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THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP AND OTHER TALES
And American Legends, And Earlier Papers
PUBLISHERS’ NOTE
In 1882, it was felt to be desirable that Mr. Harte’s scattered work should be brought together in convenient form, and the result was a compact edition of five volumes. After that date, as before, he continued to produce poems, tales, sketches, and romances in steady succession, and in 1897 his publishers undertook a uniform and orderly presentation of the results of more than thirty years of his literary activity. The fourteen volumes that embodied those results were enriched by Introductions and a Glossary prepared by Mr. Harte himself.
In 1882, it was seen as important to gather Mr. Harte's scattered work into a convenient collection, resulting in a compact five-volume edition. After that, just like before, he kept writing poems, stories, sketches, and novels consistently. In 1897, his publishers decided to create a uniform and organized presentation of more than thirty years of his literary work. The fourteen volumes that showcased these works were enhanced by Introductions and a Glossary written by Mr. Harte himself.
The present Riverside Edition is based on the collection made in 1897, but is enlarged by the inclusion of later work.
The current Riverside Edition is based on the collection from 1897, but has been expanded to include more recent work.
Boston, 4 Park Street, Autumn, 1902.
Boston, 4 Park Street, Fall, 1902.
CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
GENERAL INTRODUCTION
The opportunity here offered [Footnote: By the appearance in England several years ago of an edition of the author’s writings as then collected.] to give some account of the genesis of these Californian sketches, and the conditions under which they were conceived, is peculiarly tempting to an author who has been obliged to retain a decent professional reticence under a cloud of ingenious surmise, theory, and misinterpretation. He very gladly seizes this opportunity to establish the chronology of the sketches, and incidentally to show that what are considered the “happy accidents” of literature are very apt to be the results of quite logical and often prosaic processes.
The chance to share some background on how these Californian sketches came to be and the circumstances surrounding their creation is especially appealing for an author who has had to maintain a respectful silence amidst a swirl of clever speculation, theories, and misunderstandings. He happily takes this opportunity to clarify the timeline of the sketches and, alongside that, to demonstrate that what people often view as the “happy accidents” of literature are usually the outcomes of quite logical and often mundane processes.
The author’s first volume was published in 1865 in a thin book of verse, containing, besides the titular poem, “The Lost Galleon,” various patriotic contributions to the lyrics of the Civil War, then raging, and certain better known humorous pieces, which have been hitherto interspersed with his later poems in separate volumes, but are now restored to their former companionship. This was followed in 1867 by “The Condensed Novels,” originally contributed to the “San Francisco Californian,” a journal then edited by the author, and a number of local sketches entitled “Bohemian Papers,” making a single not very plethoric volume, the author’s first book of prose. But he deems it worthy of consideration that during this period, i.e. from 1862 to 1866, he produced “The Society upon the Stanislaus” and “The Story of M’liss,”—the first a dialectical poem, the second a Californian romance,—his first efforts toward indicating a peculiarly characteristic Western American literature. He would like to offer these facts as evidence of his very early, half-boyish but very enthusiastic belief in such a possibility,—a belief which never deserted him, and which, a few years later, from the better-known pages of “The Overland Monthly,” he was able to demonstrate to a larger and more cosmopolitan audience in the story of “The Luck of Roaring Camp” and the poem of the “Heathen Chinee.” But it was one of the anomalies of the very condition of life that he worked amidst, and endeavored to portray, that these first efforts were rewarded by very little success; and, as he will presently show, even “The Luck of Roaring Camp” depended for its recognition in California upon its success elsewhere. Hence the critical reader will observe that the bulk of these earlier efforts, as shown in the first two volumes, were marked by very little flavor of the soil, but were addressed to an audience half foreign in their sympathies, and still imbued with Eastern or New England habits and literary traditions. “Home” was still potent with these voluntary exiles in their moments of relaxation. Eastern magazines and current Eastern literature formed their literary recreation, and the sale of the better class of periodicals was singularly great. Nor was the taste confined to American literature. The illustrated and satirical English journals were as frequently seen in California as in Massachusetts; and the author records that he has experienced more difficulty in procuring a copy of “Punch” in an English provincial town than was his fortune at “Red Dog” or “One-Horse Gulch.” An audience thus liberally equipped and familiar with the best modern writers was naturally critical and exacting, and no one appreciates more than he does the salutary effects of this severe discipline upon his earlier efforts.
The author's first volume was published in 1865 as a slim book of poetry, which included the title poem, “The Lost Galleon,” along with various patriotic contributions related to the Civil War, which was ongoing at the time, and some well-known humorous pieces. These humorous works have previously been mixed in with his later poems in separate volumes, but are now brought back together. This was followed in 1867 by “The Condensed Novels,” which were originally contributions to the “San Francisco Californian,” a journal that he edited, and a collection of local sketches called “Bohemian Papers,” resulting in a single, not very substantial prose volume, being his first book of prose. He believes it’s worth noting that during this period, from 1862 to 1866, he authored “The Society upon the Stanislaus” and “The Story of M’liss”—the first a dialect poem and the second a Californian romance—marking his initial attempts to showcase a distinct Western American literature. He offers these details as proof of his early, somewhat youthful but very passionate belief in this possibility—a belief that never left him and, a few years later, he demonstrated to a broader and more diverse audience through the story “The Luck of Roaring Camp” and the poem “The Heathen Chinee,” published in the more well-known “The Overland Monthly.” However, it was one of the oddities of the circumstances he was living in and trying to capture that these early efforts were met with very little success; additionally, as he will soon explain, even “The Luck of Roaring Camp” gained recognition in California only due to its success elsewhere. Thus, the discerning reader will see that most of these earlier works, reflected in the first two volumes, lacked a strong sense of local flavor and were aimed at an audience that was mostly foreign in their sympathies and still influenced by Eastern or New England habits and literary traditions. The concept of “Home” still held strong for these voluntary exiles during their leisure time. Eastern magazines and contemporary Eastern literature served as their literary escape, and the sale of quality periodicals was notably high. Their tastes weren’t limited to American literature either. Illustrated and satirical English journals were just as commonly found in California as in Massachusetts; the author notes that he found it harder to get a copy of “Punch” in an English provincial town than in “Red Dog” or “One-Horse Gulch.” An audience so well-versed and familiar with the best modern writers was naturally critical and demanding, and no one understands better than he does the beneficial impact this rigorous standard had on his early works.
When the first number of “The Overland Monthly” appeared, the author, then its editor, called the publisher’s attention to the lack of any distinctive Californian romance in its pages, and averred that, should no other contribution come in, he himself would supply the omission in the next number. No other contribution was offered, and the author, having the plot and general idea already in his mind, in a few days sent the manuscript of “The Luck of Roaring Camp” to the printer. He had not yet received the proof-sheets when he was suddenly summoned to the office of the publisher, whom he found standing the picture of dismay and anxiety with the proof before him. The indignation and stupefaction of the author can be well understood when he was told that the printer, instead of returning the proofs to him, submitted them to the publisher, with the emphatic declaration that the matter thereof was so indecent, irreligious, and improper that his proof-reader—a young lady—had with difficulty been induced to continue its perusal, and that he, as a friend of the publisher and a well-wisher of the magazine, was impelled to present to him personally this shameless evidence of the manner in which the editor was imperilling the future of that enterprise. It should be premised that the critic was a man of character and standing, the head of a large printing establishment, a church member, and, the author thinks, a deacon. In which circumstances the publisher frankly admitted to the author that, while he could not agree with all of the printer’s criticisms, he thought the story open to grave objection, and its publication of doubtful expediency.
When the first issue of “The Overland Monthly” came out, the author, who was also its editor, pointed out to the publisher that there wasn't any unique Californian romance in the magazine. He claimed that if no other contributions were submitted, he would fill that gap in the next issue. No other submissions came in, so the author, having the plot and general idea in his head, quickly sent the manuscript of “The Luck of Roaring Camp” to the printer. He hadn’t even received the proof sheets when he was unexpectedly called to the publisher's office, where he found the publisher looking distressed and anxious, with the proofs in front of him. The author could only imagine his shock when he learned that instead of returning the proofs, the printer had shown them to the publisher, insisting that the content was so indecent, irreligious, and inappropriate that his proofreader—a young woman—had struggled to continue reading it. The printer, who was a friend of the publisher and supportive of the magazine, felt it was necessary to show this disgraceful evidence of how the editor was jeopardizing the magazine's future. It should be noted that this critic was a person of good character and reputation, the head of a large printing company, a church member, and, the author believes, a deacon. Given this situation, the publisher openly told the author that while he didn’t agree with all of the printer’s critiques, he found the story to have serious issues and thought that publishing it was questionable.
Believing only that he was the victim of some extraordinary typographical blunder, the author at once sat down and read the proof. In its new dress, with the metamorphosis of type,—that metamorphosis which every writer so well knows changes his relations to it and makes it no longer seem a part of himself,—he was able to read it with something of the freshness of an untold tale. As he read on he found himself affected, even as he had been affected in the conception and writing of it—a feeling so incompatible with the charges against it, that he could only lay it down and declare emphatically, albeit hopelessly, that he could really see nothing objectionable in it. Other opinions were sought and given. To the author’s surprise, he found himself in the minority. Finally, the story was submitted to three gentlemen of culture and experience, friends of publisher and author,—who were unable, however, to come to any clear decision. It was, however, suggested to the author that, assuming the natural hypothesis that his editorial reasoning might be warped by his literary predilections in a consideration of one of his own productions, a personal sacrifice would at this juncture be in the last degree heroic. This last suggestion had the effect of ending all further discussion, for he at once informed the publisher that the question of the propriety of the story was no longer at issue: the only question was of his capacity to exercise the proper editorial judgment; and that unless he was permitted to test that capacity by the publication of the story, and abide squarely by the result, he must resign his editorial position. The publisher, possibly struck with the author’s confidence, possibly from kindliness of disposition to a younger man, yielded, and “The Luck of Roaring Camp” was published in the current number of the magazine for which it was written, as it was written, without emendation, omission, alteration, or apology. A not inconsiderable part of the grotesqueness of the situation was the feeling, which the author retained throughout the whole affair, of the perfect sincerity, good faith, and seriousness of his friend’s—the printer’s—objection, and for many days thereafter he was haunted by a consideration of the sufferings of this conscientious man, obliged to assist materially in disseminating the dangerous and subversive doctrines contained in this baleful fiction. What solemn protests must have been laid with the ink on the rollers and impressed upon those wicked sheets! what pious warnings must have been secretly folded and stitched in that number of “The Overland Monthly”! Across the chasm of years and distance the author stretches forth the hand of sympathy and forgiveness, not forgetting the gentle proof-reader, that chaste and unknown nymph, whose mantling cheeks and downcast eyes gave the first indications of warning.
Thinking he was just a victim of a strange printing error, the author immediately sat down to read the proof. In its new format, with the changes in type—the changes that every writer knows can alter their relationship with the work and make it feel less like a part of themselves—he was able to read it with some of the freshness of a story never told before. As he continued reading, he found himself moved, just as he had been during its conception and writing—a feeling so at odds with the criticisms he faced that he could only set it down and declare, albeit hopelessly, that he genuinely saw nothing wrong with it. Other opinions were sought and given. To the author’s surprise, he discovered he was in the minority. Eventually, the story was presented to three cultured and experienced gentlemen, friends of both the publisher and the author, but they were unable to reach a clear decision. It was suggested to the author that, assuming the natural hypothesis that his editorial judgment might be clouded by his personal views about his own work, a personal sacrifice at this moment would be the height of heroism. This suggestion ended all further debate, as he promptly told the publisher that the issue of the story’s propriety was no longer relevant: the only question was whether he could make the right editorial decisions; and that unless he was allowed to test that ability through the publication of the story, and accept the outcome, he would have to resign his editorial position. The publisher, possibly impressed by the author’s confidence, or feeling kindly toward a younger man, agreed, and “The Luck of Roaring Camp” was published in the current issue of the magazine for which it was written, exactly as it was, without edits, omissions, changes, or apologies. A significant part of the absurdity of the situation was the author’s persistent feeling of the complete sincerity, good faith, and seriousness of his friend—the printer’s—objections, and for many days afterward, he was haunted by thoughts of the struggles of this diligent man, forced to help spread the dangerous and subversive ideas found in this harmful fiction. What solemn protests must have been made with the ink on the rollers and impressed upon those wicked pages! What pious warnings must have been secretly folded and stitched into that issue of “The Overland Monthly”! Across the gap of years and distance, the author reaches out with sympathy and forgiveness, not forgetting the gentle proofreader, that pure and unknown nymph, whose flushed cheeks and downturned eyes were the first signs of warning.
But the troubles of the “Luck” were far from ended. It had secured an entrance into the world, but, like its own hero, it was born with an evil reputation, and to a community that had yet to learn to love it. The secular press, with one or two exceptions, received it coolly, and referred to its “singularity;” the religious press frantically excommunicated it, and anathematized it as the offspring of evil; the high promise of “The Overland Monthly” was said to have been ruined by its birth; Christians were cautioned against pollution by its contact; practical business men were gravely urged to condemn and frown upon this picture of Californian society that was not conducive to Eastern immigration; its hapless author was held up to obloquy as a man who had abused a sacred trust. If its life and reputation had depended on its reception in California, this edition and explanation would alike have been needless. But, fortunately, the young “Overland Monthly” had in its first number secured a hearing and position throughout the American Union, and the author waited the larger verdict. The publisher, albeit his worst fears were confirmed, was not a man to weakly regret a position he had once taken, and waited also. The return mail from the East brought a letter addressed to the “Editor of the ‘Overland Monthly,’” enclosing a letter from Fields, Osgood & Co., the publishers of “The Atlantic Monthly,” addressed to the—to them—unknown “Author of ‘The Luck of Roaring Camp.’” This the author opened, and found to be a request, upon the most flattering terms, for a story for the “Atlantic” similar to the “Luck.” The same mail brought newspapers and reviews welcoming the little foundling of Californian literature with an enthusiasm that half frightened its author; but with the placing of that letter in the hands of the publisher, who chanced to be standing by his side, and who during those dark days had, without the author’s faith, sustained the author’s position, he felt that his compensation was full and complete.
But the troubles of the “Luck” were far from over. It had gained entry into the world, but, like its own hero, it came with a bad reputation and to a community that had yet to embrace it. The mainstream press, with a few exceptions, responded coolly, referring to its “uniqueness;” the religious press frantically excommunicated it, condemning it as the product of evil; the high hopes for “The Overland Monthly” were said to have been ruined by its arrival; Christians were warned against being tainted by its influence; practical businesspeople were seriously encouraged to criticize and look down on this depiction of Californian society that was not favorable for Eastern immigration; its unfortunate author was publicly shamed as someone who had betrayed a sacred trust. If its survival and reputation had relied on its reception in California, this edition and explanation would have been unnecessary. But luckily, the young “Overland Monthly” had secured an audience and a place across the American Union with its first issue, and the author awaited a broader judgment. The publisher, although his worst fears were confirmed, was not someone to regret a position he had taken and waited too. The return mail from the East brought a letter addressed to the “Editor of the ‘Overland Monthly,’” enclosing a note from Fields, Osgood & Co., the publishers of “The Atlantic Monthly,” directed to the—to them—unknown “Author of ‘The Luck of Roaring Camp.’” The author opened this and found a request, in the most flattering terms, for a story for the “Atlantic” similar to the “Luck.” The same mail also brought newspapers and reviews that welcomed the little newcomer of Californian literature with an enthusiasm that nearly scared the author; but as he handed that letter to the publisher, who happened to be standing beside him and who, during those dark days, had supported the author’s position without the author’s faith, he felt completely and utterly compensated.
Thus encouraged, “The Luck of Roaring Camp” was followed by “The Outcasts of Poker Flat,” “Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” and those various other characters who had impressed the author when, a mere truant schoolboy, he had lived among them. It is hardly necessary to say to any observer of human nature that at this time he was advised by kind and well-meaning friends to content himself with the success of the “Luck,” and not tempt criticism again; or that from that moment ever after he was in receipt of that equally sincere contemporaneous criticism which assured him gravely that each successive story was a falling off from the last. Howbeit, by reinvigorated confidence in himself and some conscientious industry, he managed to get together in a year six or eight of these sketches, which, in a volume called “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches,” gave him that encouragement in America and England that has since seemed to justify him in swelling these records of a picturesque passing civilization into the compass of the present edition.
Encouraged by this, “The Luck of Roaring Camp” was followed by “The Outcasts of Poker Flat,” “Miggles,” “Tennessee’s Partner,” and various other characters who had made an impression on the author when, as a rebellious schoolboy, he had lived among them. It’s clear to anyone who observes human nature that around this time, well-meaning friends advised him to be satisfied with the success of “Luck” and avoid risking criticism again; from that moment on, he received the same kind of sincere criticism from his contemporaries, who would gravely inform him that each new story was not as good as the last. Nevertheless, with a renewed confidence in himself and some dedicated effort, he managed to produce six or eight of these sketches within a year, which were compiled in a volume called “The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches.” This collection provided him with encouragement in both America and England that seemed to justify him expanding these accounts of a vibrant, vanishing civilization into the current edition.
A few words regarding the peculiar conditions of life and society that are here rudely sketched, and often but barely outlined. The author is aware that, partly from a habit of thought and expression, partly from the exigencies of brevity in his narratives, and partly from the habit of addressing an audience familiar with the local scenery, he often assumes, as premises already granted by the reader, the existence of a peculiar and romantic state of civilization, the like of which few English readers are inclined to accept without corroborative facts and figures. These he could only give by referring to the ephemeral records of Californian journals of that date, and the testimony of far-scattered witnesses, survivors of the exodus of 1849. He must beg the reader to bear in mind that this emigration was either across a continent almost unexplored, or by the way of a long and dangerous voyage around Cape Horn, and that the promised land itself presented the singular spectacle of a patriarchal Latin race who had been left to themselves, forgotten by the world, for nearly three hundred years. The faith, courage, vigor, youth, and capacity for adventure necessary to this emigration produced a body of men as strongly distinctive as the companions of Jason. Unlike most pioneers, the majority were men of profession and education; all were young, and all had staked their future in the enterprise. Critics who have taken large and exhaustive views of mankind and society from club windows in Pall Mall or the Fifth Avenue can only accept for granted the turbulent chivalry that thronged the streets of San Francisco in the gala days of her youth, and must read the blazon of their deeds like the doubtful quarterings of the shield of Amadis de Gaul. The author has been frequently asked if such and such incidents were real,—if he had ever met such and such characters. To this he must return the one answer, that in only a single instance was he conscious of drawing purely from his imagination and fancy for a character and a logical succession of incidents drawn therefrom. A few weeks after his story was published, he received a letter, authentically signed, correcting some of the minor details of his facts (!), and enclosing as corroborative evidence a slip from an old newspaper, wherein the main incident of his supposed fanciful creation was recorded with a largeness of statement that far transcended his powers of imagination.
A few words about the unique conditions of life and society that are roughly outlined here. The author recognizes that, due to a certain way of thinking and expressing ideas, a need for brevity in his narratives, and the tendency to address an audience familiar with the local landscape, he often takes for granted certain premises that readers may assume exist—a distinct and romantic state of civilization that few English readers are likely to accept without supporting facts and figures. He could only provide these by referring to the fleeting records of Californian newspapers from that time and the accounts of scattered witnesses, survivors of the 1849 exodus. He asks readers to remember that this emigration was either across a largely unexplored continent or via a lengthy and perilous voyage around Cape Horn, and that the promised land itself showcased a unique scene of a patriarchal Latin race that had been left to its own devices, forgotten by the world, for nearly three hundred years. The faith, courage, energy, youth, and spirit of adventure required for this emigration produced a group of people as distinct as the companions of Jason. Unlike most pioneers, many were educated professionals; all were young, having staked their futures on this venture. Critics who have studied mankind and society from the comfort of club windows in Pall Mall or Fifth Avenue can only take for granted the tumultuous chivalry that filled the streets of San Francisco during her early glory days, needing to interpret their accomplishments like the uncertain heraldry of Amadis de Gaul. The author has often been asked if specific incidents were real—if he had ever met certain characters. To this, he can only respond that in one instance, he was fully aware of drawing purely from his imagination and creativity for a character and the logical sequence of events that followed. A few weeks after his story was published, he received a letter, authentically signed, correcting some minor details of his facts (!), and including as evidence a clipping from an old newspaper where the main incident from his supposed fanciful creation was noted in a way that far exceeded his imaginative abilities.
He has been repeatedly cautioned, kindly and unkindly, intelligently and unintelligently, against his alleged tendency to confuse recognized standards of morality by extenuating lives of recklessness, and often criminality, with a single solitary virtue. He might easily show that he has never written a sermon, that he has never moralized or commented upon the actions of his heroes, that he has never voiced a creed or obtrusively demonstrated an ethical opinion. He might easily allege that this merciful effect of his art arose from the reader’s weak human sympathies, and hold himself irresponsible. But he would be conscious of a more miserable weakness in thus divorcing himself from his fellow-men who in the domain of art must ever walk hand in hand with him. So he prefers to say that, of all the various forms in which Cant presents itself to suffering humanity, he knows of none so outrageous, so illogical, so undemonstrable, so marvelously absurd, as the Cant of “Too Much Mercy.” When it shall be proven to him that communities are degraded and brought to guilt and crime, suffering or destitution, from a predominance of this quality; when he shall see pardoned ticket-of-leave men elbowing men of austere lives out of situation and position, and the repentant Magdalen supplanting the blameless virgin in society,—then he will lay aside his pen and extend his hand to the new Draconian discipline in fiction. But until then he will, without claiming to be a religious man or a moralist, but simply as an artist, reverently and humbly conform to the rules laid down by a Great Poet who created the parable of the “Prodigal Son” and the “Good Samaritan,” whose works have lasted eighteen hundred years, and will remain when the present writer and his generation are forgotten. And he is conscious of uttering no original doctrine in this, but of only voicing the beliefs of a few of his literary brethren happily living, and one gloriously dead, who never made proclamation of this “from the housetops.”
He has been warned multiple times, both gently and harshly, smartly and foolishly, about his supposed tendency to blur accepted moral standards by justifying reckless and often criminal behavior with a single, solitary virtue. He could easily argue that he's never written a sermon, never moralized or commented on the actions of his heroes, never expressed a creed, or overly pushed an ethical opinion. He could claim that the compassionate impact of his art stems from the reader’s weakness for human empathy, and consider himself blameless. But he would recognize a deeper flaw in separating himself from others, who must always walk alongside him in the realm of art. So he prefers to state that, among all the various forms of hypocrisy that afflict suffering humanity, he knows of none so outrageous, so illogical, so unfounded, and so astonishingly absurd as
THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP
There was commotion in Roaring Camp. It could not have been a fight, for in 1850 that was not novel enough to have called together the entire settlement. The ditches and claims were not only deserted, but “Tuttle’s grocery” had contributed its gamblers, who, it will be remembered, calmly continued their game the day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the front room. The whole camp was collected before a rude cabin on the outer edge of the clearing. Conversation was carried on in a low tone, but the name of a woman was frequently repeated. It was a name familiar enough in the camp,—“Cherokee Sal.”
There was a stir in Roaring Camp. It couldn't have been a fight, because in 1850, that wasn't exciting enough to get everyone in the settlement together. The ditches and claims were not only empty, but “Tuttle’s grocery” had also sent over its gamblers, who, as you may recall, calmly kept playing their game the day French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each other dead at the bar in the front room. The entire camp had gathered outside a rough cabin on the edge of the clearing. Conversations were held in hushed tones, but the name of a woman kept coming up. It was a name well-known in the camp—“Cherokee Sal.”
Perhaps the less said of her the better. She was a coarse and, it is to be feared, a very sinful woman. But at that time she was the only woman in Roaring Camp, and was just then lying in sore extremity, when she most needed the ministration of her own sex. Dissolute, abandoned, and irreclaimable, she was yet suffering a martyrdom hard enough to bear even when veiled by sympathizing womanhood, but now terrible in her loneliness. The primal curse had come to her in that original isolation which must have made the punishment of the first transgression so dreadful. It was, perhaps, part of the expiation of her sin that, at a moment when she most lacked her sex’s intuitive tenderness and care, she met only the half-contemptuous faces of her masculine associates. Yet a few of the spectators were, I think, touched by her sufferings. Sandy Tipton thought it was “rough on Sal,” and, in the contemplation of her condition, for a moment rose superior to the fact that he had an ace and two bowers in his sleeve.
Maybe it's better not to say much about her. She was a rough and, sadly, very sinful woman. But at that time, she was the only woman in Roaring Camp, and she was in dire need when she really needed support from other women. Wild, lost, and beyond redemption, she was still enduring a suffering that was hard enough to handle even with the comfort of understanding women, but now it was unbearable in her isolation. The original curse had come to her in that isolation, which must have made the punishment of the first wrongdoing incredibly painful. It was, perhaps, part of her atonement that at a time when she needed her gender's natural kindness and care the most, she was met with only the half-contemptuous looks of the men around her. Still, I think a few of the onlookers were moved by her pain. Sandy Tipton thought it was “tough on Sal,” and as he considered her situation, he momentarily set aside the fact that he had an ace and two bowers up his sleeve.
It will be seen also that the situation was novel. Deaths were by no means uncommon in Roaring Camp, but a birth was a new thing. People had been dismissed the camp effectively, finally, and with no possibility of return; but this was the first time that anybody had been introduced ab initio. Hence the excitement.
It was clear that the situation was unusual. Deaths weren't rare in Roaring Camp, but a birth was something entirely new. People had been permanently dismissed from the camp with no chance of coming back; but this was the first time anyone had been introduced from the very beginning. That's why there was so much excitement.
“You go in there, Stumpy,” said a prominent citizen known as “Kentuck,” addressing one of the loungers. “Go in there, and see what you kin do. You’ve had experience in them things.”
“You go in there, Stumpy,” said a well-known local figure called “Kentuck,” addressing one of the hangers-on. “Go in there, and see what you can do. You’ve got experience in that sort of thing.”
Perhaps there was a fitness in the selection. Stumpy, in other climes, had been the putative head of two families; in fact, it was owing to some legal informality in these proceedings that Roaring Camp—a city of refuge—was indebted to his company. The crowd approved the choice, and Stumpy was wise enough to bow to the majority. The door closed on the extempore surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp sat down outside, smoked its pipe, and awaited the issue.
Perhaps there was some sense in the choice. Stumpy had been the presumed leader of two families in different places; in fact, it was due to a legal loophole in these matters that Roaring Camp—a safe haven—was relying on his team. The crowd supported the decision, and Stumpy was smart enough to go along with the majority. The door shut on the makeshift surgeon and midwife, and Roaring Camp settled outside, smoked its pipe, and waited for the outcome.
The assemblage numbered about a hundred men. One or two of these were actual fugitives from justice, some were criminal, and all were reckless. Physically they exhibited no indication of their past lives and character. The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageous man was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and an embarrassed, timid manner. The term “roughs” applied to them was a distinction rather than a definition. Perhaps in the minor details of fingers, toes, ears, etc., the camp may have been deficient, but these slight omissions did not detract from their aggregate force. The strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot had but one eye.
The group consisted of about a hundred men. One or two of them were actual fugitives from the law, some were criminals, and all were reckless. They showed no signs of their past lives or characters. The biggest troublemaker had a handsome face reminiscent of Raphael, with a lot of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the sad demeanor and deep thoughtfulness of Hamlet; the calmest and bravest guy was barely over five feet tall, with a soft voice and an awkward, shy manner. Calling them “roughs” was more of a label than a true description. Maybe in the little details like fingers, toes, ears, etc., the camp had some shortcomings, but these minor issues didn’t take away from their overall strength. The strongest man had only three fingers on his right hand; the best shooter had only one eye.
Such was the physical aspect of the men that were dispersed around the cabin. The camp lay in a triangular valley between two hills and a river. The only outlet was a steep trail over the summit of a hill that faced the cabin, now illuminated by the rising moon. The suffering woman might have seen it from the rude bunk whereon she lay,—seen it winding like a silver thread until it was lost in the stars above.
Such was the physical appearance of the men scattered around the cabin. The camp was situated in a triangular valley between two hills and a river. The only way out was a steep path over the top of a hill that faced the cabin, now lit by the rising moon. The suffering woman might have seen it from the rough bunk where she lay—seen it winding like a silver thread until it disappeared into the stars above.
A fire of withered pine boughs added sociability to the gathering. By degrees the natural levity of Roaring Camp returned. Bets were freely offered and taken regarding the result. Three to five that “Sal would get through with it;” even that the child would survive; side bets as to the sex and complexion of the coming stranger. In the midst of an excited discussion an exclamation came from those nearest the door, and the camp stopped to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the pines, the swift rush of the river, and the crackling of the fire rose a sharp, querulous cry,—a cry unlike anything heard before in the camp. The pines stopped moaning, the river ceased to rush, and the fire to crackle. It seemed as if Nature had stopped to listen too.
A fire made of dry pine branches brought a sense of togetherness to the gathering. Gradually, the natural lightheartedness of Roaring Camp returned. People were making bets about the outcome. Three to five that “Sal would manage it;” even that the child would make it; side bets on the gender and appearance of the incoming newcomer. In the middle of an excited debate, someone nearest the door shouted out, and the camp fell silent to listen. Above the swaying and moaning of the pines, the rushing of the river, and the crackling of the fire, a sharp, complaining cry rose up—a cry like nothing anyone had heard in the camp before. The pines stopped moaning, the river halted its rush, and the fire paused its crackling. It felt as if Nature itself had stopped to listen too.
The camp rose to its feet as one man! It was proposed to explode a barrel of gunpowder; but in consideration of the situation of the mother, better counsels prevailed, and only a few revolvers were discharged; for whether owing to the rude surgery of the camp, or some other reason, Cherokee Sal was sinking fast. Within an hour she had climbed, as it were, that rugged road that led to the stars, and so passed out of Roaring Camp, its sin and shame, forever. I do not think that the announcement disturbed them much, except in speculation as to the fate of the child. “Can he live now?” was asked of Stumpy. The answer was doubtful. The only other being of Cherokee Sal’s sex and maternal condition in the settlement was an ass. There was some conjecture as to fitness, but the experiment was tried. It was less problematical than the ancient treatment of Romulus and Remus, and apparently as successful.
The camp stood up together as one! It was suggested to blow up a barrel of gunpowder, but considering the situation of the mother, better judgment won out, and only a few revolvers were fired. Whether it was due to the rough medical care at the camp or some other reason, Cherokee Sal was fading fast. Within an hour, she had climbed that tough path to the stars and passed out of Roaring Camp, along with its sins and shame, forever. I don’t think the news affected them much, except for wondering about the child’s fate. “Can he survive now?” someone asked Stumpy. The answer was uncertain. The only other female in Cherokee Sal’s condition in the settlement was a donkey. There was some speculation about the suitability, but they decided to give it a shot. It was less questionable than how Romulus and Remus were treated back in the day, and seemed to be just as effective.
When these details were completed, which exhausted another hour, the door was opened, and the anxious crowd of men, who had already formed themselves into a queue, entered in single file. Beside the low bunk or shelf, on which the figure of the mother was starkly outlined below the blankets, stood a pine table. On this a candle-box was placed, and within it, swathed in staring red flannel, lay the last arrival at Roaring Camp. Beside the candle-box was placed a hat. Its use was soon indicated. “Gentlemen,” said Stumpy, with a singular mixture of authority and ex officio complacency,—“gentlemen will please pass in at the front door, round the table, and out at the back door. Them as wishes to contribute anything toward the orphan will find a hat handy.” The first man entered with his hat on; he uncovered, however, as he looked about him, and so unconsciously set an example to the next. In such communities good and bad actions are catching. As the procession filed in comments were audible,—criticisms addressed perhaps rather to Stumpy in the character of showman: “Is that him?” “Mighty small specimen;” “Hasn’t more’n got the color;” “Ain’t bigger nor a derringer.” The contributions were as characteristic: A silver tobacco box; a doubloon; a navy revolver, silver mounted; a gold specimen; a very beautifully embroidered lady’s handkerchief (from Oakhurst the gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (suggested by the pin, with the remark from the giver that he “saw that pin and went two diamonds better”); a slung-shot; a Bible (contributor not detected); a golden spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, I regret to say, were not the giver’s); a pair of surgeon’s shears; a lancet; a Bank of England note for £5; and about $200 in loose gold and silver coin. During these proceedings Stumpy maintained a silence as impassive as the dead on his left, a gravity as inscrutable as that of the newly born on his right. Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of the curious procession. As Kentuck bent over the candle-box half curiously, the child turned, and, in a spasm of pain, caught at his groping finger, and held it fast for a moment. Kentuck looked foolish and embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to assert itself in his weather-beaten cheek. “The d—d little cuss!” he said, as he extricated his finger, with perhaps more tenderness and care than he might have been deemed capable of showing. He held that finger a little apart from its fellows as he went out, and examined it curiously. The examination provoked the same original remark in regard to the child. In fact, he seemed to enjoy repeating it. “He rastled with my finger,” he remarked to Tipton, holding up the member, “the d—d little cuss!”
Once the details were taken care of, which took another hour, the door was opened, and the nervous crowd of men, who had already lined up, entered one by one. Next to the low bunk, where the figure of the mother was clearly outlined beneath the blankets, there was a pine table. On this table sat a candle box, and inside it, wrapped in bright red flannel, lay the newest arrival at Roaring Camp. Next to the candle box was a hat. Its purpose was soon made clear. “Gentlemen,” said Stumpy, with a unique blend of authority and self-satisfied attitude, “please come in through the front door, around the table, and out the back door. Those who want to contribute to the orphan will find a hat handy.” The first man walked in wearing his hat, but he took it off as he looked around, unwittingly setting an example for the next guy. In such communities, both good and bad actions are contagious. As the line moved forward, comments could be heard—critiques perhaps directed at Stumpy in his role as a showman: “Is that him?” “Pretty small for a baby;” “Doesn’t have much color;” “Ain’t bigger than a derringer.” The contributions were quite characteristic: A silver tobacco box; a doubloon; a navy revolver with silver accents; a gold piece; a beautifully embroidered women’s handkerchief (from Oakhurst the gambler); a diamond breastpin; a diamond ring (prompted by the pin, with the giver commenting that he “saw that pin and raised him two diamonds”); a slung-shot; a Bible (with no known contributor); a gold spur; a silver teaspoon (the initials, unfortunately, were not those of the giver); a pair of surgical scissors; a lancet; a Bank of England note for £5; and about $200 in loose gold and silver coins. Throughout all this, Stumpy kept a silence as impassive as the dead on his left and a seriousness as unreadable as that of the newborn on his right. Only one event broke the monotony of the curious line. When Kentuck leaned over the candle box out of curiosity, the child turned and, in a moment of pain, grabbed his reaching finger and held it tightly for a second. Kentuck looked awkward and embarrassed. Something like a blush tried to break through his weathered cheek. “The damn little kid!” he exclaimed as he freed his finger, perhaps with more gentleness and care than anyone would have expected from him. He held that finger slightly apart from the others as he walked out, examining it closely. This examination led to the same initial remark about the child. In fact, he seemed to take pleasure in repeating it. “He wrestled with my finger,” he said to Tipton, holding up the finger, “the damn little kid!”
It was four o’clock before the camp sought repose. A light burnt in the cabin where the watchers sat, for Stumpy did not go to bed that night. Nor did Kentuck. He drank quite freely, and related with great gusto his experience, invariably ending with his characteristic condemnation of the newcomer. It seemed to relieve him of any unjust implication of sentiment, and Kentuck had the weaknesses of the nobler sex. When everybody else had gone to bed, he walked down to the river and whistled reflectingly. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin, still whistling with demonstrative unconcern. At a large redwood-tree he paused and retraced his steps, and again passed the cabin. Halfway down to the river’s bank he again paused, and then returned and knocked at the door. It was opened by Stumpy. “How goes it?” said Kentuck, looking past Stumpy toward the candle-box. “All serene!” replied Stumpy. “Anything up?” “Nothing.” There was a pause—an embarrassing one—Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck had recourse to his finger, which he held up to Stumpy. “Rastled with it,—the d—d little cuss,” he said, and retired.
It was four o’clock before the camp settled down. A light was on in the cabin where the watchers were, because Stumpy didn’t go to bed that night. Neither did Kentuck. He drank quite a bit and animatedly shared his stories, always ending with his typical criticism of the newcomer. It seemed to make him feel better about any unfair feelings he might have, and Kentuck had the flaws of the nobler gender. When everyone else had gone to sleep, he strolled down to the river and whistled thoughtfully. Then he walked up the gulch past the cabin, still whistling with a carefree attitude. He stopped at a large redwood tree, retraced his steps, and passed the cabin again. Halfway down to the riverbank, he paused once more, then turned back and knocked on the door. Stumpy opened it. “How’s it going?” Kentuck asked, looking past Stumpy toward the candle box. “All good!” replied Stumpy. “Anything going on?” “Nothing.” There was a pause—an awkward one—with Stumpy still holding the door. Then Kentuck raised a finger to Stumpy. “Wrestled with it—the damn little thing,” he said, and walked away.
The next day Cherokee Sal had such rude sepulture as Roaring Camp afforded. After her body had been committed to the hillside, there was a formal meeting of the camp to discuss what should be done with her infant. A resolution to adopt it was unanimous and enthusiastic. But an animated discussion in regard to the manner and feasibility of providing for its wants at once sprang up. It was remarkable that the argument partook of none of those fierce personalities with which discussions were usually conducted at Roaring Camp. Tipton proposed that they should send the child to Red Dog,—a distance of forty miles,—where female attention could be procured. But the unlucky suggestion met with fierce and unanimous opposition. It was evident that no plan which entailed parting from their new acquisition would for a moment be entertained. “Besides,” said Tom Ryder, “them fellows at Red Dog would swap it, and ring in somebody else on us.” A disbelief in the honesty of other camps prevailed at Roaring Camp, as in other places.
The next day, Cherokee Sal received a pretty rough burial that Roaring Camp could manage. After her body was laid to rest on the hillside, there was a meeting in the camp to decide what to do with her baby. The decision to adopt the child was unanimous and full of enthusiasm. However, a lively discussion quickly began about how to take care of its needs. It was surprising that the debate lacked the intense personal conflicts usually common in discussions at Roaring Camp. Tipton suggested sending the child to Red Dog, which was forty miles away, where they could find someone to care for it. But that idea was met with strong and unanimous resistance. It was clear that no plan involving separation from their new addition would even be considered. “Besides,” said Tom Ryder, “those guys at Red Dog would just trade it, and pass off someone else on us.” There was a strong distrust of the honesty of other camps at Roaring Camp, just like in many other places.
The introduction of a female nurse in the camp also met with objection. It was argued that no decent woman could be prevailed to accept Roaring Camp as her home, and the speaker urged that “they didn’t want any more of the other kind.” This unkind allusion to the defunct mother, harsh as it may seem, was the first spasm of propriety,—the first symptom of the camp’s regeneration. Stumpy advanced nothing. Perhaps he felt a certain delicacy in interfering with the selection of a possible successor in office. But when questioned, he averred stoutly that he and “Jinny”—the mammal before alluded to—could manage to rear the child. There was something original, independent, and heroic about the plan that pleased the camp. Stumpy was retained. Certain articles were sent for to Sacramento. “Mind,” said the treasurer, as he pressed a bag of gold-dust into the expressman’s hand, “the best that can be got,—lace, you know, and filigree-work and frills,—d—n the cost!” Strange to say, the child thrived. Perhaps the invigorating climate of the mountain camp was compensation for material deficiencies. Nature took the foundling to her broader breast. In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foothills,—that air pungent with balsamic odor, that ethereal cordial at once bracing and exhilarating,—he may have found food and nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that transmuted ass’s milk to lime and phosphorus. Stumpy inclined to the belief that it was the latter and good nursing. “Me and that ass,” he would say, “has been father and mother to him! Don’t you,” he would add, apostrophizing the helpless bundle before him, “never go back on us.”
The introduction of a female nurse in the camp faced resistance. People argued that no respectable woman would ever want to make Roaring Camp her home, and the speaker insisted that “they didn’t want any more of the other kind.” This harsh reference to the deceased mother, while it might sound unkind, was the first sign of propriety—the first hint of the camp's transformation. Stumpy didn’t put forth any arguments. Maybe he felt it wasn’t his place to interfere with choosing a potential successor for the position. But when asked, he confidently said that he and “Jinny”—the previously mentioned animal—could raise the child together. There was something original, independent, and heroic about this plan that appealed to the camp. Stumpy was kept on. Some items were ordered from Sacramento. “Mind,” said the treasurer, as he handed a bag of gold dust to the expressman, “get the best available—lace, you know, and filigree work and frills—cost be damned!” Strangely enough, the child thrived. Perhaps the refreshing climate of the mountain camp made up for any material shortcomings. Nature embraced the orphan. In that rare atmosphere of the Sierra foothills—filled with a fragrant balsamic scent, that invigorating air that was both refreshing and uplifting—he might have found nourishment, or a subtle chemistry that turned ass’s milk into lime and phosphorus. Stumpy believed it was a combination of that and good care. “Me and that ass,” he would say, “have been both father and mother to him! Don’t you,” he would say, addressing the helpless bundle in front of him, “ever turn your back on us.”
By the time he was a month old the necessity of giving him a name became apparent. He had generally been known as “The Kid,” “Stumpy’s Boy,” “The Coyote” (an allusion to his vocal powers), and even by Kentuck’s endearing diminutive of “The d—d little cuss.” But these were felt to be vague and unsatisfactory, and were at last dismissed under another influence. Gamblers and adventurers are generally superstitious, and Oakhurst one day declared that the baby had brought “the luck” to Roaring Camp. It was certain that of late they had been successful. “Luck” was the name agreed upon, with the prefix of Tommy for greater convenience. No allusion was made to the mother, and the father was unknown. “It’s better,” said the philosophical Oakhurst, “to take a fresh deal all round. Call him Luck, and start him fair.” A day was accordingly set apart for the christening. What was meant by this ceremony the reader may imagine who has already gathered some idea of the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp. The master of ceremonies was one “Boston,” a noted wag, and the occasion seemed to promise the greatest facetiousness. This ingenious satirist had spent two days in preparing a burlesque of the Church service, with pointed local allusions. The choir was properly trained, and Sandy Tipton was to stand godfather. But after the procession had marched to the grove with music and banners, and the child had been deposited before a mock altar, Stumpy stepped before the expectant crowd. “It ain’t my style to spoil fun, boys,” said the little man, stoutly eying the faces around him, “but it strikes me that this thing ain’t exactly on the squar. It’s playing it pretty low down on this yer baby to ring in fun on him that he ain’t goin’ to understand. And ef there’s goin’ to be any godfathers round, I’d like to see who’s got any better rights than me.” A silence followed Stumpy’s speech. To the credit of all humorists be it said that the first man to acknowledge its justice was the satirist thus stopped of his fun. “But,” said Stumpy, quickly following up his advantage, “we’re here for a christening, and we’ll have it. I proclaim you Thomas Luck, according to the laws of the United States and the State of California, so help me God.” It was the first time that the name of the Deity had been otherwise uttered than profanely in the camp. The form of christening was perhaps even more ludicrous than the satirist had conceived; but strangely enough, nobody saw it and nobody laughed. “Tommy” was christened as seriously as he would have been under a Christian roof, and cried and was comforted in as orthodox fashion.
By the time he turned a month old, it became clear that he needed a name. He had mostly been called “The Kid,” “Stumpy’s Boy,” “The Coyote” (referring to his loud voice), and even Kentuck’s affectionate term, “The d—d little cuss.” But these felt too vague and unsatisfactory, so they were eventually set aside for something else. Gamblers and adventurers tend to be superstitious, and one day Oakhurst announced that the baby had brought “the luck” to Roaring Camp. It was true that they had been winning a lot lately. “Luck” became the agreed-upon name, with Tommy added for convenience. No mention was made of the mother, and the father was unknown. “It’s better,” said the thoughtful Oakhurst, “to start fresh all around. Let’s call him Luck and give him a fair chance.” A day was then chosen for the christening. Those familiar with the reckless irreverence of Roaring Camp can guess what this ceremony entailed. The master of ceremonies was a guy known as “Boston,” a famous jokester, and the event promised to be quite entertaining. This clever satirist had prepared a parody of the Church service over two days, full of pointed local references. The choir was trained, and Sandy Tipton was set to be the godfather. But after the procession gathered in the grove with music and banners, and the baby was placed before a mock altar, Stumpy stepped in front of the eager crowd. “I don’t want to ruin the fun, boys,” said the little man, firmly looking at the faces around him, “but it strikes me that this isn’t exactly fair. It’s pretty low to joke about this baby when he won’t understand it. And if we’re going to have any godfathers here, I’d like to see who has more right than me.” A hush fell over the crowd after Stumpy spoke. To their credit, the first person to acknowledge the truth in his words was the halted jokester. “But,” Stumpy quickly pressed on, “we’re here for a christening, and we’re going to do it. I proclaim you Thomas Luck, as per the laws of the United States and the State of California, so help me God.” It was the first time the name of God had been spoken in any way other than profanely in the camp. The format of the christening may have even been more ridiculous than the satirist had imagined; however, oddly enough, no one noticed it, and nobody laughed. “Tommy” was baptized as solemnly as he would have been in any Christian setting, crying and being comforted in a perfectly traditional manner.
And so the work of regeneration began in Roaring Camp. Almost imperceptibly a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to “Tommy Luck”—or “The Luck,” as he was more frequently called—first showed signs of improvement. It was kept scrupulously clean and whitewashed. Then it was boarded, clothed, and papered. The rosewood, cradle, packed eighty miles by mule, had, in Stumpy’s way of putting it, “sorter killed the rest of the furniture.” So the rehabilitation of the cabin became a necessity. The men who were in the habit of lounging in at Stumpy’s to see “how ‘The Luck’ got on” seemed to appreciate the change, and in self-defense the rival establishment of “Tuttle’s grocery” bestirred itself and imported a carpet and mirrors. The reflections of the latter on the appearance of Roaring Camp tended to produce stricter habits of personal cleanliness. Again Stumpy imposed a kind of quarantine upon those who aspired to the honor and privilege of holding The Luck. It was a cruel mortification to Kentuck—who, in the carelessness of a large nature and the habits of frontier life, had begun to regard all garments as a second cuticle, which, like a snake’s, only sloughed off through decay—to be debarred this privilege from certain prudential reasons. Yet such was the subtle influence of innovation that he thereafter appeared regularly every afternoon in a clean shirt and face still shining from his ablutions. Nor were moral and social sanitary laws neglected. “Tommy,” who was supposed to spend his whole existence in a persistent attempt to repose, must not be disturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling, which had gained the camp its infelicitous title, were not permitted within hearing distance of Stumpy’s. The men conversed in whispers or smoked with Indian gravity. Profanity was tacitly given up in these sacred precincts, and throughout the camp a popular form of expletive, known as “D—n the luck!” and “Curse the luck!” was abandoned, as having a new personal bearing. Vocal music was not interdicted, being supposed to have a soothing, tranquilizing quality; and one song, sung by “Man-o’-War Jack,” an English sailor from her Majesty’s Australian colonies, was quite popular as a lullaby. It was a lugubrious recital of the exploits of “the Arethusa, Seventy-four,” in a muffled minor, ending with a prolonged dying fall at the burden of each verse, “On b-oo-o-ard of the Arethusa.” It was a fine sight to see Jack holding The Luck, rocking from side to side as if with the motion of a ship, and crooning forth this naval ditty. Either through the peculiar rocking of Jack or the length of his song,—it contained ninety stanzas, and was continued with conscientious deliberation to the bitter end,—the lullaby generally had the desired effect. At such times the men would lie at full length under the trees in the soft summer twilight, smoking their pipes and drinking in the melodious utterances. An indistinct idea that this was pastoral happiness pervaded the camp. “This ’ere kind o’ think,” said the Cockney Simmons, meditatively reclining on his elbow, “is ’evingly.” It reminded him of Greenwich.
And so the work of renewal started in Roaring Camp. Gradually, a change came over the settlement. The cabin assigned to “Tommy Luck”—or “The Luck,” as he was more often called—was the first to show signs of improvement. It was kept meticulously clean and freshly painted. Then it was boarded up, decorated, and wallpapered. The rosewood cradle, which had been shipped eighty miles by mule, had, in Stumpy’s words, “sort of taken out the rest of the furniture.” So, fixing up the cabin became essential. The men who usually lounged at Stumpy’s to see “how ‘The Luck’ was doing” seemed to appreciate the change, and in self-defense, the competing establishment of “Tuttle’s grocery” sprang into action and brought in a carpet and mirrors. The reflections from the mirrors added to the appearance of Roaring Camp and encouraged stricter personal cleanliness. Once again, Stumpy enforced a sort of quarantine on those who wanted the honor and privilege of holding The Luck. It was a cruel blow to Kentuck—who, due to the relaxed habits of a big-hearted nature and frontier life, had started to see all clothes as an extra layer of skin, which, like a snake’s, only shed through decay—to be denied this privilege for certain practical reasons. Yet, the subtle influence of change led him to show up every afternoon in a clean shirt with a face still glowing from his wash. Nor were moral and social cleanliness rules overlooked. “Tommy,” who was supposed to spend his entire existence in a constant state of rest, must not be disturbed by noise. The shouting and yelling, which had earned the camp its unfortunate nickname, were not allowed within earshot of Stumpy’s. The men spoke in whispers or smoked with the seriousness of Native Americans. Swearing was quietly abandoned in these sacred spaces, and throughout the camp, the common expressions “D—n the luck!” and “Curse the luck!” were dropped as they took on a new personal significance. Singing was not banned, as it was thought to have a calming quality; and one song, sung by “Man-o’-War Jack,” an English sailor from her Majesty’s Australian colonies, became popular as a lullaby. It was a mournful tale of the “Arethusa, Seventy-four,” sung in a muffled tone, ending with a long, fading note at the end of each verse, “On b-oo-o-ard of the Arethusa.” It was a lovely sight to see Jack holding The Luck, swaying side to side as if he were on a ship, gently singing this naval tune. Either through Jack's rhythmic rocking or the length of his song—it had ninety stanzas and continued with careful deliberation to the very end—the lullaby usually had the desired effect. During these times, the men would stretch out under the trees in the gentle summer twilight, smoking their pipes and soaking in the melodic sounds. A vague sense that this was pastoral bliss filled the camp. “This ’ere kind o’ think,” said the Cockney Simmons, thoughtfully reclining on his elbow, “is ’eavingly.” It reminded him of Greenwich.
On the long summer days The Luck was usually carried to the gulch from whence the golden store of Roaring Camp was taken. There, on a blanket spread over pine boughs, he would lie while the men were working in the ditches below. Latterly there was a rude attempt to decorate this bower with flowers and sweet-smelling shrubs, and generally some one would bring him a cluster of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the painted blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly awakened to the fact that there were beauty and significance in these trifles, which they had so long trodden carelessly beneath their feet. A flake of glittering mica, a fragment of variegated quartz, a bright pebble from the bed of the creek, became beautiful to eyes thus cleared and strengthened, and were invariably put aside for The Luck. It was wonderful how many treasures the woods and hillsides yielded that “would do for Tommy.” Surrounded by playthings such as never child out of fairyland had before, it is to be hoped that Tommy was content. He appeared to be serenely happy, albeit there was an infantine gravity about him, a contemplative light in his round gray eyes, that sometimes worried Stumpy. He was always tractable and quiet, and it is recorded that once, having crept beyond his “corral,”—a hedge of tessellated pine boughs, which surrounded his bed,—he dropped over the bank on his head in the soft earth, and remained with his mottled legs in the air in that position for at least five minutes with unflinching gravity. He was extricated without a murmur. I hesitate to record the many other instances of his sagacity, which rest, unfortunately, upon the statements of prejudiced friends. Some of them were not without a tinge of superstition. “I crep’ up the bank just now,” said Kentuck one day, in a breathless state of excitement, “and dern my skin if he wasn’t a-talking to a jaybird as was a-sittin’ on his lap. There they was, just as free and sociable as anything you please, a-jawin’ at each other just like two cherrybums.” Howbeit, whether creeping over the pine boughs or lying lazily on his back blinking at the leaves above him, to him the birds sang, the squirrels chattered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was his nurse and playfellow. For him she would let slip between the leaves golden shafts of sunlight that fell just within his grasp; she would send wandering breezes to visit him with the balm of bay and resinous gum; to him the tall redwoods nodded familiarly and sleepily, the bumblebees buzzed, and the rooks cawed a slumberous accompaniment.
On the long summer days, The Luck was usually taken to the gulch where the golden treasures of Roaring Camp were drawn from. There, lying on a blanket spread over pine boughs, he'd relax while the men worked in the ditches below. Recently, there had been a rough attempt to decorate this little space with flowers and fragrant shrubs, and someone would often bring him a bunch of wild honeysuckles, azaleas, or the colorful blossoms of Las Mariposas. The men had suddenly realized that there was beauty and meaning in these little things, which they had carelessly trampled for so long. A shiny piece of mica, a fragment of colorful quartz, or a bright pebble from the creek became beautiful to their newly opened eyes, and they were always set aside for The Luck. It was amazing how many treasures the woods and hillsides offered that “would do for Tommy.” Surrounded by toys more magical than anything a child from a fairy tale might have, it’s hoped that Tommy was happy. He seemed to be peacefully cheerful, although there was a childlike seriousness about him, a thoughtful glint in his round gray eyes, that sometimes concerned Stumpy. He was always compliant and quiet, and it’s noted that once, after crawling beyond his “corral”—a fence of interwoven pine boughs that surrounded his bed—he tumbled over the bank onto his head in the soft earth, staying there with his patterned legs in the air for at least five minutes with unwavering seriousness. He was pulled out without a complaint. I hesitate to mention the many other instances of his cleverness, which unfortunately are based on the claims of biased friends. Some of these had a hint of superstition. “I just crept up the bank,” said Kentuck one day, out of breath with excitement, “and, darn it, if he wasn't talking to a jaybird that was sitting on his lap. They were there, just as free and friendly as can be, chatting like two old pals.” Regardless, whether crawling over the pine boughs or lounging on his back, blinking at the leaves overhead, the birds sang to him, the squirrels chattered, and the flowers bloomed. Nature was his caregiver and playmate. For him, she let golden beams of sunlight slip through the leaves, falling just within his reach; she would send gentle breezes to visit him with the scents of bay and resin; to him, the tall redwoods nodded sleepily and casually, bumblebees buzzed, and the crows cawed a sleepy accompaniment.
Such was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. They were “flush times,” and the luck was with them. The claims had yielded enormously. The camp was jealous of its privileges and looked suspiciously on strangers. No encouragement was given to immigration, and, to make their seclusion more perfect, the land on either side of the mountain wall that surrounded the camp they duly preempted. This, and a reputation for singular proficiency with the revolver, kept the reserve of Roaring Camp inviolate. The expressman—their only connecting link with the surrounding world—sometimes told wonderful stories of the camp. He would say, “They’ve a street up there in ‘Roaring’ that would lay over any street in Red Dog. They’ve got vines and flowers round their houses, and they wash themselves twice a day. But they’re mighty rough on strangers, and they worship an Ingin baby.”
It was the golden summer of Roaring Camp. Times were good, and luck was on their side. The claims had produced a lot of wealth. The camp was protective of its privileges and viewed outsiders with suspicion. No efforts were made to encourage new arrivals, and to keep their isolation intact, they claimed the land on either side of the mountain wall surrounding the camp. This, along with their reputation for exceptional skill with firearms, kept Roaring Camp untouched. The expressman—their only link to the outside world—occasionally shared incredible stories about the camp. He would say, “They have a street up there in ‘Roaring’ that easily beats any street in Red Dog. They’ve got vines and flowers around their houses, and they wash up twice a day. But they’re really tough on strangers, and they have a special reverence for an Indian baby.”
With the prosperity of the camp came a desire for further improvement. It was proposed to build a hotel in the following spring, and to invite one or two decent families to reside there for the sake of The Luck, who might perhaps profit by female companionship. The sacrifice that this concession to the sex cost these men, who were fiercely skeptical in regard to its general virtue and usefulness, can only be accounted for by their affection for Tommy. A few still held out. But the resolve could not be carried into effect for three months, and the minority meekly yielded in the hope that something might turn up to prevent it. And it did.
With the camp thriving, there was a push for more improvements. It was suggested to build a hotel the following spring and to invite one or two respectable families to live there for the sake of The Luck, who might benefit from having female company. The sacrifice this concession to women cost the men, who were very skeptical about its overall value and usefulness, can only be explained by their affection for Tommy. A few still resisted. However, the decision couldn't be implemented for three months, and the minority reluctantly gave in, hoping that something would come up to stop it. And it did.
The winter of 1851 will long be remembered in the foothills. The snow lay deep on the Sierras, and every mountain creek became a river, and every river a lake. Each gorge and gulch was transformed into a tumultuous watercourse that descended the hillsides, tearing down giant trees and scattering its drift and debris along the plain. Red Dog had been twice under water, and Roaring Camp had been forewarned. “Water put the gold into them gulches,” said Stumpy. “It’s been here once and will be here again!” And that night the North Fork suddenly leaped over its banks and swept up the triangular valley of Roaring Camp.
The winter of 1851 will be remembered for a long time in the foothills. The snow was deep on the Sierras, turning every mountain creek into a river and every river into a lake. Each gorge and gulch became a wild waterway rushing down the hillsides, uprooting giant trees and spreading debris across the plain. Red Dog had been submerged twice, and Roaring Camp had been warned. “Water brought the gold into those gulches,” Stumpy said. “It’s been here before and will be back again!” That night, the North Fork suddenly overflowed its banks and surged into the triangular valley of Roaring Camp.
In the confusion of rushing water, crashing trees, and crackling timber, and the darkness which seemed to flow with the water and blot out the fair valley, but little could be done to collect the scattered camp. When the morning broke, the cabin of Stumpy, nearest the river-bank, was gone. Higher up the gulch they found the body of its unlucky owner; but the pride, the hope, the joy, The Luck, of Roaring Camp had disappeared. They were returning with sad hearts when a shout from the bank recalled them.
In the chaos of rushing water, falling trees, and snapping wood, along with the darkness that seemed to merge with the water and erase the beautiful valley, not much could be done to gather the scattered camp. When morning came, Stumpy's cabin, the one closest to the riverbank, was gone. Further up the gulch, they discovered the body of its unfortunate owner, but the pride, hope, joy, and luck of Roaring Camp had vanished. They were heading back with heavy hearts when a shout from the bank brought them back.
It was a relief-boat from down the river. They had picked up, they said, a man and an infant, nearly exhausted, about two miles below. Did anybody know them, and did they belong here?
It was a rescue boat from further down the river. They said they found a man and a baby, both nearly worn out, about two miles downstream. Does anyone know them, and do they belong here?
It needed but a glance to show them Kentuck lying there, cruelly crushed and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. As they bent over the strangely assorted pair, they saw that the child was cold and pulseless. “He is dead,” said one. Kentuck opened his eyes. “Dead?” he repeated feebly. “Yes, my man, and you are dying too.” A smile lit the eyes of the expiring Kentuck. “Dying!” he repeated; “he’s a-taking me with him. Tell the boys I’ve got The Luck with me now;” and the strong man, clinging to the frail babe as a drowning man is said to cling to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that flows forever to the unknown sea.
It took just one look to see Kentuck lying there, badly crushed and bruised, but still holding The Luck of Roaring Camp in his arms. As they leaned over the unusual pair, they realized the child was cold and without a pulse. “He’s dead,” said one. Kentuck opened his eyes. “Dead?” he repeated weakly. “Yeah, my friend, and you’re dying too.” A smile brightened the eyes of the fading Kentuck. “Dying!” he echoed; “he’s taking me with him. Tell the guys I’ve got The Luck with me now;” and the strong man, holding on to the fragile baby like a drowning man is said to hold on to a straw, drifted away into the shadowy river that flows endlessly toward the unknown sea.
THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT
As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the main street of Poker Flat on the morning of the 23d of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night. Two or three men, conversing earnestly together, ceased as he approached, and exchanged significant glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air, which, in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked ominous.
As Mr. John Oakhurst, a gambler, walked into the main street of Poker Flat on the morning of November 23, 1850, he sensed a shift in the town's moral vibe since the night before. Two or three men, who were deep in conversation, stopped talking as he got closer and exchanged meaningful looks. There was a Sunday quietness in the air that felt unsettling in a place not used to such influences.
Mr. Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face betrayed small concern in these indications. Whether he was conscious of any predisposing cause was another question. “I reckon they’re after somebody,” he reflected; “likely it’s me.” He returned to his pocket the handkerchief with which he had been whipping away the red dust of Poker Flat from his neat boots, and quietly discharged his mind of any further conjecture.
Mr. Oakhurst’s calm, handsome face showed little concern about these signs. Whether he was aware of any underlying cause was another question. “I guess they’re looking for someone,” he thought; “probably me.” He put away the handkerchief he had been using to wipe the red dust of Poker Flat off his neat boots and let go of any further speculation.
In point of fact, Poker Flat was “after somebody.” It had lately suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen. It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had provoked it. A secret committee had determined to rid the town of all improper persons. This was done permanently in regard of two men who were then hanging from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and temporarily in the banishment of certain other objectionable characters. I regret to say that some of these were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however, to state that their impropriety was professional, and it was only in such easily established standards of evil that Poker Flat ventured to sit in judgment.
Actually, Poker Flat was “after someone.” It had recently suffered the loss of several thousand dollars, two valuable horses, and a notable citizen. It was going through a phase of moral outrage, just as lawless and uncontrollable as the actions that led to it. A secret committee had decided to cleanse the town of all undesirable people. This was done permanently with two men who were then hanging from the branches of a sycamore tree in the gulch, and temporarily with the banishment of other objectionable characters. I regret to say that some of these were women. However, it’s only fair to mention that their impropriety was professional, and it was only with such clearly defined standards of wrongdoing that Poker Flat felt justified in passing judgment.
Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was included in this category. A few of the committee had urged hanging him as a possible example and a sure method of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of the sums he had won from them. “It’s agin justice,” said Jim Wheeler, “to let this yer young man from Roaring Camp—an entire stranger—carry away our money.” But a crude sentiment of equity residing in the breasts of those who had been fortunate enough to win from Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.
Mr. Oakhurst was right to think that he was included in this group. A few members of the committee had suggested hanging him as a potential example and a guaranteed way to get back the money he had won from them. “It’s not fair,” said Jim Wheeler, “to let this young guy from Roaring Camp—an absolute stranger—walk away with our money.” But a basic sense of fairness within those who had been lucky enough to win against Mr. Oakhurst outweighed this more limited local bias.
Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic calmness, none the less coolly that he was aware of the hesitation of his judges. He was too much of a gambler not to accept fate. With him life was at best an uncertain game, and he recognized the usual percentage in favor of the dealer.
Mr. Oakhurst took his sentence with a philosophical calmness, still cool because he noticed his judges hesitating. He was too much of a gambler not to accept fate. For him, life was, at best, an uncertain game, and he understood the usual odds favored the dealer.
A body of armed men accompanied the deported wickedness of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settlement. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the armed escort was intended, the expatriated party consisted of a young woman familiarly known as “The Duchess;” another who had won the title of “Mother Shipton;” and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected, sluice-robber and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no comments from the spectators, nor was any word uttered by the escort. Only when the gulch which marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached, the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles were forbidden to return at the peril of their lives.
A group of armed men escorted the expelled troublemakers from Poker Flat to the edge of the settlement. Along with Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be dangerously calm and for whom the armed escort was meant as a deterrent, the group included a young woman commonly called “The Duchess,” another known as “Mother Shipton,” and “Uncle Billy,” a suspected sluice thief and confirmed drunk. The group drew no comments from the onlookers, and the escort said nothing. Only when they reached the gulch that marked the final boundary of Poker Flat did the leader speak briefly and directly. The exiles were warned not to return at the risk of their lives.
As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings found vent in a few hysterical tears from the Duchess, some bad language from Mother Shipton, and a Parthian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He listened calmly to Mother Shipton’s desire to cut somebody’s heart out, to the repeated statements of the Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle Billy as he rode forward. With the easy good humor characteristic of his class, he insisted upon exchanging his own riding-horse, “Five-Spot,” for the sorry mule which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not draw the party into any closer sympathy. The young woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes with a feeble, faded coquetry; Mother Shipton eyed the possessor of “Five-Spot” with malevolence, and Uncle Billy included the whole party in one sweeping anathema.
