout the whole Pacific slope; mighty San Franciscopapers described its size and setting under the attractive headline, "Howthey Advertise a Wife in the Mountains!" It reappeared in the Easternjournals, under the title of "Whimsicalities of the Western Press." Itwas believed to have crossed to England as a specimen of "TransatlanticSavagery." The real editor of the "Clarion" awoke one morning, in SanFrancisco, to find his paper famous. Its advertising columns were eagerlysought for; he at once advanced the rates. People bought successiveissues to gaze upon this monumental record of extravagance. A singularidea, which, however, brought further fortune to the paper, was advancedby an astute critic at the Eureka Saloon. "My opinion, gentlemen, is thatthe whole blamed thing is a bluff! There ain't no Mr. Dimmidge; thereain't no Mrs. Dimmidge; there ain't no desertion! The whole rotten thingis an ADVERTISEMENT o' suthin'! Ye'll find afore ye get through with itthat that there wife won't come back until that blamed husband buysSomebody's Soap, or treats her to Somebody's particular Starch or PatentMedicine! Ye jest watch and see!" The idea was startling, and seized uponthe mercantile mind. The principal merchant of the town, and purveyor tothe mining settlements beyond, appeared the next morning at the office ofthe "Clarion." "Ye wouldn't mind puttin' this 'ad' in a column alongsideo' the Dimmidge one, would ye?" The young editor glanced at it, and then,with a serpent-like sagacity, veiled, however, by the suavity of thedove, pointed out that the original advertiser might think it called hisbona fides into question and withdraw his advertisement. "But if wesecured you by an offer of double the amount per column?" urged themerchant. "That," responded the locum tenens, "was for the actual editorand proprietor in San Francisco to determine. He would telegraph." He didso. The response was, "Put it in." Whereupon in the next issue, side byside with Mr. Dimmidge's protracted warning, appeared a column with theannouncement, in large letters, "WE HAVEN'T LOST ANY WIFE, but WE areprepared to furnish the following goods at a lower rate than any otheradvertiser in the county," followed by the usual price list of themerchant's wares. There was an unprecedented demand for that issue. Thereputation of the "Clarion," both as a shrewd advertising medium and acomic paper, was established at once. For a few days the editor waitedwith some apprehension for a remonstrance from the absent Dimmidge, butnone came. Whether Mr. Dimmidge recognized that this new advertisementgave extra publicity to his own, or that he was already on the track ofthe fugitive, the editor did not know. The few curious citizens who had,early in the excitement, penetrated the settlement of the English minerstwenty miles away in search of information, found that Mr. Dimmidge hadgone away, and that Mrs. Dimmidge had NEVER resided there with him!
Six weeks passed. The limit of Mr. Dimmidge's advertisement had beenreached, and, as it was not renewed, it had passed out of the pages ofthe "Clarion," and with it the merchant's advertisement in the nextcolumn. The excitement had subsided, although its influence was stillfelt in the circulation of the paper and its advertising popularity. Thetemporary editor was also nearing the limit of his incumbency, but had sofar participated in the good fortune of the "Clarion" as to receive anoffer from one of the San Francisco dailies.
It was a warm night, and he was alone in his sanctum. The rest of thebuilding was dark and deserted, and his solitary light, flashing outthrough the open window, fell upon the nearer pines and was lost in thedark, indefinable slope below. He had reached the sanctum by the rear,and a door which he also left open to enjoy the freshness of the aromaticair. Nor did it in the least mar his privacy. Rather the solitude of thegreat woods without seemed to enter through that door and encompassed himwith its protecting loneliness. There was occasionally a faint "peep" inthe scant eaves, or a "pat-pat," ending in a frightened scurry across theroof, or the slow flap of a heavy wing in the darkness below. Thesegentle disturbances did not, however, interrupt his work on "The TrueFunctions of the County Newspaper," the editorial on which he wasengaged.
Presently a more distinct rustling against the straggling blackberrybushes beside the door attracted his attention. It was followed by alight tapping against the side of the house. The editor started andturned quickly towards the open door. Two outside steps led to theground. Standing upon the lower one was a woman. The upper part of herfigure, illuminated by the light from the door, was thrown into greaterrelief by the dark background of the pines. Her face was unknown to him,but it was a pleasant one, marked by a certain good-humoreddetermination.
"May I come in?" she said confidently.
"Certainly," said the editor. "I am working here alone because it isso quiet." He thought he would precipitate some explanation from her byexcusing himself.
"That's the reason why I came," she said, with a quiet smile.
She came up the next step and entered the room. She was plainly butneatly dressed, and now that her figure was revealed he saw that she waswearing a linsey-woolsey riding-skirt, and carried a serviceable rawhidewhip in her cotton-gauntleted hand. She took the chair he offered her andsat down sideways on it, her whip hand now also holding up her skirt, andpermitting a hem of clean white petticoat and a smart, well-shaped bootto be seen.
"I don't remember to have had the pleasure of seeing you in Calaverasbefore," said the editor tentatively.
"No. I never was here before," she said composedly, "but you've heardenough of me, I reckon. I'm Mrs. Dimmidge." She threw one hand over theback of the chair, and with the other tapped her riding-whip on thefloor.
The editor started. Mrs. Dimmidge! Then she was not a myth. An absurdsimilarity between her attitude with the whip and her husband's entrancewith his gun six weeks before forced itself upon him and made her aninvincible presence.
"Then you have returned to your husband?" he said hesitatingly.
"Not much!" she returned, with a slight curl of her lip.
"But you read his advertisement?"
"I saw that column of fool nonsense he put in your paper—efthat's what you mean," she said with decision, "but I didn't come here tosee HIM—but YOU."
The editor looked at her with a forced smile, but a vague misgiving.He was alone at night in a deserted part of the settlement, with a plump,self-possessed woman who had a contralto voice, a horsewhip, and—hecould not help feeling—an evident grievance.
"To see me?" he repeated, with a faint attempt at gallantry. "You arepaying me a great compliment, but really"—
"When I tell you I've come three thousand miles from Kansas straighthere without stopping, ye kin reckon it's so," she replied firmly.
"Three thousand miles!" echoed the editor wonderingly.
"Yes. Three thousand miles from my own folks' home in Kansas, wheresix years ago I married Mr. Dimmidge,—a British furriner as couldscarcely make himself understood in any Christian language! Well, he gotround me and dad, allowin' he was a reg'lar out-and- out profeshnalminer,—had lived in mines ever since he was a boy; and so, notknowin' what kind o' mines, and dad just bilin' over with the gold fever,we were married and kem across the plains to Californy. He was a goodenough man to look at, but it warn't three months before I discoveredthat he allowed a wife was no better nor a nigger slave, and he themaster. That made me open my eyes; but then, as he didn't drink, anddidn't gamble, and didn't swear, and was a good provider and laid bymoney, why I shifted along with him as best I could. We drifted down thefirst year to Sonora, at Red Dog, where there wasn't another woman. Well,I did the nigger slave business,—never stirring out o' thesettlement, never seein' a town or a crowd o' decent people,—and hedid the lord and master! We played that game for two years, and I gottired. But when at last he allowed he'd go up to Elktown Hill, wherethere was a passel o' his countrymen at work, with never a sign o' anyother folks, and leave me alone at Red Dog until he fixed up a place forme at Elktown Hill,—I kicked! I gave him fair warning! I did asother nigger slaves did,—I ran away!"
A recollection of the wretched woodcut which Mr. Dimmidge had selectedto personify his wife flashed upon the editor with a new meaning. Yetperhaps she had not seen it, and had only read a copy of theadvertisement. What could she want? The "Calaveras Clarion," although a"Palladium" and a "Sentinel upon the Heights of Freedom" in reference towagon roads, was not a redresser of domestic wrongs,—except throughits advertising columns! Her next words intensified that suggestion.
"I've come here to put an advertisement in your paper."
The editor heaved a sigh of relief, as once before. "Certainly," hesaid briskly. "But that's another department of the paper, and theprinters have gone home. Come to-morrow morning early."
"To-morrow morning I shall be miles away," she said decisively, "andwhat I want done has got to be done NOW! I don't want to see no printers;I don't want ANYBODY to know I've been here but you. That's why I kemhere at night, and rode all the way from Sawyer's Station, and wouldn'ttake the stage-coach. And when we've settled about the advertisement, I'mgoing to mount my horse, out thar in the bushes, and scoot outer thesettlement."
"Very good," said the editor resignedly. "Of course I can deliver yourinstructions to the foreman. And now—let me see—I suppose youwish to intimate in a personal notice to your husband that you'vereturned."
"Nothin' o' the kind!" said Mrs. Dimmidge coolly. "I want to placardhim as he did me. I've got it all written out here. Sabe?"
She took from her pocket a folded paper, and spreading it out on theeditor's desk, with a certain pride of authorship read asfollows:—
"Whereas my husband, Micah J. Dimmidge, having given out that I haveleft his bed and board,—the same being a bunk in a log cabin andpork and molasses three times a day,—and having advertised thathe'd pay no debts of MY contractin',—which, as thar ain't any,might be easier collected than debts of his own contractin',— thisis to certify that unless he returns from Elktown Hill to his only homein Sonora in one week from date, payin' the cost of this advertisement,I'll know the reason why.—Eliza Jane Dimmidge."
"Thar," she added, drawing a long breath, "put that in a column of the'Clarion,' same size as the last, and let it work, and that's all I wantof you."
"A column?" repeated the editor. "Do you know the cost is veryexpensive, and I COULD put it in a single paragraph?"
