Produced by Don Lainson
TALES OF THE ARGONAUTS
By Bret Harte
CONTENTS
THE ROSE OF TUOLUMNE
A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST
WAN LEE, THE PAGAN
HOW OLD MAN PLUNKETT WENT HOME
THE FOOL OF FIVE FORKS
BABY SYLVESTER
AN EPISODE OF FIDDLETOWN
A JERSEY CENTENARIAN
THE ROSE OF TUOLUMNE
CHAPTER I
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. The lights were out inRobinson's Hall, where there had been dancing and revelry; and the moon,riding high, painted the black windows with silver. The cavalcade, thatan hour ago had shocked the sedate pines with song and laughter, wereall dispersed. One enamoured swain had ridden east, another west,another north, another south; and the object of their adoration, leftwithin her bower at Chemisal Ridge, was calmly going to bed.
I regret that I am not able to indicate the exact stage of that process.Two chairs were already filled with delicate inwrappings and whiteconfusion; and the young lady herself, half-hidden in the silky threadsof her yellow hair, had at one time borne a faint resemblance to apartly-husked ear of Indian corn. But she was now clothed in thatone long, formless garment that makes all women equal; and the roundshoulders and neat waist, that an hour ago had been so fatal to thepeace of mind of Four Forks, had utterly disappeared. The face aboveit was very pretty: the foot below, albeit shapely, was not small. "Theflowers, as a general thing, don't raise their heads MUCH to look afterme," she had said with superb frankness to one of her lovers.
The expression of the "Rose" to-night was contentedly placid. She walkedslowly to the window, and, making the smallest possible peephole throughthe curtain, looked out. The motionless figure of a horseman stilllingered on the road, with an excess of devotion that only a coquette,or a woman very much in love, could tolerate. The "Rose," at thatmoment, was neither, and, after a reasonable pause, turned away, sayingquite audibly that it was "too ridiculous for any thing." As she cameback to her dressing-table, it was noticeable that she walked steadilyand erect, without that slight affectation of lameness common to peoplewith whom bare feet are only an episode. Indeed, it was only four yearsago, that without shoes or stockings, a long-limbed, colty girl, in awaistless calico gown, she had leaped from the tailboard of her father'semigrant-wagon when it first drew up at Chemisal Ridge. Certain wildhabits of the "Rose" had outlived transplanting and cultivation.
A knock at the door surprised her. In another moment she had leaped intobed, and with darkly-frowning eyes, from its secure recesses demanded"Who's there?"
An apologetic murmur on the other side of the door was the response.
"Why, father!--is that you?"
There were further murmurs, affirmative, deprecatory, and persistent.
"Wait," said the "Rose." She got up, unlocked the door, leaped nimblyinto bed again, and said, "Come."
The door opened timidly. The broad, stooping shoulders, and grizzledhead, of a man past the middle age, appeared: after a moment'shesitation, a pair of large, diffident feet, shod with canvas slippers,concluded to follow. When the apparition was complete, it closed thedoor softly, and stood there,--a very shy ghost indeed,--with apparentlymore than the usual spiritual indisposition to begin a conversation.The "Rose" resented this impatiently, though, I fear, not altogetherintelligibly.
"Do, father, I declare!"
"You was abed, Jinny," said Mr. McClosky slowly, glancing, with asingular mixture of masculine awe and paternal pride, upon the twochairs and their contents,--"you was abed and ondressed."
"I was."
"Surely," said Mr. McClosky, seating himself on the extreme edge of thebed, and painfully tucking his feet away under it,--"surely." Aftera pause, he rubbed a short, thick, stumpy beard, that bore a generalresemblance to a badly-worn blacking-brush, with the palm of his hand,and went on, "You had a good time, Jinny?"
"Yes, father."
"They was all there?"
"Yes, Rance and York and Ryder and Jack."
"And Jack!" Mr. McClosky endeavored to throw an expression of archinquiry into his small, tremulous eyes; but meeting the unabashed,widely-opened lid of his daughter, he winked rapidly, and blushed to theroots of his hair.
"Yes, Jack was there," said Jenny, without change of color, or the leastself-consciousness in her great gray eyes; "and he came home with me."She paused a moment, locking her two hands under her head, and assuminga more comfortable position on the pillow. "He asked me that samequestion again, father, and I said, 'Yes.' It's to be--soon. We're goingto live at Four Forks, in his own house; and next winter we're going toSacramento. I suppose it's all right, father, eh?" She emphasized thequestion with a slight kick through the bed-clothes, as the parentalMcClosky had fallen into an abstract revery.
"Yes, surely," said Mr. McClosky, recovering himself with someconfusion. After a pause, he looked down at the bed-clothes, and,patting them tenderly, continued, "You couldn't have done better,Jinny. They isn't a girl in Tuolumne ez could strike it ez rich asyou hev--even if they got the chance." He paused again, and then said,"Jinny?"
"Yes, father."
"You'se in bed, and ondressed?"
"Yes."
"You couldn't," said Mr. McClosky, glancing hopelessly at the twochairs, and slowly rubbing his chin,--"you couldn't dress yourself againcould yer?"
"Why, father!"
"Kinder get yourself into them things again?" he added hastily. "Not allof 'em, you know, but some of 'em. Not if I helped you--sorter stood by,and lent a hand now and then with a strap, or a buckle, or a necktie, ora shoestring?" he continued, still looking at the chairs, and evidentlytrying to boldly familiarize himself with their contents.