As the escort left, their pent-up emotions spilled over into some hysterical tears from the Duchess, a few choice words from Mother Shipton, and a barrage of curses from Uncle Billy. Only the calm Oakhurst stayed silent. He listened to Mother Shipton's wish to take someone's heart out, the Duchess repeatedly claiming she would collapse in the road, and the alarming curses that seemed to escape Uncle Billy as he rode ahead. With the easygoing humor typical of his background, he insisted on swapping his own horse, “Five-Spot,” for the worn-out mule the Duchess was riding. But even this gesture didn’t bring the group closer together. The young woman adjusted her somewhat messy feathers with a weak, faded flirtation; Mother Shipton glared at the owner of “Five-Spot” with resentment, and Uncle Billy directed a sweeping curse at the entire group.
The road to Sandy Bar—a camp that, not having as yet experienced the regenerating influences of Poker Flat, consequently seemed to offer some invitation to the emigrants—lay over a steep mountain range. It was distant a day’s severe travel. In that advanced season the party soon passed out of the moist, temperate regions of the foothills into the dry, cold, bracing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and difficult. At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and the party halted.
The road to Sandy Bar—a camp that, not having yet experienced the refreshing influence of Poker Flat, seemed to invite the emigrants—went over a steep mountain range. It was a day’s tough journey away. At that late season, the group quickly moved out of the wet, mild areas of the foothills into the dry, cold, refreshing air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and challenging. At noon, the Duchess rolled off her saddle onto the ground and declared she wasn’t going any further, prompting the group to stop.
The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheatre, surrounded on three sides by precipitous cliffs of naked granite, sloped gently toward the crest of another precipice that overlooked the valley. It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp, had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was accomplished, and the party were not equipped or provisioned for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of “throwing up their hand before the game was played out.” But they were furnished with liquor, which in this emergency stood them in place of food, fuel, rest, and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it was not long before they were more or less under its influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose state into one of stupor, the Duchess became maudlin, and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying them.
The spot was strikingly wild and impressive. A wooded amphitheater, surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs of bare granite, sloped gently toward the edge of another drop that overlooked the valley. It was definitely the best place for a camp, if camping had been a wise choice. But Mr. Oakhurst knew that they had only covered half the journey to Sandy Bar, and the group wasn’t prepared or stocked for any delays. He pointed this out to his companions bluntly, adding a philosophical note about the foolishness of "throwing in the towel before the game was over." However, they had liquor, which in this situation acted as a substitute for food, fuel, rest, and foresight. Despite his objections, it wasn't long before they were somewhat under its influence. Uncle Billy quickly shifted from a confrontational mood to one of stupor, the Duchess became emotional, and Mother Shipton was snoring. Mr. Oakhurst was the only one still standing, leaning against a rock and calmly watching them.
Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a profession which required coolness, impassiveness, and presence of mind, and, in his own language, he “couldn’t afford it.” As he gazed at his recumbent fellow exiles, the loneliness begotten of his pariah trade, his habits of life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed him. He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes, washing his hands and face, and other acts characteristic of his studiously neat habits, and for a moment forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps occurred to him. Yet he could not help feeling the want of that excitement which, singularly enough, was most conducive to that calm equanimity for which he was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that rose a thousand feet sheer above the circling pines around him, at the sky ominously clouded, at the valley below, already deepening into shadow; and, doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called.
Mr. Oakhurst didn’t drink. It got in the way of a job that needed coolness, composure, and quick thinking, and, as he put it, he “couldn’t afford it.” As he looked at his fellow exiles lying down, the loneliness that came from his outcast profession, his lifestyle, and even his vices started to weigh heavily on him for the first time. He got up to dust off his black clothes, wash his hands and face, and do other things typical of his meticulously tidy habits, and for a moment, he forgot his irritation. The idea of abandoning his weaker and more pitiable companions perhaps never crossed his mind. Yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he missed the thrill that, oddly enough, contributed to the calmness he was known for. He glanced at the dark walls towering a thousand feet straight up above the surrounding pines, at the sky ominously overcast, and at the valley below, already sinking into shadow; and while doing so, he suddenly heard someone call his name.
A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh, open face of the newcomer Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, otherwise known as “The Innocent,” of Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over a “little game,” and had, with perfect equanimity, won the entire fortune—amounting to some forty dollars—of that guileless youth. After the game was finished, Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator behind the door and thus addressed him: “Tommy, you’re a good little man, but you can’t gamble worth a cent. Don’t try it over again.” He then handed him his money hack, pushed him gently from the room, and so made a devoted slave of Tom Simson.
A rider slowly made his way up the trail. In the fresh, open face of the newcomer, Mr. Oakhurst recognized Tom Simson, also known as “The Innocent,” from Sandy Bar. He had met him a few months earlier during a “little game” and had, with complete calmness, won the entire fortune—about forty dollars—of that naive young man. After the game ended, Mr. Oakhurst pulled the young gambler aside and said, “Tommy, you’re a good kid, but you can’t gamble to save your life. Don’t try it again.” He then returned the boy’s money, gently pushed him out of the room, and thus made Tom Simson a loyal follower.
There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started, he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. “Alone?” No, not exactly alone; in fact (a giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She that used to wait on the table at the Temperance House? They had been engaged a long time, but old Jake Woods had objected, and so they had run away, and were going to Poker Flat to be married, and here they were. And they were tired out, and how lucky it was they had found a place to camp, and company. All this the Innocent delivered rapidly, while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of fifteen, emerged from behind the pine-tree, where she had been blushing unseen, and rode to the side of her lover.
There was a reminder of this in his youthful and excited greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He said he had set out for Poker Flat to find his fortune. “Alone?” Not exactly alone; actually (with a giggle), he had run away with Piney Woods. Didn’t Mr. Oakhurst remember Piney? She used to serve at the Temperance House? They had been engaged for a long time, but old Jake Woods had disapproved, so they ran away and were heading to Poker Flat to get married, and here they were. They were exhausted, and how lucky it was that they had found a place to camp and some company. All this the Innocent shared quickly, while Piney, a plump, pretty girl of fifteen, stepped out from behind the pine tree, where she had been blushing unseen, and rode up beside her boyfriend.
Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with sentiment, still less with propriety; but he had a vague idea that the situation was not fortunate. He retained, however, his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst’s kick a superior power that would not bear trifling. He then endeavored to dissuade Tom Simson from delaying further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact that there was no provision, nor means of making a camp. But, unluckily, the Innocent met this objection by assuring the party that he was provided with an extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery of a rude attempt at a log house near the trail. “Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, pointing to the Duchess, “and I can shift for myself.”
Mr. Oakhurst rarely worried about feelings, even less about what's proper; but he had a sense that the situation wasn’t great. Still, he kept his cool enough to kick Uncle Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle Billy was sober enough to understand that Mr. Oakhurst’s kick was a sign not to mess around. He then tried to convince Tom Simson not to wait any longer, but it was no use. He even pointed out that there was no food or way to set up camp. But unfortunately, the Innocent countered this by assuring everyone that he had an extra mule loaded with supplies and by pointing out a makeshift log cabin near the trail. “Piney can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,” said the Innocent, gesturing to the Duchess, “and I can take care of myself.”
Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s admonishing foot saved Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As it was, he felt compelled to retire up the canon until he could recover his gravity. There he confided the joke to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg, contortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But when he returned to the party, he found them seated by a fire—for the air had grown strangely chill and the sky overcast—in apparently amicable conversation. Piney was actually talking in an impulsive girlish fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an interest and animation she had not shown for many days. The Innocent was holding forth, apparently with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was actually relaxing into amiability. “Is this yer a d—d picnic?” said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn, as he surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing firelight, and the tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into his mouth.
Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst’s warning foot kept Uncle Billy from bursting into laughter. As it was, he felt the need to retreat up the canyon until he could regain his composure. There, he shared the joke with the tall pine trees, accompanied by many slaps on his leg, facial contortions, and the usual profanity. But when he returned to the group, he found them gathered around a fire—since the air had grown oddly chilly and the sky was overcast—engaged in what seemed like friendly conversation. Piney was actually chatting excitedly in a girlish way with the Duchess, who was showing a level of interest and energy she hadn’t displayed in days. The Innocent was holding forth, seemingly with equal charm, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton, who was actually softening into friendliness. “Is this a damn picnic?” Uncle Billy said, filled with inward disdain, as he looked over the woodland scene, the flickering firelight, and the tied-up animals in the front. Suddenly, an idea mixed with the alcoholic haze clouding his mind. It seemed to be a funny one, as he felt compelled to slap his leg again and shove his fist into his mouth.
As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees and moaned through their long and gloomy aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine boughs, was set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it might have been heard above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton were probably too stunned to remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word to the hut. The fire was replenished, the men lay down before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.
As the shadows slowly climbed the mountain, a gentle breeze swayed the tops of the pine trees and whispered through their long, dark pathways. The rundown cabin, patched up and covered with pine branches, was reserved for the women. As the lovers said goodbye, they exchanged an innocent kiss, so genuine and heartfelt that it could have been heard above the rustling pines. The delicate Duchess and the wicked Mother Shipton were likely too taken aback to comment on this last sign of sincerity, so they turned silently toward the hut. The fire was stoked, the men lay down in front of the door, and within a few minutes, they were asleep.
Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning he awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it,—snow!
Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning, he woke up feeling numb and cold. As he stirred the dying fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brushed against his cheek with something that made the color drain from his face—snow!
He started to his feet with the intention of awakening the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone. A suspicion leaped to his brain, and a curse to his lips. He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered—they were no longer there. The tracks were already rapidly disappearing in the snow.
He got up to wake the sleepers because there was no time to waste. But when he turned to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he saw that he was gone. A suspicion shot into his mind, and a curse escaped his lips. He rushed to the place where the mules had been tied up— they were gone too. The tracks were already fading fast in the snow.
The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully, with a smile on his good-humored, freckled face; the virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly as though attended by celestial guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his shoulders, stroked his mustaches and waited for the dawn. It came slowly in a whirling mist of snowflakes that dazzled and confused the eye. What could be seen of the landscape appeared magically changed. He looked over the valley, and summed up the present and future in two words, “Snowed in!”
The brief thrill brought Mr. Oakhurst back to the fire with his usual composure. He didn’t wake the sleepers. The Innocent lay peacefully, smiling on his cheerful, freckled face; the pure Piney slept next to her more delicate sisters as sweetly as if watched over by heavenly guardians; and Mr. Oakhurst, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, stroked his mustache and waited for dawn. It came slowly in a swirling mist of snowflakes that dazzled and confused the eye. What could be seen of the landscape looked magically transformed. He gazed over the valley and summed up the present and future in two words, “Snowed in!”
A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortunately for the party, had been stored within the hut, and so escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed the fact that with care and prudence they might last ten days longer. “That is,” said Mr. Oakhurst sotto voce to the Innocent, “if you’re willing to board us. If you ain’t—and perhaps you’d better not—you can wait till Uncle Billy gets back with provisions.” For some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring himself to disclose Uncle Billy’s rascality, and so offered the hypothesis that he had wandered from the camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals. He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, who of course knew the facts of their associate’s defection. “They’ll find out the truth about us all when they find out anything,” he added significantly, “and there’s no good frightening them now.”
A careful check of the supplies, which, luckily for the group, had been stored in the hut and thus avoided the greedy hands of Uncle Billy, revealed that with some care and caution they might last another ten days. “That is,” Mr. Oakhurst said quietly to the Innocent, “if you’re okay with taking care of us. If not—and maybe you shouldn’t—you can just wait for Uncle Billy to come back with more supplies.” For some unknown reason, Mr. Oakhurst couldn’t bring himself to reveal Uncle Billy’s wrongdoing, so he suggested that he had strayed from the camp and accidentally scared off the animals. He gave a heads-up to the Duchess and Mother Shipton, who of course were aware of their companion’s departure. “They’ll learn the truth about us all when they find out anything,” he added pointedly, “and there’s no point in scaring them now.”
Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the prospect of their enforced seclusion. “We’ll have a good camp for a week, and then the snow’ll melt, and we’ll all go back together.” The cheerful gayety of the young man and Mr. Oakhurst’s calm infected the others. The Innocent, with the aid of pine boughs, extemporized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the Duchess directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that provincial maiden to their fullest extent. “I reckon now you’re used to fine things at Poker Flat,” said Piney. The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal something that reddened her cheeks through their professional tint, and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to “chatter.” But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search for the trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter echoed from the rocks. He stopped in some alarm, and his thoughts first naturally reverted to the whiskey, which he had prudently cached. “And yet it don’t somehow sound like whiskey,” said the gambler. It was not until he caught sight of the blazing fire through the still blinding storm, and the group around it, that he settled to the conviction that it was “square fun.”
Tom Simson not only offered all his belongings to Mr. Oakhurst but also seemed to enjoy the idea of their forced isolation. “We’ll have a great camp for a week, then the snow will melt, and we’ll all head back together.” The cheerful enthusiasm of the young man and Mr. Oakhurst’s calm attitude lifted the spirits of everyone else. The Innocent used pine branches to create a makeshift roof for the cabin, while the Duchess guided Piney in rearranging the interior with a flair and sensitivity that amazed the innocent young girl. “I guess you’re used to nice things at Poker Flat now,” Piney said. The Duchess quickly turned away to hide the blush that surfaced under her professional makeup, and Mother Shipton asked Piney not to “chatter.” But when Mr. Oakhurst came back from a tiring search for the trail, he was met by the sound of happy laughter echoing off the rocks. He paused in worry, and his thoughts immediately went to the whiskey he had wisely hidden away. “And yet, it doesn’t really sound like whiskey,” said the gambler. It wasn’t until he spotted the roaring fire through the still blinding snowstorm and the group gathered around it that he convinced himself it was just “good clean fun.”
Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the whiskey as something debarred the free access of the community, I cannot say. It was certain that, in Mother Shipton’s words, he “didn’t say ‘cards’ once” during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by an accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by Tom Simson from his pack. Notwithstanding some difficulties attending the manipulation of this instrument, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant melodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by the Innocent on a pair of bone castanets. But the crowning festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a certain defiant tone and Covenanter’s swing to its chorus, rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily to infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain:—
Whether Mr. Oakhurst had hidden his cards with the whiskey to keep the community from accessing them, I can’t say. What I do know is that, in Mother Shipton’s words, he “didn’t say ‘cards’ once” that evening. Perhaps the time was made enjoyable by an accordion, which Tom Simson brought out somewhat showily from his pack. Despite some challenges in playing the instrument, Piney Woods was able to coax several stubborn melodies from its keys, accompanied by the Innocent on a pair of bone castanets. But the highlight of the evening was when the couples, holding hands, sang a lively camp-meeting hymn with a lot of passion and volume. I worry that a certain defiant vibe and a Covenanter’s rhythm in its chorus, more than any sense of devotion, quickly caught on with the others, who eventually joined in the refrain:—
The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow.
The pines swayed, the storm swirled above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar leaped into the sky, as if acknowledging the vow.
At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had enabled him to live on the smallest possible amount of sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson somehow managed to take upon himself the greater part of that duty. He excused himself to the Innocent by saying that he had “often been a week without sleep.” “Doing what?” asked Tom. “Poker!” replied Oakhurst sententiously. “When a man gets a streak of luck,—nigger-luck,—he don’t get tired. The luck gives in first. Luck,” continued the gambler reflectively, “is a mighty queer thing. All you know about it for certain is that it’s bound to change. And it’s finding out when it’s going to change that makes you. We’ve had a streak of bad luck since we left Poker Flat,—you come along, and slap you get into it, too. If you can hold your cards right along you’re all right. For,” added the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance—
At midnight, the storm eased up, the clouds parted, and the stars shone brightly over the sleeping camp. Mr. Oakhurst, who had developed a knack for surviving on very little sleep, ended up taking most of the watch with Tom Simson. He told the Innocent that he had “often been a week without sleep.” “Doing what?” Tom asked. “Poker!” Oakhurst replied with a serious tone. “When a guy gets a lucky streak—nigger-luck—he doesn’t get tired. Luck gives out first. Luck,” the gambler continued thoughtfully, “is a strange thing. All you know for sure is that it’s going to change. Figuring out when it’s going to change is what matters. We’ve had a run of bad luck since we left Poker Flat—you join us, and suddenly you’re in it too. If you can keep your cards right, you’ll be fine. Because,” the gambler added with a cheerful disregard—
The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing store of provisions for the morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth over the wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration of the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled high around the hut,—a hopeless, uncharted, trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to which the castaways still clung. Through the marvelously clear air the smoke of the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her last vituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason was invested with a certain degree of sublimity. It did her good, she privately informed the Duchess. “Just you go out there and cuss, and see.” She then set herself to the task of amusing “the child,” as she and the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney was no chicken, but it was a soothing and original theory of the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn’t swear and wasn’t improper.
The third day arrived, and the sun, shining through the white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts dividing their slowly dwindling supply of food for breakfast. One odd thing about that mountain climate was how its rays spread a gentle warmth over the wintry scene, almost as if mourning what had happened before. But it also exposed drifts of snow piled high around the hut—a hopeless, uncharted, and trackless sea of white below the rocky edges to which the castaways were still clinging. Through the incredibly clear air, the smoke from the pastoral village of Poker Flat rose up miles away. Mother Shipton spotted it, and from a distant peak of her rocky refuge, she threw a final curse in that direction. It was her last rant, and maybe for that reason, it carried a certain sense of grandeur. It did her good, she privately told the Duchess. “Just go out there and curse, and see.” She then focused on keeping “the child,” as she and the Duchess liked to call Piney, entertained. Piney wasn’t a little girl, but it was a comforting and quirky theory of theirs to explain why she didn’t swear and wasn’t inappropriate.
When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps by the flickering campfire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was proposed by Piney,—story-telling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions caring to relate their personal experiences, this plan would have failed too, but for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope’s ingenious translation of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that poem—having thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the words—in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the rest of that night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the canon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction. Most especially was he interested in the fate of “Ash-heels,” as the Innocent persisted in denominating the “swift-footed Achilles.”
When night fell again over the gorges, the soft sounds of the accordion rose and fell in irregular bursts and drawn-out breaths by the flickering campfire. But the music couldn’t completely fill the emptiness caused by not having enough food, so Piney suggested a new activity—storytelling. Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions wanted to share their personal stories, and this plan might have failed too, if not for the Innocent. A few months earlier, he had stumbled upon a random copy of Mr. Pope’s clever translation of the Iliad. He now proposed to recount the main events of that poem—having thoroughly grasped the story while mostly forgetting the original words—in the everyday language of Sandy Bar. So for the rest of the night, the heroes of Homer returned to the earth. The Trojan bully and the crafty Greek battled in the winds, and the huge pines in the canyon seemed to bow to the fury of the son of Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet contentment. He was especially intrigued by the fate of “Ash-heels,” as the Innocent insisted on calling the “swift-footed Achilles.”
So, with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by day closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at last they looked from their prison over drifted walls of dazzling white, that towered twenty feet above their heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained. The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and looked into each other’s eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst settled himself coolly to the losing game before him. The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton—once the strongest of the party—seemed to sicken and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to her side. “I’m going,” she said, in a voice of querulous weakness, “but don’t say anything about it. Don’t waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head, and open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained Mother Shipton’s rations for the last week, untouched. “Give ’em to the child,” she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. “You’ve starved yourself,” said the gambler. “That’s what they call it,” said the woman querulously, as she lay down again, and, turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away.
So, with little food and a lot of Homer and the accordion, a week went by for the outcasts. The sun left them again, and once more, snowflakes poured down from dull skies over the countryside. Day by day, the snowy barrier closed in around them, until they finally looked out from their prison at towering walls of bright white that rose twenty feet above their heads. It became increasingly hard to keep their fires going, even with the fallen trees nearby, which were now partly buried in the drifts. Yet, nobody complained. The lovers turned away from the bleak view and into each other’s eyes, finding happiness there. Mr. Oakhurst calmly settled into the losing game ahead of him. The Duchess, feeling more upbeat than before, took on the responsibility for Piney. Only Mother Shipton—once the strongest of the group—seemed to weaken and diminish. At midnight on the tenth day, she called Oakhurst to her side. “I’m going,” she said, her voice weary and complaining, “but don’t talk about it. Don’t wake the kids. Take the bundle from under my head and open it.” Mr. Oakhurst did as she asked. It contained Mother Shipton’s rations for the last week, untouched. “Give them to the child,” she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. “You’ve starved yourself,” said the gambler. “That’s what they call it,” she replied weakly, as she lay back down, turning her face to the wall, and quietly passed away.
The accordion and the bones were put aside that day, and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of snow-shoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle.
The accordion and the bones were put away that day, and Homer was forgotten. After Mother Shipton's body had been buried in the snow, Mr. Oakhurst took the Innocent aside and showed him a pair of snowshoes he had made from the old pack saddle.
“There’s one chance in a hundred to save her yet,” he said, pointing to Piney; “but it’s there,” he added, pointing toward Poker Flat. “If you can reach there in two days she’s safe.”
“There's one chance in a hundred to save her,” he said, pointing to Piney. “But it's possible,” he added, gesturing towards Poker Flat. “If you can get there in two days, she’ll be safe.”
“And you?” asked Tom Simson. “I’ll stay here,” was the curt reply. The lovers parted with a long embrace.
“And you?” asked Tom Simson. “I’ll stay here,” was the brief reply. The lovers parted with a lingering embrace.
“You are not going, too?” said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oakhurst apparently waiting to accompany him. “As far as the canon,” he replied. He turned suddenly and kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame, and her trembling limbs rigid with amazement.
“You're not going, too?” the Duchess asked, noticing Mr. Oakhurst seemingly ready to go with him. “Just as far as the canon,” he answered. He suddenly turned and kissed the Duchess, leaving her pale face flushed and her trembling limbs stiff with shock.
Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the fire, found that some one had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer. The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.
Night fell, but Mr. Oakhurst didn’t show up. The storm returned with swirling snow. Then the Duchess, while adding wood to the fire, discovered that someone had quietly stacked enough fuel next to the hut to last a few more days. Tears filled her eyes, but she kept them hidden from Piney.
The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into each other’s faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke, but Piney, accepting the position of the stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the Duchess’s waist. They kept this attitude for the rest of the day. That night the storm reached its greatest fury, and, rending asunder the protecting vines, invaded the very hut.
The women barely slept. In the morning, they looked into each other’s faces and understood their fate. Neither said a word, but Piney, taking on the role of the stronger one, moved closer and put her arm around the Duchess’s waist. They stayed that way for the rest of the day. That night, the storm hit its peak, tearing apart the protective vines and invading the hut itself.
Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the fire, which gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many hours: “Piney, can you pray?” “No, dear,” said Piney simply. The Duchess, without knowing exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney’s shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, the younger and purer pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin breast, they fell asleep.
Toward morning, they found themselves unable to keep the fire going, which gradually went out. As the embers slowly turned to ash, the Duchess scooted closer to Piney and broke the long silence: “Piney, can you pray?” “No, dear,” Piney replied simply. The Duchess, not entirely sure why, felt a sense of relief. Resting her head on Piney’s shoulder, she said nothing more. And so, as they lay there, the younger and more innocent one supporting the head of her tarnished sister on her pure chest, they fell asleep.
The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them. Feathery drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine boughs, flew like white winged birds, and settled about them as they slept. The moon through the rifted clouds looked down upon what had been the camp. But all human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was hidden beneath the spotless mantle mercifully flung from above.
The wind settled down as if it was afraid to wake them. Soft drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine branches, floated down like white-winged birds and landed around them as they slept. The moon peeked through the broken clouds and looked down on what used to be the camp. But all signs of humanity, all traces of earthly struggles, were hidden beneath the pure blanket generously spread from above.
They slept all that day and the next, nor did they waken when voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when pitying fingers brushed the snow from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told from the equal peace that dwelt upon them which was she that had sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat recognized this, and turned away, leaving them still locked in each other’s arms.
They slept all of that day and the next, and they didn’t wake even when voices and footsteps disturbed the quiet of the camp. When compassionate hands gently brushed the snow from their pale faces, it was hard to tell from the calm peace that surrounded them who had sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat acknowledged this and moved on, leaving them still wrapped in each other’s arms.
But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest pine-trees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to the bark with a bowie-knife. It bore the following, written in pencil in a firm hand:—
But at the top of the ravine, on one of the biggest pine trees, they found the deuce of clubs stuck to the bark with a bowie knife. It had the following written in pencil in a steady hand:—
And pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay he who was at once the strongest and yet the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.
And lifeless and cold, with a small pistol by his side and a bullet in his heart, still calm as in life, beneath the snow lay the one who was both the strongest and the weakest of the outcasts from Poker Flat.
MIGGLES
We were eight including the driver. We had not spoken during the passage of the last six miles, since the jolting of the heavy vehicle over the roughening road had spoiled the Judge’s last poetical quotation. The tall man beside the Judge was asleep, his arm passed through the swaying strap and his head resting upon it,—altogether a limp, helpless looking object, as if he had hanged himself and been cut down too late. The French lady on the back seat was asleep too, yet in a half-conscious propriety of attitude, shown even in the disposition of the handkerchief which she held to her forehead and which partially veiled her face. The lady from Virginia City, traveling with her husband, had long since lost all individuality in a wild confusion of ribbons, veils, furs, and shawls. There was no sound but the rattling of wheels and the dash of rain upon the roof. Suddenly the stage stopped and we became dimly aware of voices. The driver was evidently in the midst of an exciting colloquy with some one in the road,—a colloquy of which such fragments as “bridge gone,” “twenty feet of water,” “can’t pass,” were occasionally distinguishable above the storm. Then came a lull, and a mysterious voice from the road shouted the parting adjuration—
We were eight, including the driver. We hadn’t talked during the last six miles since the bumpy ride had ruined the Judge’s last quote. The tall man next to the Judge was asleep, his arm through the swaying strap, his head resting on it—altogether limp and looking helpless, as if he’d hanged himself and had been cut down too late. The French lady in the back seat was also asleep, but in a half-conscious way, shown by how she held the handkerchief to her forehead, partially covering her face. The lady from Virginia City, traveling with her husband, had completely lost her individuality in a chaotic mix of ribbons, veils, furs, and shawls. The only sounds were the rattling of wheels and the rain hitting the roof. Suddenly, the stage stopped, and we faintly heard voices. The driver was clearly in the middle of an intense conversation with someone on the road—fragments like “bridge gone,” “twenty feet of water,” “can’t pass” were occasionally heard above the storm. Then there was a pause, and a mysterious voice from the road shouted a parting warning—
“Try Miggles’s.”
"Try Miggles."
We caught a glimpse of our leaders as the vehicle slowly turned, of a horseman vanishing through the rain, and we were evidently on our way to Miggles’s.
We saw our leaders for a moment as the vehicle slowly turned, a horseman disappearing into the rain, and we were clearly heading to Miggles’s.
Who and where was Miggles? The Judge, our authority, did not remember the name, and he knew the country thoroughly. The Washoe traveler thought Miggles must keep a hotel. We only knew that we were stopped by high water in front and rear, and that Miggles was our rock of refuge. A ten minutes’ splashing through a tangled byroad, scarcely wide enough for the stage, and we drew up before a barred and boarded gate in a wide stone wall or fence about eight feet high. Evidently Miggles’s, and evidently Miggles did not keep a hotel.
Who was Miggles and where was he? The Judge, our authority, couldn’t recall the name, even though he was very familiar with the area. The Washoe traveler guessed that Miggles must run a hotel. All we knew was that we were stuck by high water in front and behind, and that Miggles was our safe haven. After ten minutes of splashing along a narrow, tangled back road that was barely wide enough for the stagecoach, we arrived at a barred and boarded gate in a tall stone wall that was about eight feet high. Clearly, this was Miggles’s place, and it was obvious that Miggles did not run a hotel.
The driver got down and tried the gate. It was securely locked.
The driver got out and tried the gate. It was firmly locked.
“Miggles! O Miggles!”
“Miggles! Oh Miggles!”
No answer.
No response.
“Migg-ells! You Miggles!” continued the driver, with rising wrath.
“Miggles! You Miggles!” the driver shouted, getting angrier.
“Migglesy!” joined in the expressman persuasively. “O Miggy! Mig!”
“Migglesy!” joined in the delivery guy, trying to convince her. “Oh Miggy! Mig!”
But no reply came from the apparently insensate Miggles. The Judge, who had finally got the window down, put his head out and propounded a series of questions, which if answered categorically would have undoubtedly elucidated the whole mystery, but which the driver evaded by replying that “if we didn’t want to sit in the coach all night we had better rise up and sing out for Miggles.”
But no answer came from the seemingly oblivious Miggles. The Judge, who had finally managed to roll the window down, stuck his head out and asked a series of questions that, if answered directly, would have definitely cleared up the whole mystery. However, the driver avoided them by saying that “if we didn’t want to sit in the coach all night, we’d better get up and shout for Miggles.”
So we rose up and called on Miggles in chorus, then separately. And when we had finished, a Hibernian fellow passenger from the roof called for “Maygells!” whereat we all laughed. While we were laughing the driver cried, “Shoo!”
So we got up and called for Miggles together, then one by one. And when we were done, a guy from Ireland who was riding on the roof shouted for "Maygells!" which made us all laugh. While we were laughing, the driver yelled, "Shoo!"
We listened. To our infinite amazement the chorus of “Miggles” was repeated from the other side of the wall, even to the final and supplemental “Maygells.”
We listened. To our complete astonishment, the chorus of “Miggles” echoed from the other side of the wall, even down to the last and additional “Maygells.”
“Extraordinary echo!” said the Judge.
“Awesome echo!” said the Judge.
“Extraordinary d—d skunk!” roared the driver contemptuously. “Come out of that, Miggles, and show yourself! Be a man, Miggles! Don’t hide in the dark; I wouldn’t if I were you, Miggles,” continued Yuba Bill, now dancing about in an excess of fury.
“Extraordinary damn skunk!” yelled the driver with disgust. “Get out of there, Miggles, and show yourself! Be a man, Miggles! Don’t hide in the dark; I wouldn’t if I were you, Miggles,” Yuba Bill went on, now pacing around in a fit of rage.
“Miggles!” continued the voice, “O Miggles!”
“Miggles!” the voice went on, “O Miggles!”
“My good man! Mr. Myghail!” said the Judge, softening the asperities of the name as much as possible. “Consider the inhospitality of refusing shelter from the inclemency of the weather to helpless females. Really, my dear sir”—But a succession of “Miggles,” ending in a burst of laughter, drowned his voice.
“My good man! Mr. Myghail!” said the Judge, trying to make the name sound as gentle as he could. “Think about how inhospitable it is to deny shelter from the harsh weather to vulnerable women. Honestly, my dear sir”—But a series of “Miggles,” ending with laughter, drowned him out.
Yuba Bill hesitated no longer. Taking a heavy stone from the road, he battered down the gate, and with the expressman entered the inclosure. We followed. Nobody was to be seen. In the gathering darkness all that we could distinguish was that we were in a garden—from the rose bushes that scattered over us a minute spray from their dripping leaves—and before a long, rambling wooden building.
Yuba Bill didn't hesitate any longer. He picked up a heavy stone from the road and smashed down the gate, and with the expressman, he entered the enclosure. We followed. No one was in sight. As the darkness settled in, all we could make out was that we were in a garden—thanks to the rose bushes that sprinkled us with tiny drops from their wet leaves—and in front of a long, winding wooden building.
“Do you know this Miggles?” asked the Judge of Yuba Bill.
“Do you know this Miggles?” the Judge asked Yuba Bill.
“No, nor don’t want to,” said Bill shortly, who felt the Pioneer Stage Company insulted in his person by the contumacious Miggles.
“No, and I don’t want to,” Bill replied curtly, feeling personally insulted by the defiant Miggles on behalf of the Pioneer Stage Company.
“But, my dear sir,” expostulated the Judge, as he thought of the barred gate.
“But, my dear sir,” protested the Judge, as he thought of the locked gate.
“Lookee here,” said Yuba Bill, with fine irony, “hadn’t you better go back and sit in the coach till yer introduced? I’m going in,” and he pushed open the door of the building.
“Hey there,” said Yuba Bill, with a sharp sense of irony, “wouldn’t you be better off going back and sitting in the coach until you’re introduced? I’m heading in,” and he pushed open the door of the building.
A long room, lighted only by the embers of a fire that was dying on the large hearth at its farther extremity; the walls curiously papered, and the flickering firelight bringing out its grotesque pattern; someone sitting in a large armchair by the fireplace. All this we saw as we crowded together into the room after the driver and expressman. “Hello! be you Miggles?” said Yuba Bill to the solitary occupant.
A long room, lit only by the dying embers of a fire in the large hearth at the far end; the walls were oddly wallpapered, and the flickering firelight highlighted its strange pattern; someone was sitting in a big armchair by the fireplace. This is what we saw as we squeezed into the room after the driver and the delivery guy. “Hey! Are you Miggles?” Yuba Bill asked the lone occupant.
The figure neither spoke nor stirred. Yuba Bill walked wrathfully toward it and turned the eye of his coach-lantern upon its face. It was a man’s face, prematurely old and wrinkled, with very large eyes, in which there was that expression of perfectly gratuitous solemnity which I had sometimes seen in an owl’s. The large eyes wandered from Bill’s face to the lantern, and finally fixed their gaze on that luminous object without further recognition.
The figure didn't say a word or move. Yuba Bill angrily approached it and shone his coach lantern on its face. It was a man’s face, looking old and wrinkled beyond its years, with very large eyes that held a seriously unnecessary solemnity, reminiscent of what I've sometimes seen in an owl. The big eyes shifted from Bill’s face to the lantern, then settled on that glowing object without any further acknowledgment.
Bill restrained himself with an effort.
Bill held back with great effort.
“Miggles! be you deaf? You ain’t dumb anyhow, you know,” and Yuba Bill shook the insensate figure by the shoulder.
“Miggles! Are you deaf? You’re not dumb, that’s for sure,” and Yuba Bill shook the unresponsive figure by the shoulder.
To our great dismay, as Bill removed his hand, the venerable stranger apparently collapsed, sinking into half his size and an indistinguishable heap of clothing.
To our great dismay, as Bill pulled his hand away, the elderly stranger seemingly fell apart, shrinking to half his size and becoming an unrecognizable pile of clothes.
“Well, dern my skin,” said Bill, looking appealingly at us, and hopelessly retiring from the contest.
“Well, darn my skin,” said Bill, looking at us with a pleading expression, and hopelessly backing out of the contest.
The Judge now stepped forward, and we lifted the mysterious invertebrate back into his original position. Bill was dismissed with the lantern to reconnoitre outside, for it was evident that, from the helplessness of this solitary man,there must be attendants near at hand, and we all drew around the fire. The Judge, who had regained his authority, and had never lost his conversational amiability,—standing before us with his back to the hearth,—charged us, as an imaginary jury, as follows:—
The Judge stepped forward, and we placed the mysterious invertebrate back where it belonged. Bill was sent outside with the lantern to scout around, since it was clear that, given the helplessness of this solitary man, there must be others nearby. We all gathered around the fire. The Judge, having regained his authority and maintaining his friendly demeanor, stood before us with his back to the hearth and addressed us, as if we were an imaginary jury, as follows:—
“It is evident that either our distinguished friend here has reached that condition described by Shakespeare as ‘the sere and yellow leaf,’ or has suffered some premature abatement of his mental and physical faculties. Whether he is really the Miggles”—
“It’s clear that our esteemed friend here has either fallen into that condition described by Shakespeare as ‘the sere and yellow leaf,’ or has experienced some early decline in his mental and physical abilities. Whether he is truly the Miggles”—
Here he was interrupted by “Miggles! O Miggles! Migglesy! Mig!” and, in fact, the whole chorus of Miggles in very much the same key as it had once before been delivered unto us.
Here he was interrupted by “Miggles! O Miggles! Migglesy! Mig!” and, in fact, the whole chorus of Miggles in very much the same way it had once been delivered to us.
We gazed at each other for a moment in some alarm. The Judge, in particular, vacated his position quickly, as the voice seemed to come directly over his shoulder. The cause, however, was soon discovered in a large magpie who was perched upon a shelf over the fireplace, and who immediately relapsed into a sepulchral silence, which contrasted singularly with his previous volubility. It was, undoubtedly, his voice which we had heard in the road, and our friend in the chair was not responsible for the discourtesy. Yuba Bill, who reentered the room after an unsuccessful search, was both to accept the explanation, and still eyed the helpless sitter with suspicion. He had found a shed in which he had put up his horses, but he came back dripping and skeptical. “Thar ain’t nobody but him within ten mile of the shanty, and that ar d—d old skeesicks knows it.”
We looked at each other for a moment, a bit startled. The Judge quickly moved away, as the voice seemed to come right over his shoulder. However, we soon discovered that it was a large magpie sitting on a shelf above the fireplace, which instantly fell silent, a stark contrast to its earlier chatter. It was definitely its voice we had heard on the road, and our friend in the chair wasn't the one being rude. Yuba Bill, who came back into the room after an unsuccessful search, seemed to accept the explanation but still eyed the helpless sitter with suspicion. He had found a shed to put his horses in, but returned soaked and doubtful. “There’s nobody but him within ten miles of the cabin, and that damn old bird knows it.”
But the faith of the majority proved to be securely based. Bill had scarcely ceased growling before we heard a quick step upon the porch, the trailing of a wet skirt, the door was flung open, and with a flash of white teeth, a sparkle of dark eyes, and an utter absence of ceremony or diffidence, a young woman entered, shut the door, and, panting, leaned back against it.
But the faith of the majority turned out to be solid. Bill had just stopped grumbling when we heard quick footsteps on the porch, the sound of a wet skirt trailing behind, the door swung open, and with a flash of white teeth, a sparkle of dark eyes, and no hint of formality or shyness, a young woman walked in, closed the door, and, out of breath, leaned back against it.
“Oh, if you please, I’m Miggles!”
“Oh, if you don’t mind, I’m Miggles!”
And this was Miggles! this bright-eyed, full-throated young woman, whose wet gown of coarse blue stuff could not hide the beauty of the feminine curves to which it clung; from the chestnut crown of whose head, topped by a man’s oil-skin sou’wester, to the little feet and ankles, hidden somewhere in the recesses of her boy’s brogans, all was grace,—this was Miggles, laughing at us, too, in the most airy, frank, off-hand manner imaginable.
And this was Miggles! This bright-eyed, full-voiced young woman, whose wet gown of rough blue fabric couldn't conceal the beauty of her feminine curves it hugged; from the chestnut hair on her head, topped with a man's oilskin hat, to the little feet and ankles, tucked away somewhere inside her boys' work boots, everything was graceful—this was Miggles, laughing at us in the most carefree, honest, casual way possible.
“You see, boys,” said she, quite out of breath, and holding one little hand against her side, quite unheeding the speechless discomfiture of our party or the complete demoralization of Yuba Bill, whose features had relaxed into an expression of gratuitous and imbecile cheerfulness,—“you see, boys, I was mor’n two miles away when you passed down the road. I thought you might pull up here, and so I ran the whole way, knowing nobody was home but Jim,—and—and—I’m out of breath—and—that lets me out.” And here Miggles caught her dripping oilskin hat from her head, with a mischievous swirl that scattered a shower of raindrops over us; attempted to put back her hair; dropped two hairpins in the attempt; laughed, and sat down beside Yuba Bill, with her hands crossed lightly on her lap.
“You see, boys,” she said, breathing heavily and holding one hand against her side, completely ignoring the stunned silence of our group or the total confusion of Yuba Bill, whose face had melted into a look of silly happiness—“you see, boys, I was more than two miles away when you passed by on the road. I thought you might stop here, so I ran the whole way, knowing that only Jim was home—and—and—I’m out of breath—and—that’s all for me.” At this point, Miggles playfully tossed her wet oilskin hat from her head, sending a splash of raindrops over us; she tried to fix her hair, lost two hairpins in the process, laughed, and sat down next to Yuba Bill, with her hands resting lightly on her lap.
The Judge recovered himself first and essayed an extravagant compliment.
The Judge collected himself first and tried to give an over-the-top compliment.
“I’ll trouble you for that ha’rpin,” said Miggles gravely. Half a dozen hands were eagerly stretched forward; the missing hairpin was restored to its fair owner; and Miggles, crossing the room, looked keenly in the face of the invalid. The solemn eyes looked back at hers with an expression we had never seen before. Life and intelligence seemed to struggle back into the rugged face. Miggles laughed again,—it was a singularly eloquent laugh,—and turned her black eyes and white teeth once more towards us.
“I'll need that hairpin,” said Miggles seriously. Half a dozen hands reached out eagerly; the missing hairpin was returned to its rightful owner, and Miggles, moving across the room, looked closely into the face of the sick person. The serious eyes responded to hers with an expression we had never seen before. Life and awareness seemed to be fighting their way back into the weathered face. Miggles laughed again—it was a remarkably expressive laugh—and directed her dark eyes and bright smile back at us.
“This afflicted person is”—hesitated the Judge.
“This afflicted person is”—the Judge hesitated.
“Jim!” said Miggles.
“Jim!” Miggles said.
“Your father?”
“Is that your dad?”
“No!”
“No way!”
“Brother?”
“Bro?”
“No?”
"Really?"
“Husband?”
“Hubby?”
Miggles darted a quick, half-defiant glance at the two lady passengers, who I had noticed did not participate in the general masculine admiration of Miggles, and said gravely, “No; it’s Jim!” There was an awkward pause. The lady passengers moved closer to each other; the Washoe husband looked abstractedly at the fire, and the tall man apparently turned his eyes inward for self-support at this emergency. But Miggles’s laugh, which was very infectious, broke the silence.
Miggles shot a quick, half-challenging look at the two female passengers, who I noticed weren’t joining in the general admiration of her by the men, and said seriously, “No; it’s Jim!” There was an awkward pause. The female passengers huddled closer together; the Washoe husband stared blankly at the fire, and the tall man seemingly turned his gaze inward for support in this moment. But Miggles’s laugh, which was really infectious, shattered the silence.
“Come,” she said briskly, “you must be hungry. Who’ll bear a hand to help me get tea?”
“Come on,” she said cheerfully, “you must be hungry. Who will lend a hand to help me make tea?”
She had no lack of volunteers. In a few moments Yuba Bill was engaged like Caliban in bearing logs for this Miranda; the expressman was grinding coffee on the veranda; to myself the arduous duty of slicing bacon was assigned; and the Judge lent each man his good-humored and voluble counsel. And when Miggles, assisted by the Judge and our Hibernian “deck-passenger,” set the table with all the available crockery, we had become quite joyous, in spite of the rain that beat against the windows, the wind that whirled down the chimney, the two ladies who whispered together in the corner, or the magpie, who uttered a satirical and croaking commentary on their conversation from his perch above. In the now bright, blazing fire we could see that the walls were papered with illustrated journals, arranged with feminine taste and discrimination. The furniture was extemporized and adapted from candle-boxes and packing-cases, and covered with gay calico or the skin of some animal. The armchair of the helpless Jim was an ingenious variation of a flour-barrel. There was neatness, and even a taste for the picturesque, to be seen in the few details of the long, low room.
She had plenty of volunteers. In no time, Yuba Bill was busy like Caliban carrying logs for this Miranda; the expressman was grinding coffee on the porch; I was given the tough job of slicing bacon; and the Judge offered everyone his cheerful and talkative advice. When Miggles, helped by the Judge and our Irish “deck-passenger,” set the table with all the available dishes, we had become quite cheerful, despite the rain hitting the windows, the wind swirling down the chimney, the two ladies whispering together in the corner, or the magpie, who commented sarcastically and croaked about their conversation from his perch above. In the now bright, crackling fire, we could see that the walls were covered with illustrated magazines, arranged with a woman’s touch and eye for detail. The furniture was improvised from candle boxes and packing crates, covered with colorful calico or the hide of some animal. Jim's armchair was an inventive twist on a flour barrel. There was neatness, and even a sense of style, in the few details of the long, low room.
The meal was a culinary success. But more, it was a social triumph,—chiefly, I think, owing to the rare tact of Miggles in guiding the conversation, asking all the questions herself, yet bearing throughout a frankness that rejected the idea of any concealment on her own part, so that we talked of ourselves, of our prospects, of the journey, of the weather, of each other,—of everything but our host and hostess. It must be confessed that Miggles’s conversation was never elegant, rarely grammatical, and that at times she employed expletives the use of which had generally been yielded to our sex. But they were delivered with such a lighting up of teeth and eyes, and were usually followed by a laugh—a laugh peculiar to Miggles—so frank and honest that it seemed to clear the moral atmosphere.
The meal was a huge success. But more than that, it was a social win, mainly because of Miggles’s unique ability to drive the conversation. She asked all the questions herself, yet managed to maintain a straightforwardness that left no room for hiding anything about herself. As a result, we talked about ourselves, our hopes for the future, the trip, the weather, and each other—everything except our hosts. I have to admit that Miggles’s way of speaking wasn’t exactly elegant, it was rarely grammatically correct, and sometimes she used colorful language that most people considered more appropriate for men. But she delivered it with such a bright smile and sparkle in her eyes, and it was usually followed by a laugh—a laugh that was distinctly Miggles’s—so open and genuine that it seemed to lighten the mood.
Once during the meal we heard a noise like the rubbing of a heavy body against the outer walls of the house. This was shortly followed by a scratching and sniffling at the door. “That’s Joaquin,” said Miggles, in reply to our questioning glances; “would you like to see him?” Before we could answer she had opened the door, and disclosed a half-grown grizzly, who instantly raised himself on his haunches, with his fore paws hanging down in the popular attitude of mendicancy, and looked admiringly at Miggles, with a very singular resemblance in his manner to Yuba Bill. “That’s my watch-dog,” said Miggles, in explanation. “Oh, he don’t bite,” she added, as the two lady passengers fluttered into a corner. “Does he, old Toppy?” (the latter remark being addressed directly to the sagacious Joaquin). “I tell you what, boys,” continued Miggles, after she had fed and closed the door on Ursa Minor, “you were in big luck that Joaquin wasn’t hanging round when you dropped in to-night.”
Once during the meal, we heard a noise that sounded like a heavy object rubbing against the outside walls of the house. This was quickly followed by scratching and sniffing at the door. “That’s Joaquin,” Miggles said in response to our curious looks; “do you want to see him?” Before we could reply, she opened the door and revealed a half-grown grizzly bear, who immediately stood up on his hind legs, forepaws dangling down in a common begging posture, looking at Miggles with a striking resemblance to Yuba Bill. “That’s my watch-dog,” Miggles explained. “Oh, he doesn’t bite,” she added, as the two lady passengers scooted into a corner. “Does he, old Toppy?” (the last comment directed at the clever Joaquin). “I’ll tell you what, guys,” Miggles continued after she fed Ursa Minor and closed the door, “you were really lucky that Joaquin wasn’t hanging around when you showed up tonight.”
“Where was he?” asked the Judge.
“Where was he?” the Judge asked.
“With me,” said Miggles. “Lord love you! he trots round with me nights like as if he was a man.”
“With me,” said Miggles. “Oh my gosh! He walks around with me at night like he’s a real man.”
We were silent for a few moments, and listened to the wind. Perhaps we all had the same picture before us,—of Miggles walking through the rainy woods with her savage guardian at her side. The Judge, I remember, said something about Una and her lion; but Miggles received it, as she did other compliments, with quiet gravity. Whether she was altogether unconscious of the admiration she excited,—she could hardly have been oblivious of Yuba Bill’s adoration,—I know not; but her very frankness suggested a perfect sexual equality that was cruelly humiliating to the younger members of our party.
We were quiet for a few moments, listening to the wind. Maybe we all had the same image in our minds—of Miggles walking through the rainy woods with her fierce guardian beside her. I remember the Judge mentioning Una and her lion, but Miggles took it, like she did other compliments, with calm seriousness. Whether she was completely unaware of the admiration she stirred up—she could hardly have missed Yuba Bill’s admiration—I can’t say; but her openness suggested a complete sexual equality that was rather humiliating for the younger members of our group.
The incident of the bear did not add anything in Miggles’s favor to the opinions of those of her own sex who were present. In fact, the repast over, a chillness radiated from the two lady passengers that no pine boughs brought in by Yuba Bill and cast as a sacrifice upon the hearth could wholly overcome. Miggles felt it; and suddenly declaring that it was time to “turn in,” offered to show the ladies to their bed in an adjoining room. “You, boys, will have to camp out here by the fire as well as you can,” she added, “for thar ain’t but the one room.”
The incident with the bear didn't do Miggles any favors in the eyes of the other women who were there. In fact, after the meal, there was a coldness coming from the two lady passengers that no pine branches brought in by Yuba Bill and thrown onto the fire could completely warm up. Miggles noticed it and, suddenly announcing that it was time to “turn in,” offered to show the ladies to their bed in the adjoining room. “You guys will have to make do camping out here by the fire,” she added, “because there’s only the one room.”
Our sex—by which, my dear sir, I allude of course to the stronger portion of humanity—has been generally relieved from the imputation of curiosity or a fondness for gossip. Yet I am constrained to say, that hardly had the door closed on Miggles than we crowded together, whispering, snickering, smiling, and exchanging suspicions, surmises, and a thousand speculations in regard to our pretty hostess and her singular companion. I fear that we even hustled that imbecile paralytic, who sat like a voiceless Memnon in our midst, gazing with the serene indifference of the Past in his passionless eyes upon our wordy counsels. In the midst of an exciting discussion the door opened again and Miggles reentered.
Our group—by which I mean, of course, the men—has usually been free from accusations of being too curious or gossip-loving. Yet, I must admit, no sooner had the door closed behind Miggles than we huddled together, whispering, laughing, smiling, and exchanging suspicions, guesses, and all sorts of theories about our lovely hostess and her unusual companion. I'm afraid we even jostled that poor paralyzed guy, who sat like a silent statue among us, gazing at our heated conversation with the calm indifference of someone stuck in the past. Just as we were deep in discussion, the door opened again, and Miggles came back in.
But not, apparently, the same Miggles who a few hours before had flashed upon us. Her eyes were downcast, and as she hesitated for a moment on the threshold, with a blanket on her arm, she seemed to have left behind her the frank fearlessness which had charmed us a moment before. Coming into the room, she drew a low stool beside the paralytic’s chair, sat down, drew the blanket over her shoulders, and saying, “If it’s all the same to you, boys, as we’re rather crowded, I’ll stop here to-night,” took the invalid’s withered hand in her own, and turned her eyes upon the dying fire. An instinctive feeling that this was only premonitory to more confidential relations, and perhaps some shame at our previous curiosity, kept us silent. The rain still beat upon the roof, wandering gusts of wind stirred the embers into momentary brightness, until, in a lull of the elements, Miggles suddenly lifted up her head, and, throwing her hair over her shoulder, turned her face upon the group and asked,—
But it wasn't the same Miggles who had appeared to us a few hours earlier. Her eyes were downcast, and as she hesitated at the doorway with a blanket on her arm, she seemed to have lost the open fearlessness that had captivated us moments before. Once inside the room, she pulled a low stool next to the paralytic’s chair, sat down, draped the blanket over her shoulders, and said, “If it’s okay with you guys, since we're a bit crowded, I’ll stay here tonight.” She took the invalid’s frail hand in hers and gazed at the dying fire. A natural sense that this marked the beginning of more intimate connections, along with perhaps some embarrassment for our earlier curiosity, kept us quiet. The rain still poured on the roof, while wandering gusts of wind occasionally stirred the embers into brief sparks of light, until, during a lull in the storm, Miggles suddenly lifted her head, tossed her hair over her shoulder, turned her face toward the group, and asked,—
“Is there any of you that knows me?”
“Does anyone here know me?”
There was no reply.
No response.
“Think again! I lived at Marysville in ’53. Everybody knew me there, and everybody had the right to know me. I kept the Polka Saloon until I came to live with Jim. That’s six years ago. Perhaps I’ve changed some.”
“Think again! I lived in Marysville in ’53. Everyone knew me there, and everyone had the right to know me. I ran the Polka Saloon until I moved in with Jim. That was six years ago. Maybe I’ve changed a bit.”
The absence of recognition may have disconcerted her. She turned her head to the fire again, and it was some seconds before she again spoke, and then more rapidly—
The lack of recognition might have unsettled her. She looked back at the fire, and after a few moments, she spoke again, this time more quickly—
“Well, you see I thought some of you must have known me. There’s no great harm done anyway. What I was going to say was this: Jim here”—she took his hand in both of hers as she spoke—“used to know me, if you didn’t, and spent a heap of money upon me. I reckon he spent all he had. And one day—it’s six years ago this winter—Jim came into my back room, sat down on my sofy, like as you see him in that chair, and never moved again without help. He was struck all of a heap, and never seemed to know what ailed him. The doctors came and said as how it was caused all along of his way of life,—for Jim was mighty free and wild-like,—and that he would never get better, and couldn’t last long anyway. They advised me to send him to Frisco to the hospital, for he was no good to any one and would be a baby all his life. Perhaps it was something in Jim’s eye, perhaps it was that I never had a baby, but I said ‘No.’ I was rich then, for I was popular with everybody,—gentlemen like yourself, sir, came to see me,—and I sold out my business and bought this yer place, because it was sort of out of the way of travel, you see, and I brought my baby here.”
"Well, I thought some of you might know me. It’s not a big deal anyway. What I wanted to say was this: Jim here”—she took his hand in both of hers as she spoke—“used to know me, if you didn’t, and spent a lot of money on me. I think he spent everything he had. And one day—six years ago this winter—Jim came into my back room, sat down on my sofa, just like you see him in that chair, and never moved again without help. He was completely taken by surprise and never seemed to understand what was wrong with him. The doctors came and said it was all due to his lifestyle—Jim was quite carefree and wild—and that he would never get better and wouldn't last long anyway. They suggested I send him to the hospital in Frisco because he’d be no good to anyone and would be like a baby for the rest of his life. Maybe it was something in Jim’s eyes, maybe it was because I had never had a baby, but I said ‘No.’ I was wealthy back then because I was well-liked by everyone—gentlemen like yourself, sir, came to see me—and I sold my business and bought this place since it was kind of out of the way, you know, and I brought my baby here."
With a woman’s intuitive tact and poetry, she had, as she spoke, slowly shifted her position so as to bring the mute figure of the ruined man between her and her audience, hiding in the shadow behind it, as if she offered it as a tacit apology for her actions. Silent and expressionless, it yet spoke for her; helpless, crushed, and smitten with the Divine thunderbolt, it still stretched an invisible arm around her.
With a woman’s keen intuition and poetic touch, she gradually adjusted her position while speaking, placing the silent figure of the broken man between herself and her audience, hiding in its shadow as if offering it as an unspoken apology for her actions. Silent and expressionless, it still conveyed her feelings; helpless, defeated, and struck by a divine blow, it still wrapped an invisible arm around her.
Hidden in the darkness, but still holding his hand, she went on:—
Hidden in the darkness, but still holding his hand, she continued:—
“It was a long time before I could get the hang of things about yer, for I was used to company and excitement. I couldn’t get any woman to help me, and a man I dursn’t trust; but what with the Indians hereabout, who’d do odd jobs for me, and having everything sent from the North Fork, Jim and I managed to worry through. The Doctor would run up from Sacramento once in a while. He’d ask to see ‘Miggles’s baby’ as he called Jim, and when he’d go away, he’d say, ‘Miggles, you’re a trump,—God bless you,’ and it didn’t seem so lonely after that. But the last time he was here he said, as he opened the door to go, ‘Do you know, Miggles, your baby will grow up to be a man yet and an honor to his mother; but not here, Miggles, not here!’ And I thought he went away sad,—and—and”—and here Miggles’s voice and head were somehow both lost completely in the shadow.
“It took me a while to figure things out here because I was used to being around people and having excitement. I couldn’t get any woman to help me, and I didn’t trust any men; but with the Indians nearby who would do odd jobs for me, and everything being sent from the North Fork, Jim and I managed to get by. The Doctor would come up from Sacramento every now and then. He’d ask to see ‘Miggles’s baby’ as he called Jim, and when he’d leave, he’d say, ‘Miggles, you’re a star—God bless you,’ and it didn’t feel so lonely after that. But the last time he was here he said, as he opened the door to leave, ‘You know, Miggles, your baby will grow up to be a man and make you proud; but not here, Miggles, not here!’ And I felt like he left feeling sad,—and—and”—and at that moment, Miggles’s voice and head seemed to disappear completely into the shadows.
“The folks about here are very kind,” said Miggles, after a pause, coming a little into the light again. “The men from the Fork used to hang around here, until they found they wasn’t wanted, and the women are kind, and don’t call. I was pretty lonely until I picked up Joaquin in the woods yonder one day, when he wasn’t so high, and taught him to beg for his dinner; and then thar’s Polly—that’s the magpie—she knows no end of tricks, and makes it quite sociable of evenings with her talk, and so I don’t feel like as I was the only living being about the ranch. And Jim here,” said Miggles, with her old laugh again, and coming out quite into the firelight,—“Jim—Why, boys, you would admire to see how much he knows for a man like him. Sometimes I bring him flowers, and he looks at ’em just as natural as if he knew ’em; and times, when we’re sitting alone, I read him those things on the wall. Why, Lord!” said Miggles, with her frank laugh, “I’ve read him that whole side of the house this winter. There never was such a man for reading as Jim.”
"The people around here are really nice," said Miggles, after a pause, stepping a bit into the light again. "The guys from the Fork used to hang out here until they realized they weren’t welcome, and the women are kind and don’t judge. I was pretty lonely until I found Joaquin in the woods over there one day, when he wasn’t so wild, and I taught him to beg for his dinner; and then there’s Polly—that's the magpie—she knows a ton of tricks and makes the evenings pretty lively with her chatter, so I don’t feel like I'm the only living being on the ranch. And Jim here," said Miggles, with her familiar laugh, stepping fully into the firelight, "Jim—You boys would be amazed at how much he knows for a guy like him. Sometimes I bring him flowers, and he looks at them like it’s totally natural; and sometimes, when we’re sitting alone, I read him those things on the wall. Honestly!" said Miggles, laughing openly, "I’ve read him that whole side of the house this winter. There’s never been a man who reads as much as Jim."
“Why,” asked the Judge, “do you not marry this man to whom you have devoted your youthful life?”
“Why,” asked the Judge, “don’t you marry this man you’ve dedicated your youth to?”
“Well, you see,” said Miggles, “it would be playing it rather low down on Jim to take advantage of his being so helpless. And then, too, if we were man and wife, now, we’d both know that I was bound to do what I do now of my own accord.”
“Well, you see,” said Miggles, “it would be pretty unfair to Jim to take advantage of how helpless he is. And besides, if we were married, both of us would know that I’m choosing to do what I’m doing right now.”
“But you are young yet and attractive”—
"But you're still young and attractive."
“It’s getting late,” said Miggles gravely, “and you’d better all turn in. Good-night, boys;” and throwing the blanket over her head, Miggles laid herself down beside Jim’s chair, her head pillowed on the low stool that held his feet, and spoke no more. The fire slowly faded from the hearth; we each sought our blankets in silence; and presently there was no sound in the long room but the pattering of the rain upon the roof and the heavy breathing of the sleepers.
“It’s getting late,” Miggles said seriously, “and you all should head to bed. Goodnight, boys;” and pulling the blanket over her head, Miggles settled down next to Jim’s chair, her head resting on the low stool that held his feet, and didn’t say anything else. The fire slowly dimmed in the hearth; we each grabbed our blankets quietly; and soon the only sounds in the long room were the rain pattering on the roof and the heavy breathing of those asleep.
It was nearly morning when I awoke from a troubled dream. The storm had passed, the stars were shining, and through the shutterless window the full moon, lifting itself over the solemn pines without, looked into the room. It touched the lonely figure in the chair with an infinite compassion, and seemed to baptize with a shining flood the lowly head of the woman whose hair, as in the sweet old story, bathed the feet of him she loved. It even lent a kindly poetry to the rugged outline of Yuba Bill, half reclining on his elbow between them and his passengers, with savagely patient eyes keeping watch and ward. And then I fell asleep and only woke at broad day, with Yuba Bill standing over me, and “All aboard” ringing in my ears.
It was almost morning when I woke up from a troubled dream. The storm had passed, the stars were shining, and through the open window, the full moon, rising over the solemn pines outside, looked into the room. It cast a gentle light on the lonely figure in the chair with infinite compassion, almost baptizing the humble head of the woman whose hair, like in the old sweet story, was at the feet of the man she loved. It even added a touch of kindness to the rugged outline of Yuba Bill, who was half reclining on his elbow between them and his passengers, with fiercely patient eyes keeping watch. Then I fell back asleep and only woke up in full daylight, with Yuba Bill standing over me, and “All aboard” ringing in my ears.
Coffee was waiting for us on the table, but Miggles was gone. We wandered about the house and lingered long after the horses were harnessed, but she did not return. It was evident that she wished to avoid a formal leave-taking, and had so left us to depart as we had come. After we had helped the ladies into the coach, we returned to the house and solemnly shook hands with the paralytic Jim, as solemnly setting him back into position after each handshake. Then we looked for the last time around the long low room, at the stool where Miggles had sat, and slowly took our seats in the waiting coach. The whip cracked, and we were off!
Coffee was waiting for us on the table, but Miggles was gone. We wandered around the house and stayed long after the horses were ready, but she didn’t come back. It was clear she wanted to skip a formal goodbye, leaving us to leave as we had arrived. After we helped the ladies into the coach, we went back to the house and stiffly shook hands with Jim, carefully setting him back in his place after each handshake. Then we took one last look around the long, low room, at the stool where Miggles had sat, and slowly sat down in the waiting coach. The whip cracked, and we were off!
But as we reached the highroad, Bill’s dexterous hand laid the six horses back on their haunches, and the stage stopped with a jerk. For there, on a little eminence beside the road, stood Miggles, her hair flying, her eyes sparkling, her white handkerchief waving, and her white teeth flashing a last “good-by.” We waved our hats in return. And then Yuba Bill, as if fearful of further fascination, madly lashed his horses forward, and we sank back in our seats.
But as we got to the main road, Bill skillfully pulled back on the reins, and the stage came to a sudden stop. There, on a small rise next to the road, stood Miggles, her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes sparkling, her white handkerchief waving, and her bright smile giving one last "goodbye." We waved our hats back at her. Then Yuba Bill, as if afraid of getting distracted any longer, frantically urged his horses to move forward, and we sank back into our seats.
We exchanged not a word until we reached the North Fork and the stage drew up at the Independence House. Then, the Judge leading, we walked into the bar-room and took our places gravely at the bar.
We didn’t say a single word until we got to the North Fork and the stagecoach pulled up at the Independence House. Then, with the Judge leading the way, we walked into the bar and took our places seriously at the bar.
“Are your glasses charged, gentlemen?” said the Judge, solemnly taking off his white hat.
“Are your glasses charged, gentlemen?” the Judge asked, solemnly taking off his white hat.
They were.
They exist.
“Well, then, here’s to Miggles—GOD BLESS HER!”
“Well, then, here’s to Miggles—GOD BLESS HER!”
Perhaps He had. Who knows?
Maybe He did. Who knows?
TENNESSEE’S PARTNER
I do not think that we ever knew his real name. Our ignorance of it certainly never gave us any social inconvenience, for at Sandy Bar in 1854 most men were christened anew. Sometimes these appellatives were derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of “Dungaree Jack;” or from some peculiarity of habit, as shown in “Saleratus Bill,” so called from an undue proportion of that chemical in his daily bread; or from some unlucky slip, as exhibited in “The Iron Pirate,” a mild, inoffensive man, who earned that baleful title by his unfortunate mispronunciation of the term “iron pyrites.” Perhaps this may have been the beginning of a rude heraldry; but I am constrained to think that it was because a man’s real name in that day rested solely upon his own unsupported statement. “Call yourself Clifford, do you?” said Boston, addressing a timid newcomer with infinite scorn; “hell is full of such Cliffords!” He then introduced the unfortunate man, whose name happened to be really Clifford, as “Jaybird Charley,”—an unhallowed inspiration of the moment that clung to him ever after.
I don't think we ever knew his actual name. Not knowing it definitely didn’t create any social problems for us, since at Sandy Bar in 1854, most guys were given new names. Sometimes these names came from some unique aspect of their clothing, like “Dungaree Jack;” or from a specific habit, like “Saleratus Bill,” who got his name because he had too much of that chemical in his daily bread; or from an unfortunate mistake, as seen in “The Iron Pirate,” a mild, harmless guy who ended up with that ominous title because he mispronounced “iron pyrites.” This might have been the start of a rough kind of heraldry; however, I think it was mainly because a man’s real name back then relied entirely on his own unverified claims. “So you call yourself Clifford, huh?” Boston said, looking down on a shy newcomer with total disdain; “the world is full of guys like you!” He then introduced the poor guy, whose real name was actually Clifford, as “Jaybird Charley”—a name that stuck with him forever.