"I reckon I kin pay the same as Mr. Dimmidge did for HIS," said thelady complacently. "I didn't see your paper myself, but the paper ascopied it—one of them big New York dailies—said that it tookup a whole column."
The editor breathed more freely; she had not seen the infamous woodcutwhich her husband had selected. At the same moment he was struck with asense of retribution, justice, and compensation.
"Would you," he asked hesitatingly,—"would you like itillustrated— by a cut?"
"With which?"
"Wait a moment; I'll show you."
He went into the dark composing-room, lit a candle, and rummaging in adrawer sacred to weather-beaten, old-fashioned electrotyped advertisingsymbols of various trades, finally selected one and brought it to Mrs.Dimmidge. It represented a bare and exceedingly stalwart arm wielding alarge hammer.
"Your husband being a miner,—a quartz miner,—would thatdo?" he asked. (It had been previously used to advertise a blacksmith, agold-beater, and a stone-mason.)
The lady examined it critically.
"It does look a little like Micah's arm," she said meditatively."Well—you kin put it in."
The editor was so well pleased with his success that he must needsmake another suggestion. "I suppose," he said ingenuously, "that youdon't want to answer the 'Personal'?"
'Personal'?" she repeated quickly, "what's that? I ain't seen no'Personal.'" The editor saw his blunder. She, of course, had never seenMr. Dimmidge's artful "Personal;" THAT the big dailies naturally had notnoticed nor copied. But it was too late to withdraw now. He brought out afile of the "Clarion," and snipping out the paragraph with his scissors,laid it before the lady.
She stared at it with wrinkled brows and a darkening face.
"And THIS was in the same paper?—put in by Mr. Dimmidge?" sheasked breathlessly.
The editor, somewhat alarmed, stammered "Yes." But the next moment hewas reassured. The wrinkles disappeared, a dozen dimples broke out wherethey had been, and the determined, matter-of-fact Mrs. Dimmidge burstinto a fit of rosy merriment. Again and again she laughed, shaking thebuilding, startling the sedate, melancholy woods beyond, until the editorhimself laughed in sheer vacant sympathy.
"Lordy!" she said at last, gasping, and wiping the laughter from herwet eyes. "I never thought of THAT."
"No," explained the editor smilingly; "of course you didn't. Don't yousee, the papers that copied the big advertisement never saw that littleparagraph, or if they did, they never connected the two together."
"Oh, it ain't that," said Mrs. Dimmidge, trying to regain hercomposure and holding her sides. "It's that blessed DEAR old dunderheadof a Dimmidge I'm thinking of. That gets me. I see it all now. Only,sakes alive! I never thought THAT of him. Oh, it's just too much!" andshe again relapsed behind her handkerchief.
"Then I suppose you don't want to reply to it," said the editor.
Her laughter instantly ceased. "Don't I?" she said, wiping her faceinto its previous complacent determination. "Well, young man, I reckonthat's just what I WANT to do! Now, wait a moment; let's see what hesaid," she went on, taking up and reperusing the "Personal" paragraph."Well, then," she went on, after a moment's silent composition withmoving lips, "you just put these lines in."
The editor took up his pencil.
"To Mr. J. D. Dimmidge.—Hope you're still on R. B.'s tracks.Keep there!—E. J. D."
The editor wrote down the line, and then, remembering Mr. Dimmidge'svoluntary explanation of HIS "Personal," waited with some confidence fora like frankness from Mrs. Dimmidge. But he was mistaken.
"You think that he—R. B.—or Mr. Dimmidge—willunderstand this?" he at last asked tentatively. "Is it enough?"
"Quite enough," said Mrs. Dimmidge emphatically. She took a roll ofgreenbacks from her pocket, selected a hundred-dollar bill and then afive, and laid them before the editor. "Young man," she said, with acertain demure gravity, "you've done me a heap o' good. I never spentmoney with more satisfaction than this. I never thought much o' the'power o' the Press,' as you call it, afore. But this has been a rightcomfortable visit, and I'm glad I ketched you alone. But you understandone thing: this yer visit, and WHO I am, is betwixt you and me only."
"Of course I must say that the advertisement was AUTHORIZED," returnedthe editor. "I'm only the temporary editor. The proprietor is away."
"So much the better," said the lady complacently. "You just say youfound it on your desk with the money; but don't you give me away."
"I can promise you that the secret of your personal visit is safe withme," said the young man, with a bow, as Mrs. Dimmidge rose. "Let me seeyou to your horse," he added. "It's quite dark in the woods."
"I can see well enough alone, and it's just as well you shouldn't knowHOW I kem or HOW I went away. Enough for you to know that I'll be milesaway before that paper comes out. So stay where you are."
She pressed his hand frankly and firmly, gathered up her riding-skirt, slipped backwards to the door, and the next moment rustled awayinto the darkness.
Early the next morning the editor handed Mrs. Dimmidge'sadvertisement, and the woodcut he had selected, to his foreman. He waspurposely brief in his directions, so as to avoid inquiry, and retired tohis sanctum. In the space of a few moments the foreman entered with aslight embarrassment of manner.
"You'll excuse my speaking to you, sir," he said, with a singularmixture of humility and cunning. "It's no business of mine, I know; but Ithought I ought to tell you that this yer kind o' thing won't pay anymore,—it's about played out!"
"I don't think I understand you," said the editor loftily, but with aninward misgiving. "You don't mean to say that a regular, actualadvertisement"—
"Of course, I know all that," said the foreman, with a peculiar smile;"and I'm ready to back you up in it, and so's the boy; but it won'tpay."
"It HAS paid a hundred and five dollars," said the editor, taking thenotes from his pocket; "so I'd advise you to simply attend to your dutyand set it up."
A look of surprise, followed, however, by a kind of pitying smile,passed over the foreman's face. "Of course, sir, THAT'S all right, andyou know your own business; but if you think that the new advertisementwill pay this time as the other one did, and whoop up another column froman advertiser, I'm afraid you'll slip up. It's a little 'off color'now,—not 'up to date,'—if it ain't a regular 'back number,'as you'll see."
"Meantime I'll dispense with your advice," said the editor curtly,"and I think you had better let our subscribers and advertisers do thesame, or the 'Clarion' might also be obliged to dispense with yourSERVICES."
"I ain't no blab," said the foreman, in an aggrieved manner, "and Idon't intend to give the show away even if it don't PAY. But I thoughtI'd tell you, because I know the folks round here better than youdo."
He was right. No sooner had the advertisement appeared than the editorfound that everybody believed it to be a sheer invention of his own to"once more boom" the "Clarion." If they had doubted MR. Dimmidge, theyutterly rejected MRS. Dimmidge as an advertiser! It was a stale joke thatnobody would follow up; and on the heels of this came a letter from theeditor-in-chief.
MY DEAR BOY,—You meant well, I know, but the second Dimmidge"ad" was a mistake. Still, it was a big bluff of yours to show the money,and I send you back your hundred dollars, hoping you won't "do it again."Of course you'll have to keep the advertisement in the paper for twoissues, just as if it were a real thing, and it's lucky that there's justnow no pressure in our columns. You might have told a better story thanthat hogwash about your finding the "ad" and a hundred dollars lyingloose on your desk one morning. It was rather thin, and I don't wonderthe foreman kicked.
The young editor was in despair. At first he thought of writing toMrs. Dimmidge at the Elktown Post-Office, asking her to relieve him ofhis vow of secrecy; but his pride forbade. There was a humorous concern,not without a touch of pity, in the faces of his contributors as hepassed; a few affected to believe in the new advertisement, and asked himvague, perfunctory questions about it. His position was trying, and hewas not sorry when the term of his engagement expired the next week, andhe left Calaveras to take his new position on the San Franciscopaper.
He was standing in the saloon of the Sacramento boat when he felt asudden heavy pressure on his shoulder, and looking round sharply, beheldnot only the black-bearded face of Mr. Dimmidge, lit up by a smile, butbeside it the beaming, buxom face of Mrs. Dimmidge, overflowing withgood-humor. Still a little sore from his past experience, he was about toaddress them abruptly, when he was utterly vanquished by the heartypressure of their hands and the unmistakable look of gratitude in theireyes.
"I was just saying to 'Lizy Jane," began Mr. Dimmidge breathlessly,"if I could only meet that young man o' the 'Clarion' what brought ustogether again"—
"You'd be willin' to pay four times the amount we both paid him,"interpolated the laughing Mrs. Dimmidge.
"But I didn't bring you together," burst out the dazed young man, "andI'd like to know, in the name of Heaven, what brought you togethernow?"
"Don't you see, lad," said the imperturbable Mr. Dimmidge, "'Lizy Janeand myself had qua'lled, and we just unpacked our fool nonsense in yourpaper and let the hull world know it! And we both felt kinder skeert andshamed like, and it looked such small hogwash, and of so little account,for all the talk it made, that we kinder felt lonely as two separatedfools that really ought to share their foolishness together."
"And that ain't all," said Mrs. Dimmidge, with a sly glance at herspouse, "for I found out from that 'Personal' you showed me that thisparticular old fool was actooally jealous!—JEALOUS!"
"And then?" said the editor impatiently.
"And then I KNEW he loved me all the time."