"Are you crazy, father?" demanded Jenny suddenly sitting up with aportentous switch of her yellow mane. Mr. McClosky rubbed one side ofhis beard, which already had the appearance of having been quite wornaway by that process, and faintly dodged the question.
"Jinny," he said, tenderly stroking the bedclothes as he spoke, "thisyer's what's the matter. Thar is a stranger down stairs,--a stranger toyou, lovey, but a man ez I've knowed a long time. He's been here aboutan hour; and he'll be here ontil fower o'clock, when the up-stagepasses. Now I wants ye, Jinny dear, to get up and come down stairs, andkinder help me pass the time with him. It's no use, Jinny," he went on,gently raising his hand to deprecate any interruption, "it's no use! Hewon't go to bed; he won't play keerds; whiskey don't take no effect onhim. Ever since I knowed him, he was the most onsatisfactory critter tohev round"--
"What do you have him round for, then?" interrupted Miss Jinny sharply.
Mr. McClosky's eyes fell. "Ef he hedn't kem out of his way to-night todo me a good turn, I wouldn't ask ye, Jinny. I wouldn't, so help me! ButI thought, ez I couldn't do any thing with him, you might come down, andsorter fetch him, Jinny, as you did the others."
Miss Jenny shrugged her pretty shoulders.
"Is he old, or young?"
"He's young enough, Jinny; but he knows a power of things."
"What does he do?"
"Not much, I reckon. He's got money in the mill at Four Forks. Hetravels round a good deal. I've heard, Jinny that he's a poet--writesthem rhymes, you know." Mr. McClosky here appealed submissively butdirectly to his daughter. He remembered that she had frequently beenin receipt of printed elegaic couplets known as "mottoes," containingenclosures equally saccharine.
Miss Jenny slightly curled her pretty lip. She had that fine contemptfor the illusions of fancy which belongs to the perfectly healthy younganimal.
"Not," continued Mr. McClosky, rubbing his head reflectively, "not ezI'd advise ye, Jinny, to say any thing to hi
m about poetry. It ain'ttwenty minutes ago ez I did. I set the whiskey afore him in theparlor. I wound up the music-box, and set it goin'. Then I sez to him,sociable-like and free, 'Jest consider yourself in your own house, andrepeat what you allow to be your finest production,' and he raged. Thatman, Jinny, jest raged! Thar's no end of the names he called me. Yousee, Jinny," continued Mr. McClosky apologetically, "he's known me along time."
But his daughter had already dismissed the question with her usualdirectness. "I'll be down in a few moments, father," she said after apause, "but don't say any thing to him about it--don't say I was abed."
Mr. McClosky's face beamed. "You was allers a good girl, Jinny," hesaid, dropping on one knee the better to imprint a respectful kiss onher forehead. But Jenny caught him by the wrists, and for a moment heldhim captive. "Father," said she, trying to fix his shy eyes with theclear, steady glance of her own, "all the girls that were there to-nighthad some one with them. Mame Robinson had her aunt; Lucy Rance had hermother; Kate Pierson had her sister--all, except me, had some otherwoman. Father dear," her lip trembled just a little, "I wish motherhadn't died when I was so small. I wish there was some other woman inthe family besides me. I ain't lonely with you, father dear; but ifthere was only some one, you know, when the time comes for John andme"--
Her voice here suddenly gave out, but not her brave eyes, that werestill fixed earnestly upon his face. Mr. McClosky, apparently tracingout a pattern on the bedquilt, essayed words of comfort.
"Thar ain't one of them gals ez you've named, Jinny, ez could do whatyou've done with a whole Noah's ark of relations, at their backs! Tharain't 'one ez wouldn't sacrifice her nearest relation to make the strikethat you hev. Ez to mothers, maybe, my dear you're doin' better withoutone." He rose suddenly, and walked toward the door. When he reached it,he turned, and, in his old deprecating manner, said, "Don't be long,Jinny," smiled, and vanished from the head downward, his canvas slippersasserting themselves resolutely to the last.
When Mr. McClosky reached his parlor again, his troublesome guest wasnot there. The decanter stood on the table untouched; three or fourbooks lay upon the floor; a number of photographic views of the Sierraswere scattered over the sofa; two sofa-pillows, a newspaper, and aMexican blanket, lay on the carpet, as if the late occupant of the roomhad tried to read in a recumbent position. A French window openingupon a veranda, which never before in the history of the house had beenunfastened, now betrayed by its waving lace curtain the way that thefugitive had escaped. Mr. McClosky heaved a sigh of despair. He lookedat the gorgeous carpet purchased in Sacramento at a fabulous price, atthe crimson satin and rosewood furniture unparalleled in the historyof Tuolumne, at the massively-framed pictures on the walls, and lookedbeyond it, through the open window, to the reckless man, who, fleeingthese sybaritic allurements, was smoking a cigar upon the moonlit road.This room, which had so often awed the youth of Tuolumne into filialrespect, was evidently a failure. It remained to be seen if the "Rose"herself had lost her fragrance. "I reckon Jinny will fetch him yet,"said Mr. McClosky with parental faith.