But to return to Tennessee’s Partner, whom we never knew by any other than this relative title. That he had ever existed as a separate and distinct individuality we only learned later. It seems that in 1853 he left Poker Flat to go to San Francisco, ostensibly to procure a wife. He never got any farther than Stockton. At that place he was attracted by a young person who waited upon the table at the hotel where he took his meals. One morning he said something to her which caused her to smile not unkindly, to somewhat coquettishly break a plate of toast over his upturned, serious, simple face, and to retreat to the kitchen. He followed her, and emerged a few moments later, covered with more toast and victory. That day week they were married by a justice of the peace, and returned to Poker Flat. I am aware that something more might be made of this episode, but I prefer to tell it as it was current at Sandy Bar,—in the gulches and bar-rooms,—where all sentiment was modified by a strong sense of humor.
But to get back to Tennessee’s Partner, whom we only knew by that title. We didn’t realize he existed as a separate person until later. It seems that in 1853 he left Poker Flat to head to San Francisco, supposedly to find a wife. He never made it past Stockton. There, he became interested in a young woman who served at the hotel where he ate. One morning, he said something to her that made her smile kindly and, somewhat playfully, break a plate of toast over his serious, simple face before retreating to the kitchen. He followed her and came out a few moments later, covered in more toast and what looked like victory. A week later, they got married by a justice of the peace and returned to Poker Flat. I know there’s more to this story, but I’d rather share it as it was told at Sandy Bar—in the canyons and bars—where all sentiment was mixed with a healthy dose of humor.
Of their married felicity but little is known, perhaps for the reason that Tennessee, then living with his partner, one day took occasion to say something to the bride on his own account, at which, it is said, she smiled not unkindly and chastely retreated,—this time as far as Marysville, where Tennessee followed her, and where they went to housekeeping without the aid of a justice of the peace. Tennessee’s Partner took the loss of his wife simply and seriously, as was his fashion. But to everybody’s surprise, when Tennessee one day returned from Marysville, without his partner’s wife,—she having smiled and retreated with somebody else,—Tennessee’s Partner was the first man to shake his hand and greet him with affection. The boys who had gathered in the canon to see the shooting were naturally indignant. Their indignation might have found vent in sarcasm but for a certain look in Tennessee’s Partner’s eye that indicated a lack of humorous appreciation. In fact, he was a grave man, with a steady application to practical detail which was unpleasant in a difficulty.
Not much is known about their happy marriage, maybe because Tennessee, who was living with his partner, once decided to say something to the bride just for himself. It’s said that she smiled kindly and then modestly left—this time all the way to Marysville, where Tennessee followed her, and they set up house together without going through a justice of the peace. Tennessee’s Partner took the loss of his wife in a straightforward and serious manner, which was typical for him. However, to everyone’s surprise, when Tennessee returned from Marysville one day without his partner’s wife—she had smiled and left with someone else—Tennessee’s Partner was the first to shake his hand and greet him warmly. The boys who had gathered in the canyon to watch the shooting were understandably furious. Their anger might have turned to sarcasm, but a particular look in Tennessee’s Partner’s eye showed he wasn’t in the mood for humor. He was, in fact, a serious man, focused on practical matters in a way that was often uncomfortable during tough times.
Meanwhile a popular feeling against Tennessee had grown up on the Bar. He was known to be a gambler; he was suspected to be a thief. In these suspicions Tennessee’s Partner was equally compromised; his continued intimacy with Tennessee after the affair above quoted could only be accounted for on the hypothesis of a copartnership of crime. At last Tennessee’s guilt became flagrant. One day he overtook a stranger on his way to Red Dog. The stranger afterward related that Tennessee beguiled the time with interesting anecdote and reminiscence, but illogically concluded the interview in the following words: “And now, young man, I’ll trouble you for your knife, your pistols, and your money. You see your weppings might get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your money’s a temptation to the evilly disposed. I think you said your address was San Francisco. I shall endeavor to call.” It may be stated here that Tennessee had a fine flow of humor, which no business preoccupation could wholly subdue.
Meanwhile, a popular dislike for Tennessee had developed among the Bar. He was known to be a gambler and was suspected of being a thief. Tennessee's Partner was just as much under suspicion; his ongoing friendship with Tennessee after the earlier incident could only be explained by assuming they were partners in crime. Eventually, Tennessee's wrongdoing became obvious. One day, he encountered a stranger on the way to Red Dog. The stranger later said that Tennessee entertained him with interesting stories and memories, but strangely ended the conversation with these words: “And now, young man, I’ll need your knife, your guns, and your money. You see, your weapons could get you into trouble at Red Dog, and your money is tempting to those with bad intentions. I believe you mentioned your address was San Francisco. I’ll try to stop by.” It should be noted that Tennessee had a great sense of humor that no business concern could completely dampen.
This exploit was his last. Red Dog and Sandy Bar made common cause against the highwayman. Tennessee was hunted in very much the same fashion as his prototype, the grizzly. As the toils closed around him, he made a desperate dash through the Bar, emptying his revolver at the crowd before the Arcade Saloon, and so on up Grizzly Canon; but at its farther extremity he was stopped by a small man on a gray horse. The men looked at each other a moment in silence. Both were fearless, both self-possessed and independent, and both types of a civilization that in the seventeenth century would have been called heroic, but in the nineteenth simply “reckless.”
This was his final act. Red Dog and Sandy Bar teamed up against the robber. Tennessee was chased down much like his prototype, the grizzly bear. As the trap closed in on him, he made a bold escape through the Bar, firing his revolver into the crowd outside the Arcade Saloon, and continued up Grizzly Canyon; but at the far end, he was confronted by a small man on a gray horse. The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment. Both were brave, composed, and independent, embodying a type of civilization that in the seventeenth century would have been seen as heroic, but in the nineteenth was simply labeled as "reckless."
“What have you got there?—I call,” said Tennessee quietly.
“What do you have there?—I call,” Tennessee said softly.
“Two bowers and an ace,” said the stranger as quietly, showing two revolvers and a bowie-knife.
“Two barrels and an ace,” said the stranger softly, displaying two revolvers and a bowie knife.
“That takes me,” returned Tennessee; and, with this gambler’s epigram, he threw away his useless pistol and rode back with his captor.
“That reminds me,” replied Tennessee; and, with that gambler's saying, he tossed away his useless pistol and rode back with his captor.
It was a warm night. The cool breeze which usually sprang up with the going down of the sun behind the chaparral-crested mountain was that evening withheld from Sandy Bar. The little canon was stifling with heated resinous odors, and the decaying driftwood on the Bar sent forth faint sickening exhalations. The feverishness of day and its fierce passions still filled the camp. Lights moved restlessly along the bank of the river, striking no answering reflection from its tawny current. Against the blackness of the pines the windows of the old loft above the express-office stood out staringly bright; and through their curtainless panes the loungers below could see the forms of those who were even then deciding the fate of Tennessee. And above all this, etched on the dark firmament, rose the Sierra, remote and passionless, crowned with remoter passionless stars.
It was a warm night. The cool breeze that usually came up when the sun set behind the mountain was missing that evening at Sandy Bar. The little canyon was stifling with heated, resinous smells, and the decaying driftwood on the Bar gave off faint, sickening odors. The restless energy of the day and its intense emotions still hung over the camp. Lights flickered restlessly along the riverbank, producing no reflections on its muddy waters. Against the dark silhouette of the pines, the windows of the old loft above the express office shone brightly, and through their bare panes, the people below could see those who were deciding the fate of Tennessee. Above it all, outlined against the dark sky, rose the Sierra, distant and emotionless, topped with even more distant, emotionless stars.
The trial of Tennessee was conducted as fairly as was consistent with a judge and jury who felt themselves to some extent obliged to justify, in their verdict, the previous irregularities of arrest and indictment. The law of Sandy Bar was implacable, but not vengeful. The excitement and personal feeling of the chase were over; with Tennessee safe in their hands, they were ready to listen patiently to any defense, which they were already satisfied was insufficient. There being no doubt in their own minds, they were willing to give the prisoner the benefit of any that might exist. Secure in the hypothesis that he ought to be hanged on general principles, they indulged him with more latitude of defense than his reckless hardihood seemed to ask. The Judge appeared to be more anxious than the prisoner, who, otherwise unconcerned, evidently took a grim pleasure in the responsibility he had created. “I don’t take any hand in this yer game,” had been his invariable but good-humored reply to all questions. The Judge—who was also his captor—for a moment vaguely regretted that he had not shot him “on sight” that morning, but presently dismissed this human weakness as unworthy of the judicial mind. Nevertheless, when there was a tap at the door, and it was said that Tennessee’s Partner was there on behalf of the prisoner, he was admitted at once without question. Perhaps the younger members of the jury, to whom the proceedings were becoming irksomely thoughtful, hailed him as a relief.
The trial of Tennessee was carried out as fairly as possible, considering that the judge and jury felt somewhat pressured to justify their verdict based on the earlier irregularities in his arrest and indictment. The law of Sandy Bar was strict, but not cruel. The thrill and emotions from the chase were gone; with Tennessee safely in custody, they were ready to listen patiently to any defense, which they already believed wouldn’t be enough. Confident in their own views, they were willing to give the defendant the benefit of any doubts that might exist. Convinced that he deserved to be hanged on general principles, they allowed him a bit more leeway in his defense than his reckless boldness seemed to warrant. The Judge looked more anxious than the prisoner, who, otherwise indifferent, clearly took grim satisfaction in the trouble he had caused. “I don’t take any hand in this yer game,” had been his constant, good-natured reply to all questions. The Judge—who was also his captor—briefly felt a twinge of regret for not having shot him “on sight” that morning, but soon dismissed that thought as unworthy of his position. Nevertheless, when there was a knock at the door, and it was announced that Tennessee’s Partner was there on behalf of the prisoner, he was let in immediately without hesitation. Perhaps the younger jury members, who were finding the proceedings increasingly tedious, welcomed him as a relief.
For he was not, certainly, an imposing figure. Short and stout, with a square face, sunburned into a preternatural redness, clad in a loose duck “jumper” and trousers streaked and splashed with red soil, his aspect under any circumstances would have been quaint, and was now even ridiculous. As he stooped to deposit at his feet a heavy carpetbag he was carrying, it became obvious, from partially developed legends and inscriptions, that the material with which his trousers had been patched had been originally intended for a less ambitious covering. Yet he advanced with great gravity, and after shaking the hand of each person in the room with labored cordiality, he wiped his serious perplexed face on a red bandana handkerchief, a shade lighter than his complexion, laid his powerful hand upon the table to steady himself, and thus addressed the Judge:—
He wasn't exactly an impressive sight. Short and stocky, with a square face sunburned to an unnatural red, wearing a loose duck “jumper” and pants splattered with red dirt, he looked odd in any situation, and now he seemed even ridiculous. As he bent down to drop a heavy carpetbag at his feet, it became clear, from the partially finished patches and writing, that the fabric used for his patched trousers was meant for something less ambitious. Still, he moved forward with seriousness, and after shaking hands with everyone in the room with forced warmth, he wiped his troubled face with a red bandana handkerchief, slightly lighter than his skin tone, placed his strong hand on the table for support, and addressed the Judge:—
“I was passin’ by,” he began, by way of apology, “and I thought I’d just step in and see how things was gittin’ on with Tennessee thar,—my pardner. It’s a hot night. I disremember any sich weather before on the Bar.”
“I was just passing by,” he said apologetically, “and I thought I’d pop in to see how things were going with Tennessee there—my partner. It’s a hot night. I don’t remember any weather like this before on the Bar.”
He paused a moment, but nobody volunteering any other meteorological recollection, he again had recourse to his pocket-handkerchief, and for some moments mopped his face diligently.
He paused for a moment, but since no one else was sharing any weather memories, he took out his pocket handkerchief again and diligently wiped his face for a few moments.
“Have you anything to say on behalf of the prisoner?” said the Judge finally.
“Do you have anything to say for the prisoner?” the Judge asked at last.
“Thet’s it,” said Tennessee’s Partner, in a tone of relief. “I come yar as Tennessee’s pardner,—knowing him nigh on four year, off and on, wet and dry, in luck and out o’ luck. His ways ain’t aller my ways, but thar ain’t any p’ints in that young man, thar ain’t any liveliness as he’s been up to, as I don’t know. And you sez to me, sez you,—confidential-like, and between man and man,—sez you, ‘Do you know anything in his behalf?’ and I sez to you, sez I,—confidential-like, as between man and man,—‘What should a man know of his pardner?’”
"That's it," said Tennessee's Partner, sounding relieved. "I've been here as Tennessee's partner—knowing him for almost four years, on and off, through good times and bad. His ways aren't always my ways, but there’s nothing about that young man, no liveliness he’s been up to, that I don’t know. And you say to me, you say—confidentially, between men—you say, 'Do you know anything on his behalf?' And I say to you, I say—confidentially, between men—'What should a man know about his partner?'"
“Is this all you have to say?” asked the Judge impatiently, feeling, perhaps, that a dangerous sympathy of humor was beginning to humanize the court.
“Is this all you have to say?” the Judge asked impatiently, feeling, maybe, that a risky sense of humor was starting to make the court more human.
“Thet’s so,” continued Tennessee’s Partner. “It ain’t for me to say anything agin’ him. And now, what’s the case? Here’s Tennessee wants money, wants it bad, and doesn’t like to ask it of his old pardner. Well, what does Tennessee do? He lays for a stranger, and he fetches that stranger; and you lays for him, and you fetches him; and the honors is easy. And I put it to you, bein’ a fa’r-minded man, and to you, gentlemen all, as fa’r-minded men, ef this isn’t so.”
"That's right," continued Tennessee's Partner. "It's not my place to say anything against him. So what's the situation? Tennessee really needs money and doesn't want to ask his old partner for it. So what does Tennessee do? He targets a stranger, and he gets that stranger; then you go after him, and you get him; and it's all even. And I ask you, being a fair-minded person, and to you, gentlemen, as fair-minded men, whether this isn't true."
“Prisoner,” said the Judge, interrupting, “have you any questions to ask this man?”
“Prisoner,” the Judge said, interrupting, “do you have any questions for this man?”
“No! no!” continued Tennessee’s Partner hastily. “I play this yer hand alone. To come down to the bed-rock, it’s just this: Tennessee, thar, has played it pretty rough and expensive-like on a stranger, and on this yer camp. And now, what’s the fair thing? Some would say more, some would say less. Here’s seventeen hundred dollars in coarse gold and a watch,—it’s about all my pile,—and call it square!” And before a hand could be raised to prevent him, he had emptied the contents of the carpetbag upon the table.
“No! no!” said Tennessee’s Partner quickly. “I’m handling this hand by myself. To get straight to the point, here’s the deal: Tennessee has dealt with this stranger and this camp in a pretty rough and costly way. So what’s fair? Some might say more, some might say less. Here’s seventeen hundred dollars in gold and a watch—it’s mostly all I’ve got—and let’s call it even!” And before anyone could stop him, he dumped the contents of the carpetbag onto the table.
For a moment his life was in jeopardy. One or two men sprang to their feet, several hands groped for hidden weapons, and a suggestion to “throw him from the window” was only overridden by a gesture from the Judge. Tennessee laughed. And apparently oblivious of the excitement, Tennessee’s Partner improved the opportunity to mop his face again with his handkerchief. When order was restored, and the man was made to understand, by the use of forcible figures and rhetoric, that Tennessee’s offense could not be condoned by money, his face took a more serious and sanguinary hue, and those who were nearest to him noticed that his rough hand trembled slightly on the table. He hesitated a moment as he slowly returned the gold to the carpetbag, as if he had not yet entirely caught the elevated sense of justice which swayed the tribunal, and was perplexed with the belief that he had not offered enough. Then he turned to the Judge, and saying, “This yer is a lone hand, played alone, and without my pardner,” he bowed to the jury and was about to withdraw, when the Judge called him back:—
For a moment, his life was at risk. One or two guys jumped to their feet, hands reaching for hidden weapons, and someone suggested, “Let’s throw him out the window,” but that was quickly shot down by a gesture from the Judge. Tennessee laughed. Seemingly unaware of the chaos, Tennessee’s Partner took the chance to wipe his face again with his handkerchief. Once order was restored, and the man was made to understand, through strong words and expressions, that Tennessee’s crime couldn’t be bought off with money, his face turned a more serious and bloody shade, and those closest to him noticed his rough hand was slightly trembling on the table. He paused for a moment as he slowly put the gold back into the carpetbag, as if he hadn’t fully grasped the serious sense of justice that influenced the court, and he was confused about whether he had offered enough. Then he faced the Judge and said, “This here is a lone hand, played alone, and without my partner,” bowed to the jury, and was about to leave when the Judge called him back:—
“If you have anything to say to Tennessee, you had better say it now.”
“If you have something to say to Tennessee, you should say it now.”
For the first time that evening the eyes of the prisoner and his strange advocate met. Tennessee smiled, showed his white teeth, and saying, “Euchred, old man!” held out his hand. Tennessee’s Partner took it in his own, and saying, “I just dropped in as I was passin’ to see how things was gettin’ on,” let the hand passively fall, and adding that “it was a warm night,” again mopped his face with his handkerchief, and without another word withdrew.
For the first time that evening, the prisoner and his unusual advocate locked eyes. Tennessee smiled, revealing his white teeth, and said, “Got you this time, old man!” as he extended his hand. Tennessee’s Partner took it but then let it drop, saying, “I just stopped by while I was passing to see how things were going,” and after noting that “it was a warm night,” wiped his face with his handkerchief again before leaving without saying anything else.
The two men never again met each other alive. For the unparalleled insult of a bribe offered to Judge Lynch—who, whether bigoted, weak, or narrow, was at least incorruptible—firmly fixed in the mind of that mythical personage any wavering determination of Tennessee’s fate; and at the break of day he was marched, closely guarded, to meet it at the top of Marley’s Hill.
The two men never saw each other alive again. The unmatched insult of a bribe offered to Judge Lynch—who, whether prejudiced, feeble, or narrow-minded, was at least incorruptible—solidified in the mind of that legendary figure any uncertainty about Tennessee’s fate; and at dawn he was escorted, under tight security, to confront it at the top of Marley’s Hill.
How he met it, how cool he was, how he refused to say anything, how perfect were the arrangements of the committee, were all duly reported, with the addition of a warning moral and example to all future evil-doers, in the “Red Dog Clarion,” by its editor, who was present, and to whose vigorous English I cheerfully refer the reader. But the beauty of that midsummer morning, the blessed amity of earth and air and sky, the awakened life of the free woods and hills, the joyous renewal and promise of Nature, and above all, the infinite serenity that thrilled through each, was not reported, as not being a part of the social lesson. And yet, when the weak and foolish deed was done, and a life, with its possibilities and responsibilities, had passed out of the misshapen thing that dangled between earth and sky, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, the sun shone, as cheerily as before; and possibly the “Red Dog Clarion” was right.
How he encountered it, how calm he was, how he wouldn’t say a word, how perfectly arranged the committee was, were all reported in the “Red Dog Clarion” by its editor, who was there and whose lively writing I gladly direct the reader to. But the beauty of that midsummer morning, the wonderful harmony of the earth, air, and sky, the vibrant life of the open woods and hills, the joyful renewal and promise of nature, and above all, the deep calm that flowed through everything, went unreported since it wasn’t part of the social lesson. Yet, when the foolish act was completed, and a life with all its possibilities and responsibilities slipped away from the twisted thing that hung between the earth and sky, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, and the sun shone just as brightly as before; and maybe the “Red Dog Clarion” was right.
Tennessee’s Partner was not in the group that surrounded the ominous tree. But as they turned to disperse, attention was drawn to the singular appearance of a motionless donkey-cart halted at the side of the road. As they approached, they at once recognized the venerable “Jenny” and the two-wheeled cart as the property of Tennessee’s Partner, used by him in carrying dirt from his claim; and a few paces distant the owner of the equipage himself, sitting under a buckeye-tree, wiping the perspiration from his glowing face. In answer to an inquiry, he said he had come for the body of the “diseased,” “if it was all the same to the committee.” He didn’t wish to “hurry anything;” he could “wait.” He was not working that day; and when the gentlemen were done with the “diseased,” he would take him. “Ef thar is any present,” he added, in his simple, serious way, “as would care to jine in the fun’l, they kin come.” Perhaps it was from a sense of humor, which I have already intimated was a feature of Sandy Bar,—perhaps it was from something even better than that, but two thirds of the loungers accepted the invitation at once.
Tennessee’s Partner wasn’t part of the group gathered around the eerie tree. But as they started to break up, they noticed a lone donkey cart stopped by the side of the road. As they got closer, they immediately recognized the old “Jenny” and the two-wheeled cart as belonging to Tennessee’s Partner, which he used to haul dirt from his claim. A few steps away, the owner himself sat under a buckeye tree, wiping the sweat from his flushed face. When asked, he said he had come for the body of the “deceased,” “if it was alright with the committee.” He didn’t want to “rush anything;” he could “wait.” He wasn’t working that day, and when the gentlemen finished with the “deceased,” he would take him. “If there is anyone present,” he added, in his straightforward, serious manner, “who would like to join in the funeral, they can come.” Maybe it was a sense of humor, which I’ve hinted at being a part of Sandy Bar—maybe it was something even better, but two-thirds of the onlookers accepted the invitation right away.
It was noon when the body of Tennessee was delivered into the hands of his partner. As the cart drew up to the fatal tree, we noticed that it contained a rough oblong box,—apparently made from a section of sluicing,—and half filled with bark and the tassels of pine. The cart was further decorated with slips of willow and made fragrant with buckeye-blossoms. When the body was deposited in the box, Tennessee’s Partner drew over it a piece of tarred canvas, and gravely mounting the narrow seat in front, with his feet upon the shafts, urged the little donkey forward. The equipage moved slowly on, at that decorous pace which was habitual with Jenny even under less solemn circumstances. The men—half curiously, half jestingly, but all good-humoredly—strolled along beside the cart, some in advance, some a little in the rear of the homely catafalque. But whether from the narrowing of the road or some present sense of decorum, as the cart passed on, the company fell to the rear in couples, keeping step, and otherwise assuming the external show of a formal procession. Jack Folinsbee, who had at the outset played a funeral march in dumb show upon an imaginary trombone, desisted from a lack of sympathy and appreciation,—not having, perhaps, your true humorist’s capacity to be content with the enjoyment of his own fun.
It was noon when Tennessee's body was handed over to his partner. As the cart pulled up to the tragic tree, we saw it had a rough, rectangular box—likely made from a piece of sluicing—half-filled with bark and pine needles. The cart was also decorated with strips of willow and smelled of buckeye blossoms. After placing the body in the box, Tennessee’s partner covered it with a piece of tarred canvas, then solemnly took his place on the narrow seat in front, with his feet resting on the shafts, and urged the little donkey to move forward. The cart rolled slowly at that respectful pace, which was typical for Jenny, even in less serious times. The men—partly curious, partly joking, but all in good spirits—strolled alongside the cart, some ahead and some slightly behind the simple coffin. But whether it was because the road was narrowing or a sense of decorum, as the cart continued on, the group fell back in pairs, keeping in step and giving the appearance of a formal procession. Jack Folinsbee, who at first had been pretending to play a funeral march on an imaginary trombone, stopped due to a lack of sympathy and appreciation—perhaps not having the true humorist’s ability to enjoy his own joke.
The way led through Grizzly Canon, by this time clothed in funereal drapery and shadows. The redwoods, burying their moccasined feet in the red soil, stood in Indian file along the track, trailing an uncouth benediction from their bending boughs upon the passing bier. A hare, surprised into helpless inactivity, sat upright and pulsating in the ferns by the roadside as the cortege went by. Squirrels hastened to gain a secure outlook from higher boughs; and the blue-jays, spreading their wings, fluttered before them like outriders, until the outskirts of Sandy Bar were reached, and the solitary cabin of Tennessee’s Partner.
The path led through Grizzly Canyon, now draped in dark shadows. The redwoods, with their roots sinking into the red soil, formed a line along the trail, casting a strange blessing from their drooping branches over the passing casket. A hare, caught off guard, sat frozen and alert in the ferns by the road as the procession moved past. Squirrels hurried to find safety in the higher branches, and the blue jays flapped their wings and buzzed around them like escorts until they reached the edge of Sandy Bar and the lonely cabin of Tennessee’s Partner.
Viewed under more favorable circumstances, it would not have been a cheerful place. The unpicturesque site, the rude and unlovely outlines, the unsavory details, which distinguish the nest-building of the California miner, were all here with the dreariness of decay superadded. A few paces from the cabin there was a rough inclosure, which, in the brief days of Tennessee’s Partner’s matrimonial felicity, had been used as a garden, but was now overgrown with fern. As we approached it, we were surprised to find that what we had taken for a recent attempt at cultivation was the broken soil about an open grave.
Seen in better circumstances, it wouldn’t have been a happy place. The unattractive location, the harsh and unappealing shapes, the unpleasant details that define the home of the California miner were all here, along with the added gloom of decay. A few steps from the cabin, there was a rough enclosure that, during the brief time of Tennessee’s Partner’s marital happiness, had served as a garden but was now overrun with ferns. As we got closer, we were shocked to discover that what we had assumed was a recent effort at gardening was actually the disturbed earth around an open grave.
The cart was halted before the inclosure, and rejecting the offers of assistance with the same air of simple self-reliance he had displayed throughout, Tennessee’s Partner lifted the rough coffin on his back, and deposited it unaided within the shallow grave. He then nailed down the board which served as a lid, and mounting the little mound of earth beside it, took off his hat and slowly mopped his face with his handkerchief. This the crowd felt was a preliminary to speech, and they disposed themselves variously on stumps and boulders, and sat expectant.
The cart stopped in front of the enclosure, and turning down offers of help with the same straightforward self-sufficiency he had shown all along, Tennessee’s Partner lifted the rough coffin onto his back and placed it by himself in the shallow grave. He then nailed down the board that served as a lid, and climbing up on the little mound of dirt next to it, took off his hat and slowly wiped his face with his handkerchief. The crowd sensed this was leading up to a speech, so they settled on stumps and boulders, waiting in anticipation.
“When a man,” began Tennessee’s Partner slowly, “has been running free all day, what’s the natural thing for him to do? Why, to come home. And if he ain’t in a condition to go home, what can his best friend do? Why, bring him home. And here’s Tennessee has been running free, and we brings him home from his wandering.” He paused and picked up a fragment of quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his sleeve, and went on: “It ain’t the first time that I’ve packed him on my back, as you see’d me now. It ain’t the first time that I brought him to this yer cabin when he couldn’t help himself; it ain’t the first time that I and Jinny have waited for him on yon hill, and picked him up and so fetched him home, when he couldn’t speak and didn’t know me. And now that it’s the last time, why”—he paused and rubbed the quartz gently on his sleeve—“you see it’s sort of rough on his pardner. And now, gentlemen” he added abruptly, picking up his long-handled shovel, “the fun’l’s over; and my thanks, and Tennessee’s thanks, to you for your trouble.”
“When a guy,” started Tennessee’s Partner slowly, “has been out free all day, what’s the natural thing for him to do? Well, to come home. And if he’s not in a state to go home, what can his best friend do? Bring him home. And here’s Tennessee, running wild, and we’re bringing him back from his wandering.” He paused and picked up a piece of quartz, rubbed it thoughtfully on his sleeve, and continued: “It’s not the first time I’ve carried him on my back, as you’ve seen. It’s not the first time I’ve brought him to this cabin when he couldn’t help himself; it’s not the first time Jinny and I have waited for him on that hill, picked him up, and brought him home when he couldn’t talk and didn’t recognize me. And now that it’s the last time, well”—he paused and gently rubbed the quartz on his sleeve—“you see, it’s pretty tough on his partner. And now, gentlemen,” he added abruptly, picking up his long-handled shovel, “the funeral’s over; and my thanks, and Tennessee’s thanks, to you for your help.”
Resisting any proffers of assistance, he began to fill in the grave, turning his back upon the crowd, that after a few moments’ hesitation gradually withdrew. As they crossed the little ridge that hid Sandy Bar from view, some, looking back, thought they could see Tennessee’s Partner, his work done, sitting upon the grave, his shovel between his knees, and his face buried in his red bandana handkerchief. But it was argued by others that you couldn’t tell his face from his handkerchief at that distance, and this point remained undecided.
Resisting any offers of help, he started to fill in the grave, turning his back on the crowd, which after a moment's hesitation gradually pulled away. As they crossed the small ridge that concealed Sandy Bar from sight, some people looked back and thought they could see Tennessee’s Partner, his task finished, sitting on the grave with his shovel resting between his knees, his face hidden in his red bandana handkerchief. However, others argued that at that distance, you couldn’t distinguish his face from his handkerchief, and this point remained unresolved.
In the reaction that followed the feverish excitement of that day, Tennessee’s Partner was not forgotten. A secret investigation had cleared him of any complicity in Tennessee’s guilt, and left only a suspicion of his general sanity. Sandy Bar made a point of calling on him, and proffering various uncouth but well-meant kindnesses. But from that day his rude health and great strength seemed visibly to decline; and when the rainy season fairly set in, and the tiny grass-blades were beginning to peep from the rocky mound above Tennessee’s grave, he took to his bed.
In the aftermath of the intense excitement of that day, Tennessee’s Partner was not forgotten. A secret investigation had cleared him of any involvement in Tennessee’s wrongdoing, leaving just a question about his overall sanity. Sandy Bar made it a point to visit him and offered various awkward but well-meaning gestures of kindness. However, ever since that day, his robust health and strength seemed to noticeably decline; and once the rainy season truly began, with tiny blades of grass starting to peek out from the rocky mound above Tennessee’s grave, he fell ill and took to his bed.
One night, when the pines beside the cabin were swaying in the storm and trailing their slender fingers over the roof, and the roar and rush of the swollen river were heard below, Tennessee’s Partner lifted his head from the pillow, saying, “It is time to go for Tennessee; I must put Jinny in the cart;” and would have risen from his bed but for the restraint of his attendant. Struggling, he still pursued his singular fancy: “There, now, steady, Jinny,—steady, old girl. How dark it is! Look out for the ruts,—and look out for him, too, old gal. Sometimes, you know, when he’s blind drunk, he drops down right in the trail. Keep on straight up to the pine on the top of the hill. Thar! I told you so!—thar he is,—coming this way, too,—all by himself, sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee! Pardner!”
One night, while the pines next to the cabin swayed in the storm and brushed their slender branches over the roof, and the sound of the swollen river roared below, Tennessee’s Partner lifted his head off the pillow and said, “It’s time to go for Tennessee; I need to put Jinny in the cart.” He tried to get up from his bed, but his attendant held him back. As he struggled, he clung to his peculiar thought: “There, now, steady, Jinny—steady, old girl. It’s so dark! Watch out for the ruts—and keep an eye out for him too, old gal. Sometimes, you know, when he’s totally drunk, he just collapses right in the path. Keep going straight up to the pine at the top of the hill. There! I told you so!—there he is—coming this way too—all by himself, sober, and his face glowing. Tennessee! Pardner!”
And so they met.
And that's how they met.
THE IDYL OF BED GULCH
Sandy was very drunk. He was lying under an azalea-bush, in pretty much the same attitude in which he had fallen some hours before. How long he had been lying there he could not tell, and didn’t care; how long he should lie there was a matter equally indefinite and unconsidered. A tranquil philosophy, born of his physical condition, suffused and saturated his moral being.
Sandy was really drunk. He was lying under an azalea bush, pretty much in the same position he had fallen into hours earlier. He couldn't tell how long he had been lying there and didn't care; how long he would stay there was equally vague and unthought of. A calm philosophy, born from his physical state, filled and soaked his moral being.
The spectacle of a drunken man, and of this drunken man in particular, was not, I grieve to say, of sufficient novelty in Red Gulch to attract attention. Earlier in the day some local satirist had erected a temporary tombstone at Sandy’s head, bearing the inscription, “Effects of McCorkle’s whiskey—kills at forty rods,” with a hand pointing to McCorkle’s saloon. But this, I imagine, was, like most local satire, personal; and was a reflection upon the unfairness of the process rather than a commentary upon the impropriety of the result. With this facetious exception, Sandy had been undisturbed. A wandering mule, released from his pack, had cropped the scant herbage beside him, and sniffed curiously at the prostrate man; a vagabond dog, with that deep sympathy which the species have for drunken men, had licked his dusty boots and curled himself up at his feet, and lay there, blinking one eye in the sunlight, with a simulation of dissipation that was ingenious and dog-like in its implied flattery of the unconscious man beside him.
The sight of a drunk guy, especially this one, was unfortunately not unique enough in Red Gulch to really grab anyone’s attention. Earlier, some local jokester had put up a makeshift tombstone at Sandy’s headstone that read, “Effects of McCorkle’s whiskey—kills at forty rods,” while pointing towards McCorkle’s saloon. But this was probably more about personal digs than anything else; it reflected the absurdity of the situation rather than a critique of the drunkenness itself. Aside from this humorous detail, Sandy had been left alone. A stray mule, set free from its pack, had nibbled on the sparse grass nearby and curiously sniffed at the man lying down; a wandering dog, showing that special bond dogs have with drunk people, had licked Sandy’s dusty boots and curled up at his feet, lying there with one eye half-open, mimicking a sense of intoxication that was both clever and typical of dogs, flattering the unconscious man next to him.
Meanwhile the shadows of the pine-trees had slowly swung around until they crossed the road, and their trunks barred the open meadow with gigantic parallels of black and yellow. Little puffs of red dust, lifted by the plunging hoofs of passing teams, dispersed in a grimy shower upon the recumbent man. The sun sank lower and lower, and still Sandy stirred not. And then the repose of this philosopher was disturbed, as other philosophers have been, by the intrusion of an unphilosophical sex.
Meanwhile, the shadows of the pine trees gradually moved until they crossed the road, creating giant black and yellow stripes across the open meadow. Small puffs of red dust kicked up by the pounding hooves of passing teams showered down dirty particles on the man lying down. The sun dipped lower and lower, and still Sandy didn’t budge. Then, the calm of this thinker was interrupted, as it often is for other thinkers, by the presence of a less thoughtful gender.
“Miss Mary,” as she was known to the little flock that she had just dismissed from the log schoolhouse beyond the pines, was taking her afternoon walk. Observing an unusually fine cluster of blossoms on the azalea-bush opposite, she crossed the road to pluck it, picking her way through the red dust, not without certain fierce little shivers of disgust and some feline circumlocution. And then she came suddenly upon Sandy!
“Miss Mary,” as she was called by the kids she had just let go from the log schoolhouse beyond the pines, was on her afternoon walk. Noticing an especially beautiful bunch of flowers on the azalea bush across the road, she crossed over to pick it, carefully stepping through the red dust, feeling a few small shivers of disgust and some cat-like hesitations. And then she unexpectedly came upon Sandy!
Of course she uttered the little staccato cry of her sex. But when she had paid that tribute to her physical weakness she became overbold and halted for a moment,—at least six feet from this prostrate monster,—with her white skirts gathered in her hand, ready for flight. But neither sound nor motion came from the bush. With one little foot she then overturned the satirical headboard, and muttered “Beasts!”—an epithet which probably, at that moment, conveniently classified in her mind the entire male population of Red Gulch. For Miss Mary, being possessed of certain rigid notions of her own, had not, perhaps, properly appreciated the demonstrative gallantry for which the Californian has been so justly celebrated by his brother Californians, and had, as a newcomer, perhaps fairly earned the reputation of being “stuck up.”
Of course, she let out a little gasp typical for her gender. But after acknowledging her physical vulnerability, she grew bolder and paused for a moment—at least six feet away from this fallen creature—with her white skirts gathered in her hand, ready to run. However, there was no sound or movement from the bushes. Then, with one small foot, she kicked over the sarcastic headboard and muttered “Animals!”—a term that likely, at that moment, conveniently summed up the entire male population of Red Gulch in her mind. Miss Mary, holding onto her own strict beliefs, may not have fully appreciated the chivalrous gestures that Californians are well-known for among themselves, and as a newcomer, had probably rightfully earned the label of being “stuck up.”
As she stood there she noticed, also, that the slant sunbeams were heating Sandy’s head to what she judged to be an unhealthy temperature, and that his hat was lying uselessly at his side. To pick it up and to place it over his face was a work requiring some courage, particularly as his eyes were open. Yet she did it and made good her retreat. But she was somewhat concerned, on looking back, to see that the hat was removed, and that Sandy was sitting up and saying something.
As she stood there, she also noticed that the slanting sunlight was heating Sandy’s head to what she thought was an unhealthy temperature, and that his hat was lying uselessly at his side. Picking it up and placing it over his face took some courage, especially since his eyes were open. Still, she did it and made her escape. But she felt a bit concerned when she looked back and saw that the hat was off, and Sandy was sitting up and saying something.
The truth was, that in the calm depths of Sandy’s mind he was satisfied that the rays of the sun were beneficial and healthful; that from childhood he had objected to lying down in a hat; that no people but condemned fools, past redemption, ever wore hats; and that his right to dispense, with them when he pleased was inalienable. This was the statement of his inner consciousness. Unfortunately, its outward expression was vague, being limited to a repetition of the following formula: “Su’shine all ri’! Wasser maar, eh? Wass up, su’shine?”
The truth was that deep down in Sandy’s mind, he was convinced that sunlight was good for you; that he had always disliked lying down with a hat on since he was a kid; that only truly foolish people, beyond help, wore hats; and that he had an unshakeable right to go without one whenever he wanted. This was what he truly believed. Unfortunately, he couldn't express it clearly, as his words were stuck in a repetitive loop: “Sunshine all right! Water, maybe, huh? What's up, sunshine?”
Miss Mary stopped, and, taking fresh courage from her vantage of distance, asked him if there was anything that he wanted.
Miss Mary stopped, and, gaining new confidence from her distance, asked him if he needed anything.
“Wass up? Wasser maar?” continued Sandy, in a very high key.
“What's up? What's the matter?” continued Sandy, in a very high tone.
“Get up, you horrid man!” said Miss Mary, now thoroughly incensed; “get up and go home.”
“Get up, you awful man!” said Miss Mary, now completely furious; “get up and go home.”
Sandy staggered to his feet. He was six feet high, and Miss Mary trembled. He started forward a few paces and then stopped.
Sandy stumbled to his feet. He was six feet tall, and Miss Mary shook. He took a few steps forward and then paused.
“Wass I go home for?” he suddenly asked, with great gravity.
“Why should I go home?” he suddenly asked, with serious concern.
“Go and take a bath,” replied Miss Mary, eying his grimy person with great disfavor.
“Go and take a bath,” replied Miss Mary, looking at his dirty self with a lot of disapproval.
To her infinite dismay, Sandy suddenly pulled off his coat and vest, threw them on the ground, kicked off his boots, and, plunging wildly forward, darted headlong over the hill in the direction of the river.
To her endless frustration, Sandy suddenly threw off his coat and vest, dropped them on the ground, kicked off his boots, and, charging forward, dashed headfirst over the hill toward the river.
“Goodness heavens! the man will be drowned!” said Miss Mary; and then, with feminine inconsistency, she ran back to the schoolhouse and locked herself in. That night, while seated at supper with her hostess, the blacksmith’s wife, it came to Miss Mary to ask, demurely, if her husband ever got drunk. “Abner,” responded Mrs. Stidger reflectively,—“let’s see! Abner hasn’t been tight since last ’lection.” Miss Mary would have liked to ask if he preferred lying in the sun on these occasions, and if a cold bath would have hurt him; but this would have involved an explanation, which she did not then care to give. So she contented herself with opening her gray eyes widely at the red-cheeked Mrs. Stidger,—a fine specimen of Southwestern efflorescence,—and then dismissed the subject altogether. The next day she wrote to her dearest friend in Boston: “I think I find the intoxicated portion of this community the least objectionable, I refer, my dear, to the men, of course. I do not know anything that could make the women tolerable.”
“Oh my gosh! That guy is going to drown!” said Miss Mary; and then, being a bit inconsistent, she ran back to the schoolhouse and locked herself in. That evening, while having dinner with her host, the blacksmith’s wife, Miss Mary shyly asked if her husband ever got drunk. “Abner,” Mrs. Stidger replied thoughtfully, “let’s see! Abner hasn’t been tipsy since the last election.” Miss Mary wanted to ask if he preferred lying in the sun during those times, and if a cold bath would have bothered him; but that would have required an explanation she wasn’t ready to give. So, she settled for widening her gray eyes at the rosy-cheeked Mrs. Stidger—a great example of Southwestern charm—and then dropped the subject altogether. The next day she wrote to her best friend in Boston: “I think I find the drunk people in this community the least objectionable. I’m talking about the men, of course. I can’t think of anything that would make the women tolerable.”
In less than a week Miss Mary had forgotten this episode, except that her afternoon walks took thereafter, almost unconsciously, another direction. She noticed, however, that every morning a fresh cluster of azalea blossoms appeared among the flowers on her desk. This was not strange, as her little flock were aware of her fondness for flowers, and invariably kept her desk bright with anemones, syringas, and lupines; but, on questioning them, they one and all professed ignorance of the azaleas. A few days later, Master Johnny Stidger, whose desk was nearest to the window, was suddenly taken with spasms of apparently gratuitous laughter, that threatened the discipline of the school. All that Miss Mary could get from him was, that some one had been “looking in the winder.” Irate and indignant, she sallied from her hive to do battle with the intruder. As she turned the corner of the schoolhouse she came plump upon the quondam drunkard, now perfectly sober, and inexpressibly sheepish and guilty-looking.
In less than a week, Miss Mary had forgotten about this incident, except that her afternoon walks began taking a different route almost unconsciously. She did notice, though, that every morning a fresh bunch of azalea blossoms appeared among the flowers on her desk. This wasn’t surprising, as her little group knew she loved flowers and always kept her desk filled with anemones, syringas, and lupines; however, when she asked them about the azaleas, they all claimed they had no idea where they came from. A few days later, Master Johnny Stidger, who sat closest to the window, suddenly burst into fits of seemingly random laughter that threatened the school's discipline. All Miss Mary could get out of him was that someone had been "looking in the window." Annoyed and outraged, she rushed out to confront the intruder. As she rounded the corner of the schoolhouse, she came face to face with the former drunkard, now completely sober and looking incredibly sheepish and guilty.
These facts Miss Mary was not slow to take a feminine advantage of, in her present humor. But it was somewhat confusing to observe, also, that the beast, despite some faint signs of past dissipation, was amiable-looking,—in fact, a kind of blond Samson, whose corn-colored silken beard apparently had never yet known the touch of barber’s razor or Delilah’s shears. So that the cutting speech which quivered on her ready tongue died upon her lips, and she contented herself with receiving his stammering apology with supercilious eyelids and the gathered skirts of uncontamination. When she reentered the schoolroom, her eyes fell upon the azaleas with a new sense of revelation; and then she laughed, and the little people all laughed, and they were all unconsciously very happy.
These facts Miss Mary quickly took advantage of in her current mood. But it was a bit confusing to notice that the guy, despite some small signs of past wildness, looked friendly—actually, he resembled a blond Samson, whose light-colored, silky beard had apparently never met a barber's razor or Delilah's shears. So the sharp words she was about to say faded away, and she settled for receiving his awkward apology with a haughty look and her skirts pulled away from him. When she went back into the classroom, her eyes landed on the azaleas with a fresh perspective; then she laughed, and the kids all laughed, and they were all unknowingly very happy.
It was a hot day, and not long after this, that two short-legged boys came to grief on the threshold of the school with a pail of water, which they had laboriously brought from the spring, and that Miss Mary compassionately seized the pail and started for the spring herself. At the foot of the hill a shadow crossed her path, and a blue-shirted arm dexterously but gently relieved her of her burden. Miss Mary was both embarrassed and angry. “If you carried more of that for yourself,” she said spitefully to the blue arm, without deigning to raise her lashes to its owner, “you’d do better.” In the submissive silence that followed she regretted the speech, and thanked him so sweetly at the door that he stumbled. Which caused the children to laugh again,—a laugh in which Miss Mary joined, until the color came faintly into her pale cheek. The next day a barrel was mysteriously placed beside the door, and as mysteriously filled with fresh spring-water every morning.
It was a hot day, and not long after this, two short-legged boys found themselves in trouble at the school entrance with a pail of water they had worked hard to bring from the spring. Miss Mary, feeling sympathetic, took the pail from them and headed to the spring herself. At the bottom of the hill, a shadow fell across her path, and a blue-shirted arm skillfully but gently took the burden from her. Miss Mary felt both embarrassed and angry. “If you carried more of that for yourself,” she said spitefully to the blue arm, without bothering to look at its owner, “you’d do better.” In the quiet that followed, she regretted her words and thanked him so sweetly at the door that he stumbled. This made the children laugh again—a laugh in which Miss Mary joined until a faint blush appeared on her pale cheek. The next day, a barrel was mysteriously placed by the door and filled every morning with fresh spring water.
Nor was this superior young person without other quiet attentions. “Profane Bill,” driver of the Slumgullion Stage, widely known in the newspapers for his “gallantry” in invariably offering the box-seat to the fair sex, had excepted Miss Mary from this attention, on the ground that he had a habit of “cussin’ on up grades,” and gave her half the coach to herself. Jack Hamlin, a gambler, having once silently ridden with her in the same coach, afterward threw a decanter at the head of a confederate for mentioning her name in a bar-room. The over-dressed mother of a pupil whose paternity was doubtful had often lingered near this astute Vestal’s temple, never daring to enter its sacred precincts, but content to worship the priestess from afar.
Nor was this exceptional young person without other subtle attentions. “Profane Bill,” the driver of the Slumgullion Stage, widely known in the newspapers for his “gallantry” in always offering the box seat to women, had made an exception for Miss Mary, claiming that he had a habit of “cussin’ on up grades,” and gave her half the coach all to herself. Jack Hamlin, a gambler, who had once silently ridden with her in the same coach, later threw a decanter at a companion for mentioning her name in a bar. The overly dressed mother of a pupil, whose child’s paternity was questionable, often lingered near this wise Vestal’s temple, never daring to cross into its sacred space but happy to admire the priestess from a distance.
With such unconscious intervals the monotonous procession of blue skies, glittering sunshine, brief twilights, and starlit nights passed over Red Gulch. Miss Mary grew fond of walking in the sedate and proper woods. Perhaps she believed, with Mrs. Stidger, that the balsamic odors of the firs “did her chest good,” for certainly her slight cough was less frequent and her step was firmer; perhaps she had learned the unending lesson which the patient pines are never weary of repeating to heedful or listless ears. And so one day she planned a picnic on Buckeye Hill, and took the children with her. Away from the dusty road, the straggling shanties, the yellow ditches, the clamor of restless engines, the cheap finery of shop-windows, the deeper glitter of paint and colored glass, and the thin veneering which barbarism takes upon itself in such localities, what infinite relief was theirs! The last heap of ragged rock and clay passed, the last unsightly chasm crossed,—how the waiting woods opened their long files to receive them! How the children—perhaps because they had not yet grown quite away from the breast of the bounteous Mother—threw themselves face downward on her brown bosom with uncouth caresses, filling the air with their laughter; and how Miss Mary herself—felinely fastidious and intrenched as she was in the purity of spotless skirts, collar, and cuffs—forgot all, and ran like a crested quail at the head of her brood, until, romping, laughing, and panting, with a loosened braid of brown hair, a hat hanging by a knotted ribbon from her throat, she came suddenly and violently, in the heart of the forest, upon the luckless Sandy!
With such unconscious pauses, the dull flow of blue skies, bright sunshine, brief twilights, and starry nights moved over Red Gulch. Miss Mary began to enjoy walking in the calm and proper woods. Maybe she thought, like Mrs. Stidger, that the soothing scents of the fir trees were good for her chest, since her mild cough had become less frequent and her steps were steadier; perhaps she had absorbed the endless lessons that the patient pines continuously share with attentive or indifferent listeners. So one day, she organized a picnic on Buckeye Hill and took the kids with her. Away from the dusty road, the scattered shanties, the muddy ditches, the noise of restless engines, the cheap decorations in shop windows, the brighter shine of paint and colored glass, and the thin veneer of civilization that barbarism adopts in such places, what a relief they felt! After passing the last heap of rough rock and clay and crossing the final unsightly gap—how the waiting woods opened up to welcome them! The children—perhaps because they hadn’t completely outgrown their bond with the generous Mother—flung themselves face down onto her brown surface with awkward affection, filling the air with their laughter; and how Miss Mary—fussily proper and wrapped up in her pristine skirts, collar, and cuffs—forgot it all and raced like a flustered quail at the front of her group, until, playing, laughing, and out of breath, with a loose braid of brown hair and a hat dangling by a knotted ribbon from her neck, she suddenly and unexpectedly stumbled upon the unfortunate Sandy in the heart of the forest!
The explanations, apologies, and not overwise conversation that ensued need not be indicated here. It would seem, however, that Miss Mary had already established some acquaintance with this ex-drunkard. Enough that he was soon accepted as one of the party; that the children, with that quick intelligence which Providence gives the helpless, recognized a friend, and played with his blond beard and long silken mustache, and took other liberties,—as the helpless are apt to do. And when he had built a fire against a tree, and had shown them other mysteries of woodcraft, their admiration knew no bounds. At the close of two such foolish, idle, happy hours he found himself lying at the feet of the schoolmistress, gazing dreamily in her face as she sat upon the sloping hillside weaving wreaths of laurel and syringa, in very much the same attitude as he had lain when first they met. Nor was the similitude greatly forced. The weakness of an easy, sensuous nature, that had found a dreamy exaltation in liquor, it is to be feared was now finding an equal intoxication in love.
The explanations, apologies, and not-so-wise conversation that followed don’t need to be mentioned here. However, it seems that Miss Mary had already gotten to know this former alcoholic well enough that he was soon accepted as part of the group. The children, with that keen understanding that life grants the vulnerable, recognized him as a friend, playing with his blond beard and long silky mustache, and taking other liberties—as vulnerable ones tend to do. When he built a fire against a tree and showed them other secrets of outdoor skills, their admiration was limitless. After two such pointless, relaxing, joyful hours, he found himself lying at the feet of the schoolmistress, gazing dreamily at her face as she sat on the sloping hillside weaving garlands of laurel and syringa, just like how he had been positioned when they first met. The similarity wasn’t forced. The weakness of an easygoing, sensual nature, which had previously found a dreamy high in alcohol, was now, it seems, finding the same intoxication in love.
I think that Sandy was dimly conscious of this himself. I know that he longed to be doing something,—slaying a grizzly, scalping a savage, or sacrificing himself in some way for the sake of this sallow-faced, gray-eyed schoolmistress. As I should like to present him in an heroic attitude, I stay my hand with great difficulty at this moment, being only withheld from introducing such an episode by a strong conviction that it does not usually occur at such times. And I trust that my fairest reader, who remembers that, in a real crisis, it is always some uninteresting stranger or unromantic policeman, and not Adolphus, who rescues, will forgive the omission.
I think Sandy was somewhat aware of this himself. I know he longed to be doing something—hunting a bear, confronting a savage, or sacrificing himself in some way for this pale-faced, gray-eyed schoolteacher. While I'd love to portray him in a heroic light, I struggle to hold back at this moment, knowing that such scenes typically don’t happen in real life. And I hope my dear reader, who understands that in a true crisis, it’s usually some unexciting stranger or a no-nonsense cop, not a hero, who comes to the rescue, will forgive me for not including it.
So they sat there undisturbed,—the woodpeckers chattering overhead and the voices of the children coming pleasantly from the hollow below. What they said matters little. What they thought—which might have been interesting—did not transpire. The woodpeckers only learned how Miss Mary was an orphan; how she left her uncle’s house to come to California for the sake of health and independence; how Sandy was an orphan too; how he came to California for excitement; how he had lived a wild life, and how he was trying to reform; and other details, which, from a woodpecker’s view-point, undoubtedly must have seemed stupid and a waste of time. But even in such trifles was the afternoon spent; and when the children were again gathered, and Sandy, with a delicacy which the schoolmistress well understood, took leave of them quietly at the outskirts of the settlement, it had seemed the shortest day of her weary life.
So they sat there peacefully, with the woodpeckers chattering overhead and the kids’ voices cheerfully coming from the hollow below. What they said isn't important. What they thought—which could have been interesting—didn’t come out. The woodpeckers only picked up how Miss Mary was an orphan; how she left her uncle’s house to come to California for her health and independence; how Sandy was also an orphan; how he came to California for adventure; how he had lived a wild life, and how he was trying to change; and other details that, from a woodpecker’s perspective, must have seemed pointless and a waste of time. But even in such little things, the afternoon passed; and when the kids were gathered again, and Sandy, with a sensitivity the schoolmistress clearly understood, quietly took his leave at the edge of the settlement, it felt like the shortest day of her tired life.
As the long, dry summer withered to its roots, the school term of Red Gulch—to use a local euphuism—“dried up” also. In another day Miss Mary would be free, and for a season, at least, Red Gulch would know her no more. She was seated alone in the schoolhouse, her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes half closed in one of those daydreams in which Miss Mary, I fear, to the danger of school discipline, was lately in the habit of indulging. Her lap was full of mosses, ferns, and other woodland memories. She was so preoccupied with these and her own thoughts that a gentle tapping at the door passed unheard, or translated itself into the remembrance of far-off woodpeckers. When at last it asserted itself more distinctly, she started up with a flushed cheek and opened the door. On the threshold stood a woman, the self-assertion and audacity of whose dress were in singular contrast to her timid, irresolute bearing. Miss Mary recognized at a glance the dubious mother of her anonymous pupil. Perhaps she was disappointed, perhaps she was only fastidious; but as she coldly invited her to enter, she half unconsciously settled her white cuffs and collar, and gathered closer her own chaste skirts. It was, perhaps, for this reason that the embarrassed stranger, after a moment’s hesitation, left her gorgeous parasol open and sticking in the dust beside the door, and then sat down at the farther end of a long bench. Her voice was husky as she began,—
As the long, dry summer came to an end, so did the school term at Red Gulch—using a local saying, it “dried up” too. In just a day, Miss Mary would be free, and for a while, at least, Red Gulch wouldn’t see her again. She was sitting alone in the schoolhouse, her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes half-closed in one of those daydreams that Miss Mary, I’m afraid, had become accustomed to, much to the detriment of classroom discipline. Her lap was filled with moss, ferns, and other memories from the woods. She was so absorbed in these and her own thoughts that a gentle knock at the door went unnoticed, or turned into a distant memory of woodpeckers. When it finally became more noticeable, she jumped up with a flushed face and opened the door. On the threshold stood a woman, boldly dressed in a way that sharply contrasted with her shy, uncertain demeanor. Miss Mary immediately recognized her as the dubious mother of her anonymous student. Perhaps she felt disappointed, or maybe she was just picky; but as she coolly invited her to come in, she unconsciously adjusted her white cuffs and collar and pulled her own modest skirts closer. Maybe this is why the awkward stranger, after a moment's pause, left her lavish parasol open and stuck in the dust by the door, and then sat down at the far end of a long bench. Her voice was husky when she began,—
“I heerd tell that you were goin’ down to the Bay to-morrow, and I couldn’t let you go until I came to thank you for your kindness to my Tommy.” Tommy, Miss Mary said, was a good boy, and deserved more than the poor attention she could give him.
“I heard that you were going down to the Bay tomorrow, and I couldn’t let you leave without thanking you for your kindness to my Tommy.” Tommy, Miss Mary said, was a good boy and deserved more than the limited attention she could give him.
“Thank you, miss; thank ye!” cried the stranger, brightening even through the color which Red Gulch knew facetiously as her “war paint,” and striving, in her embarrassment, to drag the long bench nearer the schoolmistress. “I thank you, miss, for that; and if I am his mother, there ain’t a sweeter, dearer, better boy lives than him. And if I ain’t much as says it, thar ain’t a sweeter, dearer, angeler teacher lives than he’s got.”
“Thank you, miss; thank you!” exclaimed the stranger, brightening even under the makeup that Red Gulch jokingly called her “war paint,” and awkwardly trying to pull the long bench closer to the schoolmistress. “I appreciate it, miss, for that; and if I am his mother, there isn’t a sweeter, dearer, better boy than him. And even if I don’t say it much, there isn’t a sweeter, dearer, more amazing teacher than the one he has.”
Miss Mary, sitting primly behind her desk, with a ruler over her shoulder, opened her gray eyes widely at this, but said nothing.
Miss Mary, sitting neatly behind her desk with a ruler resting over her shoulder, opened her gray eyes wide at this, but said nothing.
“It ain’t for you to be complimented by the like of me, I know,” she went on hurriedly. “It ain’t for me to be comin’ here, in broad day, to do it, either; but I come to ask a favor,—not for me, miss,—not for me, but for the darling boy.”
“It’s not for someone like me to give you compliments, I know,” she continued quickly. “It’s not right for me to come here in broad daylight to do that either; but I came to ask a favor—not for myself, miss—not for myself, but for the sweet boy.”
Encouraged by a look in the young schoolmistress’s eye, and putting her lilac-gloved hands together, the fingers downward, between her knees, she went on, in a low voice:—
Encouraged by a look in the young teacher's eye, and placing her lilac-gloved hands together with her fingers pointing down between her knees, she continued in a soft voice:—
“You see, miss, there’s no one the boy has any claim on but me, and I ain’t the proper person to bring him up. I thought some, last year, of sending him away to Frisco to school, but when they talked of bringing a schoolma’am here, I waited till I saw you, and then I knew it was all right, and I could keep my boy a little longer. And, oh! miss, he loves you so much; and if you could hear him talk about you in his pretty way, and if he could ask you what I ask you now, you couldn’t refuse him.
"You see, miss, the only person the boy has a connection to is me, and I'm not the right person to raise him. I thought about sending him off to school in San Francisco last year, but when they talked about bringing a schoolteacher here, I decided to wait until I saw you. Then I knew everything would be alright, and I could keep my boy a little longer. And, oh! miss, he really loves you; if you could hear him talk about you in his sweet way, and if he could ask you what I'm asking you now, you wouldn't be able to refuse him."
“It is natural,” she went on rapidly, in a voice that trembled strangely between pride and humility,—“it’s natural that he should take to you, miss, for his father, when I first knew him, was a gentleman,—and the boy must forget me, sooner or later,—and so I ain’t a-goin’ to cry about that. For I come to ask you to take my Tommy,—God bless him for the bestest, sweetest boy that lives,—to—to—take him with you.”
“It’s only natural,” she continued quickly, her voice shaking between pride and humility, “that he would be drawn to you, miss, because his father, when I first met him, was a gentleman—and the boy will have to forget me, sooner or later—and I’m not going to cry about that. I came to ask you to take my Tommy—God bless him, he’s the best, sweetest boy there is—to—to—take him with you.”
She had risen and caught the young girl’s hand in her own, and had fallen on her knees beside her.
She had stood up and taken the young girl's hand in hers, and had knelt down beside her.
“I’ve money plenty, and it’s all yours and his. Put him in some good school, where you can go and see him, and help him to—to—to forget his mother. Do with him what you like. The worst you can do will be kindness to what he will learn with me. Only take him out of this wicked life, this cruel place, this home of shame and sorrow. You will! I know you will,—won’t you? You will,—you must not, you cannot say no! You will make him as pure, as gentle as yourself; and when he has grown-up, you will tell him his father’s name,—the name that hasn’t passed my lips for years,—the name of Alexander Morton, whom they call here Sandy! Miss Mary!—do not take your hand away! Miss Mary, speak to me! You will take my boy? Do not put your face from me. I know it ought not to look on such as me. Miss Mary!—my God, be merciful!—she is leaving me!” Miss Mary had risen, and, in the gathering twilight, had felt her way to the open window. She stood there, leaning against the casement, her eyes fixed on the last rosy tints that were fading from the western sky. There was still some of its light on her pure young forehead, on her white collar, on her clasped white hands, but all fading slowly away. The suppliant had dragged herself, still on her knees, beside her.
“I have plenty of money, and it’s all yours and his. Get him into a good school where you can visit him and help him to— to— to forget his mother. Do whatever you want with him. The worst you can do will still be kinder than what he’ll learn from me. Just get him out of this terrible life, this cruel place, this home of shame and sorrow. You will! I know you will—won’t you? You will—you must not, you cannot say no! You will make him as pure and gentle as you are; and when he grows up, you will tell him his father’s name—the name that hasn’t passed my lips for years—the name of Alexander Morton, the one they call Sandy around here! Miss Mary!—please don’t pull your hand away! Miss Mary, talk to me! You will take my boy? Don’t turn your face from me. I know I shouldn’t be in your presence. Miss Mary!—my God, have mercy!—she is leaving me!” Miss Mary had stood up, and in the fading light, had made her way to the open window. She leaned there, looking at the last rosy colors that were fading from the western sky. There was still a bit of that light on her pure young forehead, on her white collar, on her clasped white hands, but it was all slowly fading away. The desperate woman had pulled herself, still on her knees, beside her.
“I know it takes time to consider. I will wait here all night; but I cannot go until you speak. Do not deny me now. You will!—I see it in your sweet face,—such a face as I have seen in my dreams. I see it in your eyes, Miss Mary!—you will take my boy!”
“I know it takes time to think it over. I’ll be here all night; but I can’t leave until you say something. Please don’t turn me down now. You will!—I can see it in your lovely face,—a face I’ve seen in my dreams. I see it in your eyes, Miss Mary!—you will accept my son!”
The last red beam crept higher, suffused Miss Mary’s eyes with something of its glory, flickered, and faded, and went out. The sun had set on Red Gulch. In the twilight and silence Miss Mary’s voice sounded pleasantly.
The last red beam rose higher, filling Miss Mary’s eyes with a bit of its glory, flickered, faded, and then disappeared. The sun had set on Red Gulch. In the twilight and quiet, Miss Mary’s voice was pleasing to hear.
“I will take the boy. Send him to me to-night.”
“I'll take the boy. Send him to me tonight.”
The happy mother raised the hem of Miss Mary’s skirts to her lips. She would have buried her hot face in its virgin folds, but she dared not. She rose to her feet.
The happy mother lifted the hem of Miss Mary’s skirts to her lips. She wanted to bury her hot face in its pure folds, but she didn’t dare. She stood up.
“Does—this man—know of your intention?” asked Miss Mary suddenly.
“Does this guy know about your plan?” Miss Mary asked suddenly.
“No, nor cares. He has never even seen the child to know it.”
"No, nor does he care. He has never even seen the child to know them."
“Go to him at once—to-night—now! Tell him what you have done. Tell him I have taken his child, and tell him—he must never see—see—the child again. Wherever it may be, he must not come; wherever I may take it, he must not follow! There, go now, please,—I’m weary, and—have much yet to do!”
“Go to him right away—tonight—now! Tell him what you’ve done. Tell him I’ve taken his child, and tell him—he can never see—the child again. Wherever it is, he must not come; wherever I take it, he must not follow! Now go, please—I’m tired, and I have a lot to do!”
They walked together to the door. On the threshold the woman turned.
They walked together to the door. At the threshold, the woman turned.
“Good-night!”
“Good night!”
She would have fallen at Miss Mary’s feet. But at the same moment the young girl reached out her arms, caught the sinful woman to her own pure breast for one brief moment, and then closed and locked the door.
She would have fallen at Miss Mary’s feet. But at the same moment, the young girl reached out her arms, pulled the sinful woman to her own pure embrace for one brief moment, and then closed and locked the door.
It was with a sudden sense of great responsibility that Profane Bill took the reins of the Slumgullion stage the next morning, for the schoolmistress was one of his passengers. As he entered the highroad, in obedience to a pleasant voice from the “inside,” he suddenly reined up his horses and respectfully waited, as Tommy hopped out at the command of Miss Mary.
It was with a sudden feeling of immense responsibility that Profane Bill took control of the Slumgullion stage the next morning, because the schoolmistress was one of his passengers. As he drove onto the main road, responding to a cheerful voice from inside, he abruptly stopped his horses and patiently waited while Tommy got out at Miss Mary’s request.
“Not that bush, Tommy,—the next.”
“Not that bush, Tommy—the next one.”
Tommy whipped out his new pocket-knife, and cutting a branch from a tall azalea-bush, returned with it to Miss Mary. “All right now?”
Tommy pulled out his new pocket knife and cut a branch from a tall azalea bush before heading back to Miss Mary. “Is everything good now?”
“All right!”
"Okay!"
And the stage-door closed on the Idyl of Red Gulch.
And the stage door closed on the Idyl of Red Gulch.
BROWN OF CALAVERAS
A subdued tone of conversation, and the absence of cigar-smoke and boot-heels at the windows of the Wingdam stagecoach, made it evident that one of the inside passengers was a woman. A disposition on the part of loungers at the stations to congregate before the window, and some concern in regard to the appearance of coats, hats, and collars, further indicated that she was lovely. All of which Mr. Jack Hamlin, on the box-seat, noted with the smile of cynical philosophy. Not that he depreciated the sex, but that he recognized therein a deceitful element, the pursuit of which sometimes drew mankind away from the equally uncertain blandishments of poker,—of which it may be remarked that Mr. Hamlin was a professional exponent.