Even to the eye of the most inexperienced traveler there was no doubtthat Buena Vista was a "played-out" mining camp. There, seamed andscarred by hydraulic engines, was the old hillside, over whose denudedsurface the grass had begun to spring again in fitful patches; there werethe abandoned heaps of tailings already blackened by sun and rain, andworn into mounds like ruins of masonry; there were the waterless ditches,like giant graves, and the pools of slumgullion, now dried into shining,glazed cement. There were two or three wooden "stores," from which thewindows and doors had been taken and conveyed to the newer settlement ofWynyard's Gulch. Four or five buildings that still were inhabited—the blacksmith's shop, the post-office, a pioneer's cabin, and the oldhotel and stage-office—only accented the general desolation. Thelatter building had a remoteness of prosperity far beyond the others,having been a wayside Spanish-American posada, with adobe walls of twofeet in thickness, that shamed the later shells of half-inch plank, whichwere slowly warping and cracking like dried pods in the oven-likeheat.
The proprietor of this building, Colonel Swinger, had been looked uponby the community as a person quite as remote, old-fashioned, andinconsistent with present progress as the house itself. He was an oldVirginian, who had emigrated from his decaying plantation on the JamesRiver only to find the slaves, which he had brought with him, freed menwhen they touched Californian soil; to be driven by Northern progress and"smartness" out of the larger cities into the mountains, to fix himselfat last, with the hopeless fatuity of his race, upon an alreadyimpoverished settlement; to sink his scant capital in hopeless shafts andledges, and finally to take over the decaying hostelry of Buena Vista,with its desultory custom and few, lingering, impecunious guests. Here,too, his old Virginian ideas of hospitality were against his financialsuccess; he could not dun nor turn from his door those unfortunateprospectors whom the ebbing fortunes of Buena Vista had left stranded byhis side.
Colonel Swinger was sitting in a wicker-work rocking-chair on theveranda of his hotel—sipping a mint julep which he held in hishand, while he gazed into the dusty distance. Nothing could haveconvinced him that he was not performing a serious part of his duty ashotel-keeper in this attitude, even though there were no travelersexpected, and the road at this hour of the day was deserted. On a benchat his side Larry Hawkins stretched his lazy length,—one footdropped on the veranda, and one arm occasionally groping under the benchfor his own tumbler of refreshment. Apart from this community ofoccupation, there was apparently no interchange of sentiment between thepair. The silence had continued for some moments, when the colonel putdown his glass and gazed earnestly into the distance.
"Seein' anything?" remarked the man on the bench, who had sleepilyregarded him.
"No," said the colonel, "that is—it's only Dick Ruggles crossin'the road."
"Thought you looked a little startled, ez if you'd seen that arwanderin' stranger."
"When I see that wandering stranger, sah," said the coloneldecisively, "I won't be sittin' long in this yer chyar. I'll let him knowin about ten seconds that I don't harbor any vagrants prowlin' about likepoor whites or free niggers on my propahty, sah!"
"All the same, I kinder wish ye did see him, for you'd be settled inYOUR mind and I'd be easier in MINE, ef you found out what he was doin'round yer, or ye had to admit that it wasn't no LIVIN' man."
"What do you mean?" said the colonel, testily facing around in hischair.
His companion also altered his attitude by dropping his other foot tothe floor, sitting up, and leaning lazily forward with his handsclasped.
"Look yer, colonel. When you took this place, I felt I didn't have nocall to tell ye all I know about it, nor to pizen yer mind by any darnedfool yarns I mout hev heard. Ye know it was one o' them old Spanishhaciendas?"
"I know," said the colonel loftily, "that it was held by a grant fromCharles the Fifth of Spain, just as my propahty on the James River wasgiven to my people by King James of England, sah!"
"That ez as may be," returned his companion, in lazy indifference;"though I reckon that Charles the Fifth of Spain and King James ofEngland ain't got much to do with what I'm goin' to tell ye. Ye see, Iwas here long afore YOUR time, or any of the boys that hev now clearedout; and at that time the hacienda belonged to a man named JuanSobriente. He was that kind o' fool that he took no stock in mining. Whenthe boys were whoopin' up the place and finding the color everywhere, andthere was a hundred men working down there in the gulch, he was eitherridin' round lookin' up the wild horses he owned, or sittin' with two orthree lazy peons and Injins that was fed and looked arter by the priests.Gosh! now I think of it, it was mighty like YOU when you first kem herewith your niggers. That's curious, too, ain't it?"
He had stopped, gazing with an odd, superstitious wonderment at thecolonel, as if overcome by this not very remarkable coincidence. Thecolonel, overlooking or totally oblivious to its somewhat uncomplimentarysignificance, simply said, "Go on. What about him?"
"Well, ez I was sayin', he warn't in it nohow, but kept on his reg'larway when the boom was the biggest. Some of the boys allowed it was mightyoncivil for him to stand off like that, and others—when he refuseda big pile for his hacienda and the garden, that ran right into thegold-bearing ledge—war for lynching him and driving him outer thesettlement. But as he had a pretty darter or niece livin' with him, and,except for his partickler cussedness towards mining, was kinder peaceableand perlite, they thought better of it. Things went along like this,until one day the boys noticed—particklerly the boys that hadslipped up on their luck—that old man Sobriente was gettin'rich,—had stocked a ranch over on the Divide, and had given somegold candlesticks to the mission church. That would have been only humannature and business, ef he'd had any during them flush times; but hehadn't. This kinder puzzled them. They tackled the peons,—hisniggers,— but it was all 'No sabe.' They tackled anotherman,—a kind of half-breed Kanaka, who, except the priest, was theonly man who came to see him, and was supposed to be mighty sweet on thedarter or niece,—but they didn't even get the color outer HIM. Thenthe first thing we knowed was that old Sobriente was found dead in thewell!"
"In the well, sah!" said the colonel, starting up. "The well on mypropahty?"
"No," said his companion. "The old well that was afterwards shut up.Yours was dug by the last tenant, Jack Raintree, who allowed that hedidn't want to 'take any Sobriente in his reg'lar whiskey and water.'Well, the half-breed Kanaka cleared out after the old man's death, and sodid that darter or niece; and the church, to whom old Sobriente had leftthis house, let it to Raintree for next to nothin'."
"I don't see what all that has got to do with that wandering tramp,"said the colonel, who was by no means pleased with this history of hisproperty.
"I'll tell ye. A few days after Raintree took it over, he was lookin'round the garden, which old Sobriente had always kept shut up aginstrangers, and he finds a lot of dried-up 'slumgullion'* scattered allabout the borders and beds, just as if the old man had been using it forfertilizing. Well, Raintree ain't no fool; he allowed the old man wasn'tone, either; and he knew that slumgullion wasn't worth no more than mudfor any good it would do the garden. So he put this yer together withSobriente's good luck, and allowed to himself that the old coyote hadbeen secretly gold-washin' all the while he seemed to be standin' offagin it! But where was the mine? Whar did he get the gold? That's whatgot Raintree. He hunted all over the garden, prospected every part ofit,—ye kin see the holes yet,—but he never even got thecolor!"
* That is, a viscid cement-like refuse of gold-washing.
He paused, and then, as the colonel made an impatient gesture, he wenton.
"Well, one night just afore you took the place, and when Raintree wasgettin' just sick of it, he happened to be walkin' in the garden. He waspuzzlin' his brain agin to know how old Sobriente made his pile, when allof a suddenst he saw suthin' a-movin' in the brush beside the house. Hecalls out, thinkin' it was one of the boys, but got no answer. Then hegoes to the bushes, and a tall figger, all in black, starts out aforehim. He couldn't see any face, for its head was covered with a hood, buthe saw that it held suthin' like a big cross clasped agin its breast.This made him think it was one them priests, until he looks agin and seesthat it wasn't no cross it was carryin,' but a PICKAXE! He makes a jumptowards it, but it vanished! He traipsed over the hull garden,—wentthough ev'ry bush,—but it was clean gone. Then the hull thingflashed upon him with a cold shiver. The old man bein' found dead in thewell! the goin' away of the half-breed and the girl! the findin' o' thatslumgullion! The old man HAD made a strike in that garden, the half-breedhad discovered his secret and murdered him, throwin' him down the well!It war no LIVIN' man that he had seen, but the ghost of oldSobriente!"
The colonel emptied the remaining contents of his glass at a singlegulp, and sat up. "It's my opinion, sah, that Raintree had that nightmore than his usual allowance of corn-juice on board; and it's only awonder, sah, that he didn't see a few pink alligators and sky-blue snakesat the same time. But what's this got to do with that wanderin'tramp?"
"They're all the same thing, colonel, and in my opinion that theretramp ain't no more alive than that figger was."
"But YOU were the one that saw this tramp with your own eyes,"retorted the colonel quickly, "and you never before allowed it was aspirit!"
"Exactly! I saw it whar a minit afore nothin' had been standin', and aminit after nothin' stood," said Larry Hawkins, with a certain seriousemphasis; "but I warn't goin' to say it to ANYBODY, and I warn't goin' togive you and the hacienda away. And ez nobody knew Raintree's story, Ijest shut up my head. But you kin bet your life that the man I saw warn'tno livin' man!"
"We'll see, sah!" said the colonel, rising from his chair with hisfingers in the armholes of his nankeen waistcoat, "ef he ever intrudes onmy property again. But look yar! don't ye go sayin' anything of this toPolly,—you know what women are!"
A faint color came into Larry's face; an animation quite different tothe lazy deliberation of his previous monologue shone in his eyes, as hesaid, with a certain rough respect he had not shown before to hiscompanion, "That's why I'm tellin' ye, so that ef SHE happened to seeanything and got skeert, ye'd know how to reason her out of it."
"'Sh!" said the colonel, with a warning gesture.