He stepped from the window upon the veranda; but he had scarcely donethis, before his figure was detected by the stranger, who at oncecrossed the road. When within a few feet of McClosky, he stopped. "Youpersistent old plantigrade!" he said in a low voice, audible only to theperson addressed, and a face full of affected anxiety, "why don't you goto bed? Didn't I tell you to go and leave me here alone? In the name ofall that's idiotic and imbecile, why do you continue to shuffle abouthere? Or are you trying to drive me crazy with your presence, as youhave with that wretched music-box that I've just dropped under yondertree? It's an hour and a half yet before the stage passes: do you think,do you imagine for a single moment, that I can tolerate you until then,eh? Why don't you speak? Are you asleep? You don't mean to say that youhave the audacity to add somnambulism to your other weaknesses? you'renot low enough to repeat yourself under any such weak pretext as that,eh?"
A fit of nervous coughing ended this extraordinary exordium; and halfsitting, half leaning against the veranda, Mr. McClosky's guest turnedhis face, and part of a slight elegant figure, toward his host. Thelower portion of this upturned face wore an habitual expression offastidious discontent, with an occasional line of physical suffering.But the brow above was frank and critical; and a pair of dark, mirthfuleyes, sat in playful judgment over the super-sensitive mouth and itssuggestion.
"I allowed to go to bed, Ridgeway," said Mr. McClosky meekly; "but mygirl Jinny's jist got back from a little tear up at Robinson's, andain't inclined to turn in yet. You know what girls is. So I thought wethree would jist have a social chat together to pass away the time."
"You mendacious old hypocrite! She got back an hour ago," said Ridgeway,"as that savage-looking escort of hers, who has been haunting the houseever since, can testify. My belief is, that, like an enterprising idiotas you are, you've dragged that girl out of her bed, that we mightmutually bore each other."
Mr. McClosky was too much stunned by this evidence of Ridgeway'sapparently superhuman penetration to reply. After enjoying his host'sconfusion for a moment with his eyes, Ridgeway's mouth asked grimly,--
"And who is this girl, anyway?"
"Nancy's."
"Your wife's?"
"Yes. But look yar, Ridgeway," said McClosky, laying one handimploringly on Ridgeway's sleeve, "not a word about her to Jinny. Shethinks her mother's dead--died in Missouri. Eh!"
Ridgeway nearly rolled from the veranda in an excess of rage. "Good God!Do you mean to say that you have been concealing from her a fact thatany day, any moment, may come to her ears? That you've been lettingher grow up in ignorance of something that by this time she might haveoutgrown and forgotten? That you have been, like a besotted old ass,all these years slowly forging a thunderbolt that any one may crush herwith? That"--but here Ridgeway's cough took possession of his voice,and even put a moisture into his dark eyes, as he looked at McClosky'saimless hand feebly employed upon his beard.
"But," said McClosky, "look how she's done! She's held her head as highas any of 'em. She's to be married in a month to the richest man in thecounty; and," he added cunningly, "Jack Ashe ain't the kind o' man tosit by and hear any thing said of his wife or her relations, you bet!But hush--that's her foot on the stairs. She's cummin'."
She came. I don't think the French window ever held a finer view thanwhen she put aside the curtains, and stepped out. She had dressedherself simply and hurriedly, but with a woman's knowledge of herbest points; so that you got the long curves of her shapely limbs, theshorter curves of her round waist and shoulders, the long sweep of heryellow braids, the light of her gray eyes, and even the delicate rose ofher complexion, without knowing how it was delivered to you.
The introduction by Mr. McClosky was brief. When Ridgeway had got overthe fact that it was two o'clock in the morning, and that the cheek ofthis Tuolumne goddess nearest him was as dewy and fresh as an infant's,that she looked like Marguerite, without, probably, ever having heardof Goethe's heroine, he talked, I dare say, very sensibly. When MissJenny--who from her childhood had been brought up among the sons ofAnak, and who was accustomed to have the supremacy of our noble sexpresented to her as a physical fact--found herself in the presence of anew and strange power in the slight and elegant figure beside her, shewas at first frightened and cold. But finding that this power, againstwhich the weapons of her own physical charms were of no avail, wasa kindly one, albeit general, she fell to worshipping it, after thefashion of woman, and casting before it the fetishes and other idols ofher youth. She even confessed to it. So that, in half an hour, Ridgewaywas in possession of all the facts connected with her life, and a greatmany, I fear, of her fancies--except one. When Mr. McClosky found theyoung people thus amicably disposed, he calmly went to sleep.
It was a pleasant time to each. To Miss Jenny it had the charm ofnovelty; and she abandoned herself to it, for that reason, much morefreely and innocently than her companion, who knew something more of the
inevitable logic of the position. I do not think, however, he had anyintention of love-making. I do not think he was at all conscious ofbeing in the attitude. I am quite positive he would have shrunk from thesuggestion of disloyalty to the one woman whom he admitted to himselfhe loved. But, like most poets, he was much more true to an idea thana fact, and having a very lofty conception of womanhood, with avery sanguine nature, he saw in each new face the possibilities of arealization of his ideal. It was, perhaps, an unfortunate thing for thewomen, particularly as he brought to each trial a surprising freshness,which was very deceptive, and quite distinct from the 'blase'familiarity of the man of gallantry. It was this perennial virginity ofthe affections that most endeared him to the best women, who were proneto exercise toward him a chivalrous protection,--as of one likely to goastray, unless looked after,--and indulged in the dangerous combinationof sentiment with the highest maternal instincts. It was this qualitywhich caused Jenny to recognize in him a certain boyishness thatrequired her womanly care, and even induced her to offer to accompanyhim to the cross-roads when the time for his departure arrived. With hersuperior knowledge of woodcraft and the locality, she would have kepthim from being lost. I wot not but that she would have protected himfrom bears or wolves, but chiefly, I think, from the feline fascinationsof Mame Robinson and Lucy Rance, who might be lying in wait for thistender young poet. Nor did she cease to be thankful that Providence had,so to speak, delivered him as a trust into her hands.