A quiet conversation and the lack of cigar smoke and boot heels at the Wingdam stagecoach windows made it clear that one of the inside passengers was a woman. The tendency of the people hanging around at the stations to gather by the window, along with some worry about the appearance of coats, hats, and collars, further hinted that she was beautiful. All of this was noted by Mr. Jack Hamlin, sitting on the box seat, with a smile of cynical wisdom. Not that he looked down on women, but he recognized a deceptive element in them, the pursuit of which sometimes distracted men from the equally unpredictable lure of poker—of which it should be noted Mr. Hamlin was a skilled player.
So that, when he placed his narrow boot on the wheel and leaped down, he did not even glance at the window from which a green veil was fluttering, but lounged up and down with that listless and grave indifference of his class, which was, perhaps, the next thing to good-breeding. With his closely buttoned figure and self-contained air he was a marked contrast to the other passengers, with their feverish restlessness and boisterous emotion; and even Bill Masters, a graduate of Harvard, with his slovenly dress, his over-flowing vitality, his intense appreciation of lawlessness and barbarism, and his mouth filled with crackers and cheese, I fear cut but an unromantic figure beside this lonely calculator of chances, with his pale Greek face and Homeric gravity.
So, when he put his narrow boot on the wheel and jumped down, he didn’t even look at the window where a green curtain was fluttering. Instead, he strolled back and forth with that lazy and serious indifference typical of his class, which was probably the closest thing to good manners. With his tightly buttoned clothing and composed demeanor, he stood out in sharp contrast to the other passengers, who were filled with restless energy and loud emotions. Even Bill Masters, a Harvard grad, with his messy outfit, overflowing energy, strong appreciation for chaos and wildness, and his mouth stuffed with crackers and cheese, seemed quite unremarkable next to this solitary risk-taker, with his pale Greek features and serious demeanor.
The driver called “All aboard!” and Mr. Hamlin returned to the coach. His foot was upon the wheel, and his face raised to the level of the open window, when, at the same moment, what appeared to him to be the finest eyes in the world suddenly met his. He quietly dropped down again, addressed a few words to one of the inside passengers, effected an exchange of seats, and as quietly took his place inside. Mr. Hamlin never allowed his philosophy to interfere with decisive and prompt action.
The driver called out, “All aboard!” and Mr. Hamlin stepped back into the coach. His foot was on the wheel, and his face was turned toward the open window when, at that moment, he locked eyes with what he thought were the most beautiful eyes in the world. He quietly dropped back down, said a few words to one of the passengers inside, switched seats, and then quietly settled into his new spot. Mr. Hamlin never let his philosophy get in the way of taking quick and effective action.
I fear that this irruption of Jack cast some restraint upon the other passengers, particularly those who were making themselves most agreeable to the lady. One of them leaned forward, and apparently conveyed to her information regarding Mr. Hamlin’s profession in a single epithet. Whether Mr. Hamlin heard it, or whether he recognized in the informant a distinguished jurist, from whom, but a few evenings before, he had won several thousand dollars, I cannot say. His colorless face betrayed no sign; his black eyes, quietly observant, glanced indifferently past the legal gentleman, and rested on the much more pleasing features of his neighbor. An Indian stoicism—said to be an inheritance from his maternal ancestor—stood him in good service, until the rolling wheels rattled upon the river gravel at Scott’s Ferry, and the stage drew up at the International Hotel for dinner. The legal gentleman and a member of Congress leaped out, and stood ready to assist the descending goddess, while Colonel Starbottle of Siskiyou took charge of her parasol and shawl. In this multiplicity of attention there was a momentary confusion and delay. Jack Hamlin quietly opened the opposite door of the coach, took the lady’s hand, with that decision and positiveness which a hesitating and undecided sex know how to admire, and in an instant had dexterously and gracefully swung her to the ground and again lifted her to the platform. An audible chuckle on the box, I fear, came from that other cynic, Yuba Bill, the driver. “Look keerfully arter that baggage, Kernel,” said the expressman, with affected concern, as he looked after Colonel Starbottle, gloomily bringing up the rear of the triumphant procession to the waiting-room.
I worry that Jack's sudden appearance held back the other passengers, especially those who were trying to impress the lady. One passenger leaned forward and seemed to share information about Mr. Hamlin’s job with just one word. I can’t say if Mr. Hamlin heard it or if he recognized the informant as a distinguished lawyer from whom he had won several thousand dollars just a few nights ago. His expressionless face gave no hint; his dark eyes, quietly observing, glanced past the legal guy and focused instead on the much more attractive features of his neighbor. An Indian stoicism—believed to be an inheritance from his mother’s side—served him well until the rolling wheels rattled over the river gravel at Scott’s Ferry, and the stage arrived at the International Hotel for dinner. The lawyer and a member of Congress jumped out and were ready to help the descending lady, while Colonel Starbottle from Siskiyou took charge of her parasol and shawl. All this attention caused a brief moment of confusion and delay. Jack Hamlin casually opened the opposite door of the coach, took the lady’s hand with that confidence and decisiveness that a hesitant and uncertain gender knows how to admire, and in an instant, he skillfully and gracefully got her on the ground and lifted her onto the platform. An audible chuckle from the box likely came from that other cynic, Yuba Bill, the driver. “Watch that baggage closely, Colonel,” said the expressman, pretending to be concerned as he watched Colonel Starbottle gloomily bring up the rear of the triumphant procession to the waiting room.
Mr. Hamlin did not stay for dinner. His horse was already saddled and awaiting him. He dashed over the ford, up the gravelly hill, and out into the dusty perspective of the Wingdam road, like one leaving an unpleasant fancy behind him. The inmates of dusty cabins by the roadside shaded their eyes with their hands and looked after him, recognizing the man by his horse, and speculating what “was up with Comanche Jack.” Yet much of this interest centred in the horse, in a community where the time made by “French Pete’s” mare, in his run from the Sheriff of Calaveras, eclipsed all concern in the ultimate fate of that worthy.
Mr. Hamlin didn't stay for dinner. His horse was already saddled and waiting for him. He rushed across the stream, up the gravelly hill, and onto the dusty stretch of Wingdam road, like someone leaving behind an unpleasant memory. The people in the dusty cabins along the road shaded their eyes with their hands and watched him go, recognizing him by his horse and wondering what was going on with “Comanche Jack.” A lot of their interest was focused on the horse, in a town where the time made by “French Pete’s” mare during her escape from the Sheriff of Calaveras overshadowed any concern for that guy’s ultimate fate.
The sweating flanks of his gray at length recalled him to himself. He checked his speed, and turning into a byroad, sometimes used as a cut-off, trotted leisurely along, the reins hanging listlessly from his fingers. As he rode on, the character of the landscape changed and became more pastoral. Openings in groves of pine and sycamore disclosed some rude attempts at cultivation,—a flowering vine trailed over the porch of one cabin, and a woman rocked her cradled babe under the roses of another. A little farther on, Mr. Hamlin came upon some bare-legged children wading in the willowy creek, and so wrought upon them with a badinage peculiar to himself, that they were emboldened to climb up his horse’s legs and over his saddle, until he was fain to develop an exaggerated ferocity of demeanor, and to escape, leaving behind some kisses and coin. And then, advancing deeper into the woods, where all signs of habitation failed, he began to sing, uplifting a tenor so singularly sweet, and shaded by a pathos so subdued and tender, that I wot the robins and linnets stopped to listen. Mr. Hamlin’s voice was not cultivated; the subject of his song was some sentimental lunacy, borrowed from the negro minstrels; but there thrilled through all some occult quality of tone and expression that was unspeakably touching. Indeed, it was a wonderful sight to see this sentimental blackleg, with a pack of cards in his pocket and a revolver at his back, sending his voice before him through the dim woods with a plaint about his “Nelly’s grave,” in a way that overflowed the eyes of the listener. A sparrow-hawk, fresh from his sixth victim, possibly recognizing in Mr. Hamlin a kindred spirit, stared at him in surprise, and was fain to confess the superiority of man. With a superior predatory capacity he couldn’t sing.
The sweaty sides of his gray horse finally brought him back to reality. He slowed down and turned onto a back road, often used as a shortcut, trotting casually with the reins hanging loosely from his fingers. As he continued, the landscape shifted to a more rural setting. Openings among the pine and sycamore trees revealed some makeshift farming—a flowering vine draped over the porch of one cabin, while a woman rocked her baby under the roses of another. A bit further on, Mr. Hamlin came across some bare-legged kids splashing in the creek, and with his unique playful teasing, he encouraged them to climb up his horse's legs and over his saddle, until he had to put on an exaggerated tough act to get away, leaving behind a few kisses and coins. Then, moving deeper into the woods, where signs of people disappeared, he began to sing, lifting his tenor voice in a way that was exceptionally sweet and marked by a soft, tender sadness that even made the robins and linnets stop to listen. Mr. Hamlin's voice wasn’t refined; the subject of his song was some sentimental nonsense borrowed from the blackface minstrel shows, but it had an indescribable quality of tone and emotion that was incredibly moving. It was truly a remarkable sight to see this sentimental gambler, with a deck of cards in his pocket and a gun at his side, sending his voice resonating through the shadowy woods with a lament about his “Nelly’s grave,” stirring tears in anyone who listened. A sparrow hawk, just pleased with its latest catch, perhaps recognizing a similar spirit in Mr. Hamlin, stared at him in surprise, hinting at the superiority of man. With its greater predatory skill, it couldn’t sing like he could.
But Mr. Hamlin presently found himself again on the highroad and at his former pace. Ditches and banks of gravel, denuded hillsides, stumps, and decayed trunks of trees, took the place of woodland and ravine, and indicated his approach to civilization. Then a church-steeple came in sight, and he knew that he had reached home. In a few moments he was clattering down the single narrow street that lost itself in a chaotic ruin of races, ditches, and tailings at the foot of the hill, and dismounted before the gilded windows of the Magnolia saloon. Passing through the long bar-room, he pushed open a green-baize door, entered a dark passage, opened another door with a passkey, and found himself in a dimly lighted room, whose furniture, though elegant and costly for the locality, showed signs of abuse. The inlaid centre-table was overlaid with stained disks that were not contemplated in the original design, the embroidered armchairs were discolored, and the green velvet lounge, on which Mr. Hamlin threw himself, was soiled at the foot with the red soil of Wingdam.
But Mr. Hamlin soon found himself back on the main road and at his usual speed. Instead of woods and valleys, there were ditches and gravel banks, bare hillsides, stumps, and decaying tree trunks, all showing he was getting closer to civilization. Then he spotted a church steeple and realized he was home. In a few moments, he was rattling down the single narrow street that ended in a chaotic mess of races, ditches, and tailings at the bottom of the hill, and he stopped his ride in front of the flashy windows of the Magnolia saloon. Walking through the long bar room, he pushed open a green baize door, entered a dark hallway, unlocked another door with a passkey, and stepped into a softly lit room, which, though stylish and expensive for the area, was showing signs of wear. The inlaid center table was covered with stained marks that weren't part of its original design, the embroidered armchairs were faded, and the green velvet couch, where Mr. Hamlin sank down, was dirty at the foot from the red soil of Wingdam.
Mr. Hamlin did not sing in his cage. He lay still, looking at a highly colored painting above him, representing a young creature of opulent charms. It occurred to him then, for the first time, that he had never seen exactly that kind of a woman, and that, if he should, he would not, probably, fall in love with her. Perhaps he was thinking of another style of beauty. But just then some one knocked at the door. Without rising, he pulled a cord that apparently shot back a bolt, for the door swung open, and a man entered.
Mr. Hamlin didn't sing in his cage. He lay still, gazing at a brightly colored painting above him, showing a young woman with luxurious charms. It struck him then, for the first time, that he had never seen a woman exactly like that, and if he did, he probably wouldn’t fall in love with her. Maybe he was thinking of a different kind of beauty. Just then, someone knocked on the door. Without getting up, he pulled a cord that seemed to release a bolt, and the door swung open, revealing a man who entered.
The new-comer was broad-shouldered and robust,—a vigor not borne out in the face, which, though handsome, was singularly weak and disfigured by dissipation. He appeared to be, also, under the influence of liquor, for he started on seeing Mr. Hamlin, and said, “I thought Kate was here;” stammered, and seemed confused and embarrassed.
The newcomer was broad-shouldered and strong—a strength not reflected in his face, which, although attractive, looked notably weak and marked by excess. He also seemed to be under the influence of alcohol, as he flinched upon seeing Mr. Hamlin and said, “I thought Kate was here;” he stammered and appeared confused and embarrassed.
Mr. Hamlin smiled the smile which he had before worn on the Wingdam coach, and sat up, quite refreshed and ready for business.
Mr. Hamlin smiled the same smile he had worn on the Wingdam coach and sat up, feeling refreshed and ready to get to work.
“You didn’t come up on the stage,” continued the newcomer, “did you?”
“You didn’t go on stage,” the newcomer continued, “did you?”
“No,” replied Hamlin; “I left it at Scott’s Ferry. It isn’t due for half an hour yet. But how’s luck, Brown?”
“No,” replied Hamlin; “I left it at Scott’s Ferry. It’s not due for another half hour. But how's it going, Brown?”
“D—d bad,” said Brown, his face suddenly assuming an expression of weak despair. “I’m cleaned out again, Jack,” he continued, in a whining tone, that formed a pitiable contrast to his bulky figure; “can’t you help me with a hundred till to-morrow’s clean-up? You see I’ve got to send money home to the old woman, and—you’ve won twenty times that amount from me.”
“Really bad,” said Brown, his face suddenly showing a look of weak despair. “I’m broke again, Jack,” he continued in a whiny tone that made a sad contrast to his big frame; “can’t you lend me a hundred until tomorrow's pay? You see, I have to send money home to the old lady, and—you’ve won twenty times that from me.”
The conclusion was, perhaps, not entirely logical, but Jack overlooked it, and handed the sum to his visitor. “The old-woman business is about played out, Brown,” he added, by way of commentary; “why don’t you say you want to buck ag’in’ faro? You know you ain’t married!”
The conclusion wasn't completely logical, but Jack ignored that and handed the cash to his guest. “The old-lady act is pretty much done, Brown,” he added as a comment; “why don’t you just admit you want to gamble on faro again? You know you’re not married!”
“Fact, sir,” said Brown, with a sudden gravity, as if the mere contact of the gold with the palm of the hand had imparted some dignity to his frame. “I’ve got a wife—a d—d good one, too, if I do say it—in the States. It’s three years since I’ve seen her, and a year since I’ve writ to her. When things is about straight, and we get down to the lead, I’m going to send for her.”
“Fact, sir,” said Brown, with a sudden seriousness, as if the mere touch of the gold against his palm had added some dignity to him. “I’ve got a wife—a damn good one, too, if I say so myself—in the States. It’s been three years since I’ve seen her, and a year since I’ve written to her. When things are sorted out, and we get down to business, I’m going to bring her over.”
“And Kate?” queried Mr. Hamlin, with his previous smile.
“And Kate?” asked Mr. Hamlin, with his earlier smile.
Mr. Brown of Calaveras essayed an archness of glance to cover his confusion, which his weak face and whiskey-muddled intellect but poorly carried out, and said,—
Mr. Brown of Calaveras tried to give a sly look to mask his confusion, but his weak face and whiskey-clouded mind didn't help him much, and he said,—
“D—n it, Jack, a man must have a little liberty, you know. But come, what do you say to a little game? Give us a show to double this hundred.”
“Damn it, Jack, a man needs a bit of freedom, you know. But come on, what do you think about a little game? Let’s put this hundred at stake.”
Jack Hamlin looked curiously at his fatuous friend. Perhaps he knew that the man was predestined to lose the money, and preferred that it should flow back into his own coffers rather than any other. He nodded his head, and drew his chair toward the table. At the same moment there came a rap upon the door.
Jack Hamlin looked at his foolish friend with curiosity. Maybe he realized that the guy was destined to lose the money and preferred it to come back to him instead of someone else. He nodded and pulled his chair closer to the table. Just then, there was a knock on the door.
“It’s Kate,” said Mr. Brown.
“It’s Kate,” Mr. Brown said.
Mr. Hamlin shot back the bolt and the door opened. But, for the first time in his life, he staggered to his feet utterly unnerved and abashed, and for the first time in his life the hot blood crimsoned his colorless cheeks to his forehead. For before him stood the lady he had lifted from the Wingdam coach, whom Brown, dropping his cards with a hysterical laugh, greeted as,—
Mr. Hamlin pulled back the bolt and the door swung open. But, for the first time in his life, he stumbled to his feet completely shaken and embarrassed, and for the first time ever, his pale cheeks flushed bright red, reaching all the way to his forehead. Before him stood the woman he had rescued from the Wingdam coach, whom Brown, letting his cards fall with a laugh, greeted as,—
“My old woman, by thunder!”
“My old lady, by thunder!”
They say that Mrs. Brown burst into tears and reproaches of her husband. I saw her in 1857 at Marysville, and disbelieve the story. And the “Wingdam Chronicle” of the next week, under the head of “Touching Reunion,” said: “One of those beautiful and touching incidents, peculiar to California life, occurred last week in our city. The wife of one of Wingdam’s eminent pioneers, tired of the effete civilization of the East and its inhospitable climate, resolved to join her noble husband upon these golden shores. Without informing him of her intention, she undertook the long journey, and arrived last week. The joy of the husband may be easier imagined than described. The meeting is said to have been indescribably affecting. We trust her example may be followed.”
They say that Mrs. Brown broke down in tears and confronted her husband. I saw her in 1857 at Marysville, and I don't believe the story. The “Wingdam Chronicle” from the following week, under the headline “Touching Reunion,” stated: “One of those beautiful and touching moments, unique to California life, happened last week in our city. The wife of one of Wingdam’s prominent pioneers, weary of the outdated civilization of the East and its unwelcoming climate, decided to join her devoted husband on these golden shores. Without telling him her plan, she made the long journey and arrived last week. The husband’s joy may be easier to imagine than to describe. The reunion was said to be incredibly moving. We hope her example inspires others.”
Whether owing to Mrs. Brown’s influence, or to some more successful speculations, Mr. Brown’s financial fortune from that day steadily improved. He bought out his partners in the “Nip and Tuck” lead, with money which was said to have been won at poker a week or two after his wife’s arrival, but which rumor, adopting Mrs. Brown’s theory that Brown had forsworn the gaming-table, declared to have been furnished by Mr. Jack Hamlin. He built and furnished the Wingdam House, which pretty Mrs. Brown’s great popularity kept overflowing with guests. He was elected to the Assembly, and gave largess to churches. A street in Wingdam was named in his honor.
Whether due to Mrs. Brown’s influence or some successful investments, Mr. Brown’s financial situation steadily improved from that day on. He bought out his partners in the “Nip and Tuck” lead with money that was rumored to have come from poker winnings a week or two after his wife’s arrival, but gossip, following Mrs. Brown’s idea that he had given up gambling, claimed it was actually provided by Mr. Jack Hamlin. He built and decorated the Wingdam House, which the lovely Mrs. Brown’s popularity kept full of guests. He was elected to the Assembly and donated to churches. A street in Wingdam was named after him.
Yet it was noted that in proportion as he waxed wealthy and fortunate, he grew pale, thin, and anxious. As his wife’s popularity increased, he became fretful and impatient. The most uxorious of husbands, he was absurdly jealous. If he did not interfere with his wife’s social liberty, it was because it was maliciously whispered that his first and only attempt was met by an outburst from Mrs. Brown that terrified him into silence. Much of this kind of gossip came from those of her own sex whom she had supplanted in the chivalrous attentions of Wingdam, which, like most popular chivalry, was devoted to an admiration of power, whether of masculine force or feminine beauty. It should be remembered, too, in her extenuation, that, since her arrival, she had been the unconscious priestess of a mythological worship, perhaps not more ennobling to her womanhood than that which distinguished an older Greek democracy. I think that Brown was dimly conscious of this. But his only confidant was Jack Hamlin, whose infelix reputation naturally precluded any open intimacy with the family, and whose visits were infrequent.
Yet it was noted that as he became wealthier and more successful, he grew pale, thin, and anxious. As his wife's popularity rose, he became irritable and impatient. The most devoted of husbands, he was absurdly jealous. If he didn’t interfere with his wife’s social freedom, it was because it was quietly said that his first and only attempt was met with an outburst from Mrs. Brown that scared him into silence. Much of this gossip came from other women she had outshined in the attentions of Wingdam, which, like most popular praise, was based on admiration for power, whether it was masculine strength or feminine beauty. It should also be noted, in her defense, that since her arrival, she had been the unwitting center of a mythological admiration, perhaps not more elevating to her femininity than that which defined an earlier Greek democracy. I think Brown was somewhat aware of this. But his only confidant was Jack Hamlin, whose unfortunate reputation naturally prevented any close relationship with the family, and whose visits were rare.
It was midsummer and a moonlit night, and Mrs. Brown, very rosy, large-eyed, and pretty, sat upon the piazza, enjoying the fresh incense of the mountain breeze, and, it is to be feared, another incense which was not so fresh nor quite as innocent. Beside her sat Colonel Starbottle and Judge Boompointer, and a later addition to her court in the shape of a foreign tourist. She was in good spirits.
It was midsummer and a moonlit night, and Mrs. Brown, very rosy, large-eyed, and pretty, sat on the porch, enjoying the fresh scent of the mountain breeze and, unfortunately, another scent that wasn’t as fresh or innocent. Next to her sat Colonel Starbottle and Judge Boompointer, along with a recent addition to her group in the form of a foreign tourist. She was in good spirits.
“What do you see down the road?” inquired the gallant Colonel, who had been conscious, for the last few minutes, that Mrs. Brown’s attention was diverted.
“What do you see up ahead?” asked the brave Colonel, who had noticed, for the last few minutes, that Mrs. Brown’s attention was elsewhere.
“Dust,” said Mrs. Brown, with a sigh. “Only Sister Anne’s ‘flock of sheep.’”
“Dust,” Mrs. Brown said with a sigh. “Just Sister Anne’s ‘flock of sheep.’”
The Colonel, whose literary recollections did not extend farther back than last week’s paper, took a more practical view. “It ain’t sheep,” he continued; “it’s a horseman. Judge, ain’t that Jack Hamlin’s gray?”
The Colonel, whose memories of literature didn't go back any further than last week’s newspaper, had a more down-to-earth viewpoint. “It’s not sheep,” he said; “it’s a horseman. Judge, isn’t that Jack Hamlin’s gray?”
But the Judge didn’t know; and, as Mrs. Brown suggested the air was growing too cold for further investigations, they retired to the parlor.
But the Judge didn’t realize it; and, as Mrs. Brown pointed out that it was getting too cold for more investigations, they went back to the parlor.
Mr. Brown was in the stable, where he generally retired after dinner. Perhaps it was to show his contempt for his wife’s companions; perhaps, like other weak natures, he found pleasure in the exercise of absolute power over inferior animals. He had a certain gratification in the training of a chestnut mare, whom he could beat or caress as pleased him, which he couldn’t do with Mrs. Brown. It was here that he recognized a certain gray horse which had just come in, and, looking a little farther on, found his rider. Brown’s greeting was cordial and hearty; Mr. Hamlin’s somewhat restrained. But, at Brown’s urgent request, he followed him up the back stairs to a narrow corridor, and thence to a small room looking out upon the stable-yard. It was plainly furnished with a bed, a table, a few chairs, and a rack for guns and whips.
Mr. Brown was in the stable, where he usually went after dinner. Maybe it was to show his disdain for his wife’s friends; or perhaps, like other weak people, he enjoyed having total control over lesser beings. He derived some satisfaction from training a chestnut mare, whom he could either scold or pet as he liked, something he couldn't do with Mrs. Brown. It was here that he spotted a gray horse that had just arrived, and, looking a bit further, he saw its rider. Brown greeted him warmly; Mr. Hamlin’s response was a bit more reserved. But, at Brown’s insistence, he followed him up the back stairs to a narrow hallway, and then to a small room that overlooked the stable yard. The room was simply furnished with a bed, a table, a few chairs, and a rack for guns and whips.
“This yer’s my home, Jack,” said Brown with a sigh, as he threw himself upon the bed and motioned his companion to a chair. “Her room’s t’ other end of the hall. It’s more’n six months since we’ve lived together, or met, except at meals. It’s mighty rough papers on the head of the house, ain’t it?” he said with a forced laugh. “But I’m glad to see you, Jack, d—d glad,” and he reached from the bed, and again shook the unresponsive hand of Jack Hamlin.
“This year’s my home, Jack,” said Brown with a sigh as he threw himself onto the bed and signaled for his friend to take a seat. “Her room’s at the other end of the hall. It’s been over six months since we’ve lived together or seen each other, except at mealtimes. It’s pretty rough for the head of the household, isn’t it?” he said with a forced laugh. “But I’m really glad to see you, Jack, damn glad,” and he reached from the bed and shook the unresponsive hand of Jack Hamlin again.
“I brought ye up here, for I didn’t want to talk in the stable; though, for the matter of that, it’s all round town. Don’t strike a light. We can talk here in the moonshine. Put up your feet on that winder and sit here beside me. Thar’s whiskey in that jug.”
“I brought you up here because I didn’t want to talk in the stable; though, honestly, it’s all over town. Don’t light a match. We can chat here in the moonlight. Put your feet up on that window and sit here next to me. There’s whiskey in that jug.”
Mr. Hamlin did not avail himself of the information. Brown of Calaveras turned his face to the wall, and continued,—
Mr. Hamlin didn’t take advantage of the information. Brown of Calaveras turned his face to the wall and continued,—
“If I didn’t love the woman, Jack, I wouldn’t mind. But it’s loving her, and seeing her day arter day goin’ on at this rate, and no one to put down the brake; that’s what gits me! But I’m glad to see ye, Jack, d—d glad.”
“If I didn’t love her, Jack, I wouldn’t care. But it’s loving her, and watching her every day go on like this, with no one to hit the brakes; that’s what really gets to me! But I’m happy to see you, Jack, really happy.”
In the darkness he groped about until he had found and wrung his companion’s hand again. He would have detained it, but Jack slipped it into the buttoned breast of his coat, and asked listlessly, “How long has this been going on?”
In the dark, he fumbled around until he found and squeezed his companion’s hand again. He would have held onto it, but Jack slipped it into the buttoned pocket of his coat and asked wearily, “How long has this been happening?”
“Ever since she came here; ever since the day she walked into the Magnolia. I was a fool then; Jack, I’m a fool now; but I didn’t know how much I loved her till then. And she hasn’t been the same woman since.
“Ever since she came here; ever since the day she walked into the Magnolia. I was a fool then; Jack, I’m a fool now; but I didn’t realize how much I loved her until then. And she hasn’t been the same person since.
“But that ain’t all, Jack; and it’s what I wanted to see you about, and I’m glad you’ve come. It ain’t that she doesn’t love me any more; it ain’t that she fools with every chap that comes along; for perhaps I staked her love and lost it, as I did everything else at the Magnolia; and perhaps foolin’ is nateral to some women, and thar ain’t no great harm done, ’cept to the fools. But, Jack, I think,—I think she loves somebody else. Don’t move, Jack! don’t move; if your pistol hurts ye, take it off.
“But that’s not everything, Jack; and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, and I’m glad you’re here. It’s not that she doesn’t love me anymore; it’s not that she’s messing around with every guy that comes her way; maybe I just gambled her love away, just like everything else at the Magnolia; and maybe messing around is natural for some women, and it doesn’t really do much harm, except to the fools. But, Jack, I think—I think she loves someone else. Don’t move, Jack! Don’t move; if your pistol is bothering you, take it off.”
“It’s been more’n six months now that she’s seemed unhappy and lonesome, and kinder nervous and scared-like. And sometimes I’ve ketched her lookin’ at me sort of timid and pitying. And she writes to somebody. And for the last week she’s been gathering her own things,—trinkets, and furbelows, and jew’lry,—and, Jack, I think she’s goin’ off. I could stand all but that. To have her steal away like a thief!” He put his face downward to the pillow, and for a few moments there was no sound but the ticking of a clock on the mantel. Mr. Hamlin lit a cigar, and moved to the open window. The moon no longer shone into the room, and the bed and its occupant were in shadow. “What shall I do, Jack?” said the voice from the darkness.
“It’s been more than six months now that she’s seemed unhappy and lonely, and kind of nervous and scared. Sometimes I’ve caught her looking at me with this timid and pitying expression. She writes to someone. And for the last week, she’s been gathering her things—trinkets, and knickknacks, and jewelry—and, Jack, I think she’s planning to leave. I could handle everything except that. To have her sneak away like a thief!” He pressed his face into the pillow, and for a few moments, the only sound was the ticking of a clock on the mantel. Mr. Hamlin lit a cigar and moved to the open window. The moon no longer poured into the room, and the bed and its occupant were shrouded in shadow. “What should I do, Jack?” asked the voice from the darkness.
The answer came promptly and clearly from the window-side, “Spot the man, and kill him on sight.”
The answer came quickly and clearly from the window side, “Identify the man, and take him out on sight.”
“But, Jack”—
“But, Jack”—
“He’s took the risk!”
"He's taken the risk!"
“But will that bring her back?”
“But will that bring her back?”
Jack did not reply, but moved from the window towards the door.
Jack didn't respond, but walked away from the window toward the door.
“Don’t go yet, Jack; light the candle and sit by the table. It’s a comfort to see ye, if nothin’ else.”
“Don’t leave yet, Jack; light the candle and sit at the table. It’s nice to see you, if nothing else.”
Jack hesitated and then complied. He drew a pack of cards from his pocket and shuffled them, glancing at the bed. But Brown’s face was turned to the wall. When Mr. Hamlin had shuffled the cards, he cut them, and dealt one card on the opposite side of the table towards the bed, and another on his side of the table for himself. The first was a deuce; his own card a king. He then shuffled and cut again. This time “dummy” had a queen and himself a four-spot. Jack brightened up for the third deal. It brought his adversary a deuce and himself a king again. “Two out of three,” said Jack audibly.
Jack hesitated for a moment and then went along with it. He pulled out a deck of cards from his pocket and shuffled them, glancing at the bed. But Brown was facing the wall. After Mr. Hamlin shuffled the cards, he cut them and dealt one card on the side of the table facing the bed and another on his side for himself. The first card was a deuce, and his own card was a king. He shuffled and cut again. This time, the “dummy” had a queen and he had a four. Jack felt more optimistic for the third deal. It gave his opponent a deuce and him a king again. “Two out of three,” Jack said clearly.
“What’s that, Jack?” said Brown.
“What's that, Jack?” Brown asked.
“Nothing.”
"Nothing."
Then Jack tried his hand with dice; but he always threw sixes and his imaginary opponent aces. The force of habit is sometimes confusing.
Then Jack gave dice a shot; but he always rolled sixes and his imaginary opponent aces. The power of habit can be really confusing sometimes.
Meanwhile some magnetic influence in Mr. Hamlin’s presence, or the anodyne of liquor, or both, brought surcease of sorrow, and Brown slept. Mr. Hamlin moved his chair to the window and looked out on the town of Wingdam, now sleeping peacefully, its harsh outlines softened and subdued, its glaring colors mellowed and sobered in the moonlight that flowed over all. In the hush he could hear the gurgling of water in the ditches and the sighing of the pines beyond the hill. Then he looked up at the firmament, and as he did so a star shot across the twinkling field. Presently another, and then another. The phenomenon suggested to Mr. Hamlin a fresh augury. If in another fifteen minutes another star should fall—He sat there, watch in hand, for twice that time, but the phenomenon was not repeated.
Meanwhile, some magnetic pull from Mr. Hamlin’s presence, or the calming effect of alcohol, or maybe both, eased Brown’s sorrow, and he fell asleep. Mr. Hamlin moved his chair to the window and gazed out at the town of Wingdam, now peacefully asleep, its sharp outlines softened and subdued, its bright colors mellowed and toned down in the moonlight that washed over everything. In the stillness, he could hear the water bubbling in the ditches and the pines sighing beyond the hill. Then he looked up at the sky, and as he did, a star streaked across the twinkling expanse. Soon another, and then another followed. This sight sparked a new hope in Mr. Hamlin. If another star were to fall in the next fifteen minutes—He sat there, watch in hand, for twice that time, but the phenomenon didn’t happen again.
The clock struck two, and Brown still slept. Mr. Hamlin approached the table and took from his pocket a letter, which he read by the flickering candlelight. It contained only a single line, written in pencil, in a woman’s hand,—
The clock struck two, and Brown was still asleep. Mr. Hamlin walked over to the table and pulled out a letter from his pocket, reading it by the flickering candlelight. It had just one line written in pencil, in a woman’s handwriting,—
“Be at the corral with the buggy at three.”
“Meet me at the corral with the buggy at three.”
The sleeper moved uneasily and then awoke. “Are you there, Jack?”
The sleeper shifted restlessly and then woke up. “Are you there, Jack?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Don’t go yet. I dreamed just now, Jack,—dreamed of old times. I thought that Sue and me was being married agin, and that the parson, Jack, was—who do you think?—you!”
“Don’t go yet. I just had a dream, Jack—I dreamed of old times. I thought that Sue and I were getting married again, and that the pastor, Jack, was—guess who?—you!”
The gambler laughed, and seated himself on the bed, the paper still in his hand.
The gambler laughed and sat down on the bed, still holding the paper in his hand.
“It’s a good sign, ain’t it?” queried Brown.
“It’s a good sign, right?” Brown asked.
“I reckon! Say, old man, hadn’t you better get up?”
“I think so! Hey, man, don’t you think it’s time to get up?”
The “old man,” thus affectionately appealed to, rose, with the assistance of Hamlin’s outstretched hand.
The "old man," so lovingly addressed, got up with Hamlin's outstretched hand helping him.
“Smoke?”
"Want a smoke?"
Brown mechanically took the proffered cigar.
Brown took the offered cigar robotically.
“Light?”
"Light?"
Jack had twisted the letter into a spiral, lit it, and held it for his companion. He continued to hold it until it was consumed, and dropped the fragment—a fiery star—from the open window. He watched it as it fell, and then returned to his friend.
Jack had twisted the letter into a spiral, lit it, and held it out for his friend. He kept holding it until it was completely burned, then dropped the burning piece—a fiery star—from the open window. He watched it fall and then turned back to his friend.
“Old man,” he said, placing his hands upon Brown’s shoulders, “in ten minutes I’ll be on the road, and gone like that spark. We won’t see each other agin; but, before I go, take a fool’s advice: sell out all you’ve got, take your wife with you, and quit the country. It ain’t no place for you nor her. Tell her she must go; make her go if she won’t. Don’t whine because you can’t be a saint and she ain’t an angel. Be a man, and treat her like a woman. Don’t be a d-d fool. Good-by.”
“Old man,” he said, putting his hands on Brown’s shoulders, “in ten minutes I’ll be on the road, and gone like that. We won’t see each other again; but before I leave, take a fool’s advice: sell everything you have, take your wife with you, and get out of this country. It’s not a place for you or her. Tell her she needs to go; make her go if she insists on staying. Don’t complain because you can’t be a saint and she isn’t perfect. Be a man, and treat her like a woman. Don’t be an idiot. Goodbye.”
He tore himself from Brown’s grasp and leaped down the stairs like a deer. At the stable-door he collared the half-sleeping hostler, and backed him against the wall. “Saddle my horse in two minutes, or I’ll”—The ellipsis was frightfully suggestive.
He broke free from Brown’s hold and jumped down the stairs like a deer. At the stable door, he grabbed the half-asleep stablehand and pushed him against the wall. “Saddle my horse in two minutes, or I’ll—” The silence was terrifyingly threatening.
“The missis said you was to have the buggy,” stammered the man.
“The missis said you were supposed to have the buggy,” the man stammered.
“D—n the buggy!” The horse was saddled as fast as the nervous hands of the astounded hostler could manipulate buckle and strap.
“Damn the buggy!” The horse was saddled as quickly as the anxious hands of the stunned stableman could handle buckle and strap.
“Is anything up, Mr. Hamlin?” said the man, who, like all his class, admired the elan of his fiery patron, and was really concerned in his welfare.
“Is something going on, Mr. Hamlin?” said the man, who, like everyone in his position, admired the energy of his passionate boss and genuinely cared about his well-being.
“Stand aside!”
"Move aside!"
The man fell back. With an oath, a bound, and clatter, Jack was into the road. In another moment, to the man’s half-awakened eyes, he was but a moving cloud of dust in the distance, towards which a star just loosed from its brethren was trailing a stream of fire.
The man stumbled backward. With a curse, a leap, and noise, Jack was on the road. In another moment, to the man’s half-awake eyes, he was just a moving cloud of dust in the distance, with a star breaking away from the others, leaving a trail of fire behind it.
But early that morning the dwellers by the Wingdam turnpike, miles aways, heard a voice, pure as a sky-lark’s, singing afield. They who were asleep turned over on their rude couches to dream of youth, and love, and olden days. Hard-faced men and anxious gold-seekers, already at work, ceased their labors and leaned upon their picks to listen to a romantic vagabond ambling away against the rosy sunrise.
But early that morning, the people living by the Wingdam turnpike, miles away, heard a voice as pure as a lark, singing in the fields. Those who were asleep turned over on their rough beds to dream of youth, love, and better days. Tough men and worried gold-seekers, already hard at work, paused their labor and leaned on their picks to listen to a romantic wanderer strolling along against the pink sunrise.
MUCK-A-MUCK
CHAPTER I
It was toward the close of a bright October day. The last rays of the setting sun were reflected from one of those sylvan lakes peculiar to the Sierras of California. On the right the curling smoke of an Indian village rose between the columns of the lofty pines, while to the left the log cottage of Judge Tompkins, embowered in buckeyes, completed the enchanting picture.
It was near the end of a bright October day. The last rays of the setting sun reflected off one of those forested lakes typical of the Sierras in California. To the right, the curling smoke from an Indian village rose among the tall pines, while to the left, the log cabin of Judge Tompkins, surrounded by buckeyes, completed the beautiful scene.
Although the exterior of the cottage was humble and unpretentious, and in keeping with the wildness of the landscape, its interior gave evidence of the cultivation and refinement of its inmates. An aquarium, containing goldfishes, stood on a marble centre-table at one end of the apartment, while a magnificent grand piano occupied the other. The floor was covered with a yielding tapestry carpet, and the walls were adorned with paintings from the pencils of Van Dyke, Rubens, Tintoretto, Michael Angelo, and the productions of the more modern Turner, Kensett, Church, and Bierstadt. Although Judge Tompkins had chosen the frontiers of civilization as his home, it was impossible for him to entirely forego the habits and tastes of his former life. He was seated in a luxurious armchair, writing at a mahogany escritoire, while his daughter, a lovely young girl of seventeen summers, plied her crotchet-needle on an ottoman beside him. A bright fire of pine logs flickered and flamed on the ample hearth.
Although the outside of the cottage was simple and unassuming, fitting in with the wild landscape, the inside showed the sophistication and taste of its inhabitants. An aquarium with goldfish sat on a marble coffee table at one end of the room, while a stunning grand piano filled the other side. The floor was covered with a soft tapestry carpet, and the walls were decorated with paintings by Van Dyke, Rubens, Tintoretto, Michelangelo, and more modern artists like Turner, Kensett, Church, and Bierstadt. Even though Judge Tompkins had made the edge of civilization his home, he couldn’t completely give up the habits and preferences of his previous life. He sat in a comfortable armchair, writing at a mahogany desk, while his daughter, a beautiful young girl of seventeen, worked on her crochet on an ottoman beside him. A bright fire of pine logs flickered and crackled in the large fireplace.
Genevra Octavia Tompkins was Judge Tompkins’s only child. Her mother had long since died on the Plains. Reared in affluence, no pains had been spared with the daughter’s education. She was a graduate of one of the principal seminaries, and spoke French with a perfect Benicia accent. Peerlessly beautiful, she was dressed in a white moire antique robe trimmed with tulle. That simple rosebud, with which most heroines exclusively decorate their hair, was all she wore in her raven locks.
Genevra Octavia Tompkins was Judge Tompkins's only child. Her mother had passed away long ago on the Plains. Raised in wealth, no effort was spared in her education. She graduated from one of the top seminaries and spoke French with a flawless Benicia accent. Stunningly beautiful, she wore a white moire antique dress trimmed with tulle. The only accessory in her dark hair was a simple rosebud, which most heroines typically wear.
The Judge was the first to break the silence.
The Judge was the first to speak up.
“Genevra, the logs which compose yonder fire seem to have been incautiously chosen. The sibilation produced by the sap, which exudes copiously therefrom, is not conducive to composition.”
“Genevra, the logs that make up that fire seem to have been picked carelessly. The hissing sound caused by the sap, which is dripping out of them, isn’t really good for writing.”
“True, father, but I thought it would be preferable to the constant crepitation which is apt to attend the combustion of more seasoned ligneous fragments.”
“True, Dad, but I thought it would be better than the constant crackling that tends to happen with burning older wood.”
The Judge looked admiringly at the intellectual features of the graceful girl, and half forgot the slight annoyances of the green wood in the musical accents of his daughter. He was smoothing her hair tenderly, when the shadow of a tall figure, which suddenly darkened the doorway, caused him to look up.
The Judge admired the thoughtful features of the graceful girl and almost forgot the minor irritations of the green woods in the melodic tones of his daughter. He was gently smoothing her hair when the shadow of a tall figure suddenly darkened the doorway, prompting him to look up.
CHAPTER II
It needed but a glance at the new-comer to detect at once the form and features of the haughty aborigine,—the untaught and untrammeled son of the forest. Over one shoulder a blanket, negligently but gracefully thrown, disclosed a bare and powerful breast, decorated with a quantity of three-cent postage-stamps which he had despoiled from an Overland Mail stage a few weeks previous. A cast-off beaver of Judge Tompkins’s, adorned by a simple feather, covered his erect head, from beneath which his straight locks descended. His right hand hung lightly by his side, while his left was engaged in holding on a pair of pantaloons, which the lawless grace and freedom of his lower limbs evidently could not brook.
It took just a glance at the newcomer to recognize the form and features of the proud native—the wild and untamed son of the forest. A blanket was casually but elegantly draped over one shoulder, revealing a bare and strong chest, decorated with several three-cent postage stamps that he had taken from an Overland Mail stage just a few weeks before. A discarded beaver hat from Judge Tompkins, adorned with a simple feather, sat atop his upright head, from which his straight hair fell. His right hand hung loosely at his side, while his left was busy holding up a pair of pants, which the free-spirited grace of his lower body clearly couldn't tolerate.
“Why,” said the Indian, in a low sweet tone,—“why does the Pale Face still follow the track of the Red Man? Why does he pursue him, even as O-kee chow, the wild cat, chases Ka-ka, the skunk? Why are the feet of Sorrel-top, the white chief, among the acorns of Muck-a-Muck, the mountain forest? Why,” he repeated, quietly but firmly abstracting a silver spoon from the table,—“why do you seek to drive him from the wigwams of his fathers? His brothers are already gone to the happy hunting-grounds. Will the Pale Face seek him there?” And, averting his face from the Judge, he hastily slipped a silver cake-basket beneath his blanket, to conceal his emotion.
“Why,” said the Indian in a soft, sweet voice, “why does the White Man still follow the path of the Red Man? Why does he chase him, just like O-kee chow, the wildcat, chases Ka-ka, the skunk? Why are the footsteps of Sorrel-top, the white chief, among the acorns of Muck-a-Muck, the mountain forest? Why,” he repeated, calmly but firmly taking a silver spoon from the table, “why do you try to drive him away from the homes of his ancestors? His brothers have already gone to the happy hunting grounds. Will the White Man look for him there?” And, turning his face away from the Judge, he quickly tucked a silver cake basket under his blanket to hide his feelings.
“Muck-a-Muck has spoken,” said Genevra softly. “Let him now listen. Are the acorns of the mountain sweeter than the esculent and nutritious bean of the Pale Face miner? Does my brother prize the edible qualities of the snail above that of the crisp and oleaginous bacon? Delicious are the grasshoppers that sport on the hillside,—are they better than the dried apples of the Pale Faces? Pleasant is the gurgle of the torrent, Kish-Kish, but is it better than the cluck-cluck of old Bourbon from the old stone bottle?”
“Muck-a-Muck has spoken,” Genevra said softly. “Now let him listen. Are the acorns from the mountain sweeter than the tasty and nutritious beans of the white miner? Does my brother value the edible qualities of the snail more than the crispy and fatty bacon? The grasshoppers playing on the hillside are delicious—are they better than the dried apples from the white folks? The sound of the rushing stream, Kish-Kish, is nice, but is it better than the cluck-cluck of old Bourbon from the stone bottle?”
“Ugh!” said the Indian,—“ugh! good. The White Rabbit is wise. Her words fall as the snow on Tootoonolo, and the rocky heart of Muck-a-Muck is hidden. What says my brother the Gray Gopher of Dutch Flat?”
“Ugh!” said the Indian, “ugh! good. The White Rabbit is wise. Her words fall like the snow on Tootoonolo, and the rocky heart of Muck-a-Muck is concealed. What does my brother the Gray Gopher of Dutch Flat say?”
“She has spoken, Muck-a-Muck,” said the Judge, gazing fondly on his daughter. “It is well. Our treaty is concluded. No, thank you,—you need not dance the Dance of Snow-shoes, or the Moccasin Dance, the Dance of Green Corn, or the Treaty Dance. I would be alone. A strange sadness overpowers me.”
“She has spoken, Muck-a-Muck,” said the Judge, looking fondly at his daughter. “That’s good. Our treaty is done. No, thank you—you don’t need to dance the Snowshoe Dance, or the Moccasin Dance, the Green Corn Dance, or the Treaty Dance. I want to be alone. A strange sadness overwhelms me.”
“I go,” said the Indian. “Tell your great chief in Washington, the Sachem Andy, that the Red Man is retiring before the footsteps of the adventurous pioneer. Inform him, if you please, that westward the star of empire takes its way, that the chiefs of the Pi-Ute nation are for Reconstruction to a man, and that Klamath will poll a heavy Republican vote in the fall.”
“I’m leaving,” said the Native American. “Please let your great chief in Washington, Sachem Andy, know that the Red Man is stepping back in the face of the adventurous pioneer. Tell him, if you could, that the star of empire is moving westward, that every chief of the Pi-Ute nation supports Reconstruction, and that Klamath will cast a strong Republican vote in the fall.”
And folding his blanket more tightly around him, Muck-a-Muck withdrew.
And wrapping his blanket more snugly around himself, Muck-a-Muck stepped back.
CHAPTER III
Genevra Tompkins stood at the door of the log-cabin, looking after the retreating Overland Mail stage which conveyed her father to Virginia City. “He may never return again,” sighed the young girl, as she glanced at the frightfully rolling vehicle and wildly careering horses,—“at least, with unbroken bones. Should he meet with an accident! I mind me now a fearful legend, familiar to my childhood. Can it be that the drivers on this line are privately instructed to dispatch all passengers maimed by accident, to prevent tedious litigation? No, no. But why this weight upon my heart?”
Genevra Tompkins stood at the door of the log cabin, watching the Overland Mail stage pull away, taking her father to Virginia City. “He may never come back,” the young girl sighed as she looked at the bumpy vehicle and the frantically galloping horses. “What if he has an accident? I remember a scary story from my childhood. Could it be that the drivers on this route are secretly told to get rid of any passengers hurt in an accident to avoid long legal battles? No, that can't be. But why do I feel so heavy-hearted?”
She seated herself at the piano and lightly passed her hand over the keys. Then, in a clear mezzo-soprano voice, she sang the first verse of one of the most popular Irish ballads:—
She sat down at the piano and gently ran her hand over the keys. Then, in a clear mezzo-soprano voice, she sang the first verse of one of the most popular Irish ballads:—
But as the ravishing notes of her sweet voice died upon the air, her hands sank listlessly to her side. Music could not chase away the mysterious shadow from her heart. Again she rose. Putting on a white crape bonnet, and carefully drawing a pair of lemon-colored gloves over her taper fingers, she seized her parasol and plunged into the depths of the pine forest.
But as the beautiful notes of her sweet voice faded away, her hands fell limply to her sides. Music couldn't lift the mysterious weight from her heart. She stood up again. Putting on a white crape bonnet and carefully slipping on a pair of lemon-colored gloves over her slender fingers, she grabbed her parasol and headed into the depths of the pine forest.
CHAPTER IV
Genevra had not proceeded many miles before a weariness seized upon her fragile limbs, and she would fain seat herself upon the trunk of a prostrate pine, which she previously dusted with her handkerchief. The sun was just sinking below the horizon, and the scene was one of gorgeous and sylvan beauty. “How beautiful is nature!” murmured the innocent girl, as, reclining gracefully against the root of the tree, she gathered up her skirts and tied a handkerchief around her throat. But a low growl interrupted her meditation. Starting to her feet, her eyes met a sight which froze her blood with terror.
Genevra hadn’t walked very far when exhaustion hit her delicate limbs, and she longed to sit on the trunk of a fallen pine, which she dusted off with her handkerchief. The sun was just setting below the horizon, and the view was stunning and filled with natural beauty. “How beautiful is nature!” murmured the innocent girl as she leaned gracefully against the tree’s roots, gathered her skirts, and tied a handkerchief around her neck. But a low growl interrupted her thoughts. Jumping to her feet, her eyes met a sight that filled her with terror.
The only outlet to the forest was the narrow path, barely wide enough for a single person, hemmed in by trees and rocks, which she had just traversed. Down this path, in Indian file, came a monstrous grizzly, closely followed by a California lion, a wild cat, and a buffalo, the rear being brought up by a wild Spanish bull. The mouths of the three first animals were distended with frightful significance, the horns of the last were lowered as ominously. As Genevra was preparing to faint, she heard a low voice behind her.
The only way out of the forest was the narrow path, barely wide enough for one person, surrounded by trees and rocks, which she had just walked down. Along this path, in single file, came a huge grizzly bear, closely followed by a mountain lion, a wildcat, and a buffalo, with a wild Spanish bull bringing up the rear. The mouths of the first three animals were open in a terrifying way, and the horns of the last one were lowered threateningly. Just as Genevra was about to faint, she heard a quiet voice behind her.
“Eternally dog-gone my skin ef this ain’t the puttiest chance yet!” At the same moment, a long, shining barrel dropped lightly from behind her, and rested over her shoulder.
“Forever gone, my skin, if this isn’t the prettiest chance yet!” At the same moment, a long, shiny barrel dropped lightly from behind her and rested over her shoulder.
Genevra shuddered.
Genevra shivered.
“Dern ye—don’t move!”
"Curse you—don’t move!"
Genevra became motionless.
Genevra froze.
The crack of a rifle rang through the woods. Three frightful yells were heard, and two sullen roars. Five animals bounded into the air and five lifeless bodies lay upon the plain. The well-aimed bullet had done its work. Entering the open throat of the grizzly it had traversed his body only to enter the throat of the California lion, and in like manner the catamount, until it passed through into the respective foreheads of the bull and the buffalo, and finally fell flattened from the rocky hillside.
The sharp sound of a rifle shot echoed through the woods. Three terrified screams were heard, followed by two deep growls. Five animals leaped into the air while five lifeless bodies rested on the ground. The accurate bullet had accomplished its goal. It entered the open throat of the grizzly, passed through its body only to hit the throat of the California lion, and similarly pierced the catamount until it went through the foreheads of the bull and the buffalo, finally dropping flat from the rocky hillside.
Genevra turned quickly. “My preserver!” she shrieked, and fell into the arms of Natty Bumpo, the celebrated Pike Ranger of Donner Lake.
Genevra turned quickly. “My savior!” she shouted, and fell into the arms of Natty Bumpo, the famous Pike Ranger of Donner Lake.
CHAPTER V
The moon rose cheerfully above Donner Lake. On its placid bosom a dug-out canoe glided rapidly, containing Natty Bumpo and Genevra Tompkins.
The moon rose brightly over Donner Lake. A dug-out canoe glided swiftly across its calm surface, carrying Natty Bumpo and Genevra Tompkins.
Both were silent. The same thought possessed each, and perhaps there was sweet companionship even in the unbroken quiet. Genevra bit the handle of her parasol, and blushed. Natty Bumpo took a fresh chew of tobacco. At length Genevra said, as if in half-spoken reverie:—
Both were silent. The same thought occupied each of them, and maybe there was a bit of sweet companionship in the stillness. Genevra bit the handle of her parasol, feeling her cheeks flush. Natty Bumpo took another chew of tobacco. Finally, Genevra spoke, almost like she was lost in her thoughts:—
“The soft shining of the moon and the peaceful ripple of the waves seem to say to us various things of an instructive and moral tendency.”
“The soft glow of the moon and the gentle lapping of the waves seem to tell us various things that are instructive and morally significant.”
“You may bet yer pile on that, miss,” said her companion gravely. “It’s all the preachin’ and psalm-singin’ I’ve heern since I was a boy.” “Noble being!” said Miss Tompkins to herself, glancing at the stately Pike as he bent over his paddle to conceal his emotion. “Reared in this wild seclusion, yet he has become penetrated with visible consciousness of a Great First Cause.” Then, collecting herself, she said aloud: “Methinks ’t were pleasant to glide ever thus down the stream of life, hand in hand with the one being whom the soul claims as its affinity. But what am I saying?”—and the delicate-minded girl hid her face in her hands.
“You can definitely count on that, miss,” her companion said seriously. “It’s all the preaching and hymn-singing I’ve heard since I was a kid.” “Noble being!” Miss Tompkins thought to herself, looking at the dignified Pike as he lowered his head to hide his feelings. “Raised in this wild isolation, yet he has become deeply aware of a Great First Cause.” Then, steadying herself, she said aloud: “I think it would be nice to glide down the stream of life like this, hand in hand with the one person my soul connects with. But what am I saying?”—and the sensitive girl covered her face with her hands.
A long silence ensued, which was at length broken by her companion.
A long silence followed, which was finally broken by her companion.
“Ef you mean you’re on the marry,” he said thoughtfully, “I ain’t in no wise partikler.”
“Ever you mean you’re getting married,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m not in any way particular.”
“My husband!” faltered the blushing girl; and she fell into his arms.
"My husband!" the blushing girl stammered, and she collapsed into his arms.
In ten minutes more the loving couple had landed at Judge Tompkins’s.
In ten more minutes, the loving couple had arrived at Judge Tompkins's place.
CHAPTER VI
A year has passed away. Natty Bumpo was returning from Gold Hill, where he had been to purchase provisions. On his way to Donner Lake, rumors of an Indian uprising met his ears. “Dern their pesky skins, ef they dare to touch my Jenny,” he muttered between his clenched teeth.
A year has gone by. Natty Bumppo was coming back from Gold Hill, where he had gone to buy supplies. On his way to Donner Lake, he heard rumors of an Indian uprising. “Darn those pesky Indians, if they dare to touch my Jenny,” he grumbled through clenched teeth.
It was dark when he reached the borders of the lake. Around a glittering fire he dimly discerned dusky figures dancing. They were in war paint. Conspicuous among them was the renowned Muck-a-Muck. But why did the fingers of Natty Bumpo tighten convulsively around his rifle?
It was dark when he got to the edge of the lake. Around a glowing fire, he could barely make out shadowy figures dancing. They were wearing war paint. Standing out among them was the famous Muck-a-Muck. But why did Natty Bumpo's fingers tighten nervously around his rifle?
The chief held in his hand long tufts of raven hair. The heart of the pioneer sickened as he recognized the clustering curls of Genevra. In a moment his rifle was at his shoulder, and with a sharp “ping” Muck-a-Muck leaped into the air a corpse. To knock out the brains of the remaining savages, tear the tresses from the stiffening hand of Muck-a-Muck, and dash rapidly forward to the cottage of Judge Tompkins, was the work of a moment.
The chief held long strands of black hair in his hand. The heart of the pioneer sank as he recognized Genevra's curly locks. In an instant, his rifle was at his shoulder, and with a sharp “ping,” Muck-a-Muck fell lifeless to the ground. It took no time to take out the remaining savages, rip the hair from Muck-a-Muck’s stiffening hand, and rush forward to Judge Tompkins’ cottage.
He burst open the door. Why did he stand transfixed with open mouth and distended eyeballs? Was the sight too horrible to be borne? On the contrary, before him, in her peerless beauty, stood Genevra Tompkins, leaning on her father’s arm.
He swung the door open. Why was he frozen in place with his mouth agape and eyes wide? Was the sight too unbearable to handle? Far from it; standing before him, in her stunning beauty, was Genevra Tompkins, leaning on her father's arm.
“Ye’r not scalped, then!” gasped her lover.
“You're not scalped, then!” her lover gasped.
“No. I have no hesitation in saying that I am not; but why this abruptness?” responded Genevra.
“No. I’m not hesitant to say that I’m not; but why the suddenness?” replied Genevra.
Bumpo could not speak, but frantically produced the silken tresses. Genevra turned her face aside.
Bumpo couldn’t talk, but he desperately showed the silky hair. Genevra turned her face away.
“Why, that’s her waterfall!” said the Judge.
“Why, that’s her waterfall!” said the Judge.
Bumpo sank fainting to the floor.
Bumpo collapsed, fainting onto the floor.
The famous Pike chieftain never recovered from the deceit, and refused to marry Genevra, who died, twenty years afterwards, of a broken heart. Judge Tompkins lost his fortune in Wild Cat. The stage passes twice a week the deserted cottage at Donner Lake. Thus was the death of Muck-a-Muck avenged.
The famous Pike chief never got over the betrayal and refused to marry Genevra, who passed away twenty years later from a broken heart. Judge Tompkins lost his fortune in Wild Cat. The bus goes by the abandoned cottage at Donner Lake twice a week. This was how Muck-a-Muck's death was avenged.
SELINA SEDILIA
CHAPTER I
The sun was setting over Sloperton Grange, and reddened the window of the lonely chamber in the western tower, supposed to be haunted by Sir Edward Sedilia, the founder of the Grange. In the dreamy distance arose the gilded mausoleum of Lady Felicia Sedilia, who haunted that portion of Sedilia Manor known as “Stiff-uns Acre.” A little to the left of the Grange might have been seen a mouldering ruin, known as “Guy’s Keep,” haunted by the spirit of Sir Guy Sedilia, who was found, one morning, crushed by one of the fallen battlements. Yet, as the setting sun gilded these objects, a beautiful and almost holy calm seemed diffused about the Grange.
The sun was setting over Sloperton Grange, casting a red glow on the window of the lonely room in the western tower, which was said to be haunted by Sir Edward Sedilia, the founder of the Grange. In the hazy distance stood the gilded mausoleum of Lady Felicia Sedilia, who haunted that part of Sedilia Manor known as “Stiff-uns Acre.” A little to the left of the Grange, you could see a crumbling ruin called “Guy’s Keep,” which was haunted by the spirit of Sir Guy Sedilia, who was found one morning, crushed by a fallen battlement. Yet, as the setting sun illuminated these places, a beautiful and almost sacred calm seemed to spread around the Grange.
The Lady Selina sat by an oriel window overlooking the park. The sun sank gently in the bosom of the German Ocean, and yet the lady did not lift her beautiful head from the finely curved arm and diminutive hand which supported it. When darkness finally shrouded the landscape she started, for the sound of horse-hoofs clattered over the stones of the avenue. She had scarcely risen, before an aristocratic young man fell on his knees before her.
The Lady Selina sat by a bay window looking out at the park. The sun slowly set over the German Ocean, but she didn’t lift her beautiful head from the elegantly curved arm and small hand that supported it. When darkness finally covered the landscape, she jumped, startled by the sound of horse hooves clattering on the stones of the avenue. She had barely stood up when an aristocratic young man dropped to his knees in front of her.
“My Selina!”
"My Selina!"
“Edgardo! You here?”
"Edgardo! You here?"
“Yes, dearest.”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
“And—you—you—have—seen nothing?” said the lady in an agitated voice and nervous manner, turning her face aside to conceal her emotion.
“And—you—you—haven’t—seen anything?” said the lady in an uneasy voice and restless manner, turning her face away to hide her feelings.
“Nothing—that is, nothing of any account,” said Edgardo. “I passed the ghost of your aunt in the park, noticed the spectre of your uncle in the ruined keep, and observed the familiar features of the spirit of your great-grandfather at his usual post. But nothing beyond these trifles, my Selina. Nothing more, love, absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing—that is, nothing of any importance,” said Edgardo. “I saw the ghost of your aunt in the park, noticed the spirit of your uncle in the ruined castle, and recognized the familiar face of your great-grandfather at his usual spot. But nothing more than these small things, my Selina. Nothing else, love, absolutely nothing.”
The young man turned his dark, liquid orbs fondly upon the ingenuous face of his betrothed.
The young man looked affectionately into the bright, innocent face of his fiancée.
“My own Edgardo!—and you still love me? You still would marry me in spite of this dark mystery which surrounds me? In spite of the fatal history of my race? In spite of the ominous predictions of my aged nurse?”
“My own Edgardo!—do you still love me? Would you really marry me even with this dark mystery surrounding me? Even with the tragic history of my family? Even with the foreboding warnings from my old nurse?”
“I would, Selina;” and the young man passed his arm around her yielding waist. The two lovers gazed at each other’s faces in unspeakable bliss. Suddenly Selina started.
“I would, Selina;” and the young man wrapped his arm around her soft waist. The two lovers looked into each other’s eyes in pure bliss. Suddenly, Selina flinched.
“Leave me, Edgardo! leave me! A mysterious something—a fatal misgiving—a dark ambiguity—an equivocal mistrust oppresses me. I would be alone!”
“Leave me, Edgardo! Leave me! There’s something mysterious— a terrible feeling— a dark uncertainty— an unclear mistrust weighing me down. I need to be alone!”
The young man arose, and cast a loving glance on the lady. “Then we will be married on the seventeenth.”
The young man stood up and had a loving look at the woman. “So, we’ll get married on the seventeenth.”
“The seventeenth,” repeated Selina, with a mysterious shudder.
“The seventeenth,” Selina repeated, shivering mysteriously.
They embraced and parted. As the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard died away, the Lady Selina sank into the chair she had just quitted.
They hugged and said goodbye. As the sound of hooves in the courtyard faded away, Lady Selina collapsed into the chair she had just left.
“The seventeenth,” she repeated slowly, with the same fateful shudder. “Ah!—what if he should know that I have another husband living? Dare I reveal to him that I have two legitimate and three natural children? Dare I repeat to him the history of my youth? Dare I confess that at the age of seven I poisoned my sister, by putting verdigris in her cream-tarts,—that I threw my cousin from a swing at the age of twelve? That the lady’s maid who incurred the displeasure of my girlhood now lies at the bottom of the horse-pond? No! no! he is too pure,—too good,—too innocent,—to hear such improper conversation!” and her whole body writhed as she rocked to and fro in a paroxysm of grief.
"The seventeenth," she repeated slowly, with the same heavy feeling. "Oh!—what if he finds out that I have another husband? Should I tell him that I have two legitimate and three illegitimate children? Should I share the story of my youth? Should I admit that at seven I poisoned my sister by putting verdigris in her cream tarts— that I pushed my cousin from a swing when I was twelve? That the maid who displeased me in my youth now lies at the bottom of the horse pond? No! no! he is too pure—too good—too innocent—to hear such inappropriate talk!" and her whole body twisted as she rocked back and forth in a fit of grief.
But she was soon calm. Rising to her feet, she opened a secret panel in the wall, and revealed a slow-match ready for lighting.
But she quickly calmed down. Standing up, she opened a hidden panel in the wall and revealed a slow-match ready to be lit.
“This match,” said the Lady Selina, “is connected with a mine beneath the western tower, where my three children are confined; another branch of it lies under the parish church, where the record of my first marriage is kept. I have only to light this match and the whole of my past life is swept away!” She approached the match with a lighted candle.
“This match,” said Lady Selina, “is linked to a mine under the western tower, where my three children are trapped; another part of it runs under the parish church, where the record of my first marriage is stored. All I have to do is strike this match, and my entire past will be erased!” She moved closer to the match with a lit candle.
But a hand was laid upon her arm, and with a shriek the Lady Selina fell on her knees before the spectre of Sir Guy.
But a hand touched her arm, and with a scream, Lady Selina dropped to her knees before the ghost of Sir Guy.
CHAPTER II
“Forbear, Selina,” said the phantom in a hollow voice.
“Forbear, Selina,” said the ghost in a hollow voice.
“Why should I forbear?” responded Selina haughtily, as she recovered her courage. “You know the secret of our race?”
“Why should I hold back?” Selina replied arrogantly, regaining her confidence. “You know the secret of our kind?”
“I do. Understand me,—I do not object to the eccentricities of your youth. I know the fearful destiny which, pursuing you, led you to poison your sister and drown your lady’s maid. I know the awful doom which I have brought upon this house. But if you make away with these children”—
“I do. Understand me—I’m not against the quirks of your youth. I know the terrible fate that has been chasing you, forcing you to poison your sister and drown your lady’s maid. I know the awful doom I’ve brought upon this house. But if you harm these children—”
“Well,” said the Lady Selina hastily.