A young girl had just appeared in the doorway, and now stood leaningagainst the central pillar that supported it, with one hand above herhead, in a lazy attitude strongly suggestive of the colonel's Southernindolence, yet with a grace entirely her own. Indeed, it overcame thenegligence of her creased and faded yellow cotton frock and unbuttonedcollar, and suggested—at least to the eyes of ONE man—thecurving and clinging of the jasmine vine against the outer column of theveranda. Larry Hawkins rose awkwardly to his feet.
"Now what are you two men mumblin' and confidin' to each other? Youlook for all the world like two old women gossips," she said, withlanguid impertinence.
It was easy to see that a privileged and recognized autocrat spoke. Noone had ever questioned Polly Swinger's right to interrupting,interfering, and saucy criticisms. Secure in the hopeless or chivalrousadmiration of the men around her, she had repaid it with a frankness thatscorned any coquetry; with an indifference to the ordinary feminineeffect or provocation in dress or bearing that was as natural as it wasinvincible. No one had ever known Polly to "fix up" for anybody, yet noone ever doubted the effect, if she had. No one had ever rebuked hercharming petulance, or wished to.
Larry gave a weak, vague laugh. Colonel Swinger as ineffectivelyassumed a mock parental severity. "When you see two gentlemen, miss,discussin' politics together, it ain't behavin' like a lady to interrupt.Better run away and tidy yourself before the stage comes."
The young lady replied to the last innuendo by taking two spirals ofsoft hair, like "corn silk," from her oval cheek, wetting them with herlips, and tucking them behind her ears. Her father's ungentlemanlysuggestion being thus disposed of, she returned to her first charge.
"It ain't no politics; you ain't been swearing enough for THAT! Come,now! It's the mysterious stranger ye've been talking about!"
Both men stared at her with unaffected concern.
"What do YOU know about any mysterious stranger?" demanded herfather.
"Do you suppose you men kin keep a secret," scoffed Polly. "Why, DickRuggles told me how skeert ye all were over an entire stranger, and headvised me not to wander down the road after dark. I asked him if hethought I was a pickaninny to be frightened by bogies, and that if hehadn't a better excuse for wantin' 'to see me home' from the Injinspring, he might slide."
Larry laughed again, albeit a little bitterly, for it seemed to himthat the excuse was fully justified; but the colonel said promptly,"Dick's a fool, and you might have told him there were worse things to bemet on the road than bogies. Run away now, and see that the niggers areon hand when the stage comes."
Two hours later the stage came with a clatter of hoofs and a cloud ofred dust, which precipitated itself and a dozen thirsty travelers uponthe veranda before the hotel bar-room; it brought also the usual"express" newspapers and much talk to Colonel Swinger, who alwaysreceived his guests in a lofty personal fashion at the door, as he mighthave done in his old Virginian home; but it broughtlikewise—marvelous to relate—an ACTUAL GUEST, who had twotrunks and asked for a room! He was evidently a stranger to the ways ofBuena Vista, and particularly to those of Colonel Swinger, and at firstseemed inclined to resent the social attitude of his host, and his frankand free curiosity. When he, however, found that Colonel Swinger was evenbetter satisfied to give an account of HIS OWN affairs, his family,pedigree, and his present residence, he began to betray some interest.The colonel told him all the news, and would no doubt have evenexpatiated on his ghostly visitant, had he not prudently concluded thathis guest might decline to remain in a haunted inn. The stranger hadspoken of staying a week; he had some private mining speculations towatch at Wynyard's Gulch,—the next settlement, but he did not careto appear openly at the "Gulch Hotel." He was a man of thirty, with soft,pleasing features and a singular litheness of movement, which, combinedwith a nut-brown, gypsy complexion, at first suggested a foreigner. Buthis dialect, to the colonel's ears, was distinctly that of New England,and to this was added a puritanical and sanctimonious drawl. "He looked,"said the colonel in after years, "like a blank light mulatter, but talkedlike a blank Yankee parson." For all that, he was acceptable to his host,who may have felt that his reminiscences of his plantation on the JamesRiver were palling on Buena Vista ears, and was glad of his new auditor.It was an advertisement, too, of the hotel, and a promise of its futurefortunes. "Gentlemen having propahty interests at the Gulch, sah, preferto stay at Buena Vista with another man of propahty, than to trust tothose new-fangled papah-collared, gingerbread booths for traders thatthey call 'hotels' there," he had remarked to some of "the boys." In hispreoccupation with the new guest, he also became a little neglectful ofhis old chum and dependent, Larry Hawkins. Nor was this the onlycircumstance that filled the head of that shiftless loyal retainer of thecolonel with bitterness and foreboding. Polly Swinger—thescornfully indifferent, the contemptuously inaccessible, the coldlycapricious and petulant—was inclined to be polite to thestranger!
The fact was that Polly, after the fashion of her sex, took it intoher pretty head, against all consistency and logic, suddenly to make anexception to her general attitude towards mankind in favor of oneindividual. The reason-seeking masculine reader will rashly conclude thatthis individual was the CAUSE as well as the object; but I am satisfiedthat every fair reader of these pages will instinctively know better.Miss Polly had simply selected the new guest, Mr. Starbuck, to showOTHERS, particularly Larry Hawkins, what she COULD do if she wereinclined to be civil. For two days she "fixed up" her distracting hair athim so that its silken floss encircled her head like a nimbus; she tuckedher oval chin into a white fichu instead of a buttonless collar; sheappeared at dinner in a newly starched yellow frock! She talked to himwith "company manners;" said she would "admire to go to San Francisco,"and asked if he knew her old friends the Fauquier girls from "Faginia."The colonel was somewhat disturbed; he was glad that his daughter hadbecome less negligent of her personal appearance; he could not but see,with the others, how it enhanced her graces; but he was, with the others,not entirely satisfied with her reasons. And he could not helpobserving—what was more or less patent to ALL—that Starbuckwas far from being equally responsive to her attentions, and at times wasindifferent and almost uncivil. Nobody seemed to be satisfied withPolly's transformation but herself.
But eventually she was obliged to assert herself. The third eveningafter Starbuck's arrival she was going over to the cabin of Aunt Chloe,who not only did the washing for Buena Vista, but assisted Polly indressmaking. It was not far, and the night was moonlit. As she crossedthe garden she saw Starbuck moving in the manzanita bushes beyond; amischievous light came into her eyes; she had not EXPECTED to meet him,but she had seen him go out, and there were always POSSIBILITIES. To hersurprise, however, he merely lifted his hat as she passed, and turnedabruptly in another direction. This was more than the littleheart-breaker of Buena Vista was accustomed to!
"Oh, Mr. Starbuck!" she called, in her laziest voice.
He turned almost impatiently.
"Since you're so civil and pressing, I thought I'd tell you I was justrunnin' over to Aunt Chloe's," she said dryly.
"I should think it was hardly the proper thing for a young lady to doat this time of night," he said superciliously. "But you knowbest,—you know the people here."
Polly's cheeks and eyes flamed. "Yes, I reckon I do," she saidcrisply; "it's only a STRANGER here would think of being rude.Good-night, Mr. Starbuck!"
She tripped away after this Parthian shot, yet feeling, even in hertriumph, that the conceited fool seemed actually relieved at herdeparture! And for the first time she now thought that she had seensomething in his face that she did not like! But her lazy independencereasserted itself soon, and half an hour later, when she had left AuntChloe's cabin, she had regained her self-esteem. Yet, to avoid meetinghim again, she took a longer route home, across the dried ditch and overthe bluff, scarred by hydraulics, and so fell, presently, upon the oldgarden at the point where it adjoined the abandoned diggings. She wasquite sure she had escaped a meeting with Starbuck, and was gliding alongunder the shadow of the pear-trees, when she suddenly stopped. Anindescribable terror overcame her as she stared at a spot in the garden,perfectly illuminated by the moonlight not fifty yards from where shestood. For she saw on its surface a human head—a man'shead!—seemingly on the level of the ground, staring in herdirection. A hysterical laugh sprang from her lips, and she caught at thebranches above her or she would have fallen! Yet in that moment the headhad vanished! The moonlight revealed the empty garden,—the groundshe had gazed at,—but nothing more!
She had never been superstitious. As a child she had heard the negroestalk of "the hants,"—that is, "the HAUNTS" or spirits,— buthad believed it a part of their ignorance, and unworthy a whitechild,—the daughter of their master! She had laughed with DickRuggles over the illusions of Larry, and had shared her father'scontemptuous disbelief of the wandering visitant being anything but aliving man; yet she would have screamed for assistance now, only for thegreater fear of making her weakness known to Mr. Starbuck, and beingdependent upon him for help. And with it came the sudden conviction thatHE had seen this awful vision, too. This would account for his impatienceof her presence and his rudeness. She felt faint and giddy. Yet after thefirst shock had passed, her old independence and pride came to herrelief. She would go to the spot and examine it. If it were some trick orillusion, she would show her superiority and have the laugh on Starbuck.She set her white teeth, clenched her little hands, and started out intothe moonlight. But alas! for women's weakness. The next moment sheuttered a scream and almost fell into the arms of Mr. Starbuck, who hadstepped out of the shadows beside her.
"So you see you HAVE been frightened," he said, with a strange, forcedlaugh; "but I warned you about going out alone!"
Even in her fright she could not help seeing that he, too, seemed paleand agitated, at which she recovered her tongue and her self-possession.
"Anybody would be frightened by being dogged about under the trees,"she said pertly.