It was a lovely night. The moon swung low, and languished softly onthe snowy ridge beyond. There were quaint odors in the still air; and astrange incense from the woods perfumed their young blood, and seemedto swoon in their pulses. Small wonder that they lingered on the whiteroad, that their feet climbed, unwillingly the little hill where theywere to part, and that, when they at last reached it, even the savinggrace of speech seemed to have forsaken them.
For there they stood alone. There was no sound nor motion in earth, orwoods, or heaven. They might have been the one man and woman for whomthis goodly earth that lay at their feet, rimmed with the deepest azure,was created. And, seeing this, they turned toward each other with asudden instinct, and their hands met, and then their lips in one longkiss.
And then out of the mysterious distance came the sound of voices, andthe sharp clatter of hoofs and wheels, and Jenny slid away--a whitemoonbeam--from the hill. For a moment she glimmered through the trees,and then, reaching the house, passed her sleeping father on the veranda,and, darting into her bedroom, locked the door, threw open the window,and, falling on her knees beside it, leaned her hot cheeks upon herhands, and listened. In a few moments she was rewarded by the sharpclatter of hoofs on the stony road; but it was only a horseman, whosedark figure was swiftly lost in the shadows of the lower road. Atanother time she might have recognized the man; but her eyes and earswere now all intent on something else. It came presently with dancinglights, a musical rattle of harness, a cadence of hoof-beats, thatset her heart to beating in unison--and was gone. A sudden sense ofloneliness came over her; and tears gathered in her sweet eyes.
She arose, and looked around her. There was the little bed, thedressing-table, the roses that she had worn last night, still freshand blooming in the little vase. Every thing was there; but every thinglooked strange. The roses should have been withered, for the partyseemed so long ago. She could hardly remember when she had worn thisdress that lay upon the chair. So she came back to the window, and sankdown beside it, with her cheek a trifle paler, leaning on her hand, andher long braids reaching to the floor. The stars paled slowly, like hercheek; yet with eyes that saw not, she still looked from her window forthe coming dawn.
It came, with violet deepening into purple, with purple flushinginto rose, with rose shining into silver, and glowing into gold. Thestraggling line of black picket-fence below, that had faded away withthe stars, came back with the sun. What was that object moving bythe fence? Jenny raised her head, and looked intently. It was a manendeavoring to climb the pickets, and falling backward with eachattempt. Suddenly she started to her feet, as if the rosy flushes of thedawn had crimsoned her from forehead to shoulders; then she stood, whiteas the wall, with her hands clasped upon her bosom; then, with a singlebound, she reached the door, and, with flying braids and flutteringskirt, sprang down the stairs, and out to the garden walk. When within afew feet of the fence, she uttered a cry, the first she had given,--thecry of a mother over her stricken babe, of a tigress over her mangledcub; and in another moment she had leaped the fence, and knelt besideRidgeway, with his fainting head upon her breast.
"My boy, my poor, poor boy! who has done this?"
Who, indeed? His clothes were covered with dust; his waistcoat was tornopen; and his handkerchief, wet with the blood it could not stanch, fellfrom a cruel stab beneath his shoulder.
"Ridgeway, my poor boy! tell me what has happened."
Ridgeway slowly opened his heavy blue-veined lids, and gazed upon her.Presently a gleam of mischief came into his dark eyes, a smile stoleover his lips as he whispered slowly,--
"It--was--your kiss--did it, Jenny dear. I had forgotten--howhigh-priced the article was here. Never mind, Jenny!"--he feebly raisedher hand to his white lips,--"it was--worth it," and fainted away.
Jenny started to her feet, and looked wildly around her. Then, with asudden resolution, she stooped over the insensible man, and with onestrong effort lifted him in her arms as if he had been a child. When herfather, a moment later, rubbed his eyes, and awoke from his sleep uponthe veranda, it was to see a goddess, erect and triumphant, stridingtoward the house with the helpless body of a man lying across thatbreast where man had never lain before,--a goddess, at whose imperiousmandate he arose, and cast open the doors before her. And then, whenshe had laid her unconscious burden on the sofa, the goddess fled; and awoman, helpless and trembling, stood before him,--a woman that cried outthat she had "killed him," that she was "wicked, wicked!" and that, evensaying so, staggered, and fell beside her late burden. And all thatMr. McClosky could do was to feebly rub his beard, and say to himselfvaguely and incoherently, that "Jinny had fetched him."
CHAPTER II
Before noon the next day, it was generally believed throughout FourForks that Ridgeway Dent had been attacked and wounded at Chemisal Ridgeby a highwayman, who fled on the approach of the Wingdam coach. It is tobe presumed that this statement met with Ridgeway's approval, as he didnot contradict it, nor supplement it with any details. His wound wassevere, but not dangerous. After the first excitement had subsided,there was, I think, a prevailing impression common to the provincialmind, that his misfortune was the result of the defective moral qualityof his being a stranger, and was, in a vague sort of a way, a warning toothers, and a lesson to him. "Did you hear how that San Francisco fellerwas took down the other night?" was the average tone of introductoryremark. Indeed, there was a general suggestion that Ridgeway's presencewas one that no self-respecting, high-minded highwayman, honorablyconservative of the best interests of Tuolumne County, could for amoment tolerate.