“Well,” Lady Selina said rapidly.
“They will haunt you!”
“They'll haunt you!”
“Well, I fear them not,” said Selina, drawing her superb figure to its full height.
“Well, I’m not afraid of them,” said Selina, standing tall and confident.
“Yes, but, my dear child, what place are they to haunt? The ruin is sacred to your uncle’s spirit. Your aunt monopolizes the park, and, I must be allowed to state, not unfrequently trespasses upon the grounds of others. The horse-pond is frequented by the spirit of your maid, and your murdered sister walks these corridors. To be plain, there is no room at Sloperton Grange for another ghost. I cannot have them in my room,—for you know I don’t like children. Think of this, rash girl, and forbear! Would you, Selina,” said the phantom mournfully,—“would you force your great-grandfather’s spirit to take lodgings elsewhere?”
“Yes, but, my dear child, where are they supposed to haunt? The ruin is sacred to your uncle’s spirit. Your aunt has taken over the park, and I have to say, she doesn’t hesitate to invade other people's land. The horse pond is visited by your maid’s spirit, and your murdered sister walks these halls. To be honest, there isn’t any space at Sloperton Grange for another ghost. I can't have them in my room—because you know I don’t like children. Think about this, rash girl, and refrain! Would you, Selina,” said the ghost sadly, “would you make your great-grandfather’s spirit find somewhere else to stay?”
Lady Selina’s hand trembled; the lighted candle fell from her nerveless fingers.
Lady Selina's hand shook; the lit candle dropped from her limp fingers.
“No,” she cried passionately; “never!” and fell fainting to the floor.
“No,” she shouted fervently; “never!” and collapsed onto the floor.
CHAPTER III
Edgardo galloped rapidly towards Sloperton. When the outline of the Grange had faded away in the darkness, he reined his magnificent steed beside the ruins of Guy’s Keep.
Edgardo rode quickly toward Sloperton. When the silhouette of the Grange disappeared into the dark, he pulled his impressive horse up beside the remains of Guy’s Keep.
“It wants but a few minutes of the hour,” he said, consulting his watch by the light of the moon. “He dare not break his word. He will come.” He paused, and peered anxiously into the darkness. “But come what may, she is mine,” he continued, as his thoughts reverted fondly to the fair lady he had quitted. “Yet if she knew all. If she knew that I am a disgraced and ruined man,—a felon and an outcast. If she knew that at the age of fourteen I murdered my Latin tutor and forged my uncle’s will. If she knew that I had three wives already, and that the fourth victim of misplaced confidence and my unfortunate peculiarity is expected to be at Sloperton by to-night’s train with her baby. But no; she must not know it. Constance must not arrive; Burke the Slogger must attend to that.
“It’s just a few minutes to the hour,” he said, checking his watch in the moonlight. “He can’t break his promise. He’ll show up.” He paused and glanced nervously into the darkness. “But no matter what happens, she is mine,” he continued, his thoughts drifting affectionately to the beautiful woman he had left behind. “But if she knew everything. If she knew that I’m a disgraced and ruined man—a criminal and an outcast. If she knew that at fourteen I killed my Latin teacher and forged my uncle’s will. If she knew that I already have three wives and that the fourth unfortunate soul, who misplaced her trust in me, is expected to arrive at Sloperton on tonight’s train with her baby. But no; she can’t find out. Constance must not get here; Burke the Slogger will handle that.”
“Ha! here he is! Well?”
“Ha! There he is! Well?”
These words were addressed to a ruffian in a slouched hat, who suddenly appeared from Guy’s Keep.
These words were directed at a thug in a tilted hat, who suddenly emerged from Guy’s Keep.
“I he’s here, measter,” said the villain, with a disgracefully low accent and complete disregard of grammatical rules.
“I’m here, master,” said the villain, with a disgracefully low accent and complete disregard for grammatical rules.
“It is well. Listen: I’m in possession of facts that will send you to the gallows. I know of the murder of Bill Smithers, the robbery of the tollgate-keeper, and the making away of the youngest daughter of Sir Reginald de Walton. A word from me, and the officers of justice are on your track.”
“It’s all good. Listen: I have information that could land you in serious trouble. I know about the murder of Bill Smithers, the robbery of the tollgate-keeper, and what happened to the youngest daughter of Sir Reginald de Walton. One word from me, and the police will be after you.”
Burke the Slogger trembled.
Burke the Slogger shook.
“Hark ye! serve my purpose, and I may yet save you. The 5.30 train from Clapham will be due at Sloperton at 9.25. It must not arrive!”
“Listen! If you help me, I might be able to save you. The 5:30 train from Clapham will arrive at Sloperton at 9:25. It must not arrive!”
The villain’s eyes sparkled as he nodded at Edgardo.
The villain’s eyes glimmered as he nodded at Edgardo.
“Enough,—you understand; leave me!”
"That's enough—you understand; leave me!"
CHAPTER IV
About half a mile from Sloperton Station the South Clapham and Medway line crossed a bridge over Sloperton-on-Trent. As the shades of evening were closing, a man in a slouched hat might have been seen, carrying a saw and axe under his arm, hanging about the bridge. From time to time he disappeared in the shadow of its abutments, but the sound of a saw and axe still betrayed his vicinity. At exactly nine o’clock he reappeared, and crossing to the Sloperton side, rested his shoulder against the abutment and gave a shove. The bridge swayed a moment, and then fell with a splash into the water, leaving a space of one hundred feet between the two banks. This done, Burke the Slogger,—for it was he,—with a fiendish chuckle seated himself on the divided railway track and awaited the coming of the train.
About half a mile from Sloperton Station, the South Clapham and Medway line crossed a bridge over Sloperton-on-Trent. As evening fell, a man in a slouched hat could be seen carrying a saw and axe under his arm, lingering around the bridge. Occasionally, he would vanish into the shadows of its supports, but the sound of the saw and axe still revealed his presence. At exactly nine o'clock, he reappeared, crossed to the Sloperton side, leaned his shoulder against the support, and gave it a push. The bridge swayed for a moment, then crashed into the water with a splash, leaving a gap of one hundred feet between the two banks. Having done that, Burke the Slogger—because it was him—let out a wicked chuckle and sat down on the split railway track, waiting for the train to arrive.
A shriek from the woods announced its approach. For an instant Burke the Slogger saw the glaring of a red lamp. The ground trembled. The train was going with fearful rapidity. Another second and it had reached the bank. Burke the Slogger uttered a fiendish laugh. But the next moment the train leaped across the chasm, striking the rails exactly even, and dashing out the life of Burke the Slogger, sped away to Sloperton.
A scream from the woods signaled its arrival. For a moment, Burke the Slogger saw a bright red light. The ground shook. The train was moving at an alarming speed. In another second, it had reached the edge. Burke the Slogger let out a wicked laugh. But the next moment, the train jumped over the gap, hitting the tracks perfectly, and tragically ending the life of Burke the Slogger, before rushing off to Sloperton.
The first object that greeted Edgardo, as he rode up to the station on the arrival of the train, was the body of Burke the Slogger hanging on the cowcatcher; the second was the face of his deserted wife looking from the window of a second-class carriage.
The first thing Edgardo saw when he rode up to the station as the train arrived was Burke the Slogger's body hanging on the cowcatcher. The second thing he saw was the face of his abandoned wife staring out from the window of a second-class carriage.
CHAPTER V
A nameless terror seemed to have taken possession of Clarissa, Lady Selina’s maid, as she rushed into the presence of her mistress.
A nameless fear seemed to have overwhelmed Clarissa, Lady Selina's maid, as she rushed into her mistress's presence.
“Oh, my lady, such news!”
“Oh, my lady, such news!”
“Explain yourself,” said her mistress, rising.
“Explain yourself,” her mistress said, standing up.
“An accident has happened on the railway, and a man has been killed.”
“An accident happened on the railway, and a man has died.”
“What—not Edgardo!” almost screamed Selina.
“What—not Edgardo!” Selina almost screamed.
“No, Burke the Slogger, your ladyship!”
“No, Burke the Slogger, ma'am!”
“My first husband!” said Lady Selina, sinking on her knees. “Just Heaven, I thank thee!”
“My first husband!” said Lady Selina, dropping to her knees. “Oh my God, I thank you!”
CHAPTER VI
The morning of the seventeenth dawned brightly over Sloperton. “A fine day for the wedding,” said the sexton to Swipes, the butler of Sloperton Grange. The aged retainer shook his head sadly. “Alas! there’s no trusting in signs!” he continued. “Seventy-five years ago, on a day like this, my young mistress”—but he was cut short by the appearance of a stranger.
The morning of the seventeenth began sunny over Sloperton. “Great day for a wedding,” said the sexton to Swipes, the butler of Sloperton Grange. The elderly servant shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, you can't rely on signs!” he added. “Seventy-five years ago, on a day like this, my young mistress”—but he was interrupted by the arrival of a stranger.
“I would see Sir Edgardo,” said the new-comer impatiently.
“I want to see Sir Edgardo,” said the newcomer impatiently.
The bridegroom, who, with the rest of the wedding-train, was about stepping into the carriage to proceed to the parish church, drew the stranger aside.
The groom, who was about to get into the carriage with the rest of the wedding party to head to the parish church, pulled the stranger aside.
“I’s done!” said the stranger, in a hoarse whisper.
“I’m done!” said the stranger, in a raspy whisper.
“Ah! and you buried her?”
"Wait! You buried her?"
“With the others!”
“Together with the others!”
“Enough. No more at present. Meet me after the ceremony, and you shall have your reward.”
“That's enough for now. Meet me after the ceremony, and you’ll get your reward.”
The stranger shuffled away, and Edgardo returned to his bride. “A trifling matter of business I had forgotten, my dear Selina; let us proceed.” And the young man pressed the timid hand of his blushing bride as he handed her into the carriage. The cavalcade rode out of the courtyard. At the same moment, the deep bell on Guy’s Keep tolled ominously.
The stranger shuffled away, and Edgardo went back to his bride. “Just a small bit of business I forgot, my dear Selina; let’s move on.” The young man squeezed the shy hand of his blushing bride as he helped her into the carriage. The procession rode out of the courtyard. At the same time, the deep bell on Guy’s Keep rang ominously.
CHAPTER VII
Scarcely had the wedding-train left the Grange, than Alice Sedilia, youngest daughter of Lady Selina, made her escape from the western tower, owing to a lack of watchfulness on the part of Clarissa. The innocent child, freed from restraint, rambled through the lonely corridors, and finally, opening a door, found herself in her mother’s boudoir. For some time she amused herself by examining the various ornaments and elegant trifles with which it was filled. Then, in pursuance of a childish freak, she dressed herself in her mother’s laces and ribbons. In this occupation she chanced to touch a peg which proved to be a spring that opened a secret panel in the wall. Alice uttered a cry of delight as she noticed what, to her childish fancy, appeared to be the slow-match of a firework. Taking a lucifer match in her hand she approached the fuse. She hesitated a moment. What would her mother and her nurse say?
As soon as the wedding party left the Grange, Alice Sedilia, the youngest daughter of Lady Selina, slipped away from the western tower because Clarissa wasn’t paying attention. The innocent child, free to roam, wandered through the empty hallways and eventually opened a door, finding herself in her mother’s boudoir. For a while, she entertained herself by looking at the various ornaments and pretty little things that filled the room. Then, on a whim, she dressed up in her mother’s laces and ribbons. While doing this, she accidentally touched a peg that turned out to be a spring, opening a secret panel in the wall. Alice let out a delighted cry as she spotted what looked like the slow-match of a firework to her childlike imagination. Grabbing a match, she moved closer to the fuse. She hesitated for a moment. What would her mother and nurse think?
Suddenly the ringing of the chimes of Sloperton parish church met her ear. Alice knew that the sound signified that the marriage-party had entered the church, and that she was secure from interruption. With a childish smile upon her lips, Alice Sedilia touched off the slow-match.
Suddenly, the sound of the chimes from Sloperton parish church reached her ears. Alice knew that this meant the wedding party had entered the church, and that she was safe from any interruptions. With a childlike smile on her lips, Alice Sedilia lit the slow-match.
CHAPTER VIII
At exactly two o’clock on the seventeenth, Rupert Sedilia, who had just returned from India, was thoughtfully descending the hill toward Sloperton manor. “If I can prove that my aunt, Lady Selina, was married before my father died, I can establish my claim to Sloperton Grange,” he uttered, half aloud. He paused, for a sudden trembling of the earth beneath his feet, and a terrific explosion, as of a park of artillery, arrested his progress. At the same moment he beheld a dense cloud of smoke envelop the churchyard of Sloperton, and the western tower of the Grange seemed to be lifted bodily from its foundation. The air seemed filled with falling fragments, and two dark objects struck the earth close at his feet. Rupert picked them up. One seemed to be a heavy volume bound in brass. A cry burst from, his lips.
At exactly two o'clock on the seventeenth, Rupert Sedilia, who had just returned from India, was thoughtfully walking down the hill toward Sloperton Manor. “If I can prove that my aunt, Lady Selina, was married before my father died, I can establish my claim to Sloperton Grange,” he said, mostly to himself. He paused, as the ground suddenly shook beneath him and a loud explosion
“The Parish Records.” He opened the volume hastily. It contained the marriage of Lady Selina to “Burke the Slogger.”
“The Parish Records.” He opened the book quickly. It included the marriage of Lady Selina to “Burke the Slogger.”
The second object proved to be a piece of parchment. He tore it open with trembling fingers. It was the missing will of Sir James Sedilia!
The second object turned out to be a piece of parchment. He tore it open with shaking fingers. It was the missing will of Sir James Sedilia!
CHAPTER IX
When the bells again rang on the new parish church of Sloperton it was for the marriage of Sir Rupert Sedilia and his cousin, the only remaining members of the family.
When the bells rang again at the new parish church of Sloperton, it was for the wedding of Sir Rupert Sedilia and his cousin, the last two members of the family.
Five more ghosts were added to the supernatural population of Sloperton Grange. Perhaps this was the reason why Sir Rupert sold the property shortly afterward, and that for many years a dark shadow seemed to hang over the ruins of Sloperton Grange.
Five more ghosts joined the supernatural population of Sloperton Grange. Maybe this is why Sir Rupert sold the property shortly after, and for many years, a dark shadow seemed to loom over the ruins of Sloperton Grange.
THE NINETY-NINE GUARDSMEN
CHAPTER I
Twenty years after, the gigantic innkeeper of Provins stood looking at a cloud of dust on the highway.
Twenty years later, the huge innkeeper of Provins watched a cloud of dust on the highway.
This cloud of dust betokened the approach of a traveler. Travelers had been rare that season on the highway between Paris and Provins.
This cloud of dust signaled the approach of a traveler. Travelers had been scarce that season on the road between Paris and Provins.
The heart of the innkeeper rejoiced. Turning to Dame Perigord, his wife, he said, stroking his white apron,—
The innkeeper's heart was filled with joy. He turned to his wife, Dame Perigord, and said, smoothing his white apron,—
“St. Denis! make haste and spread the cloth. Add a bottle of Charlevoix to the table. This traveler, who rides so fast, by his pace must be a monseigneur.”
“St. Denis! Hurry up and lay out the cloth. Put a bottle of Charlevoix on the table. This traveler, moving so quickly, must be a high-ranking noble.”
Truly the traveler, clad in the uniform of a musketeer, as he drew up to the door of the hostelry, did not seem to have spared his horse. Throwing his reins to the landlord, he leaped lightly to the ground. He was a young man of four and twenty, and spoke with a slight Gascon accent.
Truly, the traveler, dressed in the outfit of a musketeer, approached the door of the inn, and it was clear he hadn’t held back on his horse. Tossing the reins to the landlord, he jumped down gracefully. He was a young man of twenty-four and had a slight Gascon accent.
“I am hungry, morbleu! I wish to dine!”
“I’m hungry, damn it! I want to eat!”
The gigantic innkeeper bowed and led the way to a neat apartment, where a table stood covered with tempting viands. The musketeer at once set to work. Fowls, fish, and pates disappeared before him. Perigord sighed as he witnessed the devastations. Only once the stranger paused.
The massive innkeeper bowed and showed them to a tidy room, where a table was laid out with delicious dishes. The musketeer immediately got to work. Chickens, fish, and pastries vanished before him. Perigord sighed as he watched the destruction. The stranger only paused once.
“Wine!” Perigord brought wine. The stranger drank a dozen bottles. Finally he rose to depart. Turning to the expectant landlord, he said,—
“Wine!” Perigord brought wine. The stranger drank a dozen bottles. Finally, he stood up to leave. Turning to the eager landlord, he said,—
“Charge it.”
“Put it on my card.”
“To whom, your highness?” said Perigord anxiously.
“To whom, Your Highness?” Perigord asked nervously.
“To his Eminence!”
"Cheers to his Eminence!"
“Mazarin?” ejaculated the innkeeper.
“Mazarin?” exclaimed the innkeeper.
“The same. Bring me my horse,” and the musketeer, remounting his favorite animal, rode away.
“The same. Bring me my horse,” and the musketeer, getting back on his favorite horse, rode away.
The innkeeper slowly turned back into the inn. Scarcely had he reached the courtyard before the clatter of hoofs again called him to the doorway. A young musketeer of a light and graceful figure rode up.
The innkeeper slowly turned back into the inn. He had barely reached the courtyard before the sound of hooves called him back to the doorway. A young musketeer with a light and graceful figure rode up.
“Parbleu, my dear Perigord, I am famishing. What have you got for dinner?”
“Wow, my dear Perigord, I’m starving. What do you have for dinner?”
“Venison, capons, larks, and pigeons, your excellency,” replied the obsequious landlord, bowing to the ground.
“Venison, capons, larks, and pigeons, your excellency,” replied the eager landlord, bowing deeply.
“Enough!” The young musketeer dismounted, and entered the inn. Seating himself at the table replenished by the careful Perigord, he speedily swept it as clean as the first comer.
“Enough!” The young musketeer got off his horse and walked into the inn. He sat down at the table that the attentive Perigord had just set, quickly making it as empty as the first customer.
“Some wine, my brave Perigord,” said the graceful young musketeer, as soon as he could find utterance.
“Some wine, my brave Perigord,” said the elegant young musketeer, as soon as he could speak.
Perigord brought three dozen of Charlevoix. The young man emptied them almost at a draught.
Perigord brought three dozen from Charlevoix. The young man drank them down almost in one go.
“By-by, Perigord,” he said lightly, waving his hand, as, preceding the astonished landlord, he slowly withdrew.
“Goodbye, Perigord,” he said casually, waving his hand, as he slowly walked away, leaving the astonished landlord behind.
“But, your highness,—the bill,” said the astounded Perigord.
“But, your highness—the bill,” said the stunned Perigord.
“Ah, the bill. Charge it!”
“Ah, the bill. Put it on my card!”
“To whom?”
"Who to?"
“The Queen!”
“Queen!”
“What, Madame?”
"What is it, Madame?"
“The same. Adieu, my good Perigord.” And the graceful stranger rode away. An interval of quiet succeeded, in which the innkeeper gazed woefully at his wife. Suddenly he was startled by a clatter of hoofs, and an aristocratic figure stood in the doorway.
“The same. Goodbye, my good Perigord.” And the elegant stranger rode off. A moment of silence followed, during which the innkeeper looked sadly at his wife. Suddenly, he was startled by the sound of hooves, and an aristocratic figure appeared in the doorway.
“Ah,” said the courtier good-naturedly. “What, do my eyes deceive me? No, it is the festive and luxurious Perigord. Perigord, listen. I famish. I languish. I would dine.”
“Ah,” said the courtier with a smile. “What, are my eyes playing tricks on me? No, it's the festive and luxurious Perigord. Perigord, listen. I'm starving. I’m craving a meal.”
The innkeeper again covered the table with viands. Again it was swept clean as the fields of Egypt before the miraculous swarm of locusts. The stranger looked up.
The innkeeper cleared the table again and filled it with food. It was as spotless as the fields of Egypt before the miraculous swarm of locusts. The stranger looked up.
“Bring me another fowl, my Perigord.”
“Bring me another bird, my Perigord.”
“Impossible, your excellency; the larder is stripped clean.”
"That’s impossible, your excellency; the pantry is completely empty."
“Another flitch of bacon, then.”
"Another slice of bacon, then."
“Impossible, your highness; there is no more.”
“Impossible, your highness; there isn’t any left.”
“Well, then, wine!”
"Alright, then, wine!"
The landlord brought one hundred and forty-four bottles. The courtier drank them all.
The landlord brought 144 bottles. The courtier drank them all.
“One may drink if one cannot eat,” said the aristocratic stranger good-humoredly.
“It's okay to drink if you can't eat,” said the aristocratic stranger with a smile.
The innkeeper shuddered.
The innkeeper trembled.
The guest rose to depart. The innkeeper came slowly forward with his bill, to which he had covertly added the losses which he had suffered from the previous strangers.
The guest got up to leave. The innkeeper walked over slowly with his bill, quietly adding the losses he had incurred from the previous guests.
“Ah, the bill. Charge it.”
“Ah, the bill. Put it on the card.”
“Charge it! to whom?”
"Charge it! To who?"
“To the King,” said the guest.
“To the King,” said the guest.
“What! his Majesty?”
“What! The King?”
“Certainly. Farewell, Perigord.”
"Sure. Goodbye, Perigord."
The innkeeper groaned. Then he went out and took down his sign. Then remarked to his wife,—
The innkeeper sighed. Then he went outside and took down his sign. Then he said to his wife,—
“I am a plain man, and don’t understand politics. It seems, however, that the country is in a troubled state. Between his Eminence the Cardinal, his Majesty the King, and her Majesty the Queen, I am a ruined man.”
“I’m just an ordinary guy and I don't really get politics. But it looks like the country is in a tough spot. With Cardinal, the King, and the Queen all involved, I’m finished.”
“Stay,” said Dame Perigord, “I have an idea.”
“Wait,” said Dame Perigord, “I have an idea.”
“And that is”—
"And that’s"
“Become yourself a musketeer.”
“Be a musketeer.”
CHAPTER II
On leaving Provins the first musketeer proceeded to Nangis, where he was reinforced by thirty-three followers. The second musketeer, arriving at Nangis at the same moment, placed himself at the head of thirty-three more. The third guest of the landlord of Provins arrived at Nangis in time to assemble together thirty-three other musketeers.
On leaving Provins, the first musketeer went to Nangis, where he was joined by thirty-three followers. The second musketeer arrived at Nangis at the same time and took charge of another thirty-three. The third guest of the landlord from Provins made it to Nangis just in time to gather thirty-three more musketeers.
The first stranger led the troops of his Eminence.
The first stranger directed his Eminence's troops.
The second led the troops of the Queen.
The second commanded the Queen's troops.
The third led the troops of the King.
The third led the King’s troops.
The fight commenced. It raged terribly for seven hours. The first musketeer killed thirty of the Queen’s troops. The second musketeer killed thirty of the King’s troops. The third musketeer killed thirty of his Eminence’s troops.
The fight began. It went on intensely for seven hours. The first musketeer took out thirty of the Queen’s soldiers. The second musketeer took out thirty of the King’s soldiers. The third musketeer took out thirty of his Eminence’s soldiers.
By this time it will be perceived the number of musketeers had been narrowed down to four on each side.
By this point, it will be clear that the number of musketeers has been reduced to four on each side.
Naturally the three principal warriors approached each other.
Naturally, the three main warriors came closer to each other.
They simultaneously uttered a cry.
They shouted at the same time.
“Aramis!”
“Aramis!”
“Athos!”
“Athos!”
“D’Artagnan!”
“Dartagnan!”
They fell into each other’s arms.
They hugged each other.
“And it seems that we are fighting against each other, my children,” said the Count de la Fere mournfully.
“And it looks like we’re fighting against each other, my children,” said the Count de la Fere sadly.
“How singular!” exclaimed Aramis and D’Artagnan.
“How unique!” exclaimed Aramis and D’Artagnan.
“Let us stop this fratricidal warfare,” said Athos.
“Let’s end this brother-on-brother fighting,” said Athos.
“We will!” they exclaimed together.
"We will!" they cheered together.
“But how to disband our followers?” queried D’Artagnan.
“But how do we get our followers to leave?” asked D’Artagnan.
Aramis winked. They understood each other. “Let us cut ’em down!”
Aramis winked. They got each other. “Let’s take them down!”
They cut ’em down. Aramis killed three. D’Artagnan three. Athos three.
They took them down. Aramis killed three. D’Artagnan three. Athos three.
The friends again embraced. “How like old times!” said Aramis. “How touching!” exclaimed the serious and philosophic Count de la Fere.
The friends hugged again. “Just like the old days!” said Aramis. “So moving!” exclaimed the serious and thoughtful Count de la Fere.
The galloping of hoofs caused them to withdraw from each other’s embraces. A gigantic figure rapidly approached.
The sound of galloping hooves made them pull away from each other. A huge figure was coming toward them quickly.
“The innkeeper of Provins!” they cried, drawing their swords.
“The innkeeper of Provins!” they shouted, drawing their swords.
“Perigord! down with him!” shouted D’Artagnan.
“Perigord! Get him out of here!” shouted D’Artagnan.
“Stay,” said Athos.
“Stay,” Athos said.
The gigantic figure was beside them. He uttered a cry.
The huge figure was next to them. He let out a scream.
“Athos, Aramis, D’Artagnan!”
“Athos, Aramis, D'Artagnan!”
“Porthos!” exclaimed the astonished trio.
“Porthos!” exclaimed the surprised trio.
“The same.” They all fell in each other’s arms.
“The same.” They all embraced each other.
The Count de la Fere slowly raised his hands to heaven. “Bless you! Bless us, my children! However different our opinion may be in regard to politics, we have but one opinion in regard to our own merits. Where can you find a better man than Aramis?”
The Count de la Fere slowly raised his hands to the sky. “Bless you! Bless us, my children! No matter how different our views may be on politics, we all agree on one thing: there’s no better man than Aramis!”
“Than Porthos?” said Aramis.
"Than Porthos?" Aramis asked.
“Than D’Artagnan?” said Porthos.
"Than D'Artagnan?" Porthos asked.
“Than Athos?” said D’Artagnan.
"Than Athos?" D'Artagnan asked.
CHAPTER III
The King descended into the garden. Proceeding cautiously along the terraced walk, he came to the wall immediately below the windows of Madame. To the left were two windows, concealed by vines. They opened into the apartments of La Valliere.
The King walked down to the garden. Carefully making his way along the raised path, he reached the wall right below Madame's windows. To the left were two windows, hidden by vines. They led into La Valliere's rooms.
The King sighed.
The King sighed.
“It is about nineteen feet to that window,” said the King. “If I had a ladder about nineteen feet long, it would reach to that window. This is logic.”
“It’s about nineteen feet to that window,” said the King. “If I had a ladder that was about nineteen feet long, it would reach that window. This is logic.”
Suddenly the King stumbled over something. “St. Denis!” he exclaimed, looking down. It was a ladder, just nineteen feet long.
Suddenly, the King tripped over something. “St. Denis!” he shouted, looking down. It was a ladder, just nineteen feet long.
The King placed it against the wall. In so doing, he fixed the lower end upon the abdomen of a man who lay concealed by the wall. The man did not utter a cry or wince. The King suspected nothing. He ascended the ladder.
The King leaned it against the wall. In doing so, he positioned the lower end against the abdomen of a man hidden by the wall. The man didn’t let out a sound or flinch. The King had no suspicions. He climbed the ladder.
The ladder was too short. Louis the Grand was not a tall man. He was still two feet below the window.
The ladder was too short. Louis the Grand wasn't a tall guy. He was still two feet under the window.
“Dear me!” said the King.
“OMG!” said the King.
Suddenly the ladder was lifted two feet from below. This enabled the King to leap in the window. At the farther end of the apartment stood a young girl, with red hair and a lame leg. She was trembling with emotion.
Suddenly, the ladder was raised two feet from below. This allowed the King to jump through the window. At the far end of the room stood a young girl with red hair and a lame leg. She was shaking with emotion.
“Louise!”
“Hey, Louise!”
“The King!”
"King!"
“Ah, my God, mademoiselle.”
“OMG, miss.”
“Ah, my God, sire.”
“Oh my God, sir.”
But a low knock at the door interrupted the lovers. The King uttered a cry of rage; Louise one of despair. The door opened and D’Artagnan entered.
But a soft knock at the door interrupted the lovers. The King shouted out in anger; Louise let out a cry of despair. The door opened, and D’Artagnan walked in.
“Good-evening, sire,” said the musketeer.
“Good evening, sir,” said the musketeer.
The King touched a bell. Porthos appeared in the doorway.
The king rang a bell. Porthos stepped into the doorway.
“Good-evening, sire.”
"Good evening, sir."
“Arrest M. D’Artagnan.”
"Arrest M. D’Artagnan."
Porthos looked at D’Artagnan, and did not move.
Porthos looked at D’Artagnan and stayed still.
The King almost turned purple with rage. He again touched the bell. Athos entered. “Count, arrest Porthos and D’Artagnan.”
The King nearly turned purple with anger. He rang the bell again. Athos entered. “Count, arrest Porthos and D’Artagnan.”
The Count de la Fere glanced at Porthos and D’Artagnan, and smiled sweetly.
The Count de la Fere glanced at Porthos and D'Artagnan and smiled warmly.
“Sacre! Where is Aramis?” said the King violently.
“Damn it! Where is Aramis?” said the King angrily.
“Here, sire,” and Aramis entered.
“Here, sir,” and Aramis entered.
“Arrest Athos, Porthos, and D’Artagnan.”
"Arrest Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan."
Aramis bowed and folded his arms.
Aramis bowed and crossed his arms.
“Arrest yourself!”
“Turn yourself in!”
Aramis did not move.
Aramis stayed still.
The King shuddered and turned pale. “Am I not King of France?”
The King shuddered and turned pale. “Aren't I the King of France?”
“Assuredly, sire, but we are also, severally, Porthos, Aramis, D’Artagnan, and Athos.”
“Definitely, sir, but we are also, individually, Porthos, Aramis, D’Artagnan, and Athos.”
“Ah!” said the King.
“Wow!” said the King.
“Yes, sire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What does this mean?”
“What does this mean?”
“It means, your Majesty,” said Aramis, stepping forward, “that your conduct as a married man is highly improper. I am an abbe, and I object to these improprieties. My friends here, D’Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos, pure-minded young men, are also terribly shocked. Observe, sire, how they blush!”
“It means, Your Majesty,” said Aramis, stepping forward, “that your behavior as a married man is very inappropriate. I’m an abbe, and I disapprove of these improprieties. My friends here, D’Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos, who are all pure-hearted young men, are also quite shocked. Look, sire, how they blush!”
Athos, Porthos, and D’Artagnan blushed.
Athos, Porthos, and D'Artagnan flushed.
“Ah,” said the King thoughtfully. “You teach me a lesson. You are devoted and noble young gentlemen, but your only weakness is your excessive modesty. From this moment I make you all marshals and dukes, with the exception of Aramis.”
“Ah,” said the King thoughtfully. “You’re teaching me a lesson. You are dedicated and noble young men, but your only flaw is your over-the-top modesty. From now on, I appoint you all as marshals and dukes, except for Aramis.”
“And me, sire?” said Aramis.
“And me, sir?” said Aramis.
“You shall be an archbishop!”
“You will be an archbishop!”
The four friends looked up and then rushed into each other’s arms. The King embraced Louise de la Valliere, by way of keeping them company. A pause ensued. At last Athos spoke,—
The four friends looked up and then rushed into each other’s arms. The King hugged Louise de la Valliere to keep them company. There was a pause. Finally, Athos spoke,—
“Swear, my children, that, next to yourselves, you will respect—the King of France; and remember that ‘Forty years after’ we will meet again.”
“Promise me, my children, that besides yourselves, you will respect—the King of France; and remember that ‘Forty years later’ we will meet again.”
MISS MIX
CHAPTER I
My earliest impressions are of a huge, misshapen rock, against which the hoarse waves beat unceasingly. On this rock three pelicans are standing in a defiant attitude. A dark sky lowers in the background, while two sea-gulls and a gigantic cormorant eye with extreme disfavor the floating corpse of a drowned woman in the foreground. A few bracelets, coral necklaces, and other articles of jewelry, scattered around loosely, complete this remarkable picture.
My earliest memories are of a giant, oddly shaped rock, where the rough waves crash relentlessly. Three pelicans stand defiantly on this rock. A dark sky looms in the background, while two seagulls and a massive cormorant glare disapprovingly at the floating body of a drowned woman in the foreground. A few bracelets, coral necklaces, and other pieces of jewelry are scattered loosely, completing this striking image.
It is one which, in some vague, unconscious way, symbolizes, to my fancy, the character of a man. I have never been able to explain exactly why. I think I must have seen the picture in some illustrated volume when a baby, or my mother may have dreamed it before I was born.
It’s one that, in some vague, unintentional way, represents, to me, the nature of a person. I’ve never really been able to explain why. I think I must have seen the image in some illustrated book when I was a kid, or my mom might have imagined it before I was born.
As a child I was not handsome. When I consulted the triangular bit of looking-glass which I always carried with me, it showed a pale, sandy, and freckled face, shaded by locks like the color of seaweed when the sun strikes it in deep water. My eyes were said to be indistinctive; they were a faint, ashen gray; but above them rose—my only beauty—a high, massive, domelike forehead, with polished temples, like door-knobs of the purest porcelain.
As a kid, I wasn't good-looking. Whenever I checked the small triangle mirror I always carried with me, I saw a pale, sandy, and freckled face, framed by hair that looked like seaweed when sunlight hits it deep underwater. People said my eyes were forgettable; they were a light, ashy gray. But above them was my only attractive feature—a high, solid, dome-shaped forehead with smooth temples, like doorknobs made of the finest porcelain.
Our family was a family of governesses. My mother had been one, and my sisters had the same occupation. Consequently, when, at the age of thirteen, my eldest sister handed me the advertisement of Mr. Rawjester, clipped from that day’s “Times,” I accepted it as my destiny. Nevertheless, a mysterious presentiment of an indefinite future haunted me in my dreams that night, as I lay upon my little snow-white bed. The next morning, with two band-boxes tied up in silk handkerchiefs, and a hair trunk, I turned my back upon Minerva Cottage forever.
Our family was full of governesses. My mom had been one, and my sisters were in the same line of work. So, when my oldest sister handed me the ad for Mr. Rawjester from that day’s “Times” when I was thirteen, I took it as my fate. Still, a strange sense of an uncertain future lingered in my dreams that night as I lay in my little white bed. The next morning, with two suitcases wrapped in silk handkerchiefs and a hair trunk, I left Minerva Cottage behind for good.
CHAPTER II
Blunderbore Hall, the seat of James Rawjester, Esq., was encompassed by dark pines and funereal hemlocks on all sides. The wind sang weirdly in the turrets and moaned through the long-drawn avenues of the park. As I approached the house I saw several mysterious figures flit before the windows, and a yell of demoniac laughter answered my summons at the bell. While I strove to repress my gloomy forebodings, the housekeeper, a timid, scared-looking old woman, showed me into the library.
Blunderbore Hall, the home of James Rawjester, Esq., was surrounded by tall dark pines and somber hemlocks on every side. The wind howled strangely in the turrets and rustled through the long pathways of the park. As I got closer to the house, I saw several shadowy figures moving past the windows, and a loud, unsettling laughter responded to my ring at the bell. While I tried to push away my unsettling feelings, the housekeeper, a shy, frightened-looking elderly woman, led me into the library.
I entered, overcome with conflicting emotions. I was dressed in a narrow gown of dark serge, trimmed with black bugles. A thick green shawl was pinned across my breast. My hands were encased with black half-mittens worked with steel beads; on my feet were large pattens, originally the property of my deceased grandmother. I carried a blue cotton umbrella. As I passed before a mirror I could not help glancing at it, nor could I disguise from myself the fact that I was not handsome.
I walked in, filled with mixed feelings. I was wearing a slim dark dress with black embellishments. A thick green shawl was pinned across my chest. My hands were covered with black half-mittens adorned with steel beads; I wore large platform shoes that used to belong to my late grandmother. I had a blue cotton umbrella in my hand. As I walked past a mirror, I couldn't help but glance at it, and I couldn't hide the truth from myself that I wasn't attractive.
Drawing a chair into a recess, I sat down with folded hands, calmly awaiting the arrival of my master. Once or twice a fearful yell rang through the house, or the rattling of chains, and curses uttered in a deep, manly voice, broke upon the oppressive stillness. I began to feel my soul rising with the emergency of the moment. “You look alarmed, miss. You don’t hear anything, my dear, do you?” asked the housekeeper nervously.
Pulling a chair into a nook, I sat down with my hands folded, calmly waiting for my master to arrive. A couple of times, a terrified scream echoed through the house, or the sound of rattling chains and curses in a deep, strong voice shattered the heavy silence. I could feel my nerves starting to rise with the tension of the moment. “You look worried, miss. You’re not hearing anything, are you, dear?” the housekeeper asked nervously.
“Nothing whatever,” I remarked calmly, as a terrific scream, followed by the dragging of chairs and tables in the room above, drowned for a moment my reply. “It is the silence, on the contrary, which has made me foolishly nervous.”
“Nothing at all,” I said calmly, as a loud scream, followed by the sound of chairs and tables being dragged around in the room above, momentarily drowned out my response. “It’s the silence, actually, that has made me ridiculously anxious.”
The housekeeper looked at me approvingly, and instantly made some tea for me.
The housekeeper gave me an approving look and quickly made me some tea.
I drank seven cups; as I was beginning the eighth, I heard a crash, and the next moment a man leaped into the room through the broken window.
I drank seven cups; just as I was starting the eighth, I heard a crash, and the next moment a guy jumped into the room through the broken window.
CHAPTER III
The crash startled me from my self-control. The housekeeper bent toward me and whispered,—
The crash snapped me out of my composure. The housekeeper leaned in close and whispered,—
“Don’t be excited. It’s Mr. Rawjester,—he prefers to come in sometimes in this way. It’s his playfulness, ha! ha! ha!”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s Mr. Rawjester—he likes to come in like this sometimes. It’s just his playful nature, ha! ha! ha!”
“I perceive,” I said calmly. “It’s the unfettered impulse of a lofty soul breaking the tyrannizing bonds of custom.” And I turned toward him.
"I see," I said calmly. "It's the unstoppable urge of a noble spirit breaking free from the oppressive chains of tradition." And I turned toward him.
He had never once looked at me. He stood with his back to the fire, which set off the herculean breadth of his shoulders. His face was dark and expressive; his under jaw squarely formed, and remarkably heavy. I was struck with his remarkable likeness to a gorilla.
He had never looked at me. He stood with his back to the fire, which highlighted the broadness of his shoulders. His face was dark and expressive; his jaw was square and impressively heavy. I was struck by how much he resembled a gorilla.
As he absently tied the poker into hard knots with his nervous fingers, I watched him with some interest. Suddenly he turned toward me:—
As he distractedly tied the poker into tight knots with his anxious fingers, I watched him with some curiosity. Suddenly, he turned to me:—
“Do you think I’m handsome, young woman?”
“Do you think I’m good-looking, young woman?”
“Not classically beautiful,” I returned calmly; “but you have, if I may so express myself, an abstract manliness,—a sincere and wholesome barbarity which, involving as it does the naturalness”—But I stopped, for he yawned at that moment,—an action which singularly developed the immense breadth of his lower jaw,—and I saw he had forgotten me. Presently he turned to the housekeeper,—
“Not traditionally attractive,” I replied calmly; “but you have, if I can put it this way, a unique masculinity—an honest and genuine rawness that, as it turns out, reflects a certain naturalness”—But I paused, as he yawned at that moment—an action that highlighted the impressive width of his jaw—and I realized he had lost interest in me. Soon after, he turned to the housekeeper—
“Leave us.”
"Leave us alone."
The old woman withdrew with a curtsey.
The old woman stepped back with a bow.
Mr. Rawjester deliberately turned his back upon me and remained silent for twenty minutes. I drew my shawl the more closely around my shoulders and closed my eyes.
Mr. Rawjester intentionally turned his back to me and stayed quiet for twenty minutes. I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders and shut my eyes.
“You are the governess?” at length he said.
“You're the governess?” he finally said.
“I am, sir.”
"I am, sir."
“A creature who teaches geography, arithmetic, and the use of the globes—ha!—a wretched remnant of femininity,—a skimp pattern of girlhood with a premature flavor of tea-leaves and morality. Ugh!”
“A creature who teaches geography, math, and how to use globes—ha!—a pathetic leftover of femininity,—a thin version of girlhood with a premature taste of tea leaves and morality. Ugh!”
I bowed my head silently.
I quietly bowed my head.
“Listen to me, girl!” he said sternly; “this child you have come to teach—my ward—is not legitimate. She is the offspring of my mistress,—a common harlot. Ah! Miss Mix, what do you think of me now?”
“Listen to me, girl!” he said firmly; “this child you’ve come to teach—my ward—is not legitimate. She is the daughter of my mistress,—a common prostitute. Ah! Miss Mix, what do you think of me now?”
“I admire,” I replied calmly, “your sincerity. A mawkish regard for delicacy might have kept this disclosure to yourself. I only recognize in your frankness that perfect community of thought and sentiment which should exist between original natures.” I looked up; he had already forgotten my presence, and was engaged in pulling off his boots and coat. This done, he sank down in an armchair before the fire, and ran the poker wearily through his hair. I could not help pitying him.
“I admire,” I replied calmly, “your honesty. A sentimental concern for delicacy might have led you to keep this to yourself. I see in your openness that perfect connection of thought and feeling that should exist between genuine individuals.” I looked up; he had already forgotten I was there and was busy taking off his boots and coat. Once he finished, he dropped into an armchair in front of the fire and ran the poker through his hair tiredly. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
The wind howled dismally without, and the rain beat furiously against the windows. I crept toward him and seated myself on a low stool beside his chair.
The wind howled sadly outside, and the rain pounded violently against the windows. I quietly moved closer and sat on a low stool next to his chair.
Presently he turned, without seeing me, and placed his foot absently in my lap. I affected not to notice it. But he started and looked down.
Currently, he turned without noticing me and casually set his foot in my lap. I pretended not to see it. But he jumped and looked down.
“You here yet—Carrothead? Ah, I forgot. Do you speak French?”
“You here yet—Carrothead? Oh, I forgot. Do you speak French?”
“Oui, Monsieur.”
"Yes, sir."
“Taisez-vous!” he said sharply, with singular purity of accent. I complied. The wind moaned fearfully in the chimney, and the light burned dimly. I shuddered in spite of myself. “Ah, you tremble, girl!”
“Be quiet!” he said sharply, with a distinct accent. I complied. The wind howled ominously in the chimney, and the light flickered weakly. I shivered despite myself. “Ah, you're shaking, girl!”
“It is a fearful night.”
“It’s a scary night.”
“Fearful! Call you this fearful? Ha! ha! ha! Look! you wretched little atom, look!” and he dashed forward, and, leaping out of the window, stood like a statue in the pelting storm, with folded arms. He did not stay long, but in a few minutes returned by way of the hall chimney. I saw from the way that he wiped his feet on my dress that he had again forgotten my presence.
“Fearful! Do you really call this fearful? Ha! ha! ha! Look! you miserable little speck, look!” He rushed forward, jumped out of the window, and stood like a statue in the pouring storm, with his arms crossed. He didn’t stay out for long, but in a few minutes, he came back through the hall chimney. I could tell by the way he wiped his feet on my dress that he had forgotten I was even there again.
“You are a governess. What can you teach?” he asked, suddenly and fiercely thrusting his face in mine.
“You're a governess. What can you teach?” he asked, suddenly and fiercely leaning his face towards mine.
“Manners!” I replied calmly.
"Manners!" I said calmly.
“Ha! teach me!”
“Ha! teach me!”
“You mistake yourself,” I said, adjusting my mittens. “Your manners require not the artificial restraint of society. You are radically polite; this impetuosity and ferociousness is simply the sincerity which is the basis of a proper deportment. Your instincts are moral; your better nature, I see, is religious. As St. Paul justly remarks—see chap. 6, 8, 9, and 10”—
“You're misunderstanding yourself,” I said, adjusting my mittens. “You don't need to hold back for the sake of social norms. You're genuinely polite; this impulsiveness and intensity is just the sincerity that underlies good behavior. Your instincts are moral; your true nature, I can see, is spiritual. As St. Paul rightly says—see chap. 6, 8, 9, and 10—”
He seized a heavy candlestick, and threw it at me. I dodged it submissively but firmly.
He grabbed a heavy candlestick and threw it at me. I avoided it, both submissively and firmly.
“Excuse me,” he remarked, as his under jaw slowly relaxed. “Excuse me, Miss Mix—but I can’t stand St. Paul! Enough—you are engaged.”
“Excuse me,” he said, as his jaw slowly relaxed. “Excuse me, Miss Mix—but I really can't stand St. Paul! Enough—you’re engaged.”
CHAPTER IV
I followed the housekeeper as she led the way timidly to my room. As we passed into a dark hall in the wing, I noticed that it was closed by an iron gate with a grating. Three of the doors on the corridor were likewise grated. A strange noise, as of shuffling feet and the howling of infuriated animals, rang through the hall. Bidding the housekeeper good-night, and taking the candle, I entered my bedchamber.
I followed the housekeeper as she hesitantly led me to my room. As we walked into a dark hallway in the wing, I saw that it was blocked by an iron gate with bars. Three of the doors in the corridor were also barred. A strange sound, like scuffling feet and the howling of angry animals, echoed through the hall. After wishing the housekeeper good night and taking the candle, I entered my bedroom.
I took off my dress, and putting on a yellow flannel nightgown, which I could not help feeling did not agree with my complexion, I composed myself to rest by reading Blair’s “Rhetoric” and Paley’s “Moral Philosophy.” I had just put out the light, when I heard voices in the corridor. I listened attentively. I recognized Mr. Rawjester’s stern tones.
I took off my dress and slipped into a yellow flannel nightgown, which I felt didn’t really suit my complexion. I settled down to relax by reading Blair’s “Rhetoric” and Paley’s “Moral Philosophy.” I had just turned off the light when I heard voices in the hallway. I listened carefully and recognized Mr. Rawjester’s stern voice.
“Have you fed No. One?” he asked.
“Have you fed No. One?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” said a gruff voice, apparently belonging to a domestic.
“Yes, sir,” said a rough voice, clearly belonging to a servant.
“How’s No. Two?”
"How’s Number Two?"
“She’s a little off her feed, just now, but will pick up in a day or two.”
"She's not feeling great right now, but she'll bounce back in a day or two."
“And No. Three?”
“And No. Three?”
“Perfectly furious, sir. Her tantrums are ungovernable.”
“Absolutely furious, sir. Her outbursts are out of control.”
“Hush!”
“Be quiet!”
The voices died away, and I sank into a fitful slumber.
The voices faded, and I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
I dreamed that I was wandering through a tropical forest. Suddenly I saw the figure of a gorilla approaching me. As it neared me, I recognized the features of Mr. Rawjester. He held his hand to his side as if in pain. I saw that he had been wounded. He recognized me and called me by name, but at the same moment the vision changed to an Ashantee village, where, around the fire, a group of negroes were dancing and participating in some wild Obi festival. I awoke with the strain still ringing in my ears.
I dreamed I was wandering through a tropical forest. Suddenly, I saw a gorilla coming toward me. As it got closer, I realized it looked like Mr. Rawjester. He had his hand on his side as if he was in pain. I noticed he had been hurt. He recognized me and called my name, but just then the scene shifted to an Ashantee village, where a group of people were dancing around a fire, taking part in some wild Obi festival. I woke up with the sound still echoing in my ears.
“Hokee-pokee wokee fum!”
“Hokey pokey, everybody jump!”
Good Heavens! could I be dreaming? I heard the voice distinctly on the floor below, and smelt something burning. I arose, with an indistinct presentiment of evil, and hastily putting some cotton in my ears and tying a towel about my head, I wrapped myself in a shawl and rushed downstairs. The door of Mr. Rawjester’s room was open. I entered.
Good heavens! Could I be dreaming? I clearly heard a voice from the floor below and smelled something burning. I got up, with a vague feeling that something was wrong, and quickly stuffed some cotton in my ears and tied a towel around my head. Wrapping myself in a shawl, I rushed downstairs. The door to Mr. Rawjester’s room was open. I went in.
Mr. Rawjester lay apparently in a deep slumber, from which even the clouds of smoke that came from the burning curtains of his bed could not rouse him. Around the room a large and powerful negress, scantily attired, with her head adorned with feathers, was dancing wildly, accompanying herself with bone castanets. It looked like some terrible fetich.
Mr. Rawjester seemed to be in a deep sleep, so much so that even the smoke from the burning curtains of his bed couldn’t wake him. In the room, a tall and strong Black woman, dressed in minimal clothing and wearing feathers in her hair, was dancing energetically, keeping rhythm with bone castanets. It felt like some kind of dark ritual.
I did not lose my calmness. After firmly emptying the pitcher, basin, and slop-jar on the burning bed, I proceeded cautiously to the garden, and returning with the garden engine, I directed a small stream at Mr. Rawjester.
I didn’t lose my cool. After I emptied the pitcher, basin, and slop jar onto the burning bed, I carefully went to the garden, and after getting the garden hose, I aimed a small stream at Mr. Rawjester.
At my entrance the gigantic negress fled. Mr. Rawjester yawned and woke. I explained to him, as he rose dripping from the bed, the reason of my presence. He did not seem to be excited, alarmed, or discomposed. He gazed at me curiously.
At my entrance, the huge Black woman ran away. Mr. Rawjester yawned and woke up. I explained to him, as he got up dripping from the bed, why I was there. He didn't seem excited, alarmed, or upset. He looked at me with curiosity.
“So you risked your life to save mine, eh? you canary-colored teacher of infants.”
“So you put your life on the line to save mine, huh? You, the bright yellow teacher of little kids.”
I blushed modestly, and drew my shawl tightly over my yellow flannel nightgown.
I blushed shyly and pulled my shawl tightly around my yellow flannel nightgown.
“You love me, Mary Jane,—don’t deny it! This trembling shows it!” He drew me closely toward him, and said, with his deep voice tenderly modulated,—“How’s her pooty tootens,—did she get her ’ittle tootens wet,—b’ess her?”
“You love me, Mary Jane—don’t deny it! This trembling proves it!” He pulled me close and said in his deep voice, softening it, “How are her pretty little toes—did she get her tiny toes wet—bless her?”
I understood his allusion to my feet. I glanced down and saw that in my hurry I had put on a pair of his old india-rubbers. My feet were not small or pretty, and the addition did not add to their beauty.
I got his hint about my feet. I looked down and realized that in my rush, I had slipped on a pair of his old rubber shoes. My feet weren’t small or attractive, and wearing those didn't help their appearance.
“Let me go, sir,” I remarked quietly. “This is entirely improper; it sets a bad example for your child.” And I firmly but gently extricated myself from his grasp. I approached the door. He seemed for a moment buried in deep thought.
“Let me go, sir,” I said softly. “This isn’t right; it gives a bad example for your child.” And I firmly but gently pulled myself free from his hold. I walked toward the door. He looked like he was lost in deep thought for a moment.
“You say this was a negress?”
“You're saying this was a Black woman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sure, sir.”
“Humph, Number One, I suppose.”
“Hmm, Number One, I guess.”
“Who is Number One, sir?”
“Who's Number One, sir?”
“My first,” he remarked, with a significant and sarcastic smile. Then, relapsing into his old manner, he threw his boots at my head, and bade me begone. I withdrew calmly.
“My first,” he said, with a knowing and sarcastic smile. Then, slipping back into his usual behavior, he threw his boots at my head and told me to get lost. I left calmly.
CHAPTER V
My pupil was a bright little girl, who spoke French with a perfect accent. Her mother had been a “French ballet-dancer, which probably accounted for it. Although she was only six years old, it was easy to perceive that she had been several times in love. She once said to me,—
My student was a smart little girl who spoke French with a flawless accent. Her mother had been a French ballet dancer, which probably explained it. Even though she was only six years old, it was clear that she had fallen in love several times. She once said to me,—
“Miss Mix, did you ever have the grande passion? Did you ever feel a fluttering here?” and she placed her hand upon her small chest, and sighed quaintly; “a kind of distaste for bonbons and caramels, when the world seemed as tasteless and hollow as a broken cordial drop?”
“Miss Mix, have you ever experienced a great passion? Have you ever felt a fluttering here?” and she put her hand on her small chest and sighed charmingly; “a sort of aversion to sweets and candies, when the world felt as bland and empty as a shattered candy?”
“Then you have felt it, Nina?” I said quietly.
“Then you’ve felt it, Nina?” I said softly.
“Oh, dear, yes. There was Buttons,—that was our page, you know,—I loved him dearly, but papa sent him away. Then there was Dick, the groom; but he laughed at me, and I suffered misery!” and she struck a tragic French attitude. “There is to be company here to-morrow,” she added, rattling on with childish naivete, “and papa’s sweetheart—Blanche Marabout—is to be here. You know they say she is to be my mamma.”
“Oh, yes, of course. There was Buttons—our page, you know—I loved him so much, but dad sent him away. Then there was Dick, the groom; but he just laughed at me, and it was awful!” She struck a dramatic pose. “There’s going to be company here tomorrow,” she continued, chatting away with innocent excitement, “and dad’s girlfriend—Blanche Marabout—is coming. You know, they say she’s going to be my mom.”
What thrill was this shot through me? But I rose calmly, and administering a slight correction to the child, left the apartment.
What thrill shot through me? But I stood up calmly, gave the child a slight correction, and left the room.
Blunderbore House, for the next week, was the scene of gayety and merriment. That portion of the mansion closed with a grating was walled up, and the midnight shrieks no longer troubled me.
Blunderbore House, for the next week, was filled with fun and laughter. That part of the mansion that was shut off with a gate was bricked up, and the midnight screams no longer bothered me.
But I felt more keenly the degradation of my situation. I was obliged to help Lady Blanche at her toilet and help her to look beautiful. For what? To captivate him? Oh—no, no,—but why this sudden thrill and faintness? Did he really love her? I had seen him pinch and swear at her. But I reflected that he had thrown a candlestick at my head, and my foolish heart was reassured.
But I felt the degradation of my situation more sharply. I had to help Lady Blanche get ready and make her look beautiful. For what? To win him over? Oh—no, no—but why this sudden rush of emotions and dizziness? Did he actually love her? I had seen him yell and curse at her. But then I remembered that he had thrown a candlestick at me, and my foolish heart felt better.
It was a night of festivity, when a sudden message obliged Mr. Rawjester to leave his guests for a few hours. “Make yourselves merry, idiots,” he added, under his breath, as he passed me. The door closed and he was gone.
It was a night of celebration when a sudden message forced Mr. Rawjester to leave his guests for a few hours. “Enjoy yourselves, fools,” he muttered as he walked past me. The door shut, and he was gone.
A half-hour passed. In the midst of the dancing a shriek was heard, and out of the swaying crowd of fainting women and excited men a wild figure strode into the room. One glance showed it to be a highwayman, heavily armed, holding a pistol in each hand.
A half-hour went by. In the middle of the dancing, a scream pierced the air, and from the thrumming crowd of fainting women and excited men, a wild figure burst into the room. One look revealed it to be a robber, heavily armed, with a gun in each hand.
“Let no one pass out of this room!” he said, in a voice of thunder. “The house is surrounded and you cannot escape. The first one who crosses yonder threshold will be shot like a dog. Gentlemen, I’ll trouble you to approach in single file, and hand me your purses and watches.”
“Don’t let anyone leave this room!” he said, in a booming voice. “The house is surrounded, and you can’t get away. The first person who steps through that door will be shot like a dog. Gentlemen, please step forward one at a time and hand me your wallets and watches.”
Finding resistance useless, the order was ungraciously obeyed.
Finding resistance pointless, the order was reluctantly followed.
“Now, ladies, please to pass up your jewelry and trinkets.”
“Now, ladies, please hand over your jewelry and trinkets.”
This order was still more ungraciously complied with. As Blanche handed to the bandit captain her bracelet, she endeavored to conceal a diamond necklace, the gift of Mr. Rawjester, in her bosom. But, with a demoniac grin, the powerful brute tore it from its concealment, and administering a hearty box on the ear of the young girl, flung her aside.
This order was even less graciously followed. As Blanche handed the bandit captain her bracelet, she tried to hide a diamond necklace, a gift from Mr. Rawjester, in her bosom. But with a wicked grin, the strong thug yanked it from its hiding place, slapped the young girl hard, and threw her aside.
It was now my turn. With a beating heart I made my way to the robber chieftain, and sank at his feet. “Oh, sir, I am nothing but a poor governess, pray let me go.”
It was now my turn. With my heart racing, I approached the robber chieftain and fell at his feet. “Oh, sir, I’m just a poor governess, please let me go.”
“Oho! A governess? Give me your last month’s wages, then. Give me what you have stolen from your master!” and he laughed fiendishly.
“Oho! A governess? Hand over last month’s salary, then. Give me what you’ve taken from your employer!” and he laughed wickedly.
I gazed at him quietly, and said, in a low voice: “I have stolen nothing from you, Mr. Rawjester!”
I looked at him quietly and said softly, “I haven't taken anything from you, Mr. Rawjester!”
“Ah, discovered! Hush! listen, girl!” he hissed, in a fierce whisper; “utter a syllable to frustrate my plans, and you die; aid me, and”—But he was gone.
“Ah, caught! Shh! Listen, girl!” he whispered fiercely; “if you say a word to mess up my plans, you’re done for; help me and”—But he was gone.
In a few moments the party, with the exception of myself, were gagged and locked in the cellar. The next moment torches were applied to the rich hangings, and the house was in flames. I felt a strong hand seize me, and bear me out in the open air and place me up on the hillside, where I could overlook the burning mansion. It was Mr. Rawjester. “Burn!” he said, as he shook his fist at the flames. Then sinking on his knees before me, he said hurriedly,—
In a few moments, everyone at the party except me was gagged and locked in the cellar. The next thing I knew, torches were set to the beautiful tapestries, and the house was engulfed in flames. I felt a strong hand grab me and carry me outside, up onto the hillside where I could see the burning mansion. It was Mr. Rawjester. “Burn!” he shouted, shaking his fist at the fire. Then, collapsing to his knees in front of me, he said hurriedly,—
“Mary Jane, I love you; the obstacles to our union are or will be soon removed. In yonder mansion were confined my three crazy wives. One of them, as you know, attempted to kill me! Ha! this is vengeance! But will you be mine?”
“Mary Jane, I love you; the barriers to our being together are or will soon be gone. In that mansion over there were my three wild wives. One of them, as you know, tried to kill me! Ha! this is sweet revenge! But will you be mine?”
I fell, without a word, upon his neck.
I fell, without saying a word, into his arms.
MR. MIDSHIPMAN BREEZY
CHAPTER I
My father was a north-country surgeon. He had retired, a widower, from her Majesty’s navy many years before, and had a small practice in his native village. When I was seven years old he employed me to carry medicines to his patients. Being of a lively disposition, I sometimes amused myself, during my daily rounds, by mixing the contents of the different phials. Although I had no reason to doubt that the general result of this practice was beneficial, yet, as the death of a consumptive curate followed the addition of a strong mercurial lotion to his expectorant, my father concluded to withdraw me from the profession and send me to school.
My father was a surgeon from the north. He had retired, a widower, from Her Majesty’s navy many years earlier and ran a small practice in his hometown. When I was seven, he had me deliver medications to his patients. Being a lively kid, I sometimes entertained myself during my daily rounds by mixing the contents of different bottles. Although I had no reason to think this practice was harmful, after the death of a consumptive curate followed the addition of a strong mercurial lotion to his cough medicine, my father decided to pull me out of the profession and send me to school.
Grubbins, the schoolmaster, was a tyrant, and it was not long before my impetuous and self-willed nature rebelled against his authority. I soon began to form plans of revenge. In this I was assisted by Tom Snaffle,—a schoolfellow. One day Tom suggested,—
Grubbins, the schoolmaster, was a tyrant, and it wasn't long before my impulsive and stubborn nature rebelled against his authority. I quickly started to come up with plans for revenge. I was aided in this by Tom Snaffle, a classmate. One day Tom suggested,—
“Suppose we blow him up. I’ve got two pounds of powder!”
“Let’s blow him up. I’ve got two pounds of explosives!”
“No, that’s too noisy,” I replied.
“No, that’s too loud,” I replied.
Tom was silent for a minute, and again spoke:—
Tom was quiet for a minute, then spoke again:—
“You remember how you flattened out the curate, Pills? Couldn’t you give Grubbins something—something to make him leathery sick—eh?” A flash of inspiration crossed my mind. I went to the shop of the village apothecary. He knew me; I had often purchased vitriol, which I poured into Grubbins’s inkstand to corrode his pens and burn up his coat-tail, on which he was in the habit of wiping them. I boldly asked for an ounce of chloroform. The young apothecary winked and handed me the bottle.
"You remember how you took out the curate, Pills? Couldn’t you give Grubbins something—something to make him really sick—eh?” An idea suddenly hit me. I went to the village apothecary's shop. He recognized me; I had often bought vitriol, which I poured into Grubbins’s inkstand to ruin his pens and scorch the tail of his coat, which he used to wipe them. I confidently asked for an ounce of chloroform. The young apothecary winked and handed me the bottle.
It was Grubbins’s custom to throw his handkerchief over his head, recline in his chair, and take a short nap during recess. Watching my opportunity, as he dozed, I managed to slip his handkerchief from his face and substitute my own, moistened with chloroform. In a few minutes he was insensible. Tom and I then quickly shaved his head, beard, and eyebrows, blackened his face with a mixture of vitriol and burnt cork, and fled. There was a row and scandal the next day. My father always excused me by asserting that Grubbins had got drunk,—but somehow found it convenient to procure me an appointment in her Majesty’s navy at an early day.
It was Grubbins’s habit to throw his handkerchief over his head, lean back in his chair, and take a quick nap during recess. Watching my chance, while he was dozing, I was able to take his handkerchief off his face and swap it with mine, which was soaked in chloroform. In a few minutes, he was out cold. Tom and I then quickly shaved his head, beard, and eyebrows, darkened his face with a mix of acid and burnt cork, and took off. There was a huge fuss and scandal the next day. My dad always defended me by saying Grubbins had gotten drunk—but somehow managed to get me a position in Her Majesty’s navy very soon after.
CHAPTER II
An official letter, with the Admiralty seal, informed me that I was expected to join H. M. ship Belcher, Captain Boltrope, at Portsmouth, without delay. In a few days I presented myself to a tall, stern-visaged man, who was slowly pacing the leeward side of the quarter-deck. As I touched my hat he eyed me sternly:—
An official letter, with the Admiralty seal, informed me that I was expected to join H. M. ship Belcher, Captain Boltrope, at Portsmouth, without delay. In a few days, I presented myself to a tall, stern-looking man who was slowly pacing the leeward side of the quarter-deck. As I tipped my hat, he glared at me sternly:—
“So ho! Another young suckling. The service is going to the devil. Nothing but babes in the cockpit and grannies in the board. Boatswain’s mate, pass the word for Mr. Cheek!”
“So, hey! Another young newbie. The service is going downhill. It's nothing but kids in the cockpit and old folks in the boardroom. Boatswain’s mate, let Mr. Cheek know!”
Mr. Cheek, the steward, appeared and touched his hat.
Mr. Cheek, the steward, showed up and tipped his hat.
“Introduce Mr. Breezy to the young gentlemen. Stop! Where’s Mr. Swizzle?”
“Introduce Mr. Breezy to the young men. Wait! Where’s Mr. Swizzle?”
“At the masthead, sir.”
"At the top, sir."
“Where’s Mr. Lankey?”
“Where's Mr. Lankey?”
“At the masthead, sir.”
"At the top, sir."
“Mr. Briggs?”
“Mr. Briggs?”
“Masthead, too, sir.”
"Masthead as well, sir."
“And the rest of the young gentlemen?” roared the enraged officer.
“And what about the other young men?” shouted the furious officer.
“All masthead, sir.”
"All hands on deck, sir."
“Ah!” said Captain Boltrope, as he smiled grimly, “under the circumstances, Mr. Breezy, you had better go to the masthead too.”
“Ah!” said Captain Boltrope, smiling grimly, “given the situation, Mr. Breezy, you should probably head up to the masthead too.”
CHAPTER III
At the masthead I made the acquaintance of two youngsters of about my own age, one of whom informed me that he had been there three hundred and thirty-two days out of the year.
At the masthead, I met two guys around my age, and one of them told me he had been there for three hundred and thirty-two days out of the year.