"But you called out before you saw me," he said bluntly, "as ifsomething had frightened you. That was WHY I came towards you."
She knew it was the truth; but as she would not confess to her vision,she fibbed outrageously.
"Frightened," she said, with pale but lofty indignation. "What wasthere to frighten me? I'm not a baby, to think I see a bogie in thedark!" This was said in the faint hope that HE had seen something too. Ifit had been Larry or her father who had met her, she would have confessedeverything.
"You had better go in," he said curtly. "I will see you safe insidethe house."
She demurred at this, but as she could not persist in her first boldintention of examining the locality of the vision without admitting itsexistence, she permitted him to walk with her to the house, and then atonce fled to her own room. Larry and her father noticed their entrancetogether and their agitated manner, and were uneasy. Yet the colonel'spaternal pride and Larry's lover's respect kept the two men fromcommunicating their thoughts to each other.
"The confounded pup has been tryin' to be familiar, and Polly's sethim down," thought Larry, with glowing satisfaction.
"He's been trying some of his sanctimonious Yankee abolition talk onPolly, and she shocked him!" thought the colonel exultingly.
But poor Polly had other things to think of in the silence of herroom. Another woman would have unburdened herself to a confidante; butPolly was too loyal to her father to shatter his beliefs, and toohigh-spirited to take another and a lesser person into her confidence.She was certain that Aunt Chloe would be full of sympathetic belief andspeculations, but she would not trust a nigger with what she couldn'ttell her own father. For Polly really and truly believed that she hadseen a ghost, no doubt the ghost of the murdered Sobriente, according toLarry's story. WHY he should appear with only his head above groundpuzzled her, although it suggested the Catholic idea of purgatory, and hewas a Catholic! Perhaps he would have risen entirely but for that stupidStarbuck's presence; perhaps he had a message for HER alone. The ideapleased Polly, albeit it was a "fearful joy" and attended with some coldshivering. Naturally, as a gentleman, he would appear to HER—thedaughter of a gentleman—the successor to his house— ratherthan to a Yankee stranger. What was she to do? For once her calm nerveswere strangely thrilled; she could not think of undressing and going tobed, and two o'clock surprised her, still meditating, and occasionallypeeping from her window upon the moonlit but vacant garden. If she sawhim again, would she dare to go down alone? Suddenly she started to herfeet with a beating heart! There was the unmistakable sound of a stealthyfootstep in the passage, coming towards her room. Was it he? In spite ofher high resolves she felt that if the door opened she should scream! Sheheld her breath—the footsteps came nearer—were before herdoor—and PASSED!
Then it was that the blood rushed back to her cheek with a flush ofindignation. Her room was at the end of the passage; there was nothingbeyond but a private staircase, long disused, except by herself, as ashort cut through the old patio to the garden. No one else knew of it,and no one else had the right of access to it! This insolent humanintrusion—as she was satisfied it was now— overcame her fear,and she glided to the door. Opening it softly, she could hear thestealthy footsteps descending. She darted back, threw a shawl over herhead and shoulders, and taking the small Derringer pistol which it hadalways been part of her ostentatious independence to place at herbed-head, she as stealthily followed the intruder. But the footsteps haddied away before she reached the patio, and she saw only the smalldeserted, grass-grown courtyard, half hidden in shadows, in whose centrestood the fateful and long sealed-up well! A shudder came over her atagain being brought into contact with the cause of her frightful vision,but as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw something morereal and appalling! The well was no longer sealed! Fragments of bricksand boards lay around it! One end of a rope, coiled around it like a hugesnake, descended its foul depths; and as she gazed with staring eyes, thehead and shoulders of a man emerged slowly from it! But it was NOT theghostly apparition of last evening, and her terror changed to scorn andindignation as she recognized the face of Starbuck!
Their eyes met; an oath broke from his lips. He made a movement tospring from the well, but as the girl started back, the pistol held inher hand was discharged aimlessly in the air, and the report echoedthroughout the courtyard. With a curse Starbuck drew back, instantlydisappeared in the well, and Polly fell fainting on the steps. When shecame to, her father and Larry were at her side. They had been alarmed atthe report, and had rushed quickly to the patio, but not in time toprevent the escape of Starbuck and his accomplice. By the time she hadrecovered her consciousness, they had learned the full extent of thatextraordinary revelation which she had so innocently precipitated.Sobriente's well had really concealed a rich gold ledge,—actuallytunneled and galleried by him secretly in the past,—and its onlyother outlet was an opening in the garden hidden by a stone which turnedon a swivel. Its existence had been unknown to Sobriente's successor, butwas known to the Kanaka who had worked with Sobriente, who fled with hisdaughter after the murder, but who no doubt was afraid to return and workthe mine. He had imparted the secret to Starbuck, another half-breed, sonof a Yankee missionary and Hawaiian wife, who had evidently conceivedthis plan of seeking Buena Vista with an accomplice, and secretlyremoving such gold as was still accessible. The accomplice, afterwardsidentified by Larry as the wandering tramp, failed to discover the secretentrance FROM the garden, and Starbuck was consequently obliged toattempt it from the hotel—for which purpose he had introducedhimself as a boarder—by opening the disused well secretly at night.These facts were obtained from papers found in the otherwise valuelesstrunks, weighted with stones for ballast, which Starbuck had brought tothe hotel to take away his stolen treasure in, but which he was obligedto leave in his hurried flight. The attempt would have doubtlesssucceeded but for Polly's courageous and timely interference!
And now that they had told her ALL, they only wanted to know what hadfirst excited HER suspicions, and driven her to seek the well as theobject of Starbuck's machinations? THEY had noticed her manner when sheentered the house that night, and Starbuck's evident annoyance. Had shetaxed him with her suspicions, and so discovered a clue?
It was a terrible temptation to Polly to pose as a more perfectheroine, and one may not blame her if she did not rise entirely superiorto it. Her previous belief, that the head of the accomplice at theopening of the garden was that of a GHOST, she now felt was certainly inthe way, as was also her conduct to Starbuck, whom she believed to beequally frightened, and whom she never once suspected! So she said, witha certain lofty simplicity, that there were SOME THINGS which she reallydid not care to talk about, and Larry and her father left her that nightwith the firm conviction that the rascal Starbuck had tried to tempt herto fly with him and his riches, and had been crushingly foiled. Pollynever denied this, and once, in later days, when admiringly taxed with itby Larry, she admitted with dove-like simplicity that she MAY have beentoo foolishly polite to her father's guest for the sake of her father'shotel.
However, all this was of small account to the thrilling news of a newdiscovery and working of the "old gold ledge" at Buena Vista! As thethree kept their secret from the world, the discovery was accepted in theneighborhood as the result of careful examination and prospecting on thepart of Colonel Swinger and his partner Larry Hawkins. And when thelatter gentleman afterwards boldly proposed to Polly Swinger, shemischievously declared that she accepted him only that the secret mightnot go "out of the family."
It was at best merely a rocky trail winding along a shelf of theeastern slope of the Santa Cruz range, yet the only road between the seaand the inland valley. The hoof-prints of a whole century of zigzaggingmules were impressed on the soil, regularly soaked by winter rains anddried by summer suns during that period; the occasional ruts of heavy,rude, wooden wheels—long obsolete—were still preserved andvisible. Weather-worn boulders and ledges, lying in the unclouded glareof an August sky, radiated a quivering heat that was intolerable, evenwhile above them the masts of gigantic pines rocked their tops in thecold southwestern trades from the unseen ocean beyond. A red, burningdust lay everywhere, as if the heat were slowly and visibly precipitatingitself.
The creaking of wheels and axles, the muffled plunge of hoofs, and thecough of a horse in the dust thus stirred presently broke the profoundwoodland silence. Then a dirty white canvas-covered emigrant wagon slowlyarose with the dust along the ascent. It was travel-stained and worn, andwith its rawboned horses seemed to have reached the last stage of itsjourney and fitness. The only occupants, a man and a girl, appeared to beequally jaded and exhausted, with the added querulousness of discontentin their sallow and badly nourished faces. Their voices, too, were notunlike the creaking they had been pitched to overcome, and there was anabsence of reserve and consciousness in their speech, which toldpathetically of an equal absence of society.
"It's no user talkin'! I tell ye, ye hain't got no more sense than acoyote! I'm sick and tired of it, doggoned if I ain't! Ye ain't no moreuse nor a hossfly,—and jest ez hinderin'! It was along o' you thatwe lost the stock at Laramie, and ef ye'd bin at all decent and takin',we'd hev had kempany that helped, instead of laggin' on yere alone!"
"What did ye bring me for?" retorted the girl shrilly. "I might hevstayed with Aunt Marty. I wasn't hankerin' to come."
"Bring ye for?" repeated her father contemptuously; "I reckoned yemight he o' some account here, whar wimmin folks is skeerce, in the wayo' helpin',—and mebbe gettin' yer married to some likely feller.Mighty much chance o' that, with yer yaller face and skin and bones."
"Ye can't blame me for takin' arter you, dad," she said, with a shrilllaugh, but no other resentment of his brutality.
"Ye want somebody to take arter you—with a club," he retortedangrily. "Ye hear! Wot's that ye're doin' now?"
She had risen and walked to the tail of the wagon. "Goin' to get outand walk. I'm tired o' bein' jawed at."
She jumped into the road. The act was neither indignant nor vengeful;the frequency of such scenes had blunted their sting. She was probably"tired" of the quarrel, and ended it rudely. Her father, however, let flya Parthian arrow.