Except for the few words spoken on that eventful morning, Ridgeway wasreticent of the past. When Jenny strove to gather some details ofthe affray that might offer a clew to his unknown assailant, a subtletwinkle in his brown eyes was the only response. When Mr. McCloskyattempted the same process, the young gentleman threw abusive epithets,and, eventually slippers, teaspoons, and other lighter articles withinthe reach of an invalid, at the head of his questioner. "I think he'scoming round, Jinny," said Mr. McClosky: "he laid for me this morningwith a candlestick."
It was about this time that Miss Jenny, having sworn her father tosecrecy regarding the manner in which Ridgeway had been carried into thehouse, conceived the idea of addressing the young man as "Mr. Dent,"and of apologizing for intruding whenever she entered the room in thedischarge of her household duties. It was about this time that shebecame more rigidly conscientious to those duties, and less general inher attentions. It was at this time that the quality of the inva
lid'sdiet improved, and that she consulted him less frequently about it. Itwas about this time that she began to see more company, that the housewas greatly frequented by her former admirers, with whom she rode,walked, and danced. It was at about this time also, and when Ridgewaywas able to be brought out on the veranda in a chair, that, with greatarchness of manner, she introduced to him Miss Lucy Ashe, the sister ofher betrothed, a flashing brunette, and terrible heart-breaker of FourForks. And, in the midst of this gayety, she concluded that she wouldspend a week with the Robinsons, to whom she owed a visit. Sheenjoyed herself greatly there, so much, indeed, that she became quitehollow-eyed, the result, as she explained to her father, of a toofrequent indulgence in festivity. "You see, father, I won't have manychances after John and I are married: you know how queer he is, and Imust make the most of my time;" and she laughed an odd little laugh,which had lately become habitual to her. "And how is Mr. Dent gettingon?" Her father replied that he was getting on very well indeed,--sowell, in fact, that he was able to leave for San Francisco two days ago."He wanted to be remembered to you, Jinny,--'remembered kindly,'--yes,they is the very words he used," said Mr. McClosky, looking down, andconsulting one of his large shoes for corroboration. Miss Jenny was gladto hear that he was so much better. Miss Jenny could not imagine anything that pleased her more than to know that he was so strong as to beable to rejoin his friends again, who must love him so much, and be soanxious about him. Her father thought she would be pleased, and, nowthat he was gone, there was really no necessity for her to hurryback. Miss Jenny, in a high metallic voice, did not know that shehad expressed any desire to stay, still if her presence had becomedistasteful at home, if her own father was desirous of getting ridof her, if, when she was so soon to leave his roof forever, he stillbegrudged her those few days remaining, if--"My God, Jinny, so help me!"said Mr. McClosky, clutching despairingly at his beard, "I didn't go forto say any thing of the kind. I thought that you"--"Never mind, father,"interrupted Jenny magnanimously, "you misunderstood me: of course youdid, you couldn't help it--you're a MAN!" Mr. McClosky, sorely crushed,would have vaguely protested; but his daughter, having relieved herself,after the manner of her sex, with a mental personal application of anabstract statement, forgave him with a kiss.
Nevertheless, for two or three days after her return, Mr. McCloskyfollowed his daughter about the house with yearning eyes, andoccasionally with timid, diffident feet. Sometimes he came upon hersuddenly at her household tasks, with an excuse so palpably false, anda careless manner so outrageously studied, that she was fain to beembarrassed for him. Later, he took to rambling about the house atnight, and was often seen noiselessly passing and repassing through thehall after she had retired. On one occasion, he was surprised, first bysleep, and then by the early-rising Jenny, as he lay on the rug outsideher chamber-door. "You treat me like a child, father," said Jenny. "Ithought, Jinny," said the father apologetically,--"I thought Iheard sounds as if you was takin' on inside, and, listenin' I fellasleep."--"You dear, old simple-minded baby!" said Jenny, lookingpast her father's eyes, and lifting his grizzled locks one by one withmeditative fingers: "what should I be takin' on for? Look how muchtaller I am than you!" she said, suddenly lifting herself up to theextreme of her superb figure. Then rubbing his head rapidly with bothhands, as if she were anointing his hair with some rare unguent, shepatted him on the back, and returned to her room. The result of this andone or two other equally sympathetic interviews was to produce achange in Mr. McClosky's manner, which was, if possible, still morediscomposing. He grew unjustifiably hilarious, cracked jokes with theservants, and repeated to Jenny humorous stories, with the attitude offacetiousness carefully preserved throughout the entire narration, andthe point utterly ignored and forgotten. Certain incidents reminded himof funny things, which invariably turned out to have not the slightestrelevancy or application. He occasionally brought home with himpractical humorists, with a sanguine hope of setting them going, likethe music-box, for his daughter's edification. He essayed the singing ofmelodies with great freedom of style, and singular limitation of note.He sang "Come haste to the Wedding, Ye Lasses and Maidens," of which heknew a single line, and that incorrectly, as being peculiarly apt andappropriate. Yet away from the house and his daughter's presence, he wassilent and distraught. His absence of mind was particularly noted by hisworkmen at the Empire Quartz Mill. "Ef the old man don't look out andwake up," said his foreman, "he'll hev them feet of his yet under thestamps. When he ain't givin' his mind to 'em, they is altogether toopromiskuss."
A few nights later, Miss Jenny recognized her father's hand in a timidtap at the door. She opened it, and he stood before her, with a valisein his hand, equipped as for a journey. "I takes the stage to-night,Jinny dear, from Four Forks to 'Frisco. Maybe I may drop in on Jackafore I go. I'll be back in a week. Good-by."