“In rough weather, when the old cock is out of sorts, you know, we never come down,” added a young gentleman of nine years, with a dirk nearly as long as himself, who had been introduced to me as Mr. Briggs. “By the way, Pills,” he continued, “how did you come to omit giving the captain a naval salute?”
“In bad weather, when the old rooster is feeling off, you know, we never come down,” added a young boy of nine, with a dagger nearly as long as he was, who had been introduced to me as Mr. Briggs. “By the way, Pills,” he continued, “why didn't you give the captain a naval salute?”
“Why, I touched my hat,” I said innocently.
“Why, I touched my hat,” I said innocently.
“Yes, but that isn’t enough, you know. That will do very well at other times. He expects the naval salute when you first come on board—greeny!”
“Yes, but that isn't enough, you know. That works well at other times. He expects the naval salute when you first come on board—greeny!”
I began to feel alarmed, and begged him to explain.
I started to feel worried and asked him to explain.
“Why, you see, after touching your hat, you should have touched him lightly with your forefinger in his waistcoat, so, and asked, ‘How’s his nibs?’—you see?”
“Look, after you tipped your hat, you should have gently poked him with your finger on his waistcoat like this and asked, ‘How’s he doing?’—you get it?”
“How’s his nibs?” I repeated.
“How’s he doing?” I repeated.
“Exactly. He would have drawn back a little, and then you should have repeated the salute, remarking, ‘How’s his royal nibs?’ asking cautiously after his wife and family, and requesting to be introduced to the gunner’s daughter.”
"Exactly. He would have pulled back a bit, and then you would have repeated the greeting, saying, ‘How’s his royal highness?’ asking politely about his wife and kids, and requesting to be introduced to the gunner’s daughter."
“The gunner’s daughter?”
“The gunner's daughter?”
“The same; you know she takes care of us young gentlemen; now don’t forget, Pillsy!”
“The same; you know she looks after us young guys; now don’t forget, Pillsy!”
When we were called down to the deck I thought it a good chance to profit by this instruction. I approached Captain Boltrope and repeated the salute without conscientiously omitting a single detail. He remained for a moment livid and speechless. At length he gasped out,—
When we were summoned to the deck, I saw it as a great opportunity to take advantage of this instruction. I walked up to Captain Boltrope and gave the salute, making sure not to skip any detail. He stood there for a moment, pale and speechless. Finally, he managed to gasp out,—
“Boatswain’s mate!”
"Bosun’s mate!"
“If you please, sir,” I asked tremulously, “I should like to be introduced to the gunner’s daughter!”
“If you don’t mind, sir,” I asked nervously, “I would like to be introduced to the gunner’s daughter!”
“Oh, very good, sir!” screamed Captain Boltrope, rubbing his hands and absolutely capering about the deck with rage. “Oh, d—n you! Of course you shall! Oh, ho! the gunner’s daughter! Oh, h—ll! this is too much! Boatswain’s mate!” Before I well knew where I was, I was seized, borne to an eight-pounder, tied upon it, and flogged!
“Oh, that's just great, sir!” yelled Captain Boltrope, rubbing his hands and jumping around the deck in a fit of anger. “Oh, damn you! Of course you will! Oh, wow! The gunner’s daughter! Oh, hell! This is too much! Boatswain’s mate!” Before I knew what was happening, I was grabbed, taken to an eight-pounder, strapped onto it, and whipped!
CHAPTER IV
As we sat together in the cockpit, picking the weevils out of our biscuit, Briggs consoled me for my late mishap, adding that the “naval salute,” as a custom, seemed just then to be honored more in the breach than the observance. I joined in the hilarity occasioned by the witticism, and in a few moments we were all friends. Presently Swizzle turned to me:—
As we sat together in the cockpit, picking the weevils out of our biscuit, Briggs comforted me about my recent mistake, saying that the “naval salute,” as a tradition, seemed to be more honored in the breach than in the observance. I laughed along with everyone else at the joke, and soon we were all friends. Then Swizzle turned to me:—
“We have just been planning how to confiscate a keg of claret, which Nips, the purser, keeps under his bunk. The old nipcheese lies there drunk half the day, and there’s no getting at it.”
“We’ve just been discussing how to get our hands on a keg of claret that Nips, the purser, keeps under his bunk. That old cheapskate lies there drunk for half the day, and there’s no way to reach it.”
“Let’s get beneath the stateroom and bore through the deck, and so tap it,” said Lankey.
“Let’s go below the stateroom and drill through the deck, and then tap it,” said Lankey.
The proposition was received with a shout of applause. A long half-inch auger and bit was procured from Chips, the carpenter’s mate, and Swizzle, after a careful examination of the timbers beneath the wardroom, commenced operations. The auger at last disappeared, when suddenly there was a slight disturbance on the deck above. Swizzle withdrew the auger hurriedly; from its point a few bright red drops trickled.
The suggestion was met with a loud round of applause. A long half-inch auger and bit were obtained from Chips, the carpenter's assistant, and Swizzle, after carefully examining the beams beneath the wardroom, got to work. The auger eventually vanished when suddenly there was a slight disturbance on the deck above. Swizzle quickly pulled out the auger; a few bright red drops dripped from its tip.
“Huzza! send her up again!” cried Lankey.
“Hooray! Send her up again!” shouted Lankey.
The auger was again applied. This time a shriek was heard from the purser’s cabin. Instantly the light was doused, and the party retreated hurriedly to the cockpit. A sound of snoring was heard as the sentry stuck his head into the door. “All right, sir,” he replied in answer to the voice of the officer of the deck.
The auger was used again. This time, a scream came from the purser’s cabin. Immediately, the light was turned off, and everyone quickly moved back to the cockpit. The sound of snoring was heard as the guard peeked into the door. “All good, sir,” he responded to the voice of the officer on duty.
The next morning we heard that Nips was in the surgeon’s hands, with a bad wound in the fleshy part of his leg, and that the auger had not struck claret.
The next morning we heard that Nips was in the surgeon's care, with a serious wound in the muscle of his leg, and that the auger had not struck claret.
CHAPTER V
“Now, Pills, you’ll have a chance to smell powder,” said Briggs as he entered the cockpit and buckled around his waist an enormous cutlass. “We have just sighted a French ship.”
“Now, Pills, you’ll get a chance to smell powder,” said Briggs as he entered the cockpit and strapped an enormous cutlass around his waist. “We’ve just spotted a French ship.”
We went on deck. Captain Boltrope grinned as we touched our hats. He hated the purser. “Come, young gentlemen, if you’re boring for French claret, yonder’s a good quality. Mind your con, sir,” he added, turning to the quartermaster, who was grinning.
We went on deck. Captain Boltrope smiled as we tipped our hats. He couldn't stand the purser. “Come on, young gentlemen, if you're looking for French claret, over there is a good one. Watch your con, sir,” he said, turning to the quartermaster, who was smirking.
The ship was already cleared for action. The men, in their eagerness, had started the coffee from the tubs and filled them with shot. Presently the Frenchman yawed, and a shot from a long thirty-two came skipping over the water. It killed the quartermaster and took off both of Lankey’s legs. “Tell the purser our account is squared,” said the dying boy, with a feeble smile.
The ship was ready for battle. The crew, eager to get started, had brewed coffee from the tubs and loaded them with ammunition. Suddenly, the French ship swerved, and a shot from a long thirty-two skipped across the water. It killed the quartermaster and blew off both of Lankey's legs. “Tell the purser our account is settled,” said the dying boy, with a weak smile.
The fight raged fiercely for two hours. I remember killing the French admiral, as we boarded, but on looking around for Briggs, after the smoke had cleared away, I was intensely amused at witnessing the following novel sight:
The fight went on fiercely for two hours. I remember killing the French admiral as we boarded, but after the smoke cleared and I looked around for Briggs, I was really amused to see the following unusual sight:
Briggs had pinned the French captain against the mast with his cutlass, and was now engaged, with all the hilarity of youth, in pulling the Captain’s coat-tails between his legs, in imitation of a dancing-jack. As the Frenchman lifted his legs and arms, at each jerk of Briggs’s, I could not help participating in the general mirth.
Briggs had pinned the French captain against the mast with his cutlass, and was now, full of youthful excitement, tugging at the Captain’s coat-tails between his legs, mimicking a dancing jack. As the Frenchman lifted his legs and arms with each tug from Briggs, I couldn't help but join in the laughter.
“You young devil, what are you doing?” said a stifled voice behind me. I looked up and beheld Captain Boltrope, endeavoring to calm his stern features, but the twitching around his mouth betrayed his intense enjoyment of the scene. “Go to the masthead—up with you, sir!” he repeated sternly to Briggs.
“You little rascal, what are you up to?” said a muffled voice behind me. I looked up and saw Captain Boltrope trying to maintain a serious expression, but the twitches at the corners of his mouth showed how much he was enjoying the moment. “Get to the masthead—up with you, sir!” he said firmly to Briggs.
“Very good, sir,” said the boy, coolly preparing to mount the shrouds. “Good-by, Johnny Crapaud. Humph!” he added, in a tone intended for my ear, “a pretty way to treat a hero. The service is going to the devil!”
“Sure thing, sir,” the boy said, casually getting ready to climb the rigging. “Goodbye, Johnny Crapaud. Hmph!” he added, in a tone meant for me to hear, “what a way to treat a hero. The service is going downhill!”
I thought so too.
I thought that way too.
CHAPTER VI
We were ordered to the West Indies. Although Captain Boltrope’s manner toward me was still severe, and even harsh, I understood that my name had been favorably mentioned in the dispatches.
We were ordered to the West Indies. Even though Captain Boltrope was still strict and even harsh with me, I realized that my name had been positively mentioned in the reports.
Reader, were you ever at Jamaica? If so, you remember the negresses, the oranges, Port Royal Tom—the yellow fever. After being two weeks at the station, I was taken sick of the fever. In a month I was delirious. During my paroxysms, I had a wild distempered dream of a stern face bending anxiously over my pillow, a rough hand smoothing my hair, and a kind voice saying:—
Reader, have you ever been to Jamaica? If so, you remember the Black women, the oranges, Port Royal Tom—the yellow fever. After spending two weeks at the station, I got sick with the fever. A month later, I was delirious. During my episodes, I had a chaotic dream of a serious face leaning anxiously over my pillow, a rough hand smoothing my hair, and a gentle voice saying:—
“B’ess his ’ittle heart! Did he have the naughty fever?” This face seemed again changed to the well-known stern features of Captain Boltrope.
“Bless his little heart! Did he have the naughty fever?” This expression seemed to transform back into the familiar stern features of Captain Boltrope.
When I was convalescent, a packet edged in black was put in my hand. It contained the news of my father’s death, and a sealed letter which he had requested to be given to me on his decease. I opened it tremblingly. It read thus:—
When I was recovering, a black-edged envelope was handed to me. It contained the news of my father’s death and a sealed letter he had asked to be given to me after he passed away. I opened it with trembling hands. It said this:—
MY DEAR BOY,—I regret to inform you that in all probability you are not my son. Your mother, I am grieved to say, was a highly improper person. Who your father may be, I really cannot say, but perhaps the Honorable Henry Boltrope, Captain R. N., may be able to inform you. Circumstances over which I have no control have deferred this important disclosure. YOUR STRICKEN PARENT.
MY DEAR BOY,—I’m sorry to tell you that you are probably not my son. Your mother, unfortunately, was not a decent person. I can’t say who your father might be, but maybe the Honorable Henry Boltrope, Captain R. N., can give you some answers. Certain circumstances that are beyond my control have made it impossible for me to share this important information sooner. YOUR DISTRESSED PARENT.
And so Captain Boltrope was my father. Heavens! Was it a dream? I recalled his stern manner, his observant eye, his ill-concealed uneasiness when in my presence. I longed to embrace him. Staggering to my feet, I rushed in my scanty apparel to the deck, where Captain Boltrope was just then engaged in receiving the Governor’s wife and daughter. The ladies shrieked; the youngest, a beautiful girl, blushed deeply. Heeding them not, I sank at his feet, and, embracing them, cried,—
And so Captain Boltrope was my father. Wow! Was it a dream? I remembered his serious demeanor, his watchful eye, and the way he couldn't hide his discomfort when I was around. I wanted to hug him. Struggling to my feet, I ran in my minimal clothing to the deck, where Captain Boltrope was busy greeting the Governor’s wife and daughter. The ladies screamed; the younger one, a beautiful girl, blushed deeply. Ignoring them, I fell to his feet and hugged them, crying—
“My father!”
“Dad!”
“Chuck him overboard!” roared Captain Boltrope.
“Throw him overboard!” shouted Captain Boltrope.
“Stay,” pleaded the soft voice of Clara Maitland, the Governor’s daughter.
“Stay,” begged Clara Maitland, the Governor’s daughter, in a gentle voice.
“Shave his head! he’s a wretched lunatic!” continued Captain Boltrope, while his voice trembled with excitement.
“Shave his head! He’s a miserable lunatic!” Captain Boltrope continued, his voice trembling with excitement.
“No, let me nurse and take care of him,” said the lovely girl, blushing as she spoke. “Mamma, can’t we take him home?”
“No, let me take care of him,” said the beautiful girl, blushing as she spoke. “Mom, can’t we bring him home?”
The daughter’s pleading was not without effect. In the meantime I had fainted. When I recovered my senses I found myself in Governor Maitland’s mansion.
The daughter’s pleading didn’t go unheard. In the meantime, I had fainted. When I came to, I found myself in Governor Maitland’s mansion.
CHAPTER VII
The reader will guess what followed. I fell deeply in love with Clara Maitland, to whom I confided the secret of my birth. The generous girl asserted that she had detected the superiority of my manner at once. We plighted our troth, and resolved to wait upon events.
The reader can probably guess what happened next. I fell deeply in love with Clara Maitland, to whom I revealed the secret of my birth. The kind girl said she noticed the uniqueness of my behavior right away. We made a promise to each other and decided to see how things unfolded.
Briggs called to see me a few days afterward. He said that the purser had insulted the whole cockpit, and all the midshipmen had called him out. But he added thoughtfully: “I don’t see how we can arrange the duel. You see there are six of us to fight him.”
Briggs came to see me a few days later. He mentioned that the purser had insulted everyone in the cockpit, and all the midshipmen had confronted him about it. But he added thoughtfully, “I don’t know how we can set up the duel. There are six of us who want to fight him.”
“Very easily,” I replied. “Let your fellows all stand in a row, and take his fire; that, you see, gives him six chances to one, and he must be a bad shot if he can’t hit one of you; while, on the other hand, you see, he gets a volley from you six, and one of you’ll be certain to fetch him.”
“Very easily,” I replied. “Have your friends all stand in a line and take his shot; that gives him six chances to hit one of you, and he has to be a terrible aim if he can’t hit at least one of you. On the flip side, he’s going to get shot at by all six of you, and one of you is bound to take him down.”
“Exactly;” and away Briggs went, but soon returned to say that the purser had declined,—“like a d—d coward,” he added.
“Exactly;” and away Briggs went, but soon came back to say that the purser had turned him down, —“like a damn coward,” he added.
But the news of the sudden and serious illness of Captain Boltrope put off the duel. I hastened to his bedside, but too late,—an hour previous he had given up the ghost.
But the news of Captain Boltrope's sudden and serious illness postponed the duel. I rushed to his bedside, but I was too late—an hour earlier, he had passed away.
I resolved to return to England. I made known the secret of my birth, and exhibited my adopted father’s letter to Lady Maitland, who at once suggested my marriage with her daughter, before I returned to claim the property. We were married, and took our departure next day.
I decided to go back to England. I revealed the secret of my birth and showed my adopted father's letter to Lady Maitland, who immediately suggested that I marry her daughter before I went back to claim the property. We got married and left the next day.
I made no delay in posting at once, in company with my wife and my friend Briggs, to my native village. Judge of my horror and surprise when my late adopted father came out of his shop to welcome me.
I didn't waste any time and immediately headed out with my wife and my friend Briggs to my hometown. Imagine my shock and disbelief when my recently adopted father came out of his shop to greet me.
“Then you are not dead!” I gasped.
“Then you’re not dead!” I gasped.
“No, my dear boy.”
"No, my dear."
“And this letter?”
“And this note?”
My father—as I must still call him—glanced on the paper, and pronounced it a forgery. Briggs roared with laughter. I turned to him and demanded an explanation.
My father—who I still have to call him—looked at the paper and said it was a forgery. Briggs burst out laughing. I turned to him and asked for an explanation.
“Why, don’t you see, Greeny, it’s all a joke,—a midshipman’s joke!”
“Why don't you see, Greeny, it's all just a joke—a midshipman's joke!”
“But”—I asked.
“But,” I asked.
“Don’t be a fool. You’ve got a good wife,—be satisfied.”
“Don’t be stupid. You have a good wife—be happy with her.”
I turned to Clara, and was satisfied. Although Mrs. Maitland never forgave me, the jolly old Governor laughed heartily over the joke, and so well used his influence that I soon became, dear reader, Admiral Breezy, K. C. B.
I turned to Clara, feeling pleased. Even though Mrs. Maitland never forgave me, the cheerful old Governor laughed heartily at the joke and used his influence so effectively that I soon became, dear reader, Admiral Breezy, K. C. B.
GUY HEAVYSTONE; OR, “ENTIRE”
CHAPTER I
A Dingy, swashy, splashy afternoon in October; a school-yard filled with a mob of riotous boys. A lot of us standing outside.
A gloomy, wet, splashy afternoon in October; a schoolyard packed with a crowd of rowdy boys. A bunch of us hanging out outside.
Suddenly came a dull, crashing sound from the schoolroom. At the ominous interruption I shuddered involuntarily, and called to Smithsye,—
Suddenly, there was a dull, crashing sound from the classroom. The ominous interruption made me shudder involuntarily, and I called out to Smithsye,—
“What’s up, Smithums?”
“Hey, Smithums!”
“Guy’s cleaning out the fourth form,” he replied.
“Guy's clearing out the fourth form,” he replied.
At the same moment George de Coverly passed me, holding his nose, from whence the bright Norman blood streamed redly. To him the plebeian Smithsye laughingly,—
At the same moment, George de Coverly walked past me, holding his nose, from which bright Norman blood was streaming red. He laughed at the common Smithsye—
“Cully! how’s his nibs?”
“Cully! How’s he doing?”
I pushed the door of the schoolroom open. There are some spectacles which a man never forgets. The burning of Troy probably seemed a large-sized conflagration to the pious Aeneas, and made an impression on him which he carried away with the feeble Anchises.
I opened the door to the classroom. There are some moments that a person never forgets. The burning of Troy must have looked like a massive fire to the devout Aeneas, leaving an impression on him that he took away with the frail Anchises.
In the centre of the room, lightly brandishing the piston-rod of a steam-engine, stood Guy Heavystone alone. I say alone, for the pile of small boys on the floor in the corner could hardly be called company.
In the middle of the room, casually holding the piston rod of a steam engine, stood Guy Heavystone by himself. I say by himself, because the group of little boys in the corner could hardly be considered company.
I will try and sketch him for the reader. Guy Heavystone was then only fifteen. His broad, deep chest, his sinewy and quivering flank, his straight pastern, showed him to be a thoroughbred. Perhaps he was a trifle heavy in the fetlock, but he held his head haughtily erect. His eyes were glittering but pitiless. There was a sternness about the lower part of his face,—the old Heavystone look,—a sternness heightened, perhaps, by the snaffle-bit which, in one of his strange freaks, he wore in his mouth to curb his occasional ferocity. His dress was well adapted to his square-set and herculean frame. A striped knit undershirt, close-fitting striped tights, and a few spangles set off his figure; a neat Glengarry cap adorned his head. On it was displayed the Heavystone crest, a cock regardant on a dunghill or, and the motto, “Devil a better!”
I’ll try to paint a picture of him for the reader. Guy Heavystone was just fifteen at the time. His broad, deep chest, sinewy and quivering flank, and straight pastern made it clear he was a thoroughbred. He might have been a little heavy in the fetlock, but he held his head high with pride. His eyes sparkled but lacked compassion. There was a serious look in the lower part of his face—the classic Heavystone expression—intensified, perhaps, by the snaffle-bit he wore in one of his quirky moods to keep his occasional wildness in check. His outfit suited his strong, muscular build well. He wore a striped knit undershirt, tightly fitting striped tights, and a few sparkles highlighted his shape; a neat Glengarry cap topped his head. Displayed on it was the Heavystone crest, a cock regardant on a dunghill or, along with the motto, “Devil a better!”
I thought of Horatius on the bridge, of Hector before the walls. I always make it a point to think of something classical at such times.
I thought of Horatius on the bridge, of Hector before the walls. I always make it a point to think of something classical at times like these.
He saw me, and his sternness partly relaxed. Something like a smile struggled through his grim lineaments. It was like looking on the Jungfrau after having seen Mont Blanc,—a trifle, only a trifle less sublime and awful. Resting his hand lightly on the shoulder of the headmaster, who shuddered and collapsed under his touch, he strode toward me.
He saw me, and his seriousness eased a bit. A faint smile tried to break through his serious expression. It was like seeing the Jungfrau after Mont Blanc—just a little less impressive and intimidating. He rested his hand gently on the headmaster's shoulder, causing him to shudder and slump under his touch, then walked towards me.
His walk was peculiar. You could not call it a stride. It was like the “crest-tossing Bellerophon,”—a kind of prancing gait. Guy Heavystone pranced toward me.
His walk was unusual. You couldn't call it a stride. It was like the “crest-tossing Bellerophon”—a sort of prancing gait. Guy Heavystone pranced toward me.
CHAPTER II
It was the winter of 186- when I next met Guy Heavystone. He had left the university and had entered the 79th “Heavies.” “I have exchanged the gown for the sword, you see,” he said, grasping my hand, and fracturing the bones of my little finger, as he shook it.
It was the winter of 186- when I next ran into Guy Heavystone. He had left university and joined the 79th “Heavies.” “I’ve swapped my gown for a sword, you see,” he said, shaking my hand and accidentally breaking the bones in my little finger.
I gazed at him with unmixed admiration. He was squarer, sterner, and in every way smarter and more remarkable than ever. I began to feel toward this man as Phalaster felt towards Phyrgino, as somebody must have felt toward Archididasculus, as Boswell felt toward Johnson.
I looked at him with pure admiration. He was taller, more serious, and in every way sharper and more impressive than ever. I started to feel about this man the way Phalaster felt about Phyrgino, like someone must have felt about Archididasculus, the way Boswell felt about Johnson.
“Come into my den,” he said; and lifting me gently by the seat of my pantaloons he carried me upstairs and deposited me, before I could apologize, on the sofa. I looked around the room. It was a bachelor’s apartment, characteristically furnished in the taste of the proprietor. A few claymores and battleaxes were ranged against the wall, and a culverin, captured by Sir Ralph Heavystone, occupied the corner, the other end of the room being taken up by a light battery. Foils, boxing-gloves, saddles, and fishing-poles lay around carelessly. A small pile of billets-doux lay upon a silver salver. The man was not an anchorite, nor yet a Sir Galahad.
“Come into my room,” he said; and gently lifting me by the waistband of my pants, he carried me upstairs and set me down on the sofa before I could apologize. I glanced around the room. It was a bachelor’s pad, decorated in the style of the owner. A few claymore swords and battleaxes were propped against the wall, and a cannon, captured by Sir Ralph Heavystone, sat in the corner, while a light artillery setup took up the other end of the room. Foils, boxing gloves, saddles, and fishing rods were scattered around casually. A small stack of love letters rested on a silver tray. The man was neither a recluse nor a paragon of virtue.
I never could tell what Guy thought of women. “Poor little beasts,” he would often say when the conversation turned on any of his fresh conquests. Then, passing his hand over his marble brow, the old look of stern fixedness of purpose and unflinching severity would straighten the lines of his mouth, and he would mutter, half to himself, “S’death!”
I could never figure out what Guy thought about women. “Poor little creatures,” he would often say when we talked about any of his new conquests. Then, running his hand over his smooth forehead, the familiar look of determined seriousness and unwavering strictness would straighten his mouth, and he would mumble, mostly to himself, “Damn it!”
“Come with me to Heavystone Grange. The Exmoor hounds throw off to-morrow. I’ll give you a mount,” he said, as he amused himself by rolling up a silver candlestick between his fingers. “You shall have Cleopatra. But stay,” he added thoughtfully; “now I remember, I ordered Cleopatra to be shot this morning.”
“Come with me to Heavystone Grange. The Exmoor hounds are heading out tomorrow. I’ll get you a ride,” he said, casually rolling a silver candlestick between his fingers. “You can have Cleopatra. But wait,” he added, thinking for a moment; “now I remember, I ordered Cleopatra to be put down this morning.”
“And why?” I queried.
"Why?" I asked.
“She threw her rider yesterday and fell on him”—
“She threw her rider yesterday and fell on him.”
“And killed him?”
“And killed him?”
“No. That’s the reason why I have ordered her to be shot. I keep no animals that are not dangerous—I should add—deadly!” He hissed the last sentence between his teeth, and a gloomy frown descended over his calm brow.
“No. That’s why I ordered her to be shot. I don’t keep any animals that aren’t dangerous—I should add—deadly!” He hissed the last sentence through gritted teeth, and a dark frown settled over his calm face.
I affected to turn over the tradesmen’s bills that lay on the table, for, like all of the Heavystone race, Guy seldom paid cash, and said,—
I pretended to look through the bills from the tradesmen that were on the table because, like everyone in the Heavystone family, Guy rarely paid in cash, and said,—
“You remind me of the time when Leonidas”—
“You remind me of the time when Leonidas”—
“Oh, bother Leonidas and your classical allusions. Come!”
“Oh, come on, Leonidas and your old references. Let’s go!”
We descended to dinner.
We went down to dinner.
CHAPTER III
“There is Flora Billingsgate, the greatest coquette and hardest rider in the country,” said my companion, Ralph Mortmain, as we stood upon Dingleby Common before the meet.
“There’s Flora Billingsgate, the most charming flirt and toughest rider in the country,” said my friend, Ralph Mortmain, as we stood on Dingleby Common before the meet.
I looked up and beheld Guy Heavystone bending haughtily over the saddle, as he addressed a beautiful brunette. She was indeed a splendidly groomed and high-spirited woman. We were near enough to overhear the following conversation, which any high-toned reader will recognize as the common and natural expression of the higher classes.
I looked up and saw Guy Heavystone leaning arrogantly over the saddle as he spoke to a stunning brunette. She was truly a beautifully styled and lively woman. We were close enough to catch the following conversation, which any discerning reader will recognize as typical and natural among the upper classes.
“When Diana takes the field the chase is not wholly confined to objects ferae nature,” said Guy, darting a significant glance at his companion. Flora did not shrink either from the glance or the meaning implied in the sarcasm.
“When Diana takes the field, the pursuit isn’t solely limited to wild creatures,” said Guy, giving a meaningful look at his companion. Flora didn't back down from either the look or the implications of the sarcasm.
“If I were looking for an Endymion, now,”—she said archly, as she playfully cantered over a few hounds and leaped a five-barred gate.
“If I were looking for a Endymion now,”—she said teasingly, as she playfully trotted over a few hounds and jumped a five-barred gate.
Guy whispered a few words, inaudible to the rest of the party, and curveting slightly, cleverly cleared two of the huntsmen in a flying leap, galloped up the front steps of the mansion, and, dashing at full speed through the hall, leaped through the drawing-room window and rejoined me, languidly, on the lawn.
Guy whispered a few words, barely heard by the rest of the group, and, bending slightly, skillfully jumped over two of the hunters in a flying leap, ran up the front steps of the mansion, and, sprinting at full speed through the hallway, jumped through the drawing-room window and casually rejoined me on the lawn.
“Be careful of Flora Billingsgate,” he said to me, in low stern tones, while his pitiless eye shot a baleful fire. “Gardez-vous!”
“Watch out for Flora Billingsgate,” he said to me in a low, serious tone, as his unforgiving gaze shot a warning glare. “Beware!”
“Gnothi seauton,” I replied calmly, not wishing to appear to be behind him in perception or verbal felicity.
“Know thyself,” I replied calmly, not wanting to seem less perceptive or articulate than he was.
Guy started off in high spirits. He was well carried. He and the first whip, a ten-stone man, were head and head at the last fence, while the hounds were rolling over their fox a hundred yards farther in the open.
Guy started off feeling really good. He was well-supported. He and the first whip, a 140-pound man, were neck and neck at the last fence, while the hounds were tackling their fox a hundred yards further out in the open.
But an unexpected circumstance occurred. Coming back, his chestnut mare refused a ten-foot wall. She reared and fell backward. Again he led her up to it lightly; again she refused, falling heavily from the coping. Guy started to his feet. The old pitiless fire shone in his eyes; the old stern look settled around his mouth. Seizing the mare by the tail and mane he threw her over the wall. She landed twenty feet on the other side, erect and trembling. Lightly leaping the same obstacle himself, he remounted her. She did not refuse the wall the next time.
But something unexpected happened. On the way back, his chestnut mare wouldn’t jump over a ten-foot wall. She reared up and fell backward. He calmly led her back to it; again she refused, crashing down from the edge. Guy sprang to his feet. The familiar harsh fire gleamed in his eyes; the usual serious expression set around his mouth. Grabbing the mare by her tail and mane, he threw her over the wall. She landed twenty feet on the other side, standing upright and shaking. He easily jumped over the same obstacle himself and got back in the saddle. She didn’t refuse the wall the next time.
CHAPTER IV
“He holds him by his glittering eye.”
“He holds him by his shining eye.”
Guy was in the north of Ireland, cock-shooting. So Ralph Mortmain told me, and also that the match between Mary Brandagee and Guy had been broken off by Flora Billingsgate. “I don’t like those Billingsgates,” said Ralph, “they’re a bad stock. Her father, Smithfield de Billingsgate, had an unpleasant way of turning up the knave from the bottom of the pack. But nous varrons; let us go and see Guy.”
Guy was in Northern Ireland, hunting birds. That’s what Ralph Mortmain told me, along with the news that the match between Mary Brandagee and Guy had been called off by Flora Billingsgate. “I can’t stand those Billingsgates,” Ralph said, “they’re not good people. Her dad, Smithfield de Billingsgate, had a knack for revealing the worst in people. But let’s not dwell on that; let’s go see Guy.”
The next morning we started for Fin-ma-Coul’s Crossing. When I reached the shooting-box, where Guy was entertaining a select company of friends, Flora Billingsgate greeted me with a saucy smile. Guy was even squarer and sterner than ever. His gusts of passion were more frequent, and it was with difficulty that he could keep an able-bodied servant in his family. His present retainers were more or less maimed from exposure to the fury of their master. There was a strange cynicism, a cutting sarcasm in his address, piercing through his polished manner. I thought of Timon, etc., etc.
The next morning we set out for Fin-ma-Coul’s Crossing. When I arrived at the shooting lodge, where Guy was hosting a select group of friends, Flora Billingsgate greeted me with a cheeky smile. Guy looked even more rigid and stern than usual. His fits of temper were happening more often, and it was tough for him to keep a fully capable servant in his household. His current staff were mostly injured from dealing with the wrath of their master. There was a strange cynicism and sharp sarcasm in his manner of speaking, cutting through his polished demeanor. I thought of Timon, etc., etc.
One evening, we were sitting over our Chambertin, after a hard day’s work, and Guy was listlessly turning over some letters, when suddenly he uttered a cry. Did you ever hear the trumpeting of a wounded elephant? It was like that.
One evening, we were sitting over our Chambertin after a long day at work, and Guy was absently shuffling through some letters when suddenly he let out a shout. Did you ever hear the sound of a wounded elephant? It was just like that.
I looked at him with consternation. He was glancing at a letter which he held at arm’s length, and snorting, as it were, at it as he gazed. The lower part of his face was stern, but not as rigid as usual. He was slowly grinding between his teeth the fragments of the glass he had just been drinking from.
I stared at him in confusion. He was holding a letter at arm's length, snorting at it as he looked. The lower half of his face was stern, but not as stone-faced as usual. He was slowly grinding the shards of glass he had just been drinking from between his teeth.
Suddenly he seized one of his servants, and forcing the wretch upon his knees, exclaimed, with the roar of a tiger,—
Suddenly, he grabbed one of his servants and forced the poor guy to his knees, shouting like a roaring tiger,—
“Dog! why was this kept from me?”
“Dog! Why was this hidden from me?”
“Why, please sir, Miss Flora said as how it was a reconciliation from Miss Brandagee, and it was to be kept from you where you would not be likely to see it,—and—and”—
“Why, please sir, Miss Flora said it was a reconciliation from Miss Brandagee, and it was to be kept from you where you wouldn’t be likely to see it,—and—and”—
“Speak, dog! and you”—
“Talk, dog! and you”—
“I put it among your bills, sir!”
“I put it with your bills, sir!”
With a groan, like distant thunder, Guy fell swooning to the floor.
With a groan, like distant thunder, Guy collapsed to the floor.
He soon recovered, for the next moment a servant came rushing into the room with the information that a number of the ingenuous peasantry of the neighborhood were about to indulge that evening in the national pastime of burning a farmhouse and shooting a landlord. Guy smiled a fearful smile, without, however, altering his stern and pitiless expression.
He quickly bounced back, because the next moment a servant rushed into the room with the news that some of the honest local farmers were planning to engage that evening in the national pastime of burning down a farmhouse and shooting a landlord. Guy smiled a nervous smile, but he didn’t change his stern and ruthless expression.
“Let them come,” he said calmly; “I feel like entertaining company.”
“Let them come,” he said coolly; “I’m in the mood for some company.”
We barricaded the doors and windows, and then chose our arms from the armory. Guy’s choice was a singular one: it was a landing-net with a long handle, and a sharp cavalry sabre.
We blocked the doors and windows, and then picked our weapons from the armory. Guy made a unique choice: a landing net with a long handle and a sharp cavalry saber.
We were not destined to remain long in ignorance of its use. A howl was heard from without, and a party of fifty or sixty armed men precipitated themselves against the door.
We weren't meant to stay in the dark about its use for long. A howl rang out from outside, and a group of fifty or sixty armed men rushed at the door.
Suddenly the window opened. With the rapidity of lightning, Guy Heavystone cast the net over the head of the ringleader, ejaculated “Habet!” and with a backstroke of his cavalry sabre severed the member from its trunk, and drawing the net back again, cast the gory head upon the floor, saying quietly,—
Suddenly, the window flew open. In a flash, Guy Heavystone threw the net over the ringleader's head, shouted “Gotcha!” and with a swift swing of his cavalry saber, cut off the head. Pulling the net back, he tossed the bloody head onto the floor, and calmly said,—
“One.”
“One.”
Again the net was cast, the steel flashed, the net was withdrawn, and an ominous “Two!” accompanied the head as it rolled on the floor.
Again the net was thrown, the steel shone, the net was pulled back, and a threatening “Two!” followed as the head tumbled to the ground.
“Do you remember what Pliny says of the gladiator?” said Guy, calmly wiping his sabre. “How graphic is that passage commencing ‘Inter nos,’ etc.” The sport continued until the heads of twenty desperadoes had been gathered in. The rest seemed inclined to disperse. Guy incautiously showed himself at the door; a ringing shot was heard, and he staggered back, pierced through the heart. Grasping the doorpost in the last unconscious throes of his mighty frame, the whole side of the house yielded to that earthquake tremor, and we had barely time to escape before the whole building fell in ruins. I thought of Samson, the giant judge, etc., etc.; but all was over.
“Do you remember what Pliny says about the gladiator?” Guy asked, casually wiping his sword. “How vivid is that passage starting with ‘Among us,’ etc.” The contest went on until the heads of twenty outlaws were collected. The rest seemed ready to leave. Guy carelessly showed himself at the door; a loud gunshot rang out, and he staggered back, shot through the heart. Gripping the door frame in the last unconscious convulsions of his powerful body, the whole side of the house shook, and we barely had time to get away before the entire building collapsed. I thought of Samson, the mighty judge, etc., etc.; but it was all over.
Guy Heavystone had died as he had lived,—hard.
Guy Heavystone had died as he had lived—hard.
JOHN JENKINS
CHAPTER I
“One cigar a day!” said Judge Boompointer.
“One cigar a day!” said Judge Boompointer.
“One cigar a day!” repeated John Jenkins, as with trepidation he dropped his half-consumed cigar under his work-bench.
“One cigar a day!” repeated John Jenkins, as he nervously dropped his half-eaten cigar under his workbench.
“One cigar a day is three cents a day,” remarked Judge Boompointer gravely; “and do you know, sir, what one cigar a day, or three cents a day, amounts to in the course of four years?”
“One cigar a day is three cents a day,” Judge Boompointer said seriously; “and do you know, sir, what one cigar a day, or three cents a day, adds up to over four years?”
John Jenkins, in his boyhood, had attended the village school, and possessed considerable arithmetical ability. Taking up a shingle which lay upon his work-bench, and producing a piece of chalk, with a feeling of conscious pride he made an exhaustive calculation.
John Jenkins, as a kid, went to the village school and had a strong talent for math. He picked up a shingle from his workbench and grabbed a piece of chalk, feeling proud as he made an extensive calculation.
“Exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents,” he replied, wiping the perspiration from his heated brow, while his face flushed with honest enthusiasm.
“Exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents,” he replied, wiping the sweat from his heated brow, while his face flushed with genuine enthusiasm.
“Well, sir, if you saved three cents a day, instead of wasting it, you would now be the possessor of a new suit of clothes, an illustrated Family Bible, a pew in the church, a complete set of Patent Office Reports, a hymnbook, and a paid subscription to ‘Arthur’s Home Magazine,’ which could be purchased for exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents; and,” added the Judge, with increasing sternness, “if you calculate leap-year, which you seem to have strangely omitted, you have three cents more, sir—three cents more! What would that buy you, sir?”
“Well, sir, if you had saved three cents a day instead of wasting it, you would now have a new suit of clothes, an illustrated Family Bible, a pew in the church, a full set of Patent Office Reports, a hymnbook, and a paid subscription to ‘Arthur’s Home Magazine,’ all of which you could buy for exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents; and,” the Judge added, growing more serious, “if you factor in leap year, which you seem to have oddly left out, you actually have three cents more, sir—three cents more! What could that buy you, sir?”
“A cigar,” suggested John Jenkins; but, coloring again deeply, he hid his face.
“A cigar,” suggested John Jenkins; but, blushing again, he hid his face.
“No, sir,” said the Judge, with a sweet smile of benevolence stealing over his stern features; “properly invested, it would buy you that which passeth all price. Dropped into the missionary-box, who can tell what heathen, now idly and joyously wantoning in nakedness and sin, might be brought to a sense of his miserable condition, and made, through that three cents, to feel the torments of the wicked?”
“No, sir,” the Judge said, his stern face softening with a kind smile. “If invested wisely, it could buy you something priceless. If dropped into the missionary box, who knows what person, currently living in sin and ignorance, could be brought to realize their unfortunate state and, through those three cents, begin to feel the struggles of the damned?”
With these words the Judge retired, leaving John Jenkins buried in profound thought. “Three cents a day,” he muttered. “In forty years I might be worth four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and ten cents,—and then I might marry Mary. Ah, Mary!” The young carpenter sighed, and drawing a twenty-five cent daguerreotype from his vest-pocket, gazed long and fervidly upon the features of a young girl in book muslin and a coral necklace. Then, with a resolute expression, he carefully locked the door of his work-shop, and departed.
With those words, the Judge left, leaving John Jenkins deep in thought. “Three cents a day,” he mumbled. “In forty years, I could have four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and ten cents—and then I could marry Mary. Ah, Mary!” The young carpenter sighed and took out a twenty-five cent daguerreotype from his vest pocket, staring intently at the picture of a young girl in a book muslin dress and a coral necklace. Then, with a determined look, he locked the door of his workshop and left.
Alas! his good resolutions were too late. We trifle with the tide of fortune, which too often nips us in the bud and casts the dark shadow of misfortune over the bright lexicon of youth! That night the half-consumed fragment of John Jenkins’s cigar set fire to his work-shop and burned it up, together with all his tools and materials. There was no insurance.
Unfortunately, his good intentions came too late. We often play with the flow of fate, which too frequently stifles our potential and casts a dark shadow of misfortune over the vibrant vocabulary of youth! That night, the half-burned remains of John Jenkins’s cigar ignited his workshop and destroyed it, along with all his tools and materials. There was no insurance.
CHAPTER II
“Then you still persist in marrying John Jenkins?” queried Judge Boompointer, as he playfully, with paternal familiarity, lifted the golden curls of the village belle, Mary Jones.
“Then you still intend to marry John Jenkins?” asked Judge Boompointer, as he playfully, with a familiar touch, lifted the golden curls of the village beauty, Mary Jones.
“I do,” replied the fair young girl, in a low voice that resembled rock candy in its saccharine firmness,—“I do. He has promised to reform. Since he lost all his property by fire”—
“I do,” replied the young girl, in a low voice that had the sweet firmness of rock candy, “I do. He has promised to change. Ever since he lost all his belongings in the fire”—
“The result of his pernicious habit, though he illogically persists in charging it to me,” interrupted the Judge.
“The result of his harmful habit, even though he irrationally keeps blaming me for it,” interrupted the Judge.
“Since then,” continued the young girl, “he has endeavored to break himself of the habit. He tells me that he has substituted the stalks of the Indian rattan, the outer part of a leguminous plant called the smoking-bean, and the fragmentary and unconsumed remainder of cigars, which occur at rare and uncertain intervals along the road, which, as he informs me, though deficient in quality and strength, are comparatively inexpensive.” And blushing at her own eloquence, the young girl hid her curls on the Judge’s arm.
“Since then,” the young girl continued, “he’s tried to break the habit. He tells me he’s replaced it with the stalks of Indian rattan, the outer part of a leguminous plant called the smoking-bean, and the broken and unused bits of cigars that occasionally show up along the road, which, he says, even though they lack quality and strength, are pretty cheap.” Blushing at her own eloquence, the young girl tucked her curls against the Judge’s arm.
“Poor thing!” muttered Judge Boompointer. “Dare I tell her all? Yet I must.”
“Poor thing!” muttered Judge Boompointer. “Should I tell her everything? But I have to.”
“I shall cling to him,” continued the young girl, rising with her theme, “as the young vine clings to some hoary ruin. Nay, nay, chide me not, Judge Boompointer. I will marry John Jenkins!”
“I will hold onto him,” the young girl continued, standing up with her point, “like a young vine clings to an old ruin. No, no, don’t scold me, Judge Boompointer. I’m going to marry John Jenkins!”
The Judge was evidently affected. Seating himself at the table, he wrote a few lines hurriedly upon a piece of paper, which he folded and placed in the fingers of the destined bride of John Jenkins.
The Judge was clearly emotional. He sat down at the table and quickly wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, which he folded and placed in the hands of John Jenkins' intended bride.
“Mary Jones,” said the Judge, with impressive earnestness, “take this trifle as a wedding gift from one who respects your fidelity and truthfulness. At the altar let it be a reminder of me.” And covering his face hastily with a handkerchief, the stern and iron-willed man left the room. As the door closed, Mary unfolded the paper. It was an order on the corner grocery for three yards of flannel, a paper of needles, four pounds of soap, one pound of starch, and two boxes of matches!
“Mary Jones,” the Judge said earnestly, “take this small gift as a wedding present from someone who respects your loyalty and honesty. Let it remind you of me at the altar.” Then, quickly covering his face with a handkerchief, the stern and strong-willed man left the room. As the door closed, Mary unfolded the paper. It was an order from the corner grocery for three yards of flannel, a packet of needles, four pounds of soap, one pound of starch, and two boxes of matches!
“Noble and thoughtful man!” was all Mary Jones could exclaim, as she hid her face in her hands and burst into a flood of tears.
“Noble and thoughtful man!” was all Mary Jones could say, as she covered her face with her hands and broke down in tears.
The bells of Cloverdale are ringing merrily. It is a wedding. “How beautiful they look!” is the exclamation that passes from lip to lip, as Mary Jones, leaning timidly on the arm of John Jenkins, enters the church. But the bride is agitated, and the bridegroom betrays a feverish nervousness. As they stand in the vestibule, John Jenkins fumbles earnestly in his vest-pocket. Can it be the ring he is anxious about? No. He draws a small brown substance from his pocket, and biting off a piece, hastily replaces the fragment and gazes furtively around. Surely no one saw him? Alas! the eyes of two of that wedding party saw the fatal act. Judge Boompointer shook his head sternly. Mary Jones sighed and breathed a silent prayer. Her husband chewed!
The bells of Cloverdale are ringing joyfully. It’s a wedding. “They look so beautiful!” is the remark that travels from person to person as Mary Jones, shyly leaning on John Jenkins’ arm, walks into the church. But the bride is nervous, and the groom shows a restless anxiety. As they stand in the foyer, John Jenkins fiddles earnestly in his vest pocket. Could he be worried about the ring? No. He pulls out a small brown substance from his pocket, bites off a piece, quickly puts the rest back, and glances around nervously. Surely no one saw him? Unfortunately, two people in the wedding party witnessed the act. Judge Boompointer shook his head disapprovingly. Mary Jones sighed and whispered a silent prayer. Her husband was chewing!
CHAPTER III AND LAST
“What! more bread?” said John Jenkins gruffly. “You’re always asking for money for bread. D—nation! Do you want to ruin me by your extravagance?” and as he uttered these words he drew from his pocket a bottle of whiskey, a pipe, and a paper of tobacco. Emptying the first at a draught, he threw the empty bottle at the head of his eldest boy, a youth of twelve summers. The missile struck the child full in the temple, and stretched him a lifeless corpse. Mrs. Jenkins, whom the reader will hardly recognize as the once gay and beautiful Mary Jones, raised the dead body of her son in her arms, and carefully placing the unfortunate youth beside the pump in the back yard, returned with saddened step to the house. At another time, and in brighter days, she might have wept at the occurrence. She was past tears now.
“What! More bread?” John Jenkins said gruffly. “You’re always asking for money for bread. Damn it! Do you want to ruin me with your spending?” As he said this, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey, a pipe, and a pack of tobacco from his pocket. He gulped down the whiskey in one go and then threw the empty bottle at his eldest son, a twelve-year-old. The bottle hit the boy square in the temple, and he fell to the ground lifeless. Mrs. Jenkins, who you might hardly recognize as the once cheerful and beautiful Mary Jones, picked up her son’s body and carefully placed the unfortunate boy beside the pump in the backyard, then walked back to the house with a heavy heart. In another time, during happier days, she might have cried over what happened. But she was past tears now.
“Father, your conduct is reprehensible!” said little Harrison Jenkins, the youngest boy. “Where do you expect to go when you die?”
“Dad, your behavior is unacceptable!” said little Harrison Jenkins, the youngest boy. “Where do you think you’ll go when you die?”
“Ah!” said John Jenkins fiercely; “this comes of giving children a liberal education; this is the result of Sabbath-schools. Down, viper!”
“Ah!” John Jenkins said fiercely, “this is what happens when you give kids a good education; this is the outcome of Sunday schools. Get lost, you snake!”
A tumbler thrown from the same parental fist laid out the youthful Harrison cold. The four other children had, in the mean time, gathered around the table with anxious expectancy. With a chuckle, the now changed and brutal John Jenkins produced four pipes, and filling them with tobacco, handed one to each of his offspring and bade them smoke. “It’s better than bread!” laughed the wretch hoarsely.
A tumbler thrown from the same parental arm knocked the young Harrison out cold. Meanwhile, the four other kids had gathered around the table with nervous anticipation. With a chuckle, the now rough and cruel John Jenkins took out four pipes, filled them with tobacco, and handed one to each of his children, telling them to smoke. “It’s better than bread!” the miserable man laughed hoarsely.
Mary Jenkins, though of a patient nature, felt it her duty now to speak. “I have borne much, John Jenkins,” she said. “But I prefer that the children should not smoke. It is an unclean habit, and soils their clothes. I ask this as a special favor!”
Mary Jenkins, despite being patient, felt it was her duty to speak up now. “I've put up with a lot, John Jenkins,” she said. “But I’d rather the kids not smoke. It’s a dirty habit and stains their clothes. I'm asking this as a special favor!”
John Jenkins hesitated,—the pangs of remorse began to seize him.
John Jenkins hesitated—the feelings of regret started to take hold of him.
“Promise me this, John!” urged Mary upon her knees.
“Promise me this, John!” Mary begged as she knelt down.
“I promise!” reluctantly answered John.
"I promise!" John answered reluctantly.
“And you will put the money in a savings-bank?”
“And you’re going to put the money in a savings account?”
“I will,” repeated her husband; “and I’ll give up smoking, too.”
“I will,” her husband repeated, “and I’ll quit smoking, too.”
“’Tis well, John Jenkins!” said Judge Boompointer, appearing suddenly from behind the door, where he had been concealed during this interview. “Nobly said! my man. Cheer up! I will see that the children are decently buried.” The husband and wife fell into each other’s arms. And Judge Boompointer, gazing upon the affecting spectacle, burst into tears.
“It's good, John Jenkins!” said Judge Boompointer, suddenly appearing from behind the door, where he had been hiding during this conversation. “Well said, my man. Stay positive! I will make sure the children are buried properly.” The husband and wife embraced each other. And Judge Boompointer, looking at the emotional scene, started to cry.
From that day John Jenkins was an altered man.
From that day on, John Jenkins was a changed man.
FANTINE
PROLOGUE
To be good is to be queer. What is a good man? Bishop Myriel.
To be good is to be different. What does it mean to be a good man? Bishop Myriel.
My friend, you will possibly object to this. You will say you know what a good man is. Perhaps you will say your clergyman is a good man, for instance. Bah! you are mistaken; you are an Englishman, and an Englishman is a beast.
My friend, you might disagree with this. You might say you know what a good man is. Maybe you'll point out that your clergyman is a good man, for example. Nonsense! You're wrong; you're English, and an Englishman is a beast.
Englishmen think they are moral when they are only serious. These Englishmen also wear ill-shaped hats, and dress horribly!
English people believe they are being moral when they are just being serious. These English people also wear poorly shaped hats and have terrible fashion sense!
Bah! they are canaille.
Bah! they are scum.
Still, Bishop Myriel was a good man,—quite as good as you. Better than you, in fact.
Still, Bishop Myriel was a good man—just as good as you. Even better than you, in fact.
One day M. Myriel was in Paris. This angel used to walk about the streets like any other man. He was not proud, though fine-looking. Well, three gamins de Paris called him bad names. Says one,—
One day M. Myriel was in Paris. This angel used to walk around the streets like any other man. He wasn't arrogant, even though he looked good. So, three street kids from Paris called him names. One of them said,—
“Ah, mon Dieu! there goes a priest; look out for your eggs and chickens!” What did this good man do? He called to them kindly.
“Ah, my God! There goes a priest; watch your eggs and chickens!” What did this good man do? He called to them kindly.
“My children,” said he, “this is clearly not your fault. I recognize in this insult and irreverence only the fault of your immediate progenitors. Let us pray for your immediate progenitors.”
“My children,” he said, “this is obviously not your fault. I see in this insult and disrespect only the fault of your immediate parents. Let’s pray for your immediate parents.”
They knelt down and prayed for their immediate progenitors.
They knelt down and prayed for their ancestors.
The effect was touching.
The effect was moving.
The Bishop looked calmly around.
The Bishop glanced around calmly.
“On reflection,” said he gravely, “I was mistaken; this is clearly the fault of Society. Let us pray for Society.”
“Looking back,” he said seriously, “I realize I was wrong; this is definitely Society’s fault. Let’s pray for Society.”
They knelt down and prayed for Society.
They knelt down and prayed for the community.
The effect was sublimer yet. What do you think of that? You, I mean.
The effect was even more amazing. What do you think about that? I mean you.
Everybody remembers the story of the Bishop and Mother Nez Retrousse. Old Mother Nez Retrousse sold asparagus. She was poor; there’s a great deal of meaning in that word, my friend. Some people say “poor but honest.” I say, Bah!
Everybody remembers the story of the Bishop and Mother Nez Retrousse. Old Mother Nez Retrousse sold asparagus. She was poor; there’s a lot of weight in that word, my friend. Some people say “poor but honest.” I say, Bah!
Bishop Myriel bought six bunches of asparagus. This good man had one charming failing: he was fond of asparagus. He gave her a franc, and received three sous change.
Bishop Myriel bought six bunches of asparagus. This kind man had one delightful quirk: he loved asparagus. He gave her a franc and got three sous back in change.
The sous were bad,—counterfeit. What did this good Bishop do? He said: “I should not have taken change from a poor woman.”
The coins were fake. What did this good Bishop do? He said, “I shouldn’t have accepted change from a poor woman.”
Then afterwards, to his housekeeper: “Never take change from a poor woman.”
Then later, to his housekeeper: “Never take change from a poor woman.”
Then he added to himself: “For the sous will probably be bad.”
Then he thought to himself, “The coin will probably be bad.”
II
When a man commits a crime, Society claps him in prison. A prison is one of the worst hotels imaginable.
When a man commits a crime, society locks him up in prison. A prison is one of the worst hotels you can imagine.
The people there are low and vulgar. The butter is bad, the coffee is green. Ah, it is horrible!
The people there are crude and uncouth. The butter is terrible, the coffee is bad. Ah, it's awful!
In prison, as in a bad hotel, a man soon loses, not only his morals, but what is much worse to a Frenchman, his sense of refinement and delicacy.
In prison, just like in a terrible hotel, a man quickly loses not only his morals but, even worse for a Frenchman, his sense of refinement and delicacy.
Jean Valjean came from prison with confused notions of Society. He forgot the modern peculiarities of hospitality. So he walked off with the Bishop’s candlesticks.
Jean Valjean came out of prison with a jumbled understanding of society. He overlooked the current norms of hospitality. So, he took the Bishop’s candlesticks.
Let us consider. Candlesticks were stolen; that was evident. Society put Jean Valjean in prison; that was evident, too. In prison, Society took away his refinement; that is evident, likewise.
Let’s think about it. Candlesticks were stolen; that was clear. Society put Jean Valjean in prison; that was clear, too. In prison, Society took away his refinement; that’s clear as well.
Who is Society?
Who is society?
You and I are Society.
You and I are society.
My friend, you and I stole those candlesticks!
My friend, you and I took those candlesticks!
III
The Bishop thought so, too. He meditated profoundly for six days. On the morning of the seventh he went to the Prefecture of Police.
The Bishop thought so as well. He reflected deeply for six days. On the morning of the seventh day, he went to the Police Headquarters.
He said: “Monsieur, have me arrested. I have stolen candlesticks.”
He said, “Sir, arrest me. I stole some candlesticks.”
The official was governed by the law of Society, and refused.
The official was bound by the rules of Society, and declined.
What did this Bishop do?
What did this bishop do?
He had a charming ball and chain made, affixed to his leg, and wore it the rest of his life. This is a fact!
He had a charming ball and chain made, attached to his leg, and wore it for the rest of his life. This is a fact!
IV
Love is a mystery.
Love is a puzzle.
A little friend of mine down in the country, at Auvergne, said to me one day: “Victor, Love is the world,—it contains everything.”
A little friend of mine from the countryside in Auvergne told me one day, “Victor, Love is everything in the world.”
She was only sixteen, this sharp-witted little girl, and a beautiful blonde. She thought everything of me.
She was only sixteen, this smart little girl, and a beautiful blonde. She thought the world of me.
Fantine was one of those women who do wrong in the most virtuous and touching manner. This is a peculiarity of French grisettes.
Fantine was one of those women who do wrong in the most virtuous and touching way. This is a unique trait of French grisettes.
You are an Englishman, and you don’t understand. Learn, my friend, learn. Come to Paris and improve your morals.
You’re an Englishman, and you don’t get it. Learn, my friend, learn. Come to Paris and better your morals.
Fantine was the soul of modesty. She always wore high-neck dresses. High-neck dresses are a sign of modesty.
Fantine embodied modesty. She always wore high-neck dresses. High-neck dresses are a sign of modesty.
Fantine loved Tholmoyes. Why? My God! What are you to do? It was the fault of her parents, and she hadn’t any. How shall you teach her? You must teach the parent if you wish to educate the child. How would you become virtuous?
Fantine loved Tholmoyes. Why? Oh my God! What can you do? It was her parents' fault, and she didn’t have any. How do you teach her? You have to educate the parent if you want to raise the child right. How do you become virtuous?
Teach your grandmother!
Teach your grandma!
V
When Tholmoyes ran away from Fantine,—which was done in a charming, gentlemanly manner,—Fantine became convinced that a rigid sense of propriety might look upon her conduct as immoral. She was a creature of sensitiveness,—and her eyes were opened.
When Tholmoyes left Fantine—in a way that seemed rather gentlemanly—Fantine started to believe that a strict sense of propriety might see her actions as immoral. She was a sensitive person—and she began to realize the truth.
She was virtuous still, and resolved to break off the liaison at once.
She was still virtuous and decided to end the relationship immediately.
So she put up her wardrobe and baby in a bundle, child as she was, she loved them both,—then left Paris.
So she packed her wardrobe and baby in a bundle, and even though she was still a child, she loved them both—then she left Paris.
VI
Fantine’s native place had changed.
Fantine's hometown had changed.
M. Madeline—an angel, and inventor of jet-work—had been teaching the villagers how to make spurious jet.
M. Madeline—an angel and inventor of jet work—had been teaching the villagers how to make fake jet.
This is a progressive age. Those Americans—children of the West,—they make nutmegs out of wood.
This is a modern age. Those Americans—kids from the West—they make wooden nutmeg.
I, myself, have seen hams made of pine, in the wigwams of those children of the forest.
I have seen hams made of pine in the dwellings of those children of the forest.
But civilization has acquired deception too. Society is made up of deception. Even the best French society.
But civilization has also learned to deceive. Society is built on deception, even in the best French society.
Still there was one sincere episode.
Still, there was one genuine moment.
Eh?
Huh?
The French Revolution!
The French Revolution!
VII
M. Madeline was, if anything, better than Myriel.
M. Madeline was, if anything, better than Myriel.
M. Myriel was a saint. M. Madeline a good man.
M. Myriel was a saint. M. Madeline was a good man.
M. Myriel was dead. M. Madeline was living.
M. Myriel was dead. M. Madeline was alive.
That made all the difference.
That changed everything.
M. Madeline made virtue profitable. I have seen it written,—
M. Madeline made goodness rewarding. I've seen it written,—
“Be virtuous and you will be happy.”
“Be good, and you’ll be happy.”
Where did I see this written? In the modern Bible? No. In the Koran? No. In Rousseau? No. Diderot? No. Where then?
Where did I see this written? In the modern Bible? No. In the Quran? No. In Rousseau? No. Diderot? No. Where then?
In a copy-book.
In a notebook.
VIII
M. Madeline was M. le Maire.
M. Madeline was the mayor.
This is how it came about.
This is how it went down.
For a long time he refused the honor. One day an old woman, standing on the steps, said,—
For a long time, he turned down the honor. One day, an old woman, standing on the steps, said,—
“Bah, a good mayor is a good thing.
"Ugh, a good mayor is definitely a good thing."
“You are a good thing.
"You’re a good thing."
“Be a good mayor.”
"Be a great mayor."
This woman was a rhetorician. She understood inductive ratiocination.
This woman was a skilled speaker. She understood logical reasoning.
IX
When this good M. Madeline, who, the reader will perceive, must have been a former convict, and a very bad man, gave himself up to justice as the real Jean Valjean, about this same time, Fantine was turned away from the manufactory, and met with a number of losses from Society. Society attacked her, and this is what she lost:—
When this good M. Madeline, who the reader will notice must have been a former convict and a really bad man, surrendered to justice as the real Jean Valjean, around the same time, Fantine was fired from the factory and faced several setbacks from Society. Society turned against her, and this is what she lost:—
First her lover.
First, her partner.
Then her child.
Then her kid.
Then her place.
Then her spot.
Then her hair.
Then her hair.
Then her teeth.
Then her smile.
Then her liberty.
Then her freedom.
Then her life.
Then her life.
What do you think of Society after that? I tell you the present social system is a humbug.
What do you think of society after that? I’m telling you, the current social system is a joke.
X
This is necessarily the end of Fantine.
This is definitely the end of Fantine.
There are other things that will be stated in other volumes to follow. Don’t be alarmed; there are plenty of miserable people left.
There are other things that will be mentioned in the upcoming volumes. Don’t worry; there are plenty of unhappy people left.
Au revoir—my friend.
Goodbye—my friend.
“LA FEMME”
I WOMEN AS AN INSTITUTION
I Women as an Institution
“If it were not for women, few of us would at present be in existence.” This is the remark of a cautious and discreet writer. He was also sagacious and intelligent.
“If it weren't for women, not many of us would be here today.” This is the statement of a careful and reserved writer. He was also wise and perceptive.
Woman! Look upon her and admire her. Gaze upon her and love her. If she wishes to embrace you, permit her. Remember she is weak and you are strong.
Woman! Look at her and admire her. Gaze at her and love her. If she wants to embrace you, let her. Remember, she is vulnerable and you are powerful.
But don’t treat her unkindly. Don’t make love to another woman before her face, even if she be your wife. Don’t do it. Always be polite, even should she fancy somebody better than you.
But don’t treat her badly. Don’t sleep with another woman in front of her, even if she’s your wife. Don’t do it. Always be respectful, even if she thinks someone is better than you.
If your mother, my dear Amadis, had not fancied your father better than somebody, you might have been that somebody’s son. Consider this. Always be a philosopher, even about women.
If your mom, my dear Amadis, hadn't thought your dad was better than someone else, you could have been that someone's son. Think about it. Always be a philosopher, even when it comes to women.
Few men understand women. Frenchmen, perhaps, better than any one else. I am a Frenchman.
Few men understand women. Frenchmen, maybe, understand them better than anyone else. I am a Frenchman.
II
She is a child—a little thing—an infant.
She is a child—a tiny thing—an infant.
She has a mother and father. Let us suppose, for example, they are married. Let us be moral if we cannot be happy and free—they are married—perhaps—they love one another—who knows?
She has a mom and dad. Let's say, for example, they're married. Let's be good people even if we can't be happy and free—they're married—maybe—they love each other—who knows?
But she knows nothing of this; she is an infant—a small thing—a trifle!
But she knows nothing of this; she is a baby—a tiny thing—a little nothing!
She is not lovely at first. It is cruel, perhaps, but she is red, and positively ugly. She feels this keenly, and cries. She weeps. Ah, my God, how she weeps! Her cries and lamentations now are really distressing.
She isn't beautiful at first. It might be harsh, but she’s red and definitely unattractive. She feels this deeply and cries. She sobs. Oh my God, how she sobs! Her cries and wails are truly heartbreaking now.
Tears stream from her in floods. She feels deeply and copiously, like M. Alphonse de Lamartine in his “Confessions.”
Tears flow from her in torrents. She feels intensely and abundantly, like M. Alphonse de Lamartine in his “Confessions.”
If you are her mother, Madame, you will fancy worms; you will examine her linen for pins, and what not. Ah, hypocrite! you, even you, misunderstand her.
If you are her mother, ma'am, you will check for worms; you'll look through her linens for pins and other things. Oh, hypocrite! You, even you, misunderstand her.
Yet she has charming natural impulses. See how she tosses her dimpled arms. She looks longingly at her mother. She has a language of her own. She says, “goo, goo,” and “ga, ga.” She demands something—this infant!
Yet she has delightful natural instincts. Look at how she throws her dimpled arms around. She gazes longingly at her mother. She has her own way of communicating. She says, “goo, goo,” and “ga, ga.” She’s demanding something—this little baby!
She is faint, poor thing. She famishes. She wishes to be restored. Restore her, Mother! It is the first duty of a mother to restore her child!
She is weak, poor thing. She is starving. She wants to be helped. Help her, Mom! It’s a mother’s first duty to help her child!
III
She is hardly able to walk; she already totters under the weight of a doll.
She can barely walk; she already wobbles under the weight of a doll.
It is a charming and elegant affair. It has pink cheeks and purple-black hair. She prefers brunettes, for she has already, with the quick knowledge of a French infant, perceived she is a blonde, and that her doll cannot rival her. Mon Dieu, how touching! Happy child! She spends hours in preparing its toilet. She begins to show her taste in the exquisite details of its dress. She loves it madly, devotedly. She will prefer it to bonbons. She already anticipates the wealth of love she will hereafter pour out on her lover, her mother, her father, and finally, perhaps, her husband.
It’s a charming and elegant situation. She has pink cheeks and dark purple-black hair. She likes brunettes because she has quickly figured out, like a French child, that she is a blonde and that her doll can't compete with her. Oh my, how touching! Happy child! She spends hours getting its outfit ready. She’s starting to express her taste in the beautiful details of its dress. She loves it intensely and devotedly. She would choose it over candy. She’s already looking forward to the love she will someday shower on her partner, her mother, her father, and maybe, eventually, her husband.
This is the time the anxious parent will guide these first outpourings. She will read her extracts from Michelet’s “L’Amour,” Rousseau’s “Heloise,” and the “Revue des deux Mondes.”