"Ye needn't think I'm goin' to wait for ye, ez I hev! Ye've got tokeep tetch with the team, or get left. And a good riddance of badrubbidge."
In reply the girl dived into the underwood beside the trail, picked awild berry or two, stripped a wand of young hazel she had broken off, andswitching it at her side, skipped along on the outskirts of the wood andambled after the wagon. Seen in the full, merciless glare of aCalifornian sky, she justified her father's description; thin and bony,her lank frame outstripped the body of her ragged calico dress, which wasonly kept on her shoulders by straps,—possibly her father'scast-off braces. A boy's soft felt hat covered her head, and shadowed heronly notable feature, a pair of large dark eyes, looking larger for thehollow temples which narrowed the frame in which they were set.
So long as the wagon crawled up the ascent the girl knew she couldeasily keep up with it, or even distance the tired horses. She made oneor two incursions into the wood, returning like an animal from quest offood, with something in her mouth, which she was tentatively chewing, andonce only with some inedible mandrono berries, plucked solely for theirbrilliant coloring. It was very hot and singularly close; the highercurrent of air had subsided, and, looking up, a singular haze seemed tohave taken its place between the treetops. Suddenly she heard a strange,rumbling sound; an odd giddiness overtook her, and she was obliged toclutch at a sapling to support herself; she laughed vacantly, though alittle frightened, and looked vaguely towards the summit of the road; butthe wagon had already disappeared. A strange feeling of nausea thenovercame her; she spat out the leaves she had been chewing, disgustedly.But the sensation as quickly passed, and she once more sought the trailand began slowly to follow the tracks of the wagon. The air blew freshly,the treetops began again to rock over her head, and the incident wasforgotten.
Presently she paused; she must have missed the trail, for the wagontracks had ended abruptly before a large boulder that lay across themountain trail. She dipped into the woods again; here there were otherwagon tracks that confused her. It was like her dogged, stupid father tomiss the trail; she felt a gleam of malicious satisfaction at hisdiscomfiture. Sooner or later, he would have to retrace his steps andvirtually come back for her! She took up a position where two rough wheelruts and tracks intersected each other, one of which must be the missingtrail. She noticed, too, the broader hoof-prints of cattle without thefollowing wheel ruts, and instead of traces, the long smooth trails madeby the dragging of logs, and knew by these tokens that she must be nearthe highway or some woodman's hut or ranch. She began to be thirsty, andwas glad, presently, when her quick, rustic ear caught the tinkling ofwater. Yet it was not so easy to discover, and she was getting footsoreand tired again before she found it, some distance away, in a gullycoming from a fissure in a dislocated piece of outcrop. It wasbeautifully clear, cold, and sparkling, with a slightly sweetish taste,yet unlike the brackish "alkali" of the plains. It refreshed and soothedher greatly, so much that, reclining against a tree, but where she wouldbe quite visible from the trail, her eyes closed dreamily, and presentlyshe slept.
When she awoke, the shafts of sunlight were striking almost level intoher eyes. She must have slept two hours. Her father had not returned; sheknew the passage of the wagon would have awakened her. She began to feelstrange, but not yet alarmed; it was only the uncertainty that made heruneasy. Had her father really gone on by some other trail? Or had hereally hurried on and left her, as he said he would? The thought broughtan odd excitement to her rather than any fear. A sudden sense of freedom,as if some galling chain had dropped from her, sent a singular thrillthrough her frame. Yet she felt confused with her independence, notknowing what to do with it, and momentarily dazzled with the possiblegift.
At this moment she heard voices, and the figures of two men appearedon the trail.
They were talking earnestly, and walking as if familiar with the spot,yet gazing around them as if at some novelty of the aspect.
"And look there," said one; "there has been some serious disturbanceof that outcrop," pointing in the direction of the spring; "the lowerpart has distinctly subsided." He spoke with a certain authority, anddominance of position, and was evidently the superior, as he was theelder of the two, although both were roughly dressed.
"Yes, it does kinder look as if it had lost its holt, like the ledgeyonder."
"And you see I am right; the movement was from east to west,"continued the elder man.
The girl could not comprehend what they said, and even thought them alittle silly. But she advanced towards them; at which they stopped short,staring at her. With feminine instinct she addressed the more importantone:—
"Ye ain't passed no wagon nor team goin' on, hev ye?"
"What sort of wagon?" said the man.
"Em'grant wagon, two yaller hosses. Old man—mydad—drivin'." She added the latter kinship as a protectinginfluence against strangers, in spite of her previous independence.
The men glanced at each other.
"How long ago?"
The girl suddenly remembered that she had slept two hours.
"Sens noon," she said hesitatingly.
"Since the earthquake?"
"Wot's that?"
The man came impatiently towards her. "How did you come here?"
"Got outer the wagon to walk. I reckon dad missed the trail, and hezgot off somewhere where I can't find him."
"What trail was he on,—where was he going?"
"Sank Hozay,* I reckon. He was goin' up the grade—side o' thehill; he must hev turned off where there's a big rock hangin' over."
* San Jose.
"Did you SEE him turn off?"
"No."
The second man, who was in hearing distance, had turned away, and wasostentatiously examining the sky and the treetops; the man who had spokento her joined him, and they said something in a low voice. They turnedagain and came slowly towards her. She, from some obscure sense ofimitation, stared at the treetops and the sky as the second man had done.But the first man now laid his hand kindly on her shoulder and said, "Sitdown."
Then they told her there had been an earthquake so strong that it hadthrown down a part of the hillside, including the wagon trail. That awagon team and driver, such as she had described, had been carried downwith it, crushed to fragments, and buried under a hundred feet of rock inthe gulch below. A party had gone down to examine, but it would be weeksperhaps before they found it, and she must be prepared for the worst. Shelooked at them vaguely and with tearless eyes.
"Then ye reckon dad's dead?"
"We fear it."
"Then wot's a-goin' to become o' me?" she said simply.
They glanced again at each other. "Have you no friends in California?"said the elder man.
"Nary one."
"What was your father going to do?"
"Dunno. I reckon HE didn't either."
"You may stay here for the present," said the elder man meditatively."Can you milk?"
The girl nodded. "And I suppose you know something about looking afterstock?" he continued.
The girl remembered that her father thought she didn't, but this wasno time for criticism, and she again nodded.
"Come with me," said the older man, rising. "I suppose," he added,glancing at her ragged frock, "everything you have is in the wagon."
She nodded, adding with the same cold naivete, "It ain't much!"
They walked on, the girl following; at times straying furtively oneither side, as if meditating an escape in the woods,—which indeedhad once or twice been vaguely in her thoughts,—but chiefly toavoid further questioning and not to hear what the men said to eachother. For they were evidently speaking of her, and she could not helphearing the younger repeat her words, "Wot's agoin' to become o' me?"with considerable amusement, and the addition: "She'll take care ofherself, you bet! I call that remark o' hers the richest thing out."
"And I call the state of things that provoked it—monstrous!"said the elder man grimly. "You don't know the lives of thesepeople."
Presently they came to an open clearing in the forest, yet soincomplete that many of the felled trees, partly lopped of their boughs,still lay where they had fallen. There was a cabin or dwelling ofunplaned, unpainted boards; very simple in structure, yet made in aworkmanlike fashion, quite unlike the usual log cabin she had seen. Thismade her think that the elder man was a "towny," and not a frontiersmanlike the other.
As they approached the cabin the elder man stopped, and turning toher, said:—
"Do you know Indians?"
The girl started, and then recovering herself with a quick laugh:"G'lang!—there ain't any Injins here!"
"Not the kind YOU mean; these are very peaceful. There's a squaw herewhom you will"—he stopped, hesitated as he looked critically at thegirl, and then corrected himself—"who will help you."
He pushed open the cabin door and showed an interior, equally simplebut well joined and fitted,—a marvel of neatness and finish to thefrontier girl's eye. There were shelves and cupboards and otherconveniences, yet with no ostentation of refinement to frighten herrustic sensibilities.
Then he pushed open another door leading into a shed and called"Waya." A stout, undersized Indian woman, fitted with a coarse cottongown, but cleaner and more presentable than the girl's one frock,appeared in the doorway. "This is Waya, who attends to the cooking andcleaning," he said; "and by the way, what is your name?"
"Libby Jones."
He took a small memorandum book and a "stub" of pencil from hispocket. "Elizabeth Jones," he said, writing it down. The girl interposeda long red hand.
"No," she interrupted sharply, "not Elizabeth, but Libby, short forLib'rty."
"Liberty?"
"Yes."
"Liberty Jones, then. Well, Waya, this is Miss Jones, who will lookafter the cows and calves—and the dairy." Then glancing at her torndress, he added: "You'll find some clean things in there, until I cansend up something from San Jose. Waya will show you."
Without further speech he turned away with the other man. When theywere some distance from the cabin, the younger remarked:—
"More like a boy than a girl, ain't she?"
"So much the better for her work," returned the elder grimly.
"I reckon! I was only thinkin' she didn't han'some much either as aboy or girl, eh, doctor?" he pursued.
"Well! as THAT won't make much difference to the cows, calves, or thedairy, it needn't trouble US," returned the doctor dryly. But here asudden outburst of laughter from the cabin made them both turn in thatdirection. They were in time to see Liberty Jones dancing out of thecabin door in a large cotton pinafore, evidently belonging to the squaw,who was following her with half-laughing, half-frightened expostulations.The two men stopped and gazed at the spectacle.
"Don't seem to be takin' the old man's death very pow'fully," said theyounger, with a laugh.