"Good-by." He still held her hand. Presently he drew her back into theroom, closing the door carefully, and glancing around. There was a lookof profound cunning in his eye as he said slowly,--
"Bear up, and keep dark, Jinny dear, and trust to the old man. Variousmen has various ways. Thar is ways as is common, and ways as isuncommon; ways as is easy, and ways as is oneasy. Bear up, and keepdark." With this Delphic utterance he put his finger to his lips, andvanished.
It was ten o'clock when he reached Four Forks. A few minutes later,he stood on the threshold of that dwelling described by the Four Forks"Sentinel" as "the palatial residence of John Ashe," and known to thelocal satirist as the "ash-box." "Hevin' to lay by two hours, John," hesaid to his prospective son-in-law, as he took his hand at the door,"a few words of social converse, not on business, but strictlyprivate, seems to be about as nat'ral a thing as a man can do." Thisintroduction, evidently the result of some study, and plainly committedto memory, seemed so satisfactory to Mr. McClosky, that he repeatedit again, after John Ashe had led him into his private office, where,depositing his valise in the middle of the floor, and sitting downbefore it, he began carefully to avoid the eye of his host. John Ashe, atall, dark, handsome Kentuckian, with whom even the trifles of lifewere evidently full of serious import, waited with a kind of chivalrousrespect the further speech of his guest. Being utterly devoid of anysense of the ridiculous, he always accepted Mr. McClosky as a gravefact, singular only from his own want of experience of the class.
"Ores is running light now," said Mr. McClosky with easy indifference.
John Ashe returned that he had noticed the same fact in the receipts ofthe mill at Four Forks.
Mr. McClosky rubbed his beard, and looked at his valise, as if forsympathy and suggestion.
"You don't reckon on having any trouble with any of them chaps as youcut out with Jinny?"
John Ashe, rather haughtily, had never thought of that. "I saw Rancehanging round your house the other night, when I took your daughterhome; but he gave me a wide berth," he added carelessly.
"Surely," said Mr. McClosky, with a peculiar winking of the eye. After apause, he took a fresh departure from his valise.
"A few words, John, ez between man and man, ez between my daughter'sfather and her husband who expects to be, is about the thing, I take it,as is fair and square. I kem here to say them. They're about Jinny, mygal."
Ashe's grave face brightened, to Mr. McClosky's evident discomposure.
"Maybe I should have said about her mother; but, the same bein' astranger to you, I says naterally, 'Jinny.'"
Ashe nodded courteously. Mr. McClosky, with his eyes on his valise, wenton,--
"It is sixteen year ago as I married Mrs. McClosky in the State ofMissouri. She let on, at the time, to be a widder,--a widder with onechild. When I say let on, I mean to imply that I subsekently found outthat she was not a widder, nor a wife; and the father of the child was,so to speak, onbeknowst. Thet child was Jinny--my gal."
With his eyes on his valise, and quietly ignoring the wholly-crimsonedface and swiftly-darkening brow of his host, he continued,--
"Many little things sorter tended to
make our home in Missourionpleasant. A disposition to smash furniture, and heave knives around;an inclination to howl when drunk, and that frequent; a habitooal use ofvulgar language, and a tendency to cuss the casooal visitor,--seemed topint," added Mr. McClosky with submissive hesitation "that--she--was--soto speak--quite onsuited to the marriage relation in its holiestaspeck."
"Damnation! Why didn't"--burst out John Ashe, erect and furious.
"At the end of two year," continued Mr. McClosky, still intent on thevalise, "I allowed I'd get a diworce. Et about thet time, however,Providence sends a circus into thet town, and a feller ez rode threehorses to onct. Hevin' allez a taste for athletic sports, she left townwith this feller, leavin' me and Jinny behind. I sent word to her, thet,if she would give Jinny to me, we'd call it quits. And she did."
"Tell me," gasped Ashe, "did you ask your daughter to keep this from me?or did she do it of her own accord?"
"She doesn't know it," said Mr. McClosky. "She thinks I'm her father,and that her mother's dead."
"Then, sir, this is your"--
"I don't know," said Mr. McClosky slowly, "ez I've asked any one tomarry my Jinny. I don't know ez I've persood that ez a biziness, or eventaken it up as a healthful recreation."
John Ashe paced the room furiously. Mr. McClosky's eyes left thevalise, and followed him curiously. "Where is this woman?" demanded Ashesuddenly. McClosky's eyes sought the valise again.
"She went to Kansas; from Kansas she went into Texas; from Texas sheeventooally came to Californy. Being here, I've purvided her with money,when her business was slack, through a friend."
John Ashe groaned. "She's gettin' rather old and shaky for hosses, andnow does the tight-rope business and flying trapeze. Never hevin' seenher perform," continued Mr. McClosky with conscientious caution, "Ican't say how she gets on. On the bills she looks well. Thar isa poster," said Mr. McClosky glancing at Ashe, and opening hisvalise,--"thar is a poster givin' her performance at Marysville nextmonth." Mr. McClosky slowly unfolded a large yellow-and-blue printedposter, profusely illustrated. "She calls herself 'Mams'elle J.Miglawski, the great Russian Trapeziste.'"
John Ashe tore it from his hand. "Of course," he said, suddenly facingMr. McClosky, "you don't expect me to go on with this?"