This is the moment when the worried parent will direct these initial expressions. She will share her excerpts from Michelet’s “L’Amour,” Rousseau’s “Heloise,” and the “Revue des deux Mondes.”
IV
She was in tears to-day.
She was crying today.
She had stolen away from her bonne and was with some rustic infants. They had noses in the air, and large, coarse hands and feet.
She had slipped away from her caregiver and was with some country kids. They had their noses in the air and big, rough hands and feet.
They had seated themselves around a pool in the road, and were fashioning fantastic shapes in the clayey soil with their hands. Her throat swelled and her eyes sparkled with delight as, for the first time, her soft palms touched the plastic mud. She made a graceful and lovely pie. She stuffed it with stones for almonds and plums. She forgot everything. It was being baked in the solar rays, when madame came and took her away.
They had gathered around a puddle in the road, shaping imaginative forms in the muddy soil with their hands. Her throat swelled and her eyes sparkled with joy as, for the first time, her delicate palms touched the malleable mud. She created a beautiful and elegant pie, filling it with stones for almonds and plums. She forgot everything else. It was baking in the sunlight when madame came and took her away.
She weeps. It is night, and she is weeping still.
She cries. It's night, and she's still crying.
V
She no longer doubts her beauty. She is loved.
She no longer doubts her beauty. She is loved.
She saw him secretly. He is vivacious and sprightly. He is famous. He has already had an affair with Finfin, the fille de chambre, and poor Finfin is desolate. He is noble. She knows he is the son of Madame la Baronne Couturiere. She adores him.
She saw him in secret. He’s lively and energetic. He’s famous. He’s already had an affair with Finfin, the maid, and poor Finfin is heartbroken. He’s noble. She knows he’s the son of Madame la Baronne Couturiere. She adores him.
She affects not to notice him. Poor little thing! Hippolyte is distracted—annihilated—inconsolable and charming.
She pretends not to notice him. Poor thing! Hippolyte is upset—devastated—heartbroken and adorable.
She admires his boots, his cravat, his little gloves—his exquisite pantaloons—his coat, and cane.
She admires his boots, his tie, his little gloves—his stylish pants—his coat, and cane.
She offers to run away with him. He is transported, but magnanimous. He is wearied, perhaps. She sees him the next day offering flowers to the daughter of Madame la Comtesse Blanchisseuse.
She suggests they run away together. He feels overwhelmed but generous. He seems tired, maybe. The next day, she sees him giving flowers to Madame la Comtesse Blanchisseuse's daughter.
She is again in tears.
She's crying again.
She reads “Paul et Virginie.” She is secretly transported. When she reads how the exemplary young woman laid down her life rather than appear en deshabille to her lover, she weeps again. Tasteful and virtuous Bernardin de Saint-Pierre!—the daughters of France admire you!
She reads “Paul and Virginie.” She is secretly captivated. When she reads about how the exemplary young woman sacrificed her life rather than appear undressed to her lover, she cries again. Tasteful and virtuous Bernardin de Saint-Pierre!—the daughters of France admire you!
All this time her doll is headless in the cabinet. The mud pie is broken on the road.
All this time her doll is missing its head in the cabinet. The mud pie is smashed on the road.
VI
She is tired of loving, and she marries.
She’s exhausted from love, so she gets married.
Her mother thinks it, on the whole, the best thing. As the day approaches, she is found frequently in tears. Her mother will not permit the affianced one to see her, and he makes several attempts to commit suicide.
Her mother believes it's, overall, the best decision. As the day gets closer, she often finds herself in tears. Her mother won't let the fiancé see her, and he makes several attempts to take his own life.
But something happens. Perhaps it is winter, and the water is cold. Perhaps there are not enough people present to witness his heroism.
But something happens. Maybe it’s winter, and the water is cold. Maybe there aren’t enough people around to see his bravery.
In this way her future husband is spared to her. The ways of Providence are indeed mysterious. At this time her mother will talk with her. She will offer philosophy. She will tell her she was married herself.
In this way, her future husband is saved for her. The ways of Providence are truly mysterious. At this moment, her mother will talk to her. She will share her thoughts on life. She will tell her that she was married herself.
But what is this new and ravishing light that breaks upon her? The toilet and wedding clothes! She is in a new sphere.
But what is this new and amazing light that shines on her? The bathroom and wedding outfit! She is in a whole new world.
She makes out her list in her own charming writing. Here it is. Let every mother heed it. [Footnote: The delicate reader will appreciate the omission of certain articles for which English synonyms are forbidden.]
She writes out her list in her own lovely handwriting. Here it is. Let every mother take note of it. [Footnote: The sensitive reader will understand the exclusion of certain words for which English alternatives are not allowed.]
She is married. On the day after, she meets her old lover, Hippolyte. He is again transported.
She is married. The next day, she runs into her old lover, Hippolyte. He is once again taken aback.
VII
A Frenchwoman never grows old.
A French woman never ages.
THE DWELLER OF THE THRESHOLD
BOOK I THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL
BOOK I THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL
It was noon. Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham, and was proceeding on foot down the Strand. He was dressed with his usual faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated soil, which instantly appeared on his high arched instep, marred the harmonious glitter of his boots. Sir Edward was fastidious. Casting his eyes around, at a little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful bootblack. Thither he sauntered, and carelessly placing his foot on the low stool, he waited the application of the polisher’s art. “’Tis true,” said Sir Edward to himself, yet half aloud, “the contact of the Foul and the Disgusting mars the general effect of the Shiny and the Beautiful—and, yet, why am I here? I repeat it, calmly and deliberately—why am I here? Ha! Boy!”
It was noon. Sir Edward had gotten out of his carriage and was walking down the Strand. He was dressed impeccably as usual, but when he stepped out of his vehicle, his foot slipped, and a small round spot of dirt appeared on his well-arched instep, ruining the polished look of his boots. Sir Edward was particular about his appearance. Looking around, he noticed a young bootblack standing a short distance away. He strolled over and casually placed his foot on the low stool, waiting for the boy to clean his shoes. “It’s true,” Sir Edward said to himself, almost out loud, “the contact of the dirty and the unpleasant spoils the overall impression of the shiny and the beautiful—and yet, why am I here? I ask again, calmly and deliberately—why am I here? Ha! Boy!”
The Boy looked up—his dark Italian eyes glanced intelligently at the Philosopher, and as with one hand he tossed back his glossy curls from his marble brow, and with the other he spread the equally glossy Day & Martin over the Baronet’s boot, he answered in deep, rich tones: “The Ideal is subjective to the Real. The exercise of apperception gives a distinctiveness to idiocracy, which is, however, subject to the limits of ME. You are an admirer of the Beautiful, sir. You wish your boots blacked. The Beautiful is attainable by means of the Coin.”
The Boy looked up—his dark Italian eyes glanced smartly at the Philosopher, and as he tossed back his shiny curls from his smooth forehead with one hand, he used the other to spread the equally shiny Day & Martin on the Baronet’s boot. He replied in deep, rich tones: “The Ideal is based on the Real. The act of understanding gives a uniqueness to foolishness, which is, however, limited by ME. You appreciate Beauty, sir. You want your boots polished. Beauty can be achieved with Money.”
“Ah,” said Sir Edward thoughtfully, gazing upon the almost supernal beauty of the Child before him; “you speak well. You have read Kant.”
“Ah,” said Sir Edward thoughtfully, looking at the almost heavenly beauty of the Child in front of him; “you express yourself well. You’ve read Kant.”
The Boy blushed deeply. He drew a copy of Kant from his blouse, but in his confusion several other volumes dropped from his bosom on the ground. The Baronet picked them up.
The boy turned red. He pulled out a copy of Kant from his shirt, but in his confusion, several other books fell out onto the ground. The baronet picked them up.
“Ah!” said the Philosopher, “what’s this? Cicero’s ‘De Sonertute,’—at your age, too! Martial’s ‘Epigrams,’ Caesar’s ‘Commentaries.’ What! a classical scholar?”
“Ah!” said the Philosopher, “what’s this? Cicero’s ‘On Friendship’—at your age, too! Martial’s ‘Epigrams,’ Caesar’s ‘Commentaries.’ What! a classical scholar?”
“E pluribus Unum. Nux vomica. Nil desperandum. Nihil fit!” said the Boy enthusiastically. The Philosopher gazed at the Child. A strange presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. Over the brow of the Boy glittered the pale nimbus of the Student.
“Out of many, one. Nux vomica. Don’t despair. Nothing happens!” said the Boy enthusiastically. The Philosopher looked at the Child. A strange energy seemed to flow through him. Above the Boy’s forehead shimmered the faint glow of the Student.
“Ah, and Schiller’s ‘Robbers,’ too?” queried the Philosopher.
“Ah, and Schiller’s ‘Robbers’ as well?” asked the Philosopher.
“Das ist ausgespielt,” said the Boy modestly.
“That's played out,” said the Boy modestly.
“Then you have read my translation of Schiller’s ‘Ballads’?” continued the Baronet, with some show of interest.
“Then you’ve read my translation of Schiller’s ‘Ballads’?” the Baronet asked, sounding somewhat interested.
“I have, and infinitely prefer them to the original,” said the Boy, with intellectual warmth. “You have shown how in Actual life we strive for a Goal we cannot reach; how in the Ideal the Goal is attainable, and there effort is victory. You have given us the Antithesis which is a key to the Remainder, and constantly balances before us the conditions of the Actual and the privileges of the Ideal.”
“I have, and I much prefer them to the original,” said the Boy, with enthusiasm. “You’ve shown how in real life we aim for a goal we can’t reach; how in the ideal, the goal is achievable, and there, effort equals victory. You’ve provided the contrast that helps us understand the rest, and it constantly reminds us of the realities of the actual versus the benefits of the ideal.”
“My very words,” said the Baronet; “wonderful, wonderful!” and he gazed fondly at the Italian boy, who again resumed his menial employment. Alas! the wings of the Ideal were folded. The Student had been absorbed in the Boy.
“My very words,” said the Baronet; “amazing, amazing!” and he looked affectionately at the Italian boy, who went back to his work. Unfortunately, the wings of the Ideal were closed. The Student had been focused on the Boy.
But Sir Edward’s boots were blacked, and he turned to depart. Placing his hand upon the clustering tendrils that surrounded the classic nob of the infant Italian, he said softly, like a strain of distant music,—
But Sir Edward’s boots were polished, and he turned to leave. He placed his hand on the curling locks that framed the classic head of the young Italian and said softly, like a melody from afar,—
“Boy, you have done well. Love the Good. Protect the Innocent. Provide for the Indigent. Respect the Philosopher.... Stay! Can you tell me what is The True, The Beautiful, The Innocent, The Virtuous?”
“Boy, you’ve done well. Love what’s good. Protect those who are innocent. Take care of those in need. Respect the thinkers... Wait! Can you tell me what is The True, The Beautiful, The Innocent, The Virtuous?”
“They are things that commence with a capital letter,” said the Boy promptly.
“They’re things that start with a capital letter,” the Boy replied quickly.
“Enough! Respect everything that commences with a capital letter! Respect ME!” and dropping a halfpenny in the hand of the boy, he departed.
“Enough! Respect everything that starts with a capital letter! Respect ME!” he said, dropping a halfpenny into the boy's hand before leaving.
The Boy gazed fixedly at the coin. A frightful and instantaneous change overspread his features. His noble brow was corrugated with baser lines of calculation. His black eye, serpent-like, glittered with suppressed passion. Dropping upon his hands and feet, he crawled to the curbstone, and hissed after the retreating form of the Baronet the single word—
The Boy stared intensely at the coin. A shocking and sudden change crossed his face. His proud brow was creased with lower instincts of calculation. His dark eye, glinting like a snake, sparkled with repressed emotion. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled to the edge of the sidewalk and hissed after the Baronet's disappearing figure the single word—
“Bilk!”
"Bilk!"
BOOK II
“Eleven years ago,” said Sir Edward to himself, as his brougham slowly rolled him toward the Committee Room, “just eleven years ago my natural son disappeared mysteriously. I have no doubt in the world but that this little bootblack is he. His mother died in Italy. He resembles his mother very much. Perhaps I ought to provide for him. Shall I disclose myself? No! no! Better he should taste the sweets of Labor. Penury ennobles the mind and kindles the Love of the Beautiful. I will act to him, not like a Father, not like a Guardian, not like a Friend—but like a Philosopher!” With these words, Sir Edward entered the Committee Room. His Secretary approached him. “Sir Edward, there are fears of a division in the House, and the Prime Minister has sent for you.”
“Eleven years ago,” Sir Edward thought to himself as his carriage slowly took him to the Committee Room, “just eleven years ago my natural son vanished without a trace. I have no doubt that this little bootblack is him. His mother passed away in Italy. He looks a lot like her. Maybe I should help him out. Should I reveal who I am? No! Better for him to experience the rewards of hard work. Poverty can elevate the mind and spark a love for beauty. I will treat him not as a Father, not as a Guardian, not as a Friend—but as a Philosopher!” With that thought, Sir Edward walked into the Committee Room. His Secretary came up to him. “Sir Edward, there are concerns about a split in the House, and the Prime Minister has requested your presence.”
“I will be there,” said Sir Edward, as he placed his hand on his chest and uttered a hollow cough!
“I’ll be there,” said Sir Edward, placing his hand on his chest and letting out a dry cough!
No one who heard the Baronet that night, in his sarcastic and withering speech on the Drainage and Sewerage Bill, would have recognized the Lover of the Ideal and the Philosopher of the Beautiful. No one who listened to his eloquence would have dreamed of the Spartan resolution this iron man had taken in regard to the Lost Boy—his own beloved Lionel. None!
No one who listened to the Baronet that night, during his sarcastic and scathing speech on the Drainage and Sewerage Bill, would have recognized the Lover of the Ideal and the Philosopher of the Beautiful. No one who heard his eloquence would have imagined the strong resolve this tough man had made regarding the Lost Boy—his own beloved Lionel. None!
“A fine speech from Sir Edward to-night,” said Lord Billingsgate, as, arm and arm with the Premier, he entered his carriage.
“A great speech from Sir Edward tonight,” said Lord Billingsgate, as he entered his carriage, arm in arm with the Premier.
“Yes! but how dreadfully he coughs!”
“Yes! But he coughs so badly!”
“Exactly. Dr. Bolus says his lungs are entirely gone; he breathes entirely by an effort of will, and altogether independent of pulmonary assistance.”
"Exactly. Dr. Bolus says his lungs are completely gone; he breathes entirely through sheer willpower, completely independent of any lung support."
“How strange!” And the carriage rolled away.
“How odd!” And the carriage rolled away.
BOOK III
“Adon Ai, appear! appear!”
“Adon Ai, show yourself! show yourself!”
And as the Seer spoke, the awful Presence glided out of Nothingness, and sat, sphinx-like, at the feet of the Alchemist.
And as the Seer spoke, the terrifying Presence emerged from Nothingness and sat, like a sphinx, at the feet of the Alchemist.
“I am come!” said the Thing.
“I have arrived!” said the Thing.
“You should say, ‘I have come,’—it’s better grammar,” said the Boy-Neophyte, thoughtfully accenting the substituted expression.
“You should say, ‘I have come,’—it’s better grammar,” said the Boy-Neophyte, thoughtfully emphasizing the alternative expression.
“Hush, rash Boy,” said the Seer sternly. “Would you oppose your feeble knowledge to the infinite intelligence of the Unmistakable? A word, and you are lost forever.”
“Hush, reckless boy,” the Seer said sternly. “Do you really think your limited understanding can stand against the boundless wisdom of the Unmistakable? One word, and you’re done for.”
The Boy breathed a silent prayer, and handing a sealed package to the Seer, begged him to hand it to his father in case of his premature decease.
The Boy silently prayed and handed a sealed package to the Seer, asking him to give it to his father in case he died unexpectedly.
“You have sent for me,” hissed the Presence. “Behold me, Apokatharticon,—the Unpronounceable. In me all things exist that are not already coexistent. I am the Unattainable, the Intangible, the Cause, and the Effect. In me observe the Brahma of Mr. Emerson; not only Brahma himself, but also the sacred musical composition rehearsed by the faithful Hindoo. I am the real Gyges. None others are genuine.”
“You called for me,” hissed the Presence. “Look at me, Apokatharticon—the Unpronounceable. In me, all things exist that aren't already present. I am the Unattainable, the Intangible, the Cause, and the Effect. In me, see the Brahma of Mr. Emerson; not just Brahma himself, but also the sacred musical piece practiced by the devoted Hindu. I am the true Gyges. No one else is real.”
And the veiled Son of the Starbeam laid himself loosely about the room, and permeated Space generally.
And the hidden Son of the Starbeam draped himself casually around the room, and filled the space all around.
“Unfathomable Mystery,” said the Rosicrucian in a low, sweet voice. “Brave Child with the Vitreous Optic! Thou who pervadest all things and rubbest against us without abrasion of the cuticle. I command thee, speak!”
“Unfathomable Mystery,” said the Rosicrucian in a low, smooth voice. “Brave Child with the Glassy Eye! You who permeate everything and brush against us without damaging our skin. I command you, speak!”
And the misty, intangible, indefinite Presence spoke.
And the hazy, unclear, elusive Presence spoke.
BOOK IV
After the events related in the last chapter, the reader will perceive that nothing was easier than to reconcile Sir Edward to his son Lionel, nor to resuscitate the beautiful Italian girl, who, it appears, was not dead, and to cause Sir Edward to marry his first and boyish love, whom he had deserted. They were married in St. George’s, Hanover Square. As the bridal party stood before the altar, Sir Edward, with a sweet, sad smile, said in quite his old manner,—
After the events described in the last chapter, the reader will see that it was pretty easy to bring Sir Edward back together with his son Lionel, and to revive the beautiful Italian girl, who, it turns out, wasn’t dead, and to have Sir Edward marry his first love, the girl he had abandoned. They got married at St. George’s, Hanover Square. As the wedding party stood before the altar, Sir Edward, with a gentle, bittersweet smile, spoke in his familiar old way,—
“The Sublime and Beautiful are the Real; the only Ideal is the Ridiculous and Homely. Let us always remember this. Let us through life endeavor to personify the virtues, and always begin ’em with a capital letter. Let us, whenever we can find an opportunity, deliver our sentiments in the form of roundhand copies. Respect the Aged. Eschew Vulgarity. Admire Ourselves. Regard the Novelist.”
“The Sublime and Beautiful are real; the only Ideal is the Ridiculous and Unattractive. Let’s always keep this in mind. Let’s strive to embody the virtues in our lives, starting each of them with a capital letter. Let’s express our thoughts whenever we have the chance, like beautiful handwriting. Respect the Elderly. Avoid Vulgarity. Appreciate Ourselves. Pay attention to the Novelist.”
N N.
—Mademoiselle, I swear to you that I love you.
—Mademoiselle, I promise you that I love you.
—You who read these pages. You who turn your burning eyes upon these words—words that I trace—ah, heaven! the thought maddens me.
—You who read these pages. You who focus your intense gaze on these words—words that I write—oh, my goodness! the thought drives me crazy.
—I will be calm. I will imitate the reserve of the festive Englishman, who wears a spotted handkerchief which he calls a Belchio, who eats biftek, and caresses a bulldog. I will subdue myself like him.
—I will stay calm. I will copy the composure of the cheerful Englishman, who carries a spotted handkerchief he calls a Belchio, eats steak, and pets a bulldog. I will control myself like he does.
—Ha! Poto-beer! All right—Goddam!
—Ha! Poto-beer! Alright—Damn!
—Or, I will conduct myself as the free-born American—the gay Brother Jonathan. I will whittle me a stick. I will whistle to myself “Yankee Doodle,” and forget my passion in excessive expectoration.
—Or, I will act like the free-born American—the carefree Brother Jonathan. I will carve a stick. I will whistle “Yankee Doodle” to myself and forget my worries by spitting excessively.
—Ho! ho!—wake snakes and walk chalks.
—Ho! ho!—wake snakes and walk chalks.
The world is divided into two great divisions,—Paris and the provinces. There is but one Paris. There are several provinces, among which may be numbered England, America, Russia, and Italy.
The world is split into two main parts—Paris and the provinces. There’s only one Paris. There are several provinces, including England, America, Russia, and Italy.
N N. was a Parisian.
N N. was from Paris.
But N N. did not live in Paris. Drop a Parisian in the provinces, and you drop a part of Paris with him. Drop him in Senegambia, and in three days he will give you an omelette soufflee, or a pate de foie gras, served by the neatest of Senegambian filles, whom he will call mademoiselle. In three weeks he will give you an opera.
But N N. didn't live in Paris. If you take a Parisian and drop him in the provinces, you're taking a part of Paris with him. Drop him in Senegambia, and in three days he’ll whip you up an omelette soufflé or pâté de foie gras, served by the most polished Senegambian girls, whom he’ll call mademoiselle. In three weeks, he’ll give you an opera.
N N. was not dropped in Senegambia, but in San Francisco,—quite as awkward.
N N. was not dropped in Senegambia, but in San Francisco—just as awkward.
They find gold in San Francisco, but they don’t understand gilding.
They find gold in San Francisco, but they don’t understand how to gold-plate it.
N N. existed three years in this place. He became bald on the top of his head, as all Parisians do. Look down from your box at the Opera Comique, mademoiselle, and count the bald crowns of the fast young men in the pit. Ah—you tremble! They show where the arrows of love have struck and glanced off.
N N. lived here for three years. He went bald on the top of his head, just like all Parisians do. Look down from your seat at the Opera Comique, mademoiselle, and count the bald heads of the trendy young guys in the audience. Ah—you shiver! They reveal where the arrows of love have hit and bounced off.
N N. was almost near-sighted, as all Parisians finally become. This is a gallant provision of nature to spare them the mortification of observing that their lady friends grow old. After a certain age every woman is handsome to a Parisian.
N N. was almost nearsighted, as all Parisians eventually become. This is a kind gesture from nature to spare them the embarrassment of seeing their female friends age. After a certain age, every woman is attractive to a Parisian.
One day, N N. was walking down Washington Street. Suddenly he stopped.
One day, N N. was walking down Washington Street. Suddenly, he stopped.
He was standing before the door of a mantua-maker. Beside the counter, at the farther extremity of the shop, stood a young and elegantly formed woman. Her face was turned from N N. He entered. With a plausible excuse and seeming indifference, he gracefully opened conversation with the mantua-maker as only a Parisian can. But he had to deal with a Parisian. His attempts to view the features of the fair stranger by the counter were deftly combated by the shopwoman. He was obliged to retire.
He was standing in front of a dressmaker's shop. At the far end of the store, next to the counter, was a young and elegantly shaped woman. She had her back turned to him. He walked in. With a believable excuse and a relaxed attitude, he started a conversation with the dressmaker, just like only a Parisian can. But the dressmaker was also a Parisian. His attempts to catch a glimpse of the beautiful stranger by the counter were skillfully thwarted by the shopwoman. He had no choice but to leave.
N N. went home and lost his appetite. He was haunted by the elegant basque and graceful shoulders of the fair unknown, during the whole night.
N N. went home and couldn’t eat anything. He was tormented by the elegant bodice and graceful shoulders of the beautiful stranger all night long.
The next day he sauntered by the mantua-maker. Ah! Heavens! A thrill ran through his frame, and his fingers tingled with a delicious electricity. The fair inconnue was there! He raised his hat gracefully. He was not certain, but he thought that a slight motion of her faultless bonnet betrayed recognition. He would have wildly darted into the shop, but just then the figure of the mantua-maker appeared in the doorway.
The next day, he strolled past the dressmaker. Oh my! A thrill ran through him, and his fingers tingled with a delightful excitement. The beautiful stranger was there! He tipped his hat gracefully. He wasn't sure, but he thought he noticed a slight movement of her perfect hat that indicated she recognized him. He was about to rush into the shop when the dressmaker's figure appeared in the doorway.
—Did monsieur wish anything?
—Did sir want anything?
—Misfortune! Desperation. N N. purchased a bottle of Prussic acid, a sack of charcoal, and a quire of pink note-paper, and returned home. He wrote a letter of farewell to the closely fitting basque, and opened the bottle of Prussic acid.
—Misfortune! Despair. N N. bought a bottle of cyanide, a bag of charcoal, and a pad of pink stationery, and went home. He wrote a farewell letter to the tight-fitting basque and opened the bottle of cyanide.
Some one knocked at his door. It was a Chinaman, with his weekly linen.
Someone knocked on his door. It was a Chinese man, with his weekly laundry.
These Chinese are docile, but not intelligent. They are ingenious, but not creative. They are cunning in expedients, but deficient in tact. In love they are simply barbarous. They purchase their wives openly, and not constructively by attorney. By offering small sums for their sweethearts, they degrade the value of the sex.
These Chinese are compliant, but not smart. They are clever, but not innovative. They are resourceful in solutions, but lacking in diplomacy. In love, they are quite primitive. They buy their wives openly rather than through legal means. By offering small amounts for their partners, they diminish the worth of women.
Nevertheless, N N. felt he was saved. He explained all to the faithful Mongolian, and exhibited the letter he had written. He implored him to deliver it.
Nevertheless, N N. felt rescued. He explained everything to the loyal Mongolian and showed him the letter he had written. He begged him to deliver it.
The Mongolian assented. The race are not cleanly or sweet-savored, but N N. fell upon his neck. He embraced him with one hand, and closed his nostrils with the other. Through him, he felt he clasped the close-fitting basque.
The Mongolian agreed. The horses aren’t clean or sweet-smelling, but N N. threw his arms around him. He hugged him with one arm and pinched his nostrils shut with the other. Through him, he felt as if he was holding the snug-fitting basque.
The next day was one of agony and suspense. Evening came, but no mercy. N N. lit the charcoal. But, to compose his nerves, he closed his door and first walked mildly up and down Montgomery Street. When he returned, he found the faithful Mongolian on the steps.
The next day was filled with pain and tension. Evening arrived, but there was no relief. N. N. lit the charcoal. To calm his nerves, he shut his door and took a stroll up and down Montgomery Street. When he came back, he found the loyal Mongolian waiting on the steps.
—All lity!
—All lit!
These Chinese are not accurate in their pronunciation. They avoid the r, like the English nobleman.
These Chinese people aren't precise in their pronunciation. They steer clear of the r, similar to the English nobleman.
N N. gasped for breath. He leaned heavily against the Chinaman.
N N. gasped for air. He leaned heavily against the Chinese man.
—Then you have seen her, Ching Long?
—So you’ve seen her, Ching Long?
—Yes. All lity. She cum. Top side of house.
—Yes. All lit. She came. Top side of the house.
The docile barbarian pointed up the stairs, and chuckled.
The compliant barbarian pointed up the stairs and laughed.
—She here—impossible! Ah, Heaven! do I dream?
—She’s here—impossible! Oh, my God! Am I dreaming?
—Yes. All lity,—top side of house. Good-by, John.
—Yes. All clear,—top side of the house. Goodbye, John.
This is the familiar parting epithet of the Mongolian. It is equivalent to our au revoir.
This is the common farewell phrase of the Mongolian. It's like our goodbye.
N N. gazed with a stupefied air on the departing servant.
N N. stared in disbelief at the servant who was leaving.
He placed his hand on his throbbing heart. She here,—alone beneath this roof? Oh, heavens,—what happiness!
He put his hand on his beating heart. She’s here—alone under this roof? Oh my god—what happiness!
But how? Torn from her home. Ruthlessly dragged, perhaps, from her evening devotions, by the hands of a relentless barbarian. Could she forgive him?
But how? Taken from her home. Maybe dragged away from her evening prayers by the grip of a merciless brute. Could she ever forgive him?
He dashed frantically up the stairs. He opened the door.
He hurried up the stairs. He opened the door.
She was standing beside his couch with averted face.
She was standing next to his couch with her face turned away.
A strange giddiness overtook him. He sank upon his knees at the threshold.
A strange dizziness hit him. He dropped to his knees at the entrance.
—Pardon, pardon. My angel, can you forgive me?
—Excuse me, excuse me. My angel, can you forgive me?
A terrible nausea now seemed added to the fearful giddiness. His utterance grew thick and sluggish.
A terrible nausea now felt like it was added to the frightening dizziness. His speech became thick and slow.
—Speak, speak, enchantress. Forgiveness is all I ask. My Love, my Life!
—Speak, speak, enchantress. All I ask is for your forgiveness. My Love, my Life!
She did not answer. He staggered to his feet. As he rose, his eyes fell on the pan of burning charcoal. A terrible suspicion flashed across his mind. This giddiness—this nausea. The ignorance of the barbarian. This silence. Oh, merciful heavens! she was dying!
She didn't respond. He stumbled to his feet. As he stood up, his gaze landed on the pan of burning charcoal. A terrible thought crossed his mind. This dizziness—this sickness. The ignorance of the uncivilized. This silence. Oh, merciful heavens! She was dying!
He crawled toward her. He touched her. She fell forward with a lifeless sound upon the floor. He uttered a piercing shriek, and threw himself beside her.
He crawled towards her. He touched her. She collapsed forward with a lifeless thud on the floor. He let out a heart-wrenching scream and threw himself beside her.
A file of gendarmes, accompanied by the Chef Burke, found him the next morning lying lifeless upon the floor. They laughed brutally—these cruel minions of the law—and disengaged his arm from the waist of the wooden dummy which they had come to reclaim, from the mantua-maker.
A group of police officers, along with Chief Burke, discovered him the next morning lying lifeless on the floor. They laughed harshly—these cruel enforcers of the law—and pulled his arm away from the waist of the wooden dummy they had come to retrieve from the dressmaker.
Emptying a few bucketfuls of water over his form, they finally succeeded in robbing him, not only of his mistress, but of that Death he had coveted without her.
Dumping a few buckets of water over him, they finally managed to take away not just his girlfriend, but also the death he had desired in her absence.
Ah! we live in a strange world, messieurs.
Ah! We live in a weird world, gentlemen.
NO TITLE
PROLOGUE
The following advertisement appeared in the “Times” of the 17th of June, 1845:—
The following advertisement appeared in the “Times” on June 17, 1845:—
WANTED.—A few young men for a light, genteel employment. Address J. W., P. O.
WANTED.—A few young men for a light, refined job. Contact J. W., P. O.
In the same paper, of same date, in another column:—
In the same paper, of the same date, in another column:—
TO LET.—That commodious and elegant family mansion, No. 27 Limehouse Road, Pultneyville, will be rented low to a respectable tenant if applied for immediately, the family being about to remove to the Continent.
FOR RENT.—That spacious and stylish family home, No. 27 Limehouse Road, Pultneyville, is available at a low rental rate to a reliable tenant if inquired about right away, as the family is preparing to move to the Continent.
Under the local intelligence, in another column:—
Under the local intel, in another section:—
MISSING.—An unknown elderly gentleman a week ago left his lodgings in the Kent Road, since which nothing has been heard of him. He left no trace of his identity except a portmanteau containing a couple of shirts marked “209, Ward.”
MISSING.—An unknown elderly man left his place in Kent Road a week ago, and since then, no one has heard from him. He didn’t leave any information about who he is, except for a suitcase with a couple of shirts labeled “209, Ward.”
To find the connection between the mysterious disappearance of the elderly gentleman and the anonymous communication, the relevancy of both these incidents to the letting of a commodious family mansion, and the dead secret involved in the three occurrences, is the task of the writer of this history.
To uncover the link between the elderly gentleman's mysterious disappearance and the anonymous message, as well as how both incidents relate to the rental of a spacious family mansion and the hidden secret tied to these three events, is the responsibility of the author of this story.
A slim young man with spectacles, a large hat, drab gaiters, and a notebook, sat late that night with a copy of the “Times” before him, and a pencil which he rattled nervously between his teeth in the coffee-room of the Blue Dragon.
A slim young man with glasses, a big hat, dull gaiters, and a notebook sat late that night with a copy of the “Times” in front of him, nervously rattling a pencil between his teeth in the coffee room of the Blue Dragon.
CHAPTER I
I am upper housemaid to the family that live at No. 27 Limehouse Road, Pultneyville. I have been requested by Mr. Wilkey Collings, which I takes the liberty of here stating is a gentleman born and bred, and has some consideration for the feelings of servants, and is not above rewarding them for their trouble, which is more than you can say for some who ask questions and gets short answers enough, gracious knows, to tell what I know about them. I have been requested to tell my story in my own langwidge, though, being no schollard, mind cannot conceive. I think my master is a brute. Do not know that he has ever attempted to poison my missus,—which is too good for him, and how she ever came to marry him, heart only can tell,—but believe him to be capable of any such hatrosity. Have heard him swear dreadful because of not having his shaving-water at nine o’clock precisely. Do not know whether he ever forged a will or tried to get my missus’s property, although, not having confidence in the man, should not be surprised if he had done so. Believe that there was always something mysterious in his conduct. Remember distinctly how the family left home to go abroad. Was putting up my back hair, last Saturday morning, when I heard a ring. Says cook, “That’s missus’s bell, and mind you hurry or the master ’ill know why.” Says I, “Humbly thanking you, mem, but taking advice of them as is competent to give it, I’ll take my time.” Found missus dressing herself and master growling as usual. Says missus, quite cairn and easy-like, “Mary, we begin to pack to-day.” “What for, mem?” says I, taken aback. “What’s that hussy asking?” says master from the bedclothes quite savage-like. “For the Continent—Italy,” says missus. “Can you go, Mary?” Her voice was quite gentle and saintlike, but I knew the struggle it cost, and says I, “With you, mem, to India’s torrid clime, if required, but with African Gorillas,” says I, looking toward the bed, “never.” “Leave the room,” says master, starting up and catching of his bootjack. “Why, Charles!” says missus, “how you talk!” affecting surprise. “Do go, Mary,” says she, slipping a half-crown into my hand. I left the room, scorning to take notice of the odious wretch’s conduct.
I am the head housemaid for the family living at No. 27 Limehouse Road, Pultneyville. Mr. Wilkey Collings has asked me to share my story in my own words, and I want to mention that he is a true gentleman who respects the feelings of servants and is willing to reward them for their efforts, which is more than can be said for some who ask questions and give short answers, believe me, about what I know of them. I’ve been asked to tell my story in my own language, but as I'm not educated, it’s hard for me to express myself. I think my master is a brute. I don’t know if he’s ever tried to poison my mistress, who deserves so much better, and how she ever married him is something only her heart knows, but I believe he is capable of such a terrible act. I've heard him swear loudly just because his shaving water wasn't ready at nine o'clock sharp. I’m unsure if he’s ever forged a will or tried to seize my mistress’s property, but since I don’t trust him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. I always sensed something suspicious in his behavior. I distinctly remember when the family was leaving for abroad. I was putting up my hair last Saturday morning when I heard the bell ring. The cook said, "That’s the mistress's bell, and hurry up or the master will find out why." I replied, "Thank you, ma'am, but taking advice from those who know, I’ll take my time." I found my mistress getting dressed and my master grumbling as usual. My mistress said calmly, "Mary, we start packing today." "What for, ma'am?" I asked, surprised. "What’s that silly girl asking?" my master growled from under the bedcovers. "For the Continent—Italy," my mistress replied. "Can you go, Mary?" Her voice was gentle and sweet, but I knew how hard that was for her, so I said, "With you, ma'am, to India’s scorching heat if needed, but with African gorillas," I added, glancing at the bed, "never." "Leave the room," my master ordered, sitting up and grabbing his bootjack. "Why, Charles!" my mistress exclaimed, pretending to be surprised. "Do go, Mary," she said, slipping half a crown into my hand. I left the room, refusing to acknowledge the disgusting way he acted.
Cannot say whether my master and missus were ever legally married. What with the dreadful state of morals nowadays and them stories in the circulating libraries, innocent girls don’t know into what society they might be obliged to take situations. Never saw missus’s marriage certificate, though I have quite accidental-like looked in her desk when open, and would have seen it. Do not know of any lovers missus might have had. Believe she had a liking for John Thomas, footman, for she was always spiteful-like—poor lady—when we were together—though there was nothing between us, as cook well knows, and dare not deny, and missus needn’t have been jealous. Have never seen arsenic or Prussian acid in any of the private drawers—but have seen paregoric and camphor. One of my master’s friends was a Count Moscow, a Russian papist—which I detested.
I can’t say for sure if my master and missus were ever legally married. With the terrible state of morals these days and those stories in the libraries, innocent girls have no idea what kind of situations they might find themselves in. I’ve never seen the missus’s marriage certificate, although I’ve accidentally looked in her desk when it was open and could have seen it. I don’t know of any lovers the missus might have had. I think she had a thing for John Thomas, the footman, because she was always spiteful—poor lady—when we were together, even though there was nothing going on between us, as the cook can confirm and wouldn’t dare deny, so the missus didn’t need to be jealous. I’ve never seen arsenic or Prussian acid in any of the private drawers, but I have seen paregoric and camphor. One of my master’s friends was Count Moscow, a Russian Catholic, which I absolutely detested.
CHAPTER II
I am by profession a reporter, and writer for the press. I live at Pultneyville. I have always had a passion for the marvelous, and have been distinguished for my facility in tracing out mysteries, and solving enigmatical occurrences. On the night of the 17th June, 1845, I left my office and walked homeward. The night was bright and starlight. I was revolving in my mind the words of a singular item I had just read in the “Times.” I had reached the darkest portion of the road, and found myself mechanically repeating: “An elderly gentleman a week ago left his lodgings on the Kent Road,” when suddenly I heard a step behind me.
I work as a reporter and writer for the press. I live in Pultneyville. I've always had a passion for the extraordinary and have been known for my ability to uncover mysteries and solve puzzling incidents. On the night of June 17, 1845, I left my office and walked home. The night was bright and starry. I was thinking about a strange item I had just read in the “Times.” I had reached the darkest part of the road and found myself automatically repeating, “An elderly gentleman left his lodging on the Kent Road a week ago,” when I suddenly heard a step behind me.
I turned quickly, with an expression of horror in my face, and by the light of the newly risen moon beheld an elderly gentleman, with green cotton umbrella, approaching me. His hair, which was snow white, was parted over a broad, open forehead. The expression of his face, which was slightly flushed, was that of amiability verging almost upon imbecility. There was a strange, inquiring look about the widely opened mild blue eye,—a look that might have been intensified to insanity or modified to idiocy. As he passed me, he paused and partly turned his face, with a gesture of inquiry. I see him still, his white locks blowing in the evening breeze, his hat a little on the back of his head, and his figure painted in relief against the dark blue sky.
I turned quickly, my face filled with horror, and by the light of the newly risen moon, I saw an elderly man coming towards me with a green cotton umbrella. His hair was snow white, parted over a broad forehead. His face, slightly flushed, wore an expression of friendliness that almost bordered on foolishness. There was a strange, curious look in his wide blue eye—a gaze that could have been on the verge of madness or hinting at stupidity. As he walked past me, he paused and partially turned his face, as if asking a question. I still remember him, his white hair blowing in the evening breeze, his hat tilted slightly back on his head, and his figure outlined against the dark blue sky.
Suddenly he turned his mild eye full upon me. A weak smile played about his thin lips. In a voice which had something of the tremulousness of age and the self-satisfied chuckle of imbecility in it, he asked, pointing to the rising moon, “Why?—Hush!”
Suddenly, he locked his gentle gaze onto me. A faint smile hovered on his thin lips. In a voice that carried a hint of the tremor of old age and a self-satisfied chuckle of foolishness, he asked, pointing to the rising moon, “Why?—Hush!”
He had dodged behind me, and appeared to be looking anxiously down the road. I could feel his aged frame shaking with terror as he laid his thin hands upon my shoulders and faced me in the direction of the supposed danger.
He had ducked behind me and seemed to be nervously looking down the road. I could feel his frail body trembling with fear as he placed his thin hands on my shoulders and turned me to face the supposed threat.
“Hush! did you not hear them coming?”
“Hush! Didn’t you hear them coming?”
I listened; there was no sound but the soughing of the roadside trees in the evening wind. I endeavored to reassure him, with such success that in a few moments the old weak smile appeared on his benevolent face.
I listened; there was no noise except for the rustling of the trees along the road in the evening breeze. I tried to comfort him, and I succeeded enough that after a few moments, a gentle, weak smile emerged on his kind face.
“Why?”—But the look of interrogation was succeeded by a hopeless blankness.
“Why?”—But the questioning look was followed by an expression of complete emptiness.
“Why?” I repeated with assuring accents.
“Why?” I repeated with a reassuring tone.
“Why,” he said, a gleam of intelligence flickering over his face, “is yonder moon, as she sails in the blue empyrean, casting a flood of light o’er hill and dale, like—Why,” he repeated, with a feeble smile, “is yonder moon, as she sails in the blue empyrean”—He hesitated,—stammered,—and gazed at me hopelessly, with the tears dripping from his moist and widely opened eyes.
“Why,” he said, a spark of understanding flickering across his face, “is that moon, as it floats in the blue sky, casting a flood of light over the hills and valleys, like—Why,” he repeated, with a weak smile, “is that moon, as it floats in the blue sky”—He hesitated, stammered, and stared at me hopelessly, with tears streaming from his wet and wide-open eyes.
I took his hand kindly in my own. “Casting a shadow o’er hill and dale,” I repeated quietly, leading him up to the subject, “like—Come, now.”
I gently took his hand in mine. “Casting a shadow over hill and valley,” I said softly, guiding him to the topic, “like—Come on.”
“Ah!” he said, pressing my hand tremulously, “you know it?”
“Ah!” he said, squeezing my hand nervously, “you know about it?”
“I do. Why is it like—the—eh—the commodious mansion on the Limehouse Road?”
“I do. Why is it like—the—uh—the spacious house on the Limehouse Road?”
A blank stare only followed. He shook his head sadly.
A blank stare was all he got in response. He shook his head with disappointment.
“Like the young men wanted for a light, genteel employment?”
“Like the young men looking for a nice, easy job?”
He wagged his feeble old head cunningly.
He cleverly wagged his frail old head.
“Or, Mr. Ward,” I said, with bold confidence, “like the mysterious disappearance from the Kent Road?” The moment was full of suspense. He did not seem to hear me. Suddenly he turned.
“Or, Mr. Ward,” I said, with bold confidence, “like the mysterious disappearance from the Kent Road?” The moment was full of suspense. He didn’t seem to hear me. Suddenly he turned.
“Ha!”
“Ha!”
I darted forward. But he had vanished in the darkness.
I rushed ahead. But he had disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER III
It was a hot midsummer evening. Limehouse Road was deserted save by dust and a few rattling butchers’ carts, and the bell of the muffin and crumpet man. A commodious mansion, which stood on the right of the road as you enter Pultneyville, surrounded by stately poplars and a high fence surmounted by a cheval de frise of broken glass, looked to the passing and footsore pedestrian like the genius of seclusion and solitude. A bill announcing in the usual terms that the house was to let hung from the bell at the servants’ entrance.
It was a hot midsummer evening. Limehouse Road was deserted except for dust and a few rattling butchers’ carts, along with the bell of the muffin and crumpet vendor. A spacious mansion, located on the right side of the road as you enter Pultneyville, surrounded by grand poplar trees and a high fence topped with a jagged glass barrier, appeared to the passing and weary pedestrian like the embodiment of seclusion and solitude. A sign hanging from the bell at the servants’ entrance announced in the usual way that the house was for rent.
As the shades of evening closed, and the long shadows of the poplars stretched across the road, a man carrying a small kettle stopped and gazed, first at the bill and then at the house. When he had reached the corner of the fence, he again stopped and looked cautiously up and down the road. Apparently satisfied with the result of his scrutiny, he deliberately sat himself down in the dark shadow of the fence, and at once busied himself in some employment, so well concealed as to be invisible to the gaze of passers-by. At the end of an hour he retired cautiously.
As evening fell and the long shadows of the poplars stretched across the road, a man carrying a small kettle stopped and looked at the bill, then at the house. When he reached the corner of the fence, he stopped again and glanced cautiously up and down the road. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he deliberately sat down in the dark shadow of the fence and immediately got to work on something that was so well hidden it couldn't be seen by anyone passing by. After about an hour, he left carefully.
But not altogether unseen. A slim young man, with spectacles and notebook, stepped from behind a tree as the retreating figure of the intruder was lost in the twilight, and transferred from the fence to his notebook the freshly stenciled inscription, “S—T—1860—X.”
But not completely unnoticed. A thin young man, wearing glasses and holding a notebook, stepped out from behind a tree as the retreating figure of the intruder disappeared into the fading light, and wrote down in his notebook the newly stenciled inscription, “S—T—1860—X.”
CHAPTER IV
I am a foreigner. Observe! To be a foreigner in England is to be mysterious, suspicious, intriguing. M. Collins has requested the history of my complicity with certain occurrences. It is nothing, bah! absolutely nothing. I write with ease and fluency. Why should I not write? Tra-la-la! I am what you English call corpulent. Ha, ha! I am a pupil of Macchiavelli. I find it much better to disbelieve everything, and to approach my subject and wishes circuitously than in a direct manner. You have observed that playful animal, the cat. Call it, and it does not come to you directly, but rubs itself against all the furniture in the room, and reaches you finally—and scratches. Ah, ha, scratches! I am of the feline species. People call me a villain—bah!
I’m a foreigner. Look! Being a foreigner in England means being mysterious, suspicious, and intriguing. Mr. Collins has asked for the details about my involvement in certain events. It’s nothing, ugh! absolutely nothing. I write easily and smoothly. Why shouldn’t I write? Tra-la-la! I’m what you English would call heavyset. Ha, ha! I’m a student of Machiavelli. I think it’s much better to doubt everything and to approach my topics and desires indirectly rather than straightforwardly. You've seen that playful creature, the cat. If you call it, it doesn’t come straight to you; instead, it brushes against all the furniture in the room and eventually gets to you—and scratches. Ah, ha, scratches! I belong to the feline species. People call me a villain—ugh!
I know the family living No. 27 Limehouse Road. I respect the gentleman,—a fine, burly specimen of your Englishman,—and madame, charming, ravishing, delightful. When it became known to me that they designed to let their delightful residence, and visit foreign shores, I at once called upon them. I kissed the hand of madame. I embraced the great Englishman. Madame blushed slightly. The great Englishman shook my hand like a mastiff.
I know the family living at No. 27 Limehouse Road. I respect the gentleman—a strong, impressive example of an Englishman—and his wife, who is charming, lovely, and delightful. When I learned they planned to rent out their lovely home and travel abroad, I immediately went to see them. I kissed the lady's hand and hugged the big Englishman. She blushed a little. The big Englishman shook my hand like a big dog.
I began in that dexterous, insinuating manner of which I am truly proud. I thought madame was ill. Ah, no. A change, then, was all that was required. I sat down at the piano and sang. In a few minutes madame retired. I was alone with my friend.
I started with that skillful, subtle approach that I'm really proud of. I thought madame was unwell. Ah, no. A change was all that was needed. I sat down at the piano and sang. A few minutes later, madame left. I was alone with my friend.
Seizing his hand, I began with every demonstration of courteous sympathy. I do not repeat my words, for my intention was conveyed more in accent, emphasis, and manner, than speech. I hinted to him that he had another wife living. I suggested that this was balanced—ha!—by his wife’s lover. That, possibly, he wished to fly; hence the letting of his delightful mansion. That he regularly and systematically beat his wife in the English manner, and that she repeatedly deceived him. I talked of hope, of consolation, of remedy. I carelessly produced a bottle of strychnine and a small vial of stramonium from my pocket, and enlarged on the efficiency of drugs. His face, which had gradually become convulsed, suddenly became fixed with a frightful expression. He started to his feet, and roared, “You d—d Frenchman!”
Grabbing his hand, I started off with every sign of kind sympathy. I won't repeat my words, as my intent was clearer in my tone, emphasis, and demeanor than in what I said. I hinted to him that he had another wife. I suggested that this was balanced—ha!—by his wife's lover. That maybe he wanted to escape, which is why he was putting his lovely house up for sale. I pointed out that he regularly beat his wife in the English way, and that she consistently cheated on him. I talked about hope, comfort, and solutions. I casually pulled out a bottle of strychnine and a small vial of stramonium from my pocket, and talked about how effective drugs can be. His face, which had slowly contorted, suddenly became tense with a horrifying look. He jumped to his feet and yelled, “You d—d Frenchman!”
I instantly changed my tactics, and endeavored to embrace him. He kicked me twice, violently. I begged permission to kiss madame’s hand. He replied by throwing me downstairs.
I immediately switched up my approach and tried to hug him. He kicked me twice, hard. I asked if I could kiss the lady's hand. He responded by throwing me down the stairs.
I am in bed with my head bound up, and beefsteaks upon my eyes, but still confident and buoyant. I have not lost faith in Macchiavelli. Tra-la-la! as they sing in the opera. I kiss everybody’s hands.
I’m in bed with my head wrapped up, and steaks on my eyes, but I still feel confident and uplifted. I haven’t lost faith in Machiavelli. Tra-la-la! as they sing in the opera. I kiss everyone’s hands.
CHAPTER V
My name is David Diggs. I am a surgeon, living at No. 9 Tottenham Court. On the 15th of June, 1854, I was called to see an elderly gentleman lodging on the Kent Road. Found him highly excited, with strong febrile symptoms, pulse 120, increasing. Repeated incoherently what I judged to be the popular form of a conundrum. On closer examination found acute hydrocephalus, and both lobes of the brain rapidly filling with water. In consultation with an eminent phrenologist, it was further discovered that all the organs were more or less obliterated, except that of Comparison. Hence the patient was enabled to only distinguish the most common points of resemblance between objects, without drawing upon other faculties, such as Ideality or Language, for assistance. Later in the day found him sinking,—being evidently unable to carry the most ordinary conundrum to a successful issue. Exhibited Tinct. Val., Ext. Opii, and Camphor, and prescribed quiet and emollients. On the 17th the patient was missing.
My name is David Diggs. I’m a surgeon living at No. 9 Tottenham Court. On June 15, 1854, I was called to see an elderly man staying on Kent Road. I found him in a state of high agitation with strong fever symptoms, a pulse of 120, and it was increasing. He was repeating what I thought was a popular riddle in a confused manner. Upon closer examination, I discovered he had acute hydrocephalus, with both lobes of his brain rapidly filling with fluid. In consultation with a well-known phrenologist, it was further determined that all the organs were mostly non-functional, except for the one responsible for Comparison. This limitation meant that the patient could only recognize the most basic similarities between objects without using other faculties like Ideality or Language for help. Later that day, I found him deteriorating—clearly unable to successfully solve even the simplest riddle. I administered Tinct. Val., Ext. Opii, and Camphor, and recommended rest and soothing treatments. On the 17th, the patient was missing.
CHAPTER LAST
On the 18th of June, Mr. Wilkie Collins left a roll of manuscript with us for publication, without title or direction, since which time he has not been heard from. In spite of the care of the proof-readers, and valuable literary assistance, it is feared that the continuity of the story has been destroyed by some accidental misplacing of chapters during its progress. How and what chapters are so misplaced, the publisher leaves to an indulgent public to discover.
On June 18th, Mr. Wilkie Collins left us a manuscript for publication, without a title or instructions, and since then, we haven't heard from him. Despite the proofreaders' careful work and valuable literary help, it seems that the flow of the story might have been disrupted due to some accidental misordering of chapters during the process. The publisher allows the lenient public to figure out how and which chapters are misplaced.
HANDSOME IS AS HANDSOME DOES
CHAPTER I
The Dodds were dead. For twenty years they had slept under the green graves of Kittery churchyard. The townfolk still spoke of them kindly. The keeper of the alehouse, where David had smoked his pipe, regretted him regularly, and Mistress Kitty, Mrs. Dodd’s maid, whose trim figure always looked well in her mistress’s gowns, was inconsolable. The Hardins were in America. Raby was aristocratically gouty; Mrs. Raby, religious. Briefly, then, we have disposed of—
The Dodds were gone. For twenty years, they had rested under the green graves in the Kittery churchyard. The townspeople still talked about them fondly. The alehouse keeper, where David used to smoke his pipe, often expressed his regret about him, and Mistress Kitty, Mrs. Dodd’s maid, whose slim figure always looked good in her mistress’s dresses, was heartbroken. The Hardins were in America. Raby dealt with gout like an aristocrat; Mrs. Raby was devout. So, with that, we’ve covered—
1. Mr. and Mrs. Dodd (dead).
1. Mr. and Mrs. Dodd (deceased).
2. Mr. and Mrs. Hardin (translated).
2. Mr. and Mrs. Hardin (translated).
3. Raby, baron et femme. (Yet I don’t know about the former; he came of a long-lived family, and the gout is an uncertain-disease.)
3. Raby, baron and wife. (Yet I don’t know about the former; he came from a long-lived family, and gout is an unpredictable illness.)
We have active at the present writing (place aux dames)—
We currently have (place aux dames)—
1. Lady Caroline Coventry, niece of Sir Frederick.
1. Lady Caroline Coventry, the niece of Sir Frederick.
2. Faraday Huxley Little, son of Henry and Graco Little deceased.
2. Faraday Huxley Little, son of the late Henry and Graco Little.
Sequitur to the above, A HERO AND HEROINE.
Following the above, A HERO AND HEROINE.
CHAPTER II
On the death of his parents, Faraday Little was taken to Raby Hall. In accepting his guardianship, Mr. Raby struggled stoutly against two prejudices: Faraday was plain-looking and skeptical.
On the death of his parents, Faraday Little was taken to Raby Hall. In accepting his guardianship, Mr. Raby fought hard against two biases: Faraday was not conventionally attractive and was quite skeptical.
“Handsome is as handsome does, sweetheart,” pleaded Jael, interceding for the orphan with arms that were still beautiful. “Dear knows, it is not his fault if he does not look like—his father,” she added with a great gulp. Jael was a woman, and vindicated her womanhood by never entirely forgiving a former rival.
“Good looks are as good looks act, sweetheart,” Jael pleaded, stepping in for the orphan with arms that still had their beauty. “Honestly, it’s not his fault if he doesn’t look like—his father,” she added with a heavy sigh. Jael was a woman, and she asserted her womanhood by never fully forgiving a past rival.
“It’s not that alone, madam,” screamed Raby, “but, d—m it, the little rascal’s a scientist,—an atheist, a radical, a scoffer! Disbelieves in the Bible, ma’am; is full of this Darwinian stuff about natural selection and descent. Descent, forsooth! In my day, madam, gentlemen were content to trace their ancestors back to gentlemen, and not to—monkeys!”
“It’s not just that, ma’am,” yelled Raby, “but, damn it, the little brat’s a scientist—an atheist, a radical, a mocker! He doesn’t believe in the Bible, ma’am; he’s all about this Darwinian nonsense regarding natural selection and evolution. Evolution, for goodness' sake! In my day, ma’am, gentlemen were happy to trace their lineage back to other gentlemen, not to—monkeys!”
“Dear heart, the boy is clever,” urged Jael.
“Dear heart, the kid is smart,” urged Jael.
“Clever!” roared Raby; “what does a gentleman want with cleverness?”
“Clever!” Raby shouted. “What does a gentleman need with cleverness?”
CHAPTER III
Young Little was clever. At seven he had constructed a telescope; at nine, a flying-machine. At ten he saved a valuable life.
Young Little was clever. At seven, he built a telescope; at nine, a flying machine. By ten, he saved a valuable life.
Norwood Park was the adjacent estate,—a lordly domain dotted with red deer and black trunks, but scrupulously kept with graveled roads as hard and blue as steel. There Little was strolling one summer morning, meditating on a new top with concealed springs. At a little distance before him he saw the flutter of lace and ribbons. A young lady, a very young lady,—say of seven summers,—tricked out in the crying abominations of the present fashion, stood beside a low bush. Her nursery-maid was not present, possibly owing to the fact that John the footman was also absent.
Norwood Park was the nearby estate—a grand property filled with red deer and dark trees, but meticulously maintained with gravel roads as hard and blue as steel. One summer morning, Little was walking there, thinking about a new top with hidden springs. A little way ahead, he noticed the flutter of lace and ribbons. A young girl, probably around seven years old, dressed in the outlandish fashions of the time, was standing by a low bush. Her nursery maid was nowhere to be seen, possibly because John the footman was also missing.
“Certainly; they are blueberries.”
“Absolutely; they are blueberries.”
“Pardon me; you are mistaken. They belong to quite another family.”
“Excuse me; you're mistaken. They belong to a completely different family.”
Miss Impudence drew herself up to her full height (exactly three feet nine and a half inches), and, curling an eighth of an inch of scarlet lip, said scornfully, “Your family, perhaps.”
Miss Impudence stood tall at her full height (exactly three feet nine and a half inches), and with a slight curl of her scarlet lips, she said disdainfully, “Your family, maybe.”
Faraday Little smiled in the superiority of boyhood over girlhood.
Faraday Little smiled, feeling a sense of superiority in being a boy rather than a girl.
“I allude to the classification. That plant is the belladonna, or deadly nightshade. Its alkaloid is a narcotic poison.”
“I’m referring to the classification. That plant is belladonna, or deadly nightshade. Its alkaloid is a narcotic poison.”
Sauciness turned pale. “I—have—just—eaten—some!” And began to whimper. “Oh dear, what shall I do?” Then did it, i. e., wrung her small fingers, and cried.
Sauciness turned pale. “I—have—just—eaten—some!” And began to whimper. “Oh dear, what will I do?” Then did it, i.e., wrung her small fingers and cried.
“Pardon me one moment.” Little passed his arm around her neck, and with his thumb opened widely the patrician-veined lids of her sweet blue eyes. “Thank Heaven, there is yet no dilation of the pupil; it is not too late!” He cast a rapid glance around. The nozzle and about three feet of garden hose lay near him.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Little put his arm around her neck and gently lifted her eyelids, revealing her sweet blue eyes. “Thank goodness, her pupils are still normal; it’s not too late!” He quickly looked around. The nozzle and about three feet of garden hose were lying nearby.
“Open your mouth, quick!”
“Open your mouth, fast!”
It was a pretty, kissable mouth. But young Little meant business. He put the nozzle down her pink throat as far as it would go.
It was a cute, kissable mouth. But young Little was serious. He pushed the nozzle down her pink throat as far as it would go.
“Now, don’t move.”
“Stay still.”
He wrapped his handkerchief around a hoop-stick. Then he inserted both in the other end of the stiff hose. It fitted snugly. He shoved it in and then drew it back.
He wrapped his handkerchief around the hoop stick. Then he inserted both into the other end of the stiff hose. It fit snugly. He pushed it in and then pulled it back.
Nature abhors a vacuum. The young patrician was as amenable to this law as the child of the lowest peasant. She succumbed. It was all over in a minute. Then she burst into a small fury.
Nature hates a vacuum. The young noblewoman was just as susceptible to this truth as the child of the poorest peasant. She gave in. It was all done in a minute. Then she erupted into a small rage.
“You nasty, bad—ugly boy.”
“You nasty, bad—ugly kid.”
Young Little winced, but smiled.
Young Little flinched, but smiled.
“Stimulants,” he whispered to the frightened nurserymaid, who approached; “good-evening.” He was gone.
"Stimulants," he whispered to the scared nursery maid who came closer; "good evening." He was gone.
CHAPTER IV
The breach between young Little and Mr. Raby was slowly widening. Little found objectionable features in the Hall. “This black oak ceiling and wainscoting is not as healthful as plaster; besides, it absorbs the light. The bedroom ceiling is too low; the Elizabethan architects knew nothing of ventilation. The color of that oak paneling which you admire is due to an excess of carbon and the exuvia from the pores of your skin”—
The gap between young Little and Mr. Raby was gradually growing. Little started to see faults in the Hall. “This black oak ceiling and paneling isn’t as healthy as plaster; plus, it soaks up the light. The ceiling in the bedroom is too low; the Elizabethan architects didn’t understand ventilation. The color of that oak paneling you like comes from too much carbon and the residue from your skin pores—”
“Leave the house,” bellowed Raby, “before the roof falls on your sacrilegious head!”
“Get out of the house,” yelled Raby, “before the roof crashes down on your disrespectful head!”
As Little left the house, Lady Caroline and a handsome boy of about Little’s age entered. Lady Caroline recoiled, and then—blushed. Little glared; he instinctively felt the presence of a rival.
As Little left the house, Lady Caroline and a good-looking boy around Little’s age walked in. Lady Caroline pulled back and then—blushed. Little glared; he instantly sensed the presence of a rival.
CHAPTER V
Little worked hard. He studied night and day. In five years he became a lecturer, then a professor.
Little worked hard. He studied day and night. In five years, he became a lecturer and then a professor.
He soared as high as the clouds, he dipped as low as the cellars of the London poor. He analyzed the London fog, and found it two parts smoke, one disease, one unmentionable abominations. He published a pamphlet, which was violently attacked. Then he knew he had done something.
He flew as high as the clouds and dropped as low as the basements of the poor in London. He looked closely at the London fog and discovered it was made of two parts smoke, one part disease, and one part unspeakable horrors. He released a pamphlet that faced strong backlash. At that point, he realized he had accomplished something.
But he had not forgotten Caroline. He was walking one day in the Zoological Gardens, and he came upon a pretty picture,—flesh and blood, too.
But he hadn’t forgotten Caroline. One day, he was walking in the zoo when he stumbled upon a beautiful sight—real life, too.
Lady Caroline feeding buns to the bears! An exquisite thrill passed through his veins. She turned her sweet face and their eyes met. They recollected their first meeting seven years before, but it was his turn to be shy and timid. Wonderful power of age and sex! She met him with perfect self-possession.
Lady Caroline was feeding buns to the bears! An amazing rush went through him. She turned her lovely face and their eyes connected. They remembered their first meeting seven years ago, but now it was his turn to feel shy and timid. What a remarkable influence age and attraction have! She greeted him with complete confidence.
“Well meant, but indigestible, I fear” (he alluded to the buns).
"Well-meaning, but hard to swallow, I'm afraid" (he was referring to the buns).
“A clever person like yourself can easily correct that” (she, the slyboots, was thinking of something else).
“A smart person like you can fix that easily” (she, the slyboots, was thinking of something else).
In a few moments they were chatting gayly. Little eagerly descanted upon the different animals; she listened with delicious interest. An hour glided delightfully away.
In a few moments, they were chatting happily. She eagerly talked about the different animals, and he listened with great interest. An hour passed by wonderfully.
After this sunshine, clouds.
After this sunshine, clouds.
To them suddenly entered Mr. Raby and a handsome young man. The gentlemen bowed stiffly and looked vicious—as they felt. The lady of this quartette smiled amiably—as she did not feel.
Suddenly, Mr. Raby and a handsome young man walked in. The gentlemen nodded awkwardly and looked hostile—as they were feeling. The lady in this group smiled kindly—even though she didn't feel that way.
“Looking at your ancestors, I suppose,” said Mr. Raby, pointing to the monkeys; “we will not disturb you. Come.” And he led Caroline away.
“Looking at your ancestors, I guess,” said Mr. Raby, pointing to the monkeys; “we won’t bother you. Let’s go.” And he took Caroline away.
Little was heart-sick. He dared not follow them. But an hour later he saw something which filled his heart with bliss unspeakable.
Little was heartbroken. He didn't dare to follow them. But an hour later he saw something that filled his heart with indescribable joy.
Lady Caroline, with a divine smile on her face, feeding the monkeys!
Lady Caroline, smiling brightly, is feeding the monkeys!
CHAPTER VI
Encouraged by love, Little worked hard upon his new flying-machine. His labors were lightened by talking of the beloved one with her French maid Therese, whom he had discreetly bribed. Mademoiselle Therese was venal, like all her class, but in this instance I fear she was not bribed by British gold. Strange as it may seem to the British mind, it was British genius, British eloquence, British thought, that brought her to the feet of this young savan.
Encouraged by love, Little poured his energy into his new flying machine. His efforts felt lighter as he chatted about his beloved with her French maid, Therese, whom he had carefully bribed. Mademoiselle Therese was opportunistic, like many in her position, but in this case, I fear she wasn’t won over by British gold. Strange as it may seem to a British mind, it was British ingenuity, charm, and intellect that won her over to this young scholar.
“I believe,” said Lady Caroline, one day, interrupting her maid in a glowing eulogium upon the skill of “M. Leetell,”—“I believe you are in love with this professor.” A quick flush crossed the olive cheek of Therese, which Lady Caroline afterward remembered.
“I think,” Lady Caroline said one day, interrupting her maid while she was enthusiastically praising the talents of “M. Leetell,” “I think you have a crush on this professor.” A quick blush spread across Therese's olive cheek, which Lady Caroline remembered later.
The eventful day of trial came. The public were gathered, impatient and scornful as the pig-headed public are apt to be. In the open area a long cylindrical balloon, in shape like a Bologna sausage, swayed above the machine, from which, like some enormous bird caught in a net, it tried to free itself. A heavy rope held it fast to the ground.