"Quite as much as he deserved, I daresay," said the doctor curtly. "Ifthe accident had happened to HER, he would have whined and whimpered tous for the sake of getting something, but have been as much relieved, youmay be certain. SHE'S too young and too natural to be a hypocriteyet."
Suddenly the laughter ceased and Liberty Jones's voice arose, shrillbut masterful: "Thar, that'll do! Quit now! You jest get back to yourscrubbin'—d'ye hear? I'm boss o' this shanty, you bet!"
The doctor turned with a grim smile to his companion. "That's the onlything that bothered me, and I've been waiting for. She's settled it.She'll do. Come."
They turned away briskly through the wood. At the end of half anhour's walk they found the team that had brought them there in waiting,and drove towards San Jose. It was nearly ten miles before they passedanother habitation or trace of clearing. And by this time night hadfallen upon the cabin they had left, and upon the newly made orphan andher Indian companion, alone and contented in that trackless solitude.
Liberty Jones had been a year at the cabin. In that time she hadlearned that her employer's name was Doctor Ruysdael, that he had alucrative practice in San Jose, but had also "taken up" a league or twoof wild forest land in the Santa Cruz range, which he preserved and heldafter a fashion of his own, which gave him the reputation of being a"crank" among the very few neighbors his vast possessions permitted, andthe equally few friends his singular tastes allowed him. It was believedthat a man owning such an enormous quantity of timber land, who shouldrefuse to set up a sawmill and absolutely forbid the felling of trees;who should decline to connect it with the highway to Santa Cruz, andclose it against improvement and speculation, had given sufficientevidence of his insanity; but when to this was added the rumor that hehimself was not only devoid of the human instinct of hunting the wildanimals with which his domain abounded, but that he held it so sacred totheir use as to forbid the firing of a gun within his limits, and thatthese restrictions were further preserved and "policed" by the scatteredremnants of a band of aborigines,—known as "diggerInjins,"—it was seriously hinted that his eccentricity had acquireda political and moral significance, and demanded legislativeinterference. But the doctor was a rich man, a necessity to his patients,a good marksman, and, it was rumored, did not include his fellow menamong the animals he had a distaste for killing.
Of all this, however, Liberty knew little and cared less. The solitudeappealed to her sense of freedom; she did not "hanker" after a societyshe had never known. At the end of the first week, when the doctorcommunicated to her briefly, by letter, the convincing proofs of thedeath of her father and his entombment beneath the sunken cliff, sheaccepted the fact without comment or apparent emotion. Two months later,when her only surviving relative, "Aunt Marty," of Missouri, acknowledgedthe news— communicated by Doctor Ruysdael—with Scripturalquotations and the cheerful hope that it "would be a lesson to her" andshe would "profit in her new place," she left her aunt's letterunanswered.
She looked after the cows and calves with an interest that was almostpossessory, patronized and played with the squaw,—yet made her feelher inferiority,—and moved among the peaceful aborigines with thedomination of a white woman and a superior. She tolerated thehalf-monthly visits of "Jim Hoskins," the young companion of the doctor,who she learned was the doctor's factor and overseer of the property, wholived seven miles away on an agricultural clearing, and whose control ofher actions was evidently limited by the doctor,—for the doctor'ssake alone. Nor was Mr. Hoskins inclined to exceed those limits. Helooked upon her as something abnormal,—a "crank" as remarkable inher way as her patron was in his, neuter of sex and vague of race, and hesimply restricted his supervision to the bringing and taking of messages.She remained sole queen of the domain. A rare straggler from the mainroad, penetrating this seclusion, might have scarcely distinguished herfrom Waya, in her coarse cotton gown and slouched hat, except for thefree stride which contrasted with her companion's waddle. Once, infollowing an estrayed calf, she had crossed the highway and been salutedby a passing teamster in the digger dialect; yet the mistake left nosting in her memory. And, like the digger, she shrank from thatcivilization which had only proved a hard taskmaster.
The sole touch of human interest she had in her surroundings was inthe rare visits of the doctor and his brief but sincere commendation ofher rude and rustic work. It is possible that the strange, middle-aged,gray-haired, intellectual man, whose very language was at timesmysterious and unintelligible to her, and whose suggestion of power awedher, might have touched some untried filial chord in her being. Althoughshe felt that, save for absolute freedom, she was little more to him thanshe had been to her father, yet he had never told her she had "no sense,"that she was "a hindrance," and he had even praised her performance ofher duties. Eagerly as she looked for his coming, in his actual presenceshe felt a singular uneasiness of which she was not entirely ashamed, andif she was relieved at his departure, it none the less left her to adelightful memory of him, a warm sense of his approval, and a fierceambition to be worthy of it, for which she would have sacrificed herselfor the other miserable retainers about her, as a matter of course. Shehad driven Waya and the other squaws far along the sparse tablelandpasture in search of missing stock; she herself had lain out all night onthe rocks beside an ailing heifer. Yet, while satisfied to earn hispraise for the performance of her duty, for some feminine reason shethought more frequently of a casual remark he had made on his last visit:"You are stronger and more healthy in this air," he had said, lookingcritically into her face. "We have got that abominable alkali out of yoursystem, and wholesome food will do the rest." She was not sure she hadquite understood him, but she remembered that she had felt her face growhot when he spoke,— perhaps because she had not understood him.
His next visit was a day or two delayed, and in her anxiety she hadventured as far as the highway to earnestly watch for his coming. Fromher hiding-place in the underwood she could see the team and Jim Hoskinsalready waiting for him. Presently she saw him drive up to the trail in acarryall with a party of ladies and gentlemen. He alighted, bade"Good-by" to the party, and the team turned to retrace its course. But inthat single moment she had been struck and bewildered by what seemed toher the dazzlingly beautiful apparel of the women, and their prettiness.She felt a sudden consciousness of her own coarse, shapeless calico gown,her straggling hair, and her felt hat, and a revulsion of feeling seizedher. She crept like a wounded animal out of the underwood, and then ranswiftly and almost fiercely back towards the cabin. She ran so fast thatfor a time she almost kept pace with the doctor and Hoskins in the wagonon the distant trail. Then she dived into the underwood again, and makinga short cut through the forest, came at the end of two hours withinhailing distance of the cabin,—footsore and exhausted, in spite ofthe strange excitement that had driven her back. Here she thought sheheard voices—his voice among the rest—calling her, but thesame singular revulsion of feeling hurried her vaguely on again, evenwhile she experienced a foolish savage delight in not answering thesummons. In this erratic wandering she came upon the spring she had foundon her first entrance in the forest a year ago, and drank feverishly asecond time at its trickling source. She could see that since her firstvisit it had worn a great hollow below the tree roots and now formed ashining, placid pool. As she stooped to look at it, she suddenly observedthat it reflected her whole figure as in a cruel mirror,—herslouched hat and loosened hair, her coarse and shapeless gown, her hollowcheeks and dry yellow skin,—in all their hopeless, uncompromisingdetails. She uttered a quick, angry, half-reproachful cry, and turnedagain to fly. But she had not gone far before she came upon the hurryingfigures and anxious faces of the doctor and Hoskins. She stopped,trembling and irresolute.
"Ah," said the doctor, in a tone of frank relief. "Here you are! I wasgetting worried about you. Waya said you had been gone since morning!" Hestopped and looked at her attentively. "Is anything the matter?"
His evident concern sent a warm glow over her chilly frame, and yetthe strange sensation remained. "No—no!" she stammered.
Doctor Ruysdael turned to Hoskins. "Go back and tell Waya I've foundher."
Libby felt that the doctor only wanted to get rid of his companion,and became awed again.
"Has anybody been bothering you?"
"No."
"Have the diggers frightened you?"
"No"—with a gesture of contempt.
"Have you and Waya quarreled?"
"Nary"—with a faint, tremulous smile.
He still stared at her, and then dropped his blue eyes musingly. "Areyou lonely here? Would you rather go to San Jose?"
Like a flash the figures of the two smartly dressed women started upbefore her again, with every detail of their fresh and wholesome fineryas cruelly distinct as had been her own shapeless ugliness in the mirrorof the spring. "No! NO!" she broke out vehemently and passionately."Never!"
He smiled gently. "Look here! I'll send you up some books. Youread—don't you?" She nodded quickly. "Some magazines and papers.Odd I never thought of it before," he added half musingly. "Come along tothe cabin. And," he stopped again and said decisively, "the next time youwant anything, don't wait for me to come, but write."
A few days after he left she received a package of books,—an oddcollection of novels, magazines, and illustrated journals of the period.She received them eagerly as an evidence of his concern for her, but itis to be feared that her youthful nature found little satisfaction in thegratification of fancy. Many of the people she read of were strange toher; many of the incidents related seemed to her mere lies; some taleswhich treated of people in her own sphere she found profoundlyuninteresting. In one of the cheaper magazines she chanced upon a fashionplate; she glanced eagerly through all the others for a like revelationuntil she got a dozen together, when she promptly relegated the remainingliterature to a corner and oblivion. The text accompanying the plates wasin a jargon not always clear, but her instinct supplied the rest. Shedispatched by Hoskins a note to Doctor Ruysdael: "Please send me somebrite kalikers and things for sewing. You told me to ask." A few dayslater brought the response in a good- sized parcel.
Yet this did not keep her from her care of the stock nor her ramblesin the forest; she was quick to utilize her rediscovery of the spring forwatering the cattle; it was not so far afield as the half-dried creek inthe canyon, and was a quiet sylvan spot. She ate her frugal midday mealthere and drank of its waters, and, secure in her seclusion, bathed thereand made her rude toilet when the cows were driven home. But she did notagain look into its mirrored surface when it was tranquil!