Mr. McClosky took up the poster, carefully refolded it, and returnedit to his valise. "When you break off with Jinny," he said quietly,"I don't want any thing said 'bout this. She doesn't know it. She's awoman, and I reckon you're a white man."
"But what am I to say? How am I to go back of my word?"
"Write her a note. Say something hez come to your knowledge (don't saywhat) that makes you break it off. You needn't be afeard Jinny'll everask you what."
John Ashe hesitated. He felt he had been cruelly wronged. No gentleman,no Ashe, could go on further in this affair. It was preposterous tothink of it. But somehow he felt at the moment very unlike a gentleman,or an Ashe, and was quite sure he should break down under Jenny's steadyeyes. But then--he could write to her.
"So ores is about as light here as on the Ridge. Well, I reckon they'llcome up before the rains. Good-night." Mr. McClosky took the hand thathis host mechanically extended, shook it gravely, and was gone.
When Mr. McClosky, a week later, stepped again upon his own veranda, hesaw through the French window the figure of a man in his parlor. Underhis hospitable roof, the sight was not unusual; but, for an instant, asubtle sense of disappointment thrilled him. When he saw it was not theface of Ashe turned toward him, he was relieved; but when he saw thetawny beard, and quick, passionate eyes of Henry Rance, he felt a newsense of apprehension, so that he fell to rubbing his beard almost uponhis very threshold.
Jenny ran into the hall, and seized her father with a little cry of joy."Father," said Jenny in a hurried whisper, "don't mind HIM," indicatingRance with a toss of her yellow braids: "he's going soon. And I think,father, I've done him wrong. But it's all over with John and me now.Read that note, and see how he's insulted me." Her lip quivered; but shewent on, "It's Ridgeway that he means, father; and I believe it was HIShand struck Ridgeway down, or that he knows who did. But hush now! not aword."
She gave him a feverish kiss, and glided back into the parlor, leavingMr. McClosky, perplexed and irresolute, with the note in his hand. Heglanced at it hurriedly, and saw that it was couched in almost the verywords he had suggested. But a sudden, apprehensive recollection cameover him. He listened; and, with an exclamation of dismay, he seized hishat, and ran out of the house, but too late. At the same moment a quick,nervous footstep was heard upon the veranda; the French window flewopen, and, with a light laugh of greeting, Ridgeway stepped into theroom.
Jenny's finer ear first caught the step. Jenny's swifter feelings hadsounded the depths of hope, of joy, of despair, before he entered theroom. Jenny's pale face was the only one that met his, self-possessedand self-reliant, when he stood before them. An angry flush suffusedeven the pink roots of Rance's beard as he rose to his feet. An ominousfire sprang into Ridgeway's eyes, and a spasm of hate and scorn passedover the lower part of his face, and left the mouth and jaw immobile andrigid.
Yet he was the first to speak. "I owe you an apology," he said to Jenny,with a suave scorn that brought the indignant blood back to her cheek,"for this intrusion; but I ask no pardon for withdrawing from the onlyspot where that man dare confront me with safety."
With an exclamation of rage, Rance sprang toward him. But as quicklyJenny stood between them, erect and menacing. "There must be no quarrelhere," she said to Rance. "While I protect your right as my guest, don'toblige me to remind you of mine as your hostess." She turned with ahalf-deprecatory air to Ridgeway; but he was gone. So was her father.Only Rance remained with a look of ill-concealed triumph on his face.
Without looking at him, she passed toward the door. When she reachedit, she turned. "You asked me a question an hour ago. Come to me in thegarden, at nine o'clock tonight, and I will answer you. But promise me,first, to keep away from Mr. Dent. Give me your word not to seek him--toavoid him, if he seeks you. Do you promise? It is well."
He would have taken her hand; but she waved him away. In another momenthe heard the swift rustle of her dress in the hall, the sound of herfeet upon the stair, the sharp closing of her bedroom door, and all wasquiet.
And even thus quietly the day wore away; and the night rose slowly fromthe valley, and overshadowed the mountains with purple wings that fannedthe still air into a breeze, until the moon followed it, and lulledevery thing to rest as with the laying-on of white and benedictoryhands. It was a lovely night; but Henry Rance, waiting impatientlybeneath a sycamore at the foot of the garden, saw no beauty in earth orair or sky. A thousand suspicions common to a jealous nature, a vaguesuperstition of the spot, filled his mind with distrust and doubt."If this should be a trick to keep my hands off that insolent pup!" hemuttered. But, even as the thought passed his tongue, a white figureslid from the shrubbery near the house, glided along the line ofpicket-fence, and then stopped, midway, motionless in the moonlight.
It was she. But he scarcely recognized her in the white drapery thatcovered her head and shoulders and breast. He approached her with ahurried whisper. "Let us withdraw from the moonlight. Everybody can seeus here."
"We have nothing to say that cannot be said in the moonlight, HenryRance," she replied, coldly receding from his proffered hand. Shetrembled for a moment, as if with a chill, and then suddenly turned uponhim. "Hold up your head, and let me look at you! I've known only whatmen are: let me see what a traitor looks like!"
He recoiled more from her wild face than her words. He saw from thefirst that her hollow cheeks and hollow eyes were blazing with fever. Hewas no coward; but he would have fled.
"You are ill, Jenny," he said: "you had best return to the house.Another time"--
"Stop!" she cried hoarsely. "Move from this spot, and I'll call forhelp! Attempt to leave me now, and I'll proclaim you the assassin thatyou are!"
"It was a fair fight," he said d
oggedly.
"Was it a fair fight to creep behind an unarmed and unsuspecting man?Was it a fair fight to try to throw suspicion on some one else? Was it afair fight to deceive me? Liar and coward that you are!"
He made a stealthy step toward her with evil eyes, and a wickeder handthat crept within his breast. She saw the motion; but it only stung herto newer fury.
"Strike!" she said with blazing eyes, throwing her hands open beforehim. "Strike! Are you afraid of the woman who dares you? Or do you keepyour knife for the backs of unsuspecting men? Strike, I tell you!No? Look, then!" With a sudden movement, she tore from her head andshoulders the thick lace shawl that had concealed her figure, and stoodbefore him. "Look!" she cried passionately, pointing to the bosom andshoulders of her white dress, darkly streaked with faded stains andominous discoloration,--"look! This is the dress I wore that morningwhen I found him lying here,--HERE,--bleeding from your cowardly knife.Look! Do you see? This is his blood,--my darling boy's blood!--one dropof which, dead and faded as it is, is more precious to me than the wholeliving pulse of any other man. Look! I come to you to-night, christenedwith his blood, and dare you to strike,--dare you to strike him againthrough me, and mingle my blood with his. Strike, I implore you! Strike!if you have any pity on me, for God's sake! Strike! if you are a man!Look! Here lay his head on my shoulder; here I held him to my breast,where never--so help me my God!--another man--Ah!"--
She reeled against the fence, and something that had flashed in Rance'shand dropped at her feet; for another flash and report rolled him overin the dust; and across his writhing body two men strode, and caught herere she fell.
"She has only fainted," said Mr. McClosky. "Jinny dear, my girl, speakto me!"
"What is this on her dress?" said Ridgeway, kneeling beside her, andlifting his set and colorless face. At the sound of his voice, the colorcame faintly back to her cheek: she opened her eyes, and smiled.
"It's only your blood, dear boy," she said; "but look a little deeper,and you'll find my own."
She put up her two yearning hands, and drew his face and lips down toher own. When Ridgeway raised his head again, her eyes were closed; buther mouth still smiled as with the memory of a kiss.
They bore her to the house, still breathing, but unconscious. That nightthe road was filled with clattering horsemen; and the summoned skill ofthe countryside for leagues away gathered at her couch. The wound, theysaid, was not essentially dangerous; but they had grave fears of theshock to a system that already seemed suffering from some strange andunaccountable nervous exhaustion. The best medical skill of Tuolumnehappened to be young and observing, and waited patiently an opportunityto account for it. He was presently rewarded.
For toward morning she rallied, and looked feebly around. Then shebeckoned her father toward her, and whispered, "Where is he?"
"They took him away, Jinny dear, in a cart. He won't trouble you agin."He stopped; for Miss Jenny had raised herself on her elbow, and waslevelling her black brows at him. But two kicks from the young surgeon,and a significant motion towards the door, sent Mr. McClosky awaymuttering. "How should I know that 'HE' meant Ridgeway?" he saidapologetically, as he went and returned with the young gentleman. Thesurgeon, who was still holding her pulse, smiled, and thoughtthat--with a little care--and attention--the stimulants--mightbe--diminished--and---he--might leave--the patient for some hours withperfect safety. He would give further directions to Mr. McClosky--downstairs.
It was with great archness of manner, that, half an hour later, Mr.McClosky entered the room with a preparatory cough; and it was with somedisappointment that he found Ridgeway standing quietly by the window,and his daughter apparently fallen into a light doze. He was still moreconcerned, when, after Ridgeway had retired, noticing a pleasant smileplaying about her lips, he said softly:--
"You was thinking of some one, Jinny?"
"Yes, father," the gray eyes met his steadily,--"of poor John Ashe!"
Her recovery was swift. Nature, that had seemed to stand jealously alooffrom her in her mental anguish, was kind to the physical hurt of herfavorite child. The superb physique, which had been her charm and hertrial, now stood her in good stead. The healing balsam of the pine, thebalm of resinous gums, and the rare medicaments of Sierran altitudes,touched her as it might have touched the wounded doe; so that in twoweeks she was able to walk about. And when, at the end of the month,Ridgeway returned from a flying visit to San Francisco, and jumped fromthe Wingdam coach at four o'clock in the morning, the Rose of Tuolumne,with the dewy petals of either cheek fresh as when first unfolded to hiskiss, confronted him on the road.
With a common instinct, their young feet both climbed the little hillnow sacred to their thought. When they reached its summit, they wereboth, I think, a little disappointed. There is a fragrance in theunfolding of a passion, that escapes the perfect flower. Jenny thoughtthe night was not as beautiful; Ridgeway, that the long ride had bluntedhis perceptions. But they had the frankness to confess it to eachother, with the rare delight of such a confession, and the comparisonof details which they thought each had forgotten. And with this, and anoccasional pitying reference to the blank period when they had not knowneach other, hand in hand they reached the house.
Mr. McClosky was awaiting them impatiently upon the veranda. When MissJenny had slipped up stairs to replace a collar that stood somewhatsuspiciously awry, Mr. McClosky drew Ridgeway solemnly aside. He held alarge theatre poster in one hand, and an open newspaper in the other.
"I allus said," he remarked slowly, with the air of merely renewing asuspended conversation,--"I allus said that riding three horses to onctwasn't exactly in her line. It would seem that it ain't. From remarks inthis yer paper, it would appear that she tried it on at Marysville lastweek, and broke her neck."