And so a month passed. But when Doctor Ruysdael was again due at thecabin, a letter was brought by Hoskins, with the news that he was calledaway on professional business down the coast, and could not come untiltwo weeks later. In the disappointment that overcame her, she did not atfirst notice that Hoskins was gazing at her with a singular expression,which was really one of undisguised admiration. Never having seen thisbefore in the eyes of any man who looked at her, she referred it to somevague "larking" or jocularity, for which she was in no mood.
"Say, Libby! you're gettin' to be a right smart-lookin' gal. Seems toagree with ye up here," said Hoskins with an awkward laugh. "Darned ef yeain't lookin' awful purty!"
"G'long! "said Liberty Jones, more than ever convinced of hisbadinage.
"Fact," said Hoskins energetically. "Why, Doc would tell ye so, too.See ef he don't!"
At this Liberty Jones felt her face grow hot. "You jess get!" shesaid, turning away in as much embarrassment as anger. Yet he hovered nearher with awkward attentions that pleased while it still angered her. Heoffered to go with her to look up the cows; she flatly declined, yet witha strange satisfaction in his evident embarrassment. This may have lentsome animation to her face, for he drew a long breath andsaid:—
"Don't go pertendin' ye don't know yer purty. Say, let me and you walka bit and have a talk together." But Libby had another idea in her mindand curtly dismissed him. Then she ran swiftly to the spring, for thewords "The Doc will tell ye so, too" were ringing in her ears. The doctorwho came with the two beautifully dressed women! HE—would tell hershe was pretty! She had not dared to look at herself in that crystalmirror since that dreadful day two months ago. She would now.
It was a pretty place in the cool shade of the giant trees, and thehoof-marks of cattle drinking from the run beneath the pool had notdisturbed the margin of that tranquil sylvan basin. For a moment shestood tremulous and uncertain, and then going up to the shining mirror,dropped on her knees before it with her thin red hands clasped on herlap. Unconsciously she had taken the attitude of prayer; perhaps therewas something like it in her mind.
And then the light glanced full on the figure that she saw there!
It fell on a full oval face and throat guileless of fleck or stain,smooth as a child's and glowing with health; on large dark eyes, nolonger sunk in their orbits, but filled with an eager, happy light; onbared arms now shapely in contour and cushioned with firm flesh; on adazzling smile, the like of which had never been on the face of LibertyJones before!
She rose to her feet, and yet lingered as if loath to part from thisdelightful vision. Then a fear overcame her that it was some trick of thewater, and she sped swiftly back to the house to consult the littlemirror which hung in her sleeping-room, but which she had never glancedat since the momentous day of the spring. She took it shyly into thesunshine, and found that it corroborated the reflection of the spring.That night she worked until late at the calico Doctor Ruysdael had senther, and went to bed happy. The next day brought her Hoskins again with afeeble excuse of inquiring if she had a letter for the doctor, and shewas surprised to find that he was reinforced by a stranger from Hoskins'sfarm, who was equally awkward and vaguely admiring. But the appearance ofthe TWO men produced a singular phase in her impressions and experience.She was no longer indignant at Hoskins, but she found relief in acceptingthe compliments of the stranger in preference, and felt a delight inHoskins's discomfiture. Waya, promoted to the burlesque of a chaperone,grinned with infinite delight and understanding.
When at last the day came for the doctor's arrival, he was duly met byHoskins, and as duly informed by that impressible subordinate of thegreat change in Liberty's appearance. But the doctor was far from beingequally impressed with his factor's story, and indeed showed much moreinterest in the appearance of the stock which they met along the road.Once the doctor got out of the wagon to inspect a cow, and particularlythe coat of a rough draught horse that had been turned out and put underLiberty's care. "His skin is like velvet," said the doctor. "The girlevidently understands stock, and knows how to keep them incondition."
"I reckon she's beginning to understand herself, too," said Hoskins."Golly! wait till ye see HER."
The doctor DID see her, but with what feelings he did not as franklyexpress. She was not at the cabin when they arrived, but presentlyappeared from the direction of the spring where, for reasons of her own,she had evidently made her toilet. Doctor Ruysdael was astounded;Hoskins's praise was not exaggerated; and there was an added charm thatHoskins was not prepared for. She had put on a gown of her ownmaking,—the secret toil of many a long night,—amateurishlyfashioned from some cheap yellow calico the doctor had sent her, yetfitting her wonderfully, and showing every curve of her graceful figure.Unaccented by a corset,—an article she had never known,—eventhe lines of the stiff, unyielding calico had a fashion that wasnymph-like and suited her unfettered limbs. Doctor Ruysdael wasprofoundly moved. Though a philosopher, he was practical. He foundhimself suddenly confronted not only by a beautiful girl, but a problem!It was impossible to keep the existence of this woodland nymph from theknowledge of his distant neighbors; it was equally impossible for him toassume the responsibility of keeping a goddess like this in her presentposition. He had noticed her previous improvement, but had never dreamedthat pure and wholesome living could in two months work such a miracle.And he was to a certain degree responsible, HE had created her,—abeautiful Frankenstein, whose lustrous, appealing eyes were even nowmenacing his security and position.
Perhaps she saw trouble and perplexity in the face where she hadexpected admiration and pleasure, for a slight chill went over her as hequickly praised the appearance of the stock and spoke of her ownimprovement. But when they were alone, he turned to her abruptly.
"You said you had no wish to go to San Jose?"
"No." Yet she was conscious that her greatest objection had beenremoved, and she colored faintly.
"Listen to me," he said dryly. "You deserve a better position thanthis,—a better home and surroundings than you have here. You areolder, too,—a woman almost,—and you must look ahead."
A look of mingled fright, reproach, and appeal came into her eloquentface. "Yer wantin' to send me away?" she stammered.
"No," he said frankly. "It is you who are GROWING away. This is nolonger the place for you."
"But I want to stay. I don't wanter go. I am—I WAS happyhere."
"But I'm thinking of giving up this place. It takes up too much of mytime. You must be provided"—
"YOU are going away?" she said passionately.
"Yes."
"Take me with you. I'll go anywhere!—to San Jose—-whereveryou go. Don't turn me off as dad did, for I'll foller you as I neverfollowed dad. I'll go with you—or I'll die!"
There was neither fear nor shame in her words; it was the outspokeninstinct of the animal he had been rearing; be was convinced and appalledby it.
"I am returning to San Jose at once," he said gravely. "You shall gowith me—FOR THE PRESENT! Get yourself ready!"
He took her to San Jose, and temporarily to the house of apatient,— a widow lady,—while he tried, alone, to grapplewith the problem that now confronted him. But that problem became morecomplicated at the end of the third day, by Liberty Jones fallingsuddenly and alarmingly ill. The symptoms were so grave that the doctor,in his anxiety, called in a brother physician in consultation. When theexamination was over, the two men withdrew and stared at each other.
"Of course there is no doubt that the symptoms all point to slowarsenical poisoning," said the consulting doctor.
"Yes," said Ruysdael quickly, "yet it is utterly inexplicable, both asto motive and opportunity."
"Humph!" said the other grimly, "young ladies take arsenic in minutedoses to improve the complexion and promote tissue, forgetting that theeffects are cumulative when they stop suddenly. Your young friend has'sworn off' too quickly."
"But it is impossible," said Doctor Ruysdael impatiently. "She is amere child—a country girl—ignorant of such habits."
"Humph! the peasants in the Tyrol try it on themselves after noticingthe effect on the coats of cattle."
Doctor Ruysdael started. A recollection of the sleek draught horseflashed upon him. He rose and hastily re-entered the patient's room. In afew moments he returned. "Do you think I could remove her at once to themountains?" he said gravely.
"Yes, with care and a return to graduated doses of the same poison;you know it's the only remedy just now," answered the other.
By noon the next day the doctor and his patient had returned to thecabin, but Ruysdael himself carried the helpless Liberty Jones to thespring and deposited her gently beside it. "You may drink now," he saidgravely.
The girl did so eagerly, apparently imbibing new strength from thesparkling water. The doctor meanwhile coolly filled a phial from the samesource, and made a hasty test of the contents by the aid of some otherphials from his case. The result seemed to satisfy him. Then he saidgravely:
"And THIS is the spring you had discovered?"
The girl nodded.
"And you and the cattle have daily used it?"
She nodded again wonderingly. Then she caught his handappealingly.
"You won't send me away?"
He smiled oddly as he glanced from the waters of the hill to thebrimming eyes. "No."
"No-r," tremulously, "go away—yourself?"
The doctor looked this time only into her eyes. There was a tremendousidea in his own, which seemed in some way to have solved that dreadfulproblem.
"No! We will stay here TOGETHER."
Six months later there was a paragraph in the San Francisco press:"The wonderful Arsenical Spring in the Santa Cruz Mountain, known as'Liberty Spring,' discovered by Doctor Ruysdael, has proved such aremarkable success that we understand the temporary huts for patients areto be shortly replaced by a magnificent Spa Hotel worthy of the spot, andthe eligible villa sites it has brought into the market. It will be asource of pleasure to all to know that the beautiful nymph—a worthysuccessor to the far-famed 'Elise' of the German 'Brunnen'—who hasadministered the waters to so many grateful patients will still be inattendance, although it is rumored that she is shortly to become the wifeof the distinguished discoverer."
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