The big day of the trial arrived. The crowd was gathered, restless and disdainful as people often are. In the open space, a long cylindrical balloon, shaped like a hot dog, swayed above the machine, struggling to escape like a giant bird caught in a net. A heavy rope kept it anchored to the ground.
Little was waiting for the ballast, when his eye caught Lady Caroline’s among the spectators. The glance was appealing. In a moment he was at her side.
Little was waiting for the ballast when he noticed Lady Caroline among the spectators. The look was inviting. In an instant, he was by her side.
“I should like so much to get into the machine,” said the arch-hypocrite demurely.
“I really want to get into the machine,” said the arch-hypocrite modestly.
“Are you engaged to marry young Raby?” said Little bluntly.
“Are you engaged to marry young Raby?” Little said directly.
“As you please,” she said with a curtsey; “do I take this as a refusal?”
“As you wish,” she said with a curtsy; “should I take this as a no?”
Little was a gentleman. He lifted her and her lap-dog into the car.
Little was a gentleman. He helped her and her lap dog into the car.
“How nice! it won’t go off?”
“How nice! It won’t go off?”
“No, the rope is strong, and the ballast is not yet in.”
“No, the rope is strong, and the ballast isn't in yet.”
A report like a pistol, a cry from the spectators, a thousand hands stretched to grasp the parted rope, and the balloon darted upward.
A report like a gunshot, a shout from the crowd, a thousand hands reaching to grab the separated rope, and the balloon shot up into the sky.
Only one hand of that thousand caught the rope,—Little’s! But in the same instant the horror-stricken spectators saw him whirled from his feet and borne upward, still clinging to the rope, into space.
Only one hand out of that thousand grabbed the rope—Little’s! But at that same moment, the terrified spectators watched as he was swept off his feet and lifted into the air, still holding onto the rope, into the void.
CHAPTER VII
[Footnote: The right of dramatization of this and succeeding chapters is reserved by the writer.]
[Footnote: The author reserves the rights for dramatization of this and the following chapters.]
Lady Caroline fainted. The cold, watery nose of her dog on her cheek brought her to herself. She dared not look over the edge of the car; she dared not look up to the bellowing monster above her, bearing her to death. She threw herself on the bottom of the car, and embraced the only living thing spared her,—the poodle. Then she cried. Then a clear voice came apparently out of the circumambient air,—
Lady Caroline fainted. The cold, wet nose of her dog on her cheek brought her back to consciousness. She was too scared to look over the edge of the car; she couldn’t bring herself to look up at the roaring beast above her, carrying her toward certain death. She threw herself down on the floor of the car and hugged the only living thing that had been spared—her poodle. Then she cried. Then a clear voice seemed to come from the surrounding air,—
“May I trouble you to look at the barometer?”
“Could you please check the barometer?”
She put her head over the car. Little was hanging at the end of a long rope. She put her head back again.
She leaned over the car. A little was hanging from the end of a long rope. She leaned back again.
In another moment he saw her perplexed, blushing face over the edge,—blissful sight.
In another moment, he saw her confused, blushing face peeking over the edge—such a joyful sight.
“Oh, please don’t think of coming up! Stay there, do!”
“Oh, please don’t even think about coming up! Just stay there, okay?”
Little stayed. Of course she could make nothing out of the barometer, and said so. Little smiled.
Little stayed. Of course, she couldn't make sense of the barometer, and said so. Little smiled.
“Will you kindly send it down to me?”
“Could you please send it down to me?”
But she had no string or cord. Finally she said, “Wait a moment.” Little waited. This time her face did not appear. The barometer came slowly down at the end of—a stay-lace.
But she had no string or cord. Finally, she said, “Wait a moment.” Little waited. This time her face didn’t show up. The barometer slowly came down at the end of— a stay-lace.
The barometer showed a frightful elevation. Little looked up at the valve and said nothing. Presently he heard a sigh. Then a sob. Then, rather sharply,—
The barometer indicated a terrifying rise. Little glanced at the gauge and said nothing. Soon, he heard a sigh. Then a sob. Then, quite sharply,—
“Why don’t you do something?”
"Why not do something?"
CHAPTER VIII
Little came up the rope hand over hand. Lady Caroline crouched in the farther side of the car. Fido, the poodle, whined.
Little climbed up the rope, hand over hand. Lady Caroline crouched on the far side of the car. Fido, the poodle, whimpered.
“Poor thing,” said Lady Caroline, “it’s hungry.”
“Poor thing,” said Lady Caroline, “it's hungry.”
“Do you wish to save the dog?” said Little.
“Do you want to save the dog?” said Little.
“Yes.”
“Yeah.”
“Give me your parasol.”
“Hand me your umbrella.”
She handed Little a good-sized affair of lace and silk and whalebone. (None of your “sunshades.”) Little examined its ribs carefully.
She gave Little a decent-sized piece made of lace, silk, and whalebone. (Not any of those "sunshades.") Little looked at its ribs closely.
“Give me the dog.”
"Give me the dog."
Lady Caroline hurriedly slipped a note under the dog’s collar, and passed over her pet.
Lady Caroline quickly tucked a note under the dog’s collar and handed over her pet.
Little tied the dog to the handle of the parasol and launched them both into space. The next moment they were slowly, but tranquilly, sailing to the earth.
Little tied the dog to the handle of the umbrella and sent them both flying into space. The next moment, they were slowly but calmly drifting back to Earth.
“A parasol and a parachute are distinct, but not different. Be not alarmed, he will get his dinner at some farmhouse.”
“A parasol and a parachute are different, but not in the ways you might think. Don't worry, he'll get his dinner at some farmhouse.”
“Where are we now?”
"Where are we now?"
“That opaque spot you see is London fog. Those twin clouds are North and South America. Jerusalem and Madagascar are those specks to the right.”
"That dark spot you see is London fog. Those two clouds are North and South America. Jerusalem and Madagascar are those little dots on the right."
Lady Caroline moved nearer; she was becoming interested. Then she recalled herself, and said freezingly, “How are we going to descend?”
Lady Caroline moved closer; she was getting interested. Then she composed herself and said coldly, “How are we going to get down?”
“By opening the valve.”
“By turning the valve.”
“Why don’t you open it then?”
“Why don’t you just open it?”
CHAPTER IX
Lady Caroline fainted. When she revived it was dark. They were apparently cleaving their way through a solid block of black marble. She moaned and shuddered.
Lady Caroline fainted. When she came to, it was dark. They seemed to be cutting through a solid block of black marble. She groaned and shivered.
“I wish we had a light.”
“I wish we had a light.”
“I have no lucifers,” said Little. “I observe, however, that you wear a necklace of amber. Amber under certain conditions becomes highly electrical. Permit me.”
“I don’t have any matches,” said Little. “But I see you’re wearing an amber necklace. Amber can become very electrically charged under certain conditions. Allow me.”
He took the amber necklace and rubbed it briskly. Then he asked her to present her knuckle to the gem. A bright spark was the result. This was repeated for some hours. The light was not brilliant, but it was enough for the purposes of propriety, and satisfied the delicately minded girl.
He picked up the amber necklace and rubbed it quickly. Then he asked her to hold out her knuckle to the gem. A bright spark appeared as a result. They did this for a few hours. The light wasn’t dazzling, but it was enough for what was proper and it pleased the delicate-minded girl.
Suddenly there was a tearing, hissing noise and a smell of gas. Little looked up and turned pale. The balloon, at what I shall call the pointed end of the Bologna sausage, was evidently bursting from increased pressure. The gas was escaping, and already they were beginning to descend. Little was resigned but firm.
Suddenly, there was a ripping, hissing sound and a whiff of gas. Little looked up and went pale. The balloon, at what I’ll refer to as the pointed end of the Bologna sausage, was clearly bursting from too much pressure. The gas was leaking, and they were already starting to go down. Little was accepting but determined.
“If the silk gives way, then we are lost. Unfortunately I have no rope nor material for binding it.”
“If the silk breaks, then we’re doomed. Unfortunately, I have no rope or anything to tie it together.”
The woman’s instinct had arrived at the same conclusion sooner than the man’s reason. But she was hesitating over a detail.
The woman's intuition had reached the same conclusion before the man's reasoning did. But she was hesitating over a detail.
“Will you go down the rope for a moment?” she said, with a sweet smile.
“Could you come down the rope for a sec?” she asked, smiling sweetly.
Little went down. Presently she called to him. She held something in her hand,—a wonderful invention of the seventeenth century, improved and perfected in this: a pyramid of sixteen circular hoops of light yet strong steel, attached to each other by cloth bands.
Little happened. Soon she called out to him. She was holding something in her hand—a remarkable invention from the seventeenth century, refined and perfected in this era: a pyramid of sixteen circular hoops made of light yet strong steel, connected to each other by fabric straps.
With a cry of joy Little seized them, climbed to the balloon, and fitted the elastic hoops over its conical end. Then he returned to the car.
With a joyful shout, Little grabbed them, climbed up to the balloon, and put the elastic loops over its pointed end. Then he went back to the car.
“We are saved.” Lady Caroline, blushing, gathered her slim but antique drapery against the other end of the car.
“We're saved.” Lady Caroline, blushing, gathered her slim but old-fashioned dress against the other side of the car.
CHAPTER X
They were slowly descending. Presently Lady Caroline distinguished the outlines of Raby Hall.
They were slowly going down. Right now, Lady Caroline could make out the shape of Raby Hall.
“I think I will get out here,” she said.
“I think I’ll get out here,” she said.
Little anchored the balloon, and prepared to follow her.
Little secured the balloon and got ready to follow her.
“Not so, my friend,” she said, with an arch smile. “We must not be seen together. People might talk. Farewell.”
“Not so, my friend,” she said, with a sly smile. “We can’t be seen together. People might gossip. Goodbye.”
Little sprang again into the balloon and sped away to America. He came down in California, oddly enough in front of Hardin’s door, at Dutch Flat. Hardin was just examining a specimen of ore.
Little jumped back into the balloon and took off for America. He landed in California, surprisingly right in front of Hardin’s door in Dutch Flat. Hardin was just looking at a sample of ore.
“You are a scientist; can you tell me if that is worth anything?” he said, handing it to Little.
“You're a scientist; can you tell me if this is worth anything?” he asked, handing it to Little.
Little held it to the light. “It contains ninety per cent of silver.”
Little held it up to the light. “It has ninety percent silver.”
Hardin embraced him. “Can I do anything for you, and why are you here?”
Hardin hugged him. “Is there anything I can do for you, and why are you here?”
Little told his story. Hardin asked to see the rope. Then he examined it carefully.
Little shared his story. Hardin requested to see the rope. Then he looked it over closely.
“Ah, this was cut, not broken!”
“Ah, this was cut, not broken!”
“With a knife?” asked Little.
"With a knife?" asked Little.
“No. Observe both sides are equally indented. It was done with a scissors!”
“No. Look, both sides are cut the same. It was done with a scissors!”
“Just Heaven!” gasped Little. “Therese!”
“Just Heaven!” gasped Little. “Therese!”
CHAPTER XI
Little returned to London. Passing through London one day he met a dog-fancier.
Little returned to London. One day, as he was walking through London, he ran into a dog enthusiast.
“Buy a nice poodle, sir?”
“Get a nice poodle, sir?”
Something in the animal attracted his attention.
Something about the animal caught his eye.
“Fido!” he gasped.
“Fido!” he exclaimed.
The dog yelped.
The dog barked.
Little bought him. On taking off his collar a piece of paper rustled to the floor. He knew the handwriting and kissed it. It ran:—
Little bought him. When he took off his collar, a piece of paper fell to the floor. He recognized the handwriting and kissed it. It said:—
To THE HONORABLE AUGUSTUS RABY—I cannot marry you. If I marry any one [sly puss] it will be the man who has twice saved my life, Professor Little. CAROLINE COVENTRY.
To THE HONORABLE AUGUSTUS RABY—I can't marry you. If I marry anyone [sly puss], it will be the man who has saved my life twice, Professor Little. CAROLINE COVENTRY.
And she did.
And she did.
LOTHAW
CHAPTER I
“I remember him a little boy,” said the Duchess. “His mother was a dear friend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids.”
“I remember him as a little boy,” said the Duchess. “His mother was a good friend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids.”
“And you have never seen him since, mamma?” asked the oldest married daughter, who did not look a day older than her mother.
“And you haven’t seen him since, Mom?” asked the oldest married daughter, who looked just as young as her mother.
“Never; he was an orphan shortly after. I have often reproached myself, but it is so difficult to see boys.”
“Never; he was an orphan shortly after. I have often blamed myself, but it's so hard to understand boys.”
This simple yet first-class conversation existed in the morning-room of Plusham, where the mistress of the palatial mansion sat involved in the sacred privacy of a circle of her married daughters. One dexterously applied golden knitting-needles to the fabrication of a purse of floss silk of the rarest texture, which none who knew the almost fabulous wealth of the Duke would believe was ever destined to hold in its silken meshes a less sum than 1,000,000 pounds; another adorned a slipper exclusively with seed pearls; a third emblazoned a page with rare pigments and the finest quality of gold leaf. Beautiful forms leaned over frames glowing with embroidery, and beautiful frames leaned over forms inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Others, more remote, occasionally burst into melody as they tried the passages of a new and exclusive air given to them in MS. by some titled and devoted friend, for the private use of the aristocracy alone, and absolutely prohibited for publication.
This elegant yet straightforward conversation took place in the morning room of Plusham, where the lady of the grand mansion was surrounded by her married daughters. One daughter skillfully used golden knitting needles to create a purse made from the rarest floss silk, which no one would believe could hold anything less than 1,000,000 pounds, given the Duke's almost legendary wealth. Another was decorating a slipper with seed pearls, while a third was illustrating a page using rare pigments and high-quality gold leaf. Gorgeous women leaned over frames shimmering with embroidery, and beautiful frames leaned over women adorned with mother-of-pearl. Others, sitting a bit further away, occasionally broke into song as they practiced a new, exclusive piece given to them in manuscript form by a titled and devoted friend, meant solely for the use of the aristocracy and completely off-limits for publication.
The Duchess, herself the superlative of beauty, wealth, and position, was married to the highest noble in the Three Kingdoms. Those who talked about such matters said that their progeny were exactly like their parents,—a peculiarity of the aristocratic and wealthy. They all looked like brothers and sisters, except their parents, who, such was their purity of blood, the perfection of their manners, and the opulence of their condition, might have been taken for their own children’s elder son and daughter. The daughters, with one exception, were all married to the highest nobles in the land. That exception was the Lady Coriander, who, there being no vacancy above a marquis and a rental of 1,000,000 pounds, waited. Gathered around the refined and sacred circle of their breakfast-table, with their glittering coronets, which, in filial respect to their father’s Tory instincts and their mother’s Ritualistic tastes, they always wore on their regal brows, the effect was dazzling as it was refined. It was this peculiarity and their strong family resemblance which led their brother-in-law, the good-humored St. Addlegourd, to say that, “’Pon my soul, you know, the whole precious mob looked like a ghastly pack of court cards, you know.” St. Addlegourd was a radical. Having a rent-roll of 15,000,000 pounds, and belonging to one of the oldest families in Britain, he could afford to be.
The Duchess, a prime example of beauty, wealth, and status, was married to the highest noble in the Three Kingdoms. People who discussed such things said that their children resembled their parents perfectly—a common trait among the aristocracy and wealthy. They all looked like brothers and sisters, except their parents, who, given their pure bloodline, impeccable manners, and lavish lifestyle, could have been mistaken for their own children's older son and daughter. All the daughters, except one, were married to the highest nobles in the country. That one exception was Lady Coriander, who, with no positions available above a marquis and a fortune of 1,000,000 pounds, was still waiting. Gathered around the elegant and sacred breakfast table, wearing their sparkling coronets—out of respect for their father's Tory beliefs and their mother's Ritualistic preferences—their appearance was as dazzling as it was sophisticated. It was this uniqueness and their strong family resemblance that led their brother-in-law, the easygoing St. Addlegourd, to remark, “Honestly, the whole precious bunch looks like a creepy set of playing cards.” St. Addlegourd was a radical. With a fortune of 15,000,000 pounds and belonging to one of the oldest families in Britain, he was in a position to be one.
“Mamma, I’ve just dropped a pearl,” said the Lady Coriander, bending over the Persian hearth-rug.
“Mama, I just dropped a pearl,” said Lady Coriander, leaning over the Persian hearth rug.
“From your lips, sweet friend?” said Lothaw, who came of age and entered the room at the same moment.
“From your lips, sweet friend?” said Lothaw, who came of age and entered the room at the same moment.
“No, from my work. It was a very valuable pearl, mamma; papa gave Isaacs Sons 50,000 pounds for the two.”
“No, from my work. It was a really valuable pearl, Mom; Dad paid Isaacs Sons 50,000 pounds for the two.”
“Ah, indeed,” said the Duchess, languidly rising; “let us go to luncheon.”
“Ah, definitely,” said the Duchess, lazily getting up; “let's go to lunch.”
“But, your Grace,” interposed Lothaw, who was still quite young, and had dropped on all fours on the carpet in search of the missing gem, “consider the value”—
“But, Your Grace,” interrupted Lothaw, who was still quite young and had dropped to all fours on the carpet looking for the missing gem, “think about the value—”
“Dear friend,” interposed the Duchess with infinite tact, gently lifting him by the tails of his dress coat, “I am waiting for your arm.”
“Dear friend,” the Duchess said with great tact, gently lifting him by the tails of his dress coat, “I’m waiting for your arm.”
CHAPTER II
Lothaw was immensely rich. The possessor of seventeen castles, fifteen villas, nine shooting-boxes, and seven town houses, he had other estates of which he had not even heard.
Lothaw was incredibly wealthy. He owned seventeen castles, fifteen villas, nine hunting lodges, and seven townhouses, along with other estates he wasn’t even aware of.
Everybody at Plusham played croquet, and none badly. Next to their purity of blood and great wealth, the family were famous for this accomplishment. Yet Lothaw soon tired of the game, and after seriously damaging his aristocratically large foot in an attempt to “tight croquet” the Lady Aniseed’s ball, he limped away to join the Duchess.
Everyone at Plusham played croquet, and no one played it poorly. Besides their high social status and great wealth, the family was known for this skill. However, Lothaw quickly grew bored with the game, and after seriously injuring his impressively large foot while trying to “tight croquet” the Lady Aniseed’s ball, he limped away to join the Duchess.
“I’m going to the hennery,” she said.
“I’m going to the chicken coop,” she said.
“Let me go with you; I dearly love fowls—broiled,” he added thoughtfully.
“Let me go with you; I really love chicken—grilled,” he added thoughtfully.
“The Duke gave Lady Montairy some large Cochins the other day,” continued the Duchess, changing the subject with delicate tact.
“The Duke gave Lady Montairy some big Cochins the other day,” continued the Duchess, shifting the topic with subtle grace.
sang Lothaw gayly.
sang Lothaw cheerfully.
The Duchess looked shocked. After a prolonged silence Lothaw abruptly and gravely said:—
The Duchess looked stunned. After a long silence, Lothaw suddenly and seriously said:—
“If you please, ma’am, when I come into my property I should like to build some improved dwellings for the poor, and marry Lady Coriander.”
“If it’s all right with you, ma’am, when I get back to my property I’d like to build some better homes for the poor and marry Lady Coriander.”
“You amaze me, dear friend; and yet both your aspirations are noble and eminently proper,” said the Duchess.
“You amaze me, dear friend; and yet both your aspirations are noble and truly fitting,” said the Duchess.
“Coriander is but a child,—and yet,” she added, looking graciously upon her companion, “for the matter of that, so are you.”
“Coriander is just a kid,—and yet,” she added, looking kindly at her companion, “for that matter, so are you.”
CHAPTER III
Mr. Putney Giles’s was Lothaw’s first grand dinner-party. Yet, by carefully watching the others, he managed to acquit himself creditably, and avoided drinking out of the finger-bowl by first secretly testing its contents with a spoon. The conversation was peculiar and singularly interesting.
Mr. Putney Giles's was Lothaw's first big dinner party. However, by closely observing the others, he managed to do quite well and avoided drinking from the finger bowl by first secretly checking its contents with a spoon. The conversation was unusual and particularly engaging.
“Then you think that monogamy is simply a question of the thermometer?” said Mrs. Putney Giles to her companion.
“Do you really think monogamy is just a matter of the thermometer?” said Mrs. Putney Giles to her companion.
“I certainly think that polygamy should be limited by isothermal lines,” replied Lothaw.
“I definitely think that polygamy should be restricted by isothermal lines,” replied Lothaw.
“I should say it was a matter of latitude,” observed a loud, talkative man opposite. He was an Oxford professor with a taste for satire, and had made himself very obnoxious to the company, during dinner, by speaking disparagingly of a former well-known chancellor of the exchequer,—a great statesman and brilliant novelist,—whom he feared and hated.
“I would say it was a matter of perspective,” remarked a loud, chatty guy across the table. He was an Oxford professor with a knack for satire and had really annoyed everyone during dinner by putting down a former famous chancellor of the exchequer—a great politician and talented novelist—whom he both feared and detested.
Suddenly there was a sensation in the room; among the females it absolutely amounted to a nervous thrill. His Eminence, the Cardinal, was announced. He entered with great suavity of manner, and after shaking hands with everybody, asking after their relatives, and chucking the more delicate females under the chin with a high-bred grace peculiar to his profession, he sat down, saying, “And how do we all find ourselves this evening, my dears?” in several different languages, which he spoke fluently.
Suddenly, there was a buzz in the room; among the women, it created a nervous excitement. His Eminence, the Cardinal, was announced. He entered with a smooth demeanor, shaking hands with everyone, inquiring about their relatives, and playfully touching the more delicate women under the chin with a refined elegance unique to his role. He sat down, asking, “So how is everyone doing this evening, my dears?” in several different languages that he spoke fluently.
Lothaw’s heart was touched. His deeply religious convictions were impressed. He instantly went up to this gifted being, confessed, and received absolution. “To-morrow,” he said to himself, “I will partake of the communion, and endow the Church with my vast estates. For the present I’ll let the improved cottages go.”
Lothaw's heart was moved. His strong religious beliefs were stirred. He immediately approached this remarkable person, confessed, and received forgiveness. "Tomorrow," he told himself, "I will take part in communion and donate my large estates to the Church. For now, I will let the upgraded cottages go."
CHAPTER IV
As Lothaw turned to leave the Cardinal, he was struck by a beautiful face. It was that of a matron, slim but shapely as an Ionic column. Her face was Grecian, with Corinthian temples; Hellenic eyes that looked from jutting eyebrows, like dormer-windows in an Attic forehead, completed her perfect Athenian outline. She wore a black frock-coat tightly buttoned over her bloomer trousers, and a standing collar.
As Lothaw turned to leave the Cardinal, he was captivated by a striking face. It belonged to a woman, slim yet curvy like an Ionic column. Her face was classical, with beautiful temples; her Hellenic eyes, framed by prominent eyebrows, resembled dormer windows on a graceful forehead, completing her flawless Athenian profile. She wore a fitted black coat cinched over her bloomer pants and a standing collar.
“Your lordship is struck by that face?” said a social parasite.
“Are you captivated by that face, my lord?” asked a social climber.
“I am; who is she?”
“I am; who’s she?”
“Her name is Mary Ann. She is married to an American, and has lately invented a new religion.”
“Her name is Mary Ann. She’s married to an American and has recently created a new religion.”
“Ah!” said Lothaw eagerly, with difficulty restraining himself from rushing toward her.
“Ah!” Lothaw exclaimed excitedly, struggling to keep himself from rushing over to her.
“Yes; shall I introduce you?”
“Sure; should I introduce you?”
Lothaw thought of Lady Coriander’s High Church proclivities, of the Cardinal, and hesitated: “No, I thank you, not now.”
Lothaw thought about Lady Coriander’s strong beliefs in the High Church, the Cardinal, and paused: “No, thanks, not right now.”
CHAPTER V
Lothaw was maturing. He had attended two womens’ rights conventions, three Fenian meetings, had dined at White’s, and had danced vis-a-vis to a prince of the blood, and eaten off gold plates at Crecy House.
Lothaw was growing up. He had been to two women’s rights conventions, three Fenian meetings, had dined at White’s, and had danced face-to-face with a prince, and eaten off gold plates at Crecy House.
His stables were near Oxford, and occupied more ground than the University. He was driving over there one day, when he perceived some rustics and menials endeavoring to stop a pair of runaway horses attached to a carriage in which a lady and gentleman were seated. Calmly awaiting the termination of the accident, with high-bred courtesy Lothaw forbore to interfere until the carriage was overturned, the occupants thrown out, and the runaways secured by the servants, when he advanced and offered the lady the exclusive use of his Oxford stables.
His stables were near Oxford and took up more land than the University. One day, he was driving over there when he saw some local people and workers trying to stop a pair of runaway horses connected to a carriage where a lady and a gentleman were sitting. He calmly waited for the situation to resolve itself, showing great courtesy as he chose not to interfere until the carriage was overturned, the occupants were thrown out, and the horses were secured by the staff. Then he approached and offered the lady the exclusive use of his Oxford stables.
Turning upon him a face whose perfect Hellenic details he remembered, she slowly dragged a gentleman from under the wheels into the light, and presented him with ladylike dignity as her husband, Major-General Camperdown, an American.
Turning to him with a face that had perfect Greek features he remembered, she slowly pulled a man from under the wheels into the light and introduced him with graceful poise as her husband, Major-General Camperdown, an American.
“Ah,” said Lothaw carelessly, “I believe I have some land there. If I mistake not, my agent, Mr. Putney Giles, lately purchased the State of—Illinois—I think you call it.”
“Ah,” said Lothaw casually, “I think I have some land there. If I’m not mistaken, my agent, Mr. Putney Giles, recently bought the state of—Illinois—I believe that’s what you call it.”
“Exactly. As a former resident of the city of Chicago, let me introduce myself as your tenant.”
“Exactly. As a former resident of Chicago, let me introduce myself as your tenant.”
Lothaw bowed graciously to the gentleman, who, except that he seemed better dressed than most Englishmen, showed no other signs of inferiority and plebeian extraction.
Lothaw politely nodded to the gentleman, who, aside from being better dressed than most Englishmen, displayed no other signs of being lower class or of humble origin.
“We have met before,” said Lothaw to the lady as she leaned on his arm, while they visited his stables, the University, and other places of interest in Oxford, “Pray tell me, what is this new religion of yours?”
“We’ve met before,” said Lothaw to the lady as she leaned on his arm while they toured his stables, the University, and other interesting spots in Oxford. “Please tell me, what is this new religion of yours?”
“It is Woman Suffrage, Free Love, Mutual Affinity, and Communism. Embrace it and me.”
“It’s women’s rights, love without restrictions, deep connections, and communal living. Accept it and accept me.”
Lothaw did not know exactly what to do. She, however, soothed and sustained his agitated frame, and sealed with an embrace his speechless form. The General approached and coughed slightly with gentlemanly tact.
Lothaw wasn't sure what to do. Still, she comforted and supported his restless body, wrapping him in an embrace that spoke volumes. The General stepped forward and cleared his throat politely.
“My husband will be too happy to talk with you further on this subject,” she said with quiet dignity, as she regained the General’s side. “Come with us to Oneida. Brook Farm is a thing of the past.”
“My husband will be more than happy to discuss this with you further,” she said with quiet dignity as she returned to the General’s side. “Come with us to Oneida. Brook Farm is a thing of the past.”
CHAPTER VI
As Lothaw drove toward his country-seat, The Mural Inclosure, he observed a crowd, apparently of the working-class, gathered around a singular-looking man in the picturesque garb of an Ethiopian serenader. “What does he say?” inquired Lothaw of his driver.
As Lothaw drove toward his country home, The Mural Inclosure, he noticed a crowd, seemingly made up of working-class folks, gathered around a distinctly dressed man in the colorful outfit of an Ethiopian singer. “What’s he saying?” Lothaw asked his driver.
The man touched his hat respectfully, and said, “My Mary Ann.”
The man respectfully tipped his hat and said, “My Mary Ann.”
“‘My Mary Ann!’” Lothaw’s heart beat rapidly. Who was this mysterious foreigner? He had heard from Lady Coriander of a certain Popish plot; but could he connect Mr. Camperdown with it?
“‘My Mary Ann!’” Lothaw’s heart pounded. Who was this mysterious foreigner? He had heard from Lady Coriander about a certain Popish plot, but could he link Mr. Camperdown to it?
The spectacle of two hundred men at arms, who advanced to meet him at the gates of The Mural Inclosure, drove all else from the still youthful and impressible mind of Lothaw. Immediately behind them, on the steps of the baronial halls, were ranged his retainers, led by the chief cook and bottle-washer and head crumb-remover. On either side were two companies of laundry-maids, preceded by the chief crimper and flutter, supporting a long Ancestral Line, on which depended the family linen, and under which the youthful lord of the manor passed into the halls of his fathers. Twenty-four scullions carried the massive gold and silver plate of the family on their shoulders, and deposited it at the feet of their master. The spoons were then solemnly counted by the steward, and the perfect ceremony ended.
The sight of two hundred armed men approaching him at the gates of The Mural Inclosure wiped everything else from the young and impressionable mind of Lothaw. Right behind them, on the steps of the baronial halls, stood his retainers, led by the head cook and head cleaner. On either side were two groups of laundry maids, led by the chief crimper and fluffer, supporting a long Ancestral Line that held the family linens, under which the young lord of the manor entered the halls of his ancestors. Twenty-four kitchen helpers carried the heavy gold and silver plates of the family on their shoulders and set them down at their master's feet. The steward then solemnly counted the spoons, and the formal ceremony concluded.
Lothaw sighed. He sought out the gorgeously gilded “Taj,” or sacred mausoleum erected to his grandfather in the second-story front room, and wept over the man he did not know.
Lothaw sighed. He looked for the beautifully decorated “Taj,” the sacred mausoleum built for his grandfather in the second-story front room, and cried for the man he never knew.
He wandered alone in his magnificent park, and then, throwing himself on a grassy bank, pondered on the Great First Cause and the necessity of religion. “I will send Mary Ann a handsome present,” said Lothaw thoughtfully.
He strolled alone in his beautiful park, and then, throwing himself onto a grassy bank, he thought about the Great First Cause and the importance of religion. “I’ll send Mary Ann a nice gift,” Lothaw said thoughtfully.
CHAPTER VII
“Each of these pearls, my lord, is worth fifty thousand guineas,” said Mr. Amethyst, the fashionable jeweler, as he lightly lifted a large shovelful from a convenient bin behind his counter.
“Each of these pearls, my lord, is worth fifty thousand guineas,” said Mr. Amethyst, the trendy jeweler, as he casually lifted a large shovel-full from a handy bin behind his counter.
“Indeed,” said Lothaw carelessly, “I should prefer to see some expensive ones.”
“Sure,” said Lothaw casually, “I’d rather see some expensive ones.”
“Some number sixes, I suppose,” said Mr. Amethyst, taking a couple from the apex of a small pyramid that lay piled on the shelf. “These are about the size of the Duchess of Billingsgate’s, but they are in finer condition. The fact is, her Grace permits her two children, the Marquis of Smithfield and the Duke of St. Giles,—two sweet pretty boys, my lord,—to use them as marbles in their games. Pearls require some attention, and I go down there regularly twice a week to clean them. Perhaps your lordship would like some ropes of pearls?”
“Maybe some number sixes,” Mr. Amethyst said, grabbing a couple from the top of a small pyramid stacked on the shelf. “These are about the same size as the Duchess of Billingsgate’s, but they’re in better shape. The truth is, her Grace lets her two kids, the Marquis of Smithfield and the Duke of St. Giles—two adorable little boys, my lord—use them as marbles in their games. Pearls need some care, and I go down there twice a week to clean them. Perhaps your lordship would want some pearl necklaces?”
“About half a cable’s length,” said Lothaw shortly, “and send them to my lodgings.”
“About half a cable's length,” Lothaw said briefly, “and have them sent to my place.”
Mr. Amethyst became thoughtful. “I am afraid I have not the exact number—that is—excuse me one moment. I will run over to the Tower and borrow a few from the crown jewels.” And before Lothaw could prevent him, he seized his hat and left Lothaw alone.
Mr. Amethyst became reflective. “I’m sorry, I don’t have the exact number—that is—give me a moment. I’ll dash over to the Tower and borrow a few from the crown jewels.” And before Lothaw could stop him, he grabbed his hat and left Lothaw by himself.
His position certainly was embarrassing. He could not move without stepping on costly gems which had rolled from the counter; the rarest diamonds lay scattered on the shelves; untold fortunes in priceless emeralds lay within his grasp. Although such was the aristocratic purity of his blood and the strength of his religious convictions that he probably would not have pocketed a single diamond, still he could not help thinking that he might be accused of taking some. “You can search me, if you like,” he said when Mr. Amethyst returned; “but I assure you, upon the honor of a gentleman, that I have taken nothing.”
His situation was definitely awkward. He couldn't move without stepping on expensive gems that had rolled off the counter; the rarest diamonds were scattered on the shelves; countless fortunes in priceless emeralds were within his reach. Despite the noble purity of his blood and the strength of his religious beliefs, which meant he probably wouldn’t have pocketed a single diamond, he couldn’t shake the thought that he might be accused of taking something. "You can search me if you want," he said when Mr. Amethyst came back; "but I promise you, on the honor of a gentleman, that I haven’t taken anything."
“Enough, my lord,” said Mr. Amethyst, with a low bow; “we never search the aristocracy.”
“That's enough, my lord,” said Mr. Amethyst, with a slight bow; “we never search the upper class.”
CHAPTER VIII
As Lothaw left Mr. Amethyst’s, he ran against General Camperdown. “How is Mary Ann?” he asked hurriedly.
As Lothaw left Mr. Amethyst’s, he bumped into General Camperdown. “How is Mary Ann?” he asked quickly.
“I regret to state that she is dying,” said the General, with a grave voice, as he removed his cigar from his lips, and lifted his hat to Lothaw.
“I’m sorry to say that she’s dying,” said the General, with a serious tone, as he took his cigar out of his mouth and tipped his hat to Lothaw.
“Dying!” said Lothaw incredulously.
“Dying!” Lothaw exclaimed in disbelief.
“Alas, too true!” replied the General. “The engagements of a long lecturing season, exposure in traveling by railway during the winter, and the imperfect nourishment afforded by the refreshments along the road, have told on her delicate frame. But she wants to see you before she dies. Here is the key of my lodging. I will finish my cigar out here.”
“Sadly, it’s true!” replied the General. “The demands of a long lecture season, traveling by train in the winter, and the inadequate food provided along the way have taken a toll on her fragile health. But she wants to see you before she passes away. Here’s the key to my place. I’ll finish my cigar out here.”
Lothaw hardly recognized those wasted Hellenic outlines as he entered the dimly lighted room of the dying woman. She was already a classic ruin,—as wrecked and yet as perfect as the Parthenon. He grasped her hand silently.
Lothaw hardly recognized those faded Hellenic shapes as he walked into the dimly lit room of the dying woman. She was already a classic ruin—wrecked yet still perfect like the Parthenon. He took her hand silently.
“Open-air speaking twice a week, and Saleratus bread in the rural districts, have brought me to this,” she said feebly; “but it is well. The cause progresses. The tyrant man succumbs.”
“Speaking in public twice a week and Saleratus bread in the countryside have led me to this,” she said weakly; “but that's okay. The cause is moving forward. Tyrant men are losing.”
Lothaw could only press her hand.
Lothaw could only hold her hand.
“Promise me one thing. Don’t—whatever you do—become a Catholic.”
“Promise me one thing. Don’t—whatever you do—become a Catholic.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“The Church does not recognize divorce. And now embrace me. I would prefer at this supreme moment to introduce myself to the next world through the medium of the best society in this. Good-by. When I am dead, be good enough to inform my husband of the fact.”
“The Church doesn’t accept divorce. Now, please hold me. I would rather at this crucial moment enter the next world through the company of the best people in this one. Goodbye. When I’m gone, please let my husband know.”
CHAPTER IX
Lothaw spent the next six months on an Aryan island, in an Aryan climate, and with an Aryan race.
Lothaw spent the next six months on an Aryan island, in an Aryan climate, and with an Aryan race.
“This is an Aryan landscape,” said his host, “and that is a Mary Ann statue.” It was, in fact, a full-length figure in marble of Mrs. General Camperdown.
“This is an Aryan landscape,” his host said, “and that’s a Mary Ann statue.” It was, in fact, a full-length marble figure of Mrs. General Camperdown.
“If you please, I should like to become a Pagan,” said Lothaw, one day, after listening to an impassioned discourse on Greek art from the lips of his host.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to become a Pagan,” said Lothaw one day, after hearing a passionate talk about Greek art from his host.
But that night, on consulting a well-known spiritual medium, Lothaw received a message from the late Mrs. General Camperdown, advising him to return to England. Two days later he presented himself at Plusham.
But that night, after talking to a well-known spiritual medium, Lothaw received a message from the late Mrs. General Camperdown, telling him to go back to England. Two days later, he showed up at Plusham.
“The young ladies are in the garden,” said the Duchess. “Don’t you want to go and pick a rose?” she added with a gracious smile, and the nearest approach to a wink that was consistent with her patrician bearing and aquiline nose.
“The young ladies are in the garden,” said the Duchess. “Don’t you want to go and pick a rose?” she added with a warm smile and the closest thing to a wink that would fit her noble demeanor and sharp nose.
Lothaw went and presently returned with the blushing Coriander upon his arm.
Lothaw went and soon returned with the blushing Coriander on his arm.
“Bless you, my children,” said the Duchess. Then turning to Lothaw, she said: “You have simply fulfilled and accepted your inevitable destiny. It was morally impossible for you to marry out of this family. For the present, the Church of England is safe.”
“Bless you, my children,” said the Duchess. Then turning to Lothaw, she said: “You have simply fulfilled and accepted your inevitable destiny. It was morally impossible for you to marry outside of this family. For now, the Church of England is safe.”
THE HAUNTED MAN
PART I
Don’t tell me that it wasn’t a knocker. I had seen it often enough, and I ought to know. So ought the three-o’clock beer, in dirty high-lows, swinging himself over the railing, or executing a demoniacal jig upon the doorstep; so ought the butcher, although butchers as a general thing are scornful of such trifles; so ought the postman, to whom knockers of the most extravagant description were merely human weaknesses, that were to be pitied and used. And so ought for the matter of that, etc., etc., etc.
Don’t tell me it wasn’t a knocker. I’ve seen it enough times, and I should know. So should the three o’clock beer, in dirty high-tops, swinging himself over the railing, or doing a crazy dance on the doorstep; so should the butcher, even though butchers usually look down on such things; so should the postman, who thinks that knockers of the wildest kinds are just human weaknesses that should be pitied and taken advantage of. And the same goes for that, etc., etc., etc.
But then it was such a knocker. A wild, extravagant, and utterly incomprehensible knocker. A knocker so mysterious and suspicious that policeman X 37, first coming upon it, felt inclined to take it instantly in custody, but compromised with his professional instincts by sharply and sternly noting it with an eye that admitted of no nonsense, but confidently expected to detect its secret yet. An ugly knocker; a knocker with a hard human face, that was a type of the harder human face within. A human face that held between its teeth a brazen rod. So hereafter, in the mysterious future should be held, etc., etc.
But then it was such a strange door knocker. A wild, extravagant, and completely baffling knocker. A knocker so mysterious and suspicious that Officer X 37, upon first seeing it, felt compelled to take it into custody right away, but managed to hold back his instincts by observing it sharply and sternly with an expression that demanded seriousness, while still hoping to uncover its secret eventually. An ugly knocker; a knocker with a harsh human face, reflecting the tougher human nature inside. A human face that gripped a bold rod between its teeth. So, from now on, in the enigmatic future, it should be considered, etc., etc.
But if the knocker had a fierce human aspect in the glare of day, you should have seen it at night, when it peered out of the gathering shadows and suggested an ambushed figure; when the light of the street lamps fell upon it, and wrought a play of sinister expression in its hard outlines; when it seemed to wink meaningly at a shrouded figure who, as the night fell darkly, crept up the steps and passed into the mysterious house; when the swinging door disclosed a black passage into which the figure seemed to lose itself and become a part of the mysterious gloom; when the night grew boisterous and the fierce wind made furious charges at the knocker, as if to wrench it off and carry it away in triumph. Such a night as this.
But if the knocker looked intense and human in the bright light of day, you should have seen it at night, when it emerged from the deepening shadows and resembled an ambushed figure; when the streetlights illuminated it, casting a shadowy expression over its harsh edges; when it appeared to wink knowingly at a cloaked figure who, as night fell, crept up the steps and entered the mysterious house; when the swinging door revealed a dark passage that seemed to swallow the figure and incorporate it into the mysterious dark; when the night grew wild and the fierce wind hurled itself at the knocker, as if trying to rip it off and carry it away in victory. Such a night as this.
It was a wild and pitiless wind. A wind that had commenced life as a gentle country zephyr, but, wandering through manufacturing towns, had become demoralized, and, reaching the city, had plunged into extravagant dissipation and wild excesses. A roistering wind that indulged in Bacchanalian shouts on the street corners, that knocked off the hats from the heads of helpless passengers, and then fulfilled its duties by speeding away, like all young prodigals,—to sea.
It was a fierce and unforgiving wind. A wind that had started out as a gentle country breeze, but after drifting through industrial towns, had lost its way and, upon arriving in the city, had thrown itself into wild partying and reckless abandon. A rambunctious wind that echoed with party shouts at street corners, blew hats off the heads of unsuspecting pedestrians, and then did its job by rushing off, just like all reckless youths—to the sea.
He sat alone in a gloomy library listening to the wind that roared in the chimney. Around him novels and storybooks were strewn thickly; in his lap he held one with its pages freshly cut, and turned the leaves wearily until his eyes rested upon a portrait in its frontispiece. And as the wind howled the more fiercely, and the darkness without fell blacker, a strange and fateful likeness to that portrait appeared above his chair and leaned upon his shoulder. The Haunted Man gazed at the portrait and sighed. The figure gazed at the portrait and sighed too.
He sat alone in a dim library, listening to the wind howling in the chimney. Around him, novels and storybooks were scattered everywhere; in his lap, he held one with freshly cut pages and turned the leaves wearily until his eyes fell on a portrait in its frontispiece. As the wind howled louder and the darkness outside grew deeper, a strange and eerie resemblance to that portrait appeared above his chair and leaned on his shoulder. The Haunted Man looked at the portrait and sighed. The figure looked at the portrait and sighed too.
“Here again?” said the Haunted Man.
“Here again?” said the Haunted Man.
“Here again,” it repeated in a low voice.
"Here again," it said softly.
“Another novel?”
"Another book?"
“Another novel.”
“Another book.”
“The old story?”
"The classic tale?"
“The old story.”
"The classic tale."
“I see a child,” said the Haunted Man, gazing from the pages of the book into the fire,—“a most unnatural child, a model infant. It is prematurely old and philosophic. It dies in poverty to slow music. It dies surrounded by luxury to slow music. It dies with an accompaniment of golden water and rattling carts to slow music. Previous to its decease it makes a will; it repeats the Lord’s Prayer, it kisses the ‘boofer lady.’ That child”—
“I see a child,” said the Haunted Man, looking from the pages of the book into the fire, “a very strange child, a perfect little one. It seems old and wise beyond its years. It dies in poverty to soft music. It dies surrounded by luxury to soft music. It dies with the sound of golden water and rattle of carts to soft music. Before it passes away, it writes a will; it recites the Lord’s Prayer, it kisses the ‘boofer lady.’ That child”—
“Is mine,” said the phantom.
"Is mine," said the ghost.
“I see a good woman, undersized. I see several charming women, but they are all undersized. They are more or less imbecile and idiotic, but always fascinating and undersized. They wear coquettish caps and aprons. I observe that feminine virtue is invariably below the medium height, and that it is always simple and infantine. These women”—
“I see a good woman, petite. I see several charming women, but they’re all petite. They’re somewhat silly and foolish, but still captivating and petite. They wear playful caps and aprons. I notice that feminine virtue is always below average height, and that it is always simple and childlike. These women”—
“Are mine.”
"Are mine."
“I see a haughty, proud, and wicked lady. She is tall and queenly. I remark that all proud and wicked women are tall and queenly. That woman”—
“I see an arrogant, proud, and cruel woman. She is tall and regal. I notice that all arrogant and cruel women are tall and regal. That woman”—
“Is mine,” said the phantom, wringing his hands.
“It's mine,” said the ghost, wringing his hands.
“I see several things continually impending. I observe that whenever an accident, a murder, or death is about to happen, there is something in the furniture, in the locality, in the atmosphere, that foreshadows and suggests it years in advance. I cannot say that in real life I have noticed it,—the perception of this surprising fact belongs”—
“I see several things constantly approaching. I notice that whenever an accident, a murder, or death is about to happen, there’s something in the furniture, in the surroundings, in the atmosphere, that hints at and suggests it years ahead of time. I can’t say that in real life I’ve noticed it—the awareness of this surprising fact belongs—”
“To me!” said the phantom. The Haunted Man continued, in a despairing tone,—
“To me!” said the ghost. The Haunted Man went on, in a hopeless tone,—
“I see the influence of this in the magazines and daily papers; I see weak imitators rise up and enfeeble the world with senseless formula. I am getting tired of it. It won’t do, Charles! it won’t do!” and the Haunted Man buried his head in his hands and groaned. The figure looked down upon him sternly; the portrait in the frontispiece frowned as he gazed.
“I can see how this affects magazines and newspapers; I see weak imitators coming up and making the world dull with pointless clichés. I'm getting tired of it. This just won't stand, Charles! It just won't!” and the Haunted Man buried his head in his hands and groaned. The figure looked down on him sternly; the portrait in the frontispiece frowned as it watched.
“Wretched man,” said the phantom, “and how have these things affected you?”
"Wretched man," said the ghost, "and how have these things impacted you?"
“Once I laughed and cried, but then I was younger. Now, I would forget them if I could.”
“Once I laughed and cried, but that was when I was younger. Now, I’d forget them if I could.”
“Have then your wish. And take this with you, man whom I renounce. From this day henceforth you shall live with those whom I displace. Without forgetting me, ’twill be your lot to walk through life as if we had not met. But first you shall survey these scenes that henceforth must be yours. At one to-night, prepare to meet the phantom I have raised. Farewell!”
“Then have your wish. And take this with you, man I’m leaving behind. From this day forward, you’ll live with those I’ve pushed aside. Without forgetting me, it’ll be your fate to go through life as if we never met. But first, you’ll need to see the places that will now belong to you. At one tonight, get ready to meet the ghost I’ve conjured. Goodbye!”
The sound of its voice seemed to fade away with the dying wind, and the Haunted Man was alone. But the firelight flickered gayly, and the light danced on the walls, making grotesque figures of the furniture.
The sound of its voice seemed to fade away with the dying wind, and the Haunted Man was alone. But the firelight flickered cheerfully, and the light danced on the walls, creating strange shapes of the furniture.
“Ha, ha!” said the Haunted Man, rubbing his hands gleefully; “now for a whiskey punch and a cigar.”
“Ha, ha!” said the Haunted Man, rubbing his hands excitedly; “now for a whiskey punch and a cigar.”
PART II
One! The stroke of the far-off bell had hardly died before the front door closed with a reverberating clang. Steps were heard along the passage; the library door swung open of itself, and the Knocker—yes, the Knocker—slowly strode into the room. The Haunted Man rubbed his eyes,—no! there could be no mistake about it,—it was the Knocker’s face, mounted on a misty, almost imperceptible body. The brazen rod was transferred from its mouth to its right hand, where it was held like a ghostly truncheon.
One! The sound of the distant bell had barely faded when the front door slammed shut with a loud bang. Footsteps echoed down the hallway; the library door swung open on its own, and the Knocker—yes, the Knocker—slowly walked into the room. The Haunted Man rubbed his eyes—no! there could be no mistake about it—it was the Knocker’s face, attached to a foggy, nearly invisible body. The metal rod was moved from its mouth to its right hand, where it was held like a spectral baton.
“It’s a cold evening,” said the Haunted Man.
“It’s a cold evening,” said the Haunted Man.
“It is,” said the Goblin, in a hard, metallic voice.
“It is,” said the Goblin, in a cold, metallic voice.
“It must be pretty cold out there,” said the Haunted Man, with vague politeness. “Do you ever—will you—take some hot water and brandy?”
“It must be really cold out there,” said the Haunted Man, with a hint of politeness. “Do you ever—will you—have some hot water and brandy?”
“No,” said the Goblin.
“No,” said the Goblin.
“Perhaps you’d like it cold, by way of change?” continued the Haunted Man, correcting himself, as he remembered the peculiar temperature with which the Goblin was probably familiar.
“Maybe you’d prefer it cold, just for a change?” continued the Haunted Man, correcting himself as he remembered the weird temperature the Goblin was likely used to.
“Time flies,” said the Goblin coldly. “We have no leisure for idle talk. Come!” He moved his ghostly truncheon toward the window, and laid his hand upon the other’s arm. At his touch the body of the Haunted Man seemed to become as thin and incorporeal as that of the Goblin himself, and together they glided out of the window into the black and blowy night.
“Time flies,” the Goblin said coldly. “We don't have time for idle chatter. Come!” He pointed his ghostly truncheon toward the window and placed his hand on the other man’s arm. At his touch, the Haunted Man's body looked as thin and insubstantial as the Goblin’s own, and together they glided out of the window into the dark, stormy night.
In the rapidity of their flight the senses of the Haunted Man seemed to leave him. At length they stopped suddenly.
In the quickness of their flight, the Haunted Man felt his senses fading away. Eventually, they came to a sudden halt.
“What do you see?” asked the Goblin.
“What do you see?” asked the Goblin.
“I see a battlemented mediaeval castle. Gallant men in mail ride over the drawbridge, and kiss their gauntleted fingers to fair ladies, who wave their lily hands in return. I see fight and fray and tournament. I hear roaring heralds bawling the charms of delicate women, and shamelessly proclaiming their lovers. Stay. I see a Jewess about to leap from a battlement. I see knightly deeds, violence, rapine, and a good deal of blood. I’ve seen pretty much the same at Astley’s.”
"I see a medieval castle with battlements. Brave men in armor ride over the drawbridge and kiss their gloved fingers to beautiful ladies, who wave their delicate hands in response. I see battles, skirmishes, and tournaments. I hear loud heralds calling out the praises of lovely women and boldly announcing their admirers. Wait. I see a Jewish woman about to jump from a battlement. I see chivalrous acts, violence, looting, and a lot of blood. I've seen pretty much the same at Astley's."
“Look again.”
"Check again."
“I see purple moors, glens, masculine women, bare-legged men, priggish book-worms, more violence, physical excellence, and blood. Always blood,—and the superiority of physical attainments.”
“I see purple moors, valleys, strong women, men with bare legs, overly serious bookworms, more violence, physical excellence, and blood. Always blood—and the dominance of physical achievements.”
“And how do you feel now?” said the Goblin.
“And how do you feel now?” asked the Goblin.
The Haunted Man shrugged his shoulders. “None the better for being carried back and asked to sympathize with a barbarous age.”
The Haunted Man shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t help to be taken back and asked to feel for a brutal time.”
The Goblin smiled and clutched his arm; they again sped rapidly away through the black night, and again halted.
The Goblin smiled and grasped his arm; they quickly took off again through the dark night, and then stopped once more.
“What do you see?” said the Goblin.
“What do you see?” asked the Goblin.
“I see a barrack-room, with a mess-table, and a group of intoxicated Celtic officers telling funny stories, and giving challenges to duel. I see a young Irish gentleman capable of performing prodigies of valor. I learn incidentally that the acme of all heroism is the cornetcy of a dragoon regiment. I hear a good deal of French! No, thank you,” said the Haunted Man hurriedly, as he stayed the waving hand of the Goblin; “I would rather not go to the Peninsula, and don’t care to have a private interview with Napoleon.”
“I see a barracks with a mess table and a group of drunk Celtic officers telling funny stories and challenging each other to duels. I notice a young Irish guy capable of amazing feats of bravery. I find out that the peak of all heroism is being a cornet in a dragoon regiment. I hear a lot of French! No, thank you,” said the Haunted Man quickly, stopping the Goblin’s waving hand; “I’d rather not head to the Peninsula and I’m not interested in having a private meeting with Napoleon.”
Again the Goblin flew away with the unfortunate man, and from a strange roaring below them he judged they were above the ocean. A ship hove in sight, and the Goblin stayed its flight. “Look,” he said, squeezing his companion’s arm.
Again the Goblin flew away with the unfortunate man, and from a strange roaring below them he figured they were over the ocean. A ship appeared on the horizon, and the Goblin paused in its flight. “Look,” he said, squeezing his companion’s arm.
The Haunted Man yawned. “Don’t you think, Charles, you’re rather running this thing into the ground? Of course it’s very moral and instructive, and all that. But ain’t there a little too much pantomime about it? Come now!”
The Haunted Man yawned. “Don’t you think, Charles, you’re kind of overdoing this? Sure, it’s very moral and educational, and all that. But isn’t there a bit too much theatrics involved? Come on!”
“Look!” repeated the Goblin, pinching his arm malevolently. The Haunted Man groaned.
“Look!” the Goblin said again, squeezing his arm with malicious intent. The Haunted Man groaned.
“Oh, of course, I see her Majesty’s ship Arethusa. Of course I am familiar with her stern First Lieutenant, her eccentric Captain, her one fascinating and several mischievous midshipmen. Of course I know it’s a splendid thing to see all this, and not to be seasick. Oh, there, the young gentlemen are going to play a trick on the purser. For God’s sake, let us go,” and the unhappy man absolutely dragged the Goblin away with him.
“Oh, of course, I see Her Majesty’s ship Arethusa. Of course I know her stern First Lieutenant, her quirky Captain, her one interesting and several troublemaking midshipmen. Of course I realize it’s great to see all this and not feel seasick. Oh, look, the young guys are about to pull a prank on the purser. For goodness’ sake, let’s go,” and the unhappy man practically pulled the Goblin away with him.
When they next halted, it was at the edge of a broad and boundless prairie, in the middle of an oak opening.
When they stopped next, it was at the edge of a wide and endless prairie, in the middle of an oak grove.
“I see,” said the Haunted Man, without waiting for his cue, but mechanically, and as if he were repeating a lesson which the Goblin had taught him,—“I see the Noble Savage. He is very fine to look at! But I observe, under his war-paint, feathers, and picturesque blanket, dirt, disease, and an unsymmetrical contour. I observe beneath his inflated rhetoric deceit and hypocrisy; beneath his physical hardihood cruelty, malice, and revenge. The Noble Savage is a humbug. I remarked the same to Mr. Catlin.”
“I get it,” said the Haunted Man, without waiting for his turn, almost like he was reciting a lesson the Goblin had taught him, “I see the Noble Savage. He looks impressive! But I notice, under his war paint, feathers, and colorful blanket, dirt, illness, and an uneven shape. I see beneath his grand words deceit and hypocrisy; beneath his physical toughness, cruelty, malice, and a desire for revenge. The Noble Savage is a fraud. I told the same to Mr. Catlin.”
“Come,” said the phantom.
“Come,” said the ghost.
The Haunted Man sighed, and took out his watch. “Couldn’t we do the rest of this another time?”
The Haunted Man sighed and pulled out his watch. “Can’t we finish this another time?”
“My hour is almost spent, irreverent being, but there is yet a chance for your reformation. Come!”
“My time is nearly up, disrespectful being, but there’s still a chance for your change. Come!”
Again they sped through the night, and again halted. The sound of delicious but melancholy music fell upon their ears.
Again they rushed through the night, and once more stopped. The sound of beautiful yet sad music reached their ears.
“I see,” said the Haunted Man, with something of interest in his manner,—“I see an old moss-covered manse beside a sluggish, flowing river. I see weird shapes: witches, Puritans, clergymen, little children, judges, mesmerized maidens, moving to the sound of melody that thrills me with its sweetness and purity. But, although carried along its calm and evenly flowing current, the shapes are strange and frightful: an eating lichen gnaws at the heart of each. Not only the clergymen, but witch, maiden, judge, and Puritan, all wear Scarlet Letters of some kind burned upon their hearts. I am fascinated and thrilled, but I feel a morbid sensitiveness creeping over me. I—I beg your pardon.” The Goblin was yawning frightfully. “Well, perhaps we had better go.” “One more, and the last,” said the Goblin.
“I see,” said the Haunted Man, with a hint of interest in his tone, “I see an old, moss-covered house next to a slow, flowing river. I see strange figures: witches, Puritans, clergymen, little kids, judges, enchanted maidens, all moving to a melody that fills me with its sweetness and purity. But even as they float along its calm and steady current, the figures are odd and terrifying: a consuming lichen eats away at the heart of each one. Not just the clergymen, but also the witch, maiden, judge, and Puritan, all have Scarlet Letters of some sort burned on their hearts. I'm captivated and excited, but I feel a creepy sensitivity washing over me. I—I’m sorry.” The Goblin was yawning noisily. “Well, maybe it’s best if we leave now.” “Just one more, the last one,” said the Goblin.
They were moving home. Streaks of red were beginning to appear in the eastern sky. Along the banks of the blackly flowing river by moorland and stagnant fens, by low houses, clustering close to the water’s edge, like strange mollusks crawled upon the beach to dry; by misty black barges, the more misty and indistinct seen through its mysterious veil, the river fog was slowly rising. So rolled away and rose from the heart of the Haunted Man, etc., etc.
They were heading home. Streaks of red were starting to show in the eastern sky. Along the banks of the dark, flowing river by the moorland and stagnant wetlands, near the low houses huddled close to the water’s edge, like weird mollusks crawling on the beach to dry; by the foggy black barges, which looked even more vague and blurred through its mysterious veil, the river fog was slowly lifting. So it rolled away and rose from the heart of the Haunted Man, etc., etc.
They stopped before a quaint mansion of red brick. The Goblin waved his hand without speaking.
They paused in front of a charming red brick mansion. The Goblin waved his hand without saying a word.
“I see,” said the Haunted Man, “a gay drawing-room. I see my old friends of the club, of the college, of society, even as they lived and moved. I see the gallant and unselfish men whom I have loved, and the snobs whom I have hated. I see strangely mingling with them, and now and then blending with their forms, our old friends Dick Steele, Addison, and Congreve. I observe, though, that these gentlemen have a habit of getting too much in the way. The royal standard of Queen Anne, not in itself a beautiful ornament, is rather too prominent in the picture. The long galleries of black oak, the formal furniture, the old portraits, are picturesque, but depressing. The house is damp. I enjoy myself better here on the lawn, where they are getting up a Vanity Fair. See, the bell rings, the curtain is rising, the puppets are brought out for a new play. Let me see.”
“I see,” said the Haunted Man, “a lively drawing room. I see my old friends from the club, from college, from society, just as they were. I see the brave and selfless men I’ve loved, and the snobs I’ve hated. I notice that our old friends Dick Steele, Addison, and Congreve strangely mingle with them, sometimes blending in with their figures. However, I observe that these gentlemen tend to get in the way a bit too much. The royal standard of Queen Anne, while not particularly beautiful, stands out too much in the scene. The long black oak hallways, the formal furniture, the old portraits—they’re picturesque but kind of gloomy. The house feels damp. I find myself enjoying it more out on the lawn, where they're setting up a Vanity Fair. Look, the bell is ringing, the curtain is rising, and the puppets are being brought out for a new show. Let me see.”
The Haunted Man was pressing forward in his eagerness, but the hand of the Goblin stayed him, and pointing to his feet he saw, between him and the rising curtain, a new made grave. And bending above the grave in passionate grief, the Haunted Man beheld the phantom of the previous night. The Haunted Man started, and—woke. The bright sunshine streamed into the room. The air was sparkling with frost. He ran joyously to the window and opened it. A small boy saluted him with “Merry Christmas.” The Haunted Man instantly gave him a Bank of England note. “How much like Tiny Tim, Tom, and Bobby that boy looked,—bless my soul, what a genius this Dickens has!”
The Haunted Man was moving ahead with excitement, but the Goblin held him back, and pointing to his feet, he noticed a freshly dug grave between him and the rising curtain. As he leaned over the grave in deep sorrow, the Haunted Man saw the ghost from the night before. He jumped and—woke up. Bright sunlight flooded into the room. The air sparkled with frost. He rushed happily to the window and opened it. A small boy greeted him with "Merry Christmas." The Haunted Man quickly gave him a Bank of England note. “That boy looked just like Tiny Tim, Tom, and Bobby—bless my soul, what a genius Dickens is!”
A knock at the door, and Boots entered.
A knock on the door, and Boots walked in.
“Consider your salary doubled instantly. Have you read ‘David Copperfield’?”
“Imagine your salary just doubled. Have you read ‘David Copperfield’?”
“Yezzur.”
“Yep.”
“Your salary is quadrupled. What do you think of the ‘Old Curiosity Shop’?”
“Your salary has quadrupled. What do you think of the ‘Old Curiosity Shop’?”
The man instantly burst into a torrent of tears, and then into a roar of laughter.
The man immediately started crying uncontrollably, and then broke into loud laughter.
“Enough! Here are five thousand pounds. Open a porter-house, and call it ‘Our Mutual Friend.’ Huzza! I feel so happy!” And the Haunted Man danced about the room.
“Enough! Here are five thousand pounds. Open a restaurant and call it ‘Our Mutual Friend.’ Hooray! I feel so happy!” And the Haunted Man danced around the room.
And so, bathed in the light of that blessed sun, and yet glowing with the warmth of a good action, the Haunted Man, haunted no longer, save by those shapes which make the dreams of children beautiful, reseated himself in his chair, and finished “Our Mutual Friend.”
And so, bathed in the light of that blessed sun, and yet glowing with the warmth of a good deed, the Haunted Man, no longer haunted except by those shapes that make children's dreams beautiful, sat back down in his chair and finished "Our Mutual Friend."
TERENCE DENVILLE
CHAPTER I
The little village of Pilwiddle is one of the smallest and obscurest hamlets on the western coast of Ireland. On a lofty crag, overlooking the hoarse Atlantic, stands “Denville’s Shot Tower,” a corruption by the peasantry of “D’Enville’s Chateau,” so called from my great-grandfather, Phelim St. Remy d’Enville, who assumed the name and title of a French heiress with whom he ran away. To this fact my familiar knowledge and excellent pronunciation of the French language may be attributed, as well as many of the events which covered my after life.
The small village of Pilwiddle is one of the tiniest and least known hamlets on the western coast of Ireland. On a high cliff, overlooking the roaring Atlantic, stands “Denville’s Shot Tower,” a name the locals have adapted from “D’Enville’s Chateau,” named after my great-grandfather, Phelim St. Remy d’Enville, who took on the name and title of a French heiress he eloped with. This fact explains my familiarity and great pronunciation of the French language, as well as many events that shaped my later life.
The Denvilles were always passionately fond of field sports. At the age of four, I was already the boldest rider and the best shot in the country. When only eight, I won the St. Remy Cup at the Pilwiddle races,—riding my favorite blood-mare Hellfire. As I approached the stand amidst the plaudits of the assembled multitude, and cries of, “Thrue for ye, Mashter Terence,” and “oh, but it’s a Dinville!” there was a slight stir among the gentry, who surrounded the Lord Lieutenant and other titled personages whom the race had attracted thither. “How young he is,—a mere child, and yet how noble-looking,” said a sweet low voice, which thrilled my soul.
The Denvilles had always been really into field sports. By the time I was four, I was already the bravest rider and the best marksman in the area. When I was just eight, I won the St. Remy Cup at the Pilwiddle races, riding my favorite Thoroughbred mare, Hellfire. As I made my way to the stand amidst the cheers of the gathered crowd and shouts of, “Way to go, Master Terence,” and “Oh, he’s a Denvill!” there was a noticeable stir among the gentry, who were surrounding the Lord Lieutenant and other titled guests attracted by the race. “How young he is—a mere child, and yet how noble-looking,” said a sweet, soft voice that sent a thrill through me.
I looked up and met the full liquid orbs of the Hon. Blanche Fitzroy Sackville, youngest daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. She blushed deeply. I turned pale and almost fainted. But the cold, sneering tones of a masculine voice sent the blood back again into my youthful cheek.
I looked up and met the bright, expressive eyes of the Hon. Blanche Fitzroy Sackville, the youngest daughter of the Lord Lieutenant. She blushed intensely. I turned pale and nearly fainted. But the icy, mocking tone of a man’s voice made the color rush back into my youthful cheeks.
“Very likely the ragged scion of one of these banditti Irish gentry, who has taken naturally to ‘the road.’ He should be at school—though I warrant me his knowledge of Terence will not extend beyond his own name,” said Lord Henry Somerset, aid-de-camp to the Lord Lieutenant.
"Very likely the scruffy descendant of one of those Irish bandits, who has naturally taken to ‘the road.’ He should be in school—though I bet his knowledge of Terence doesn’t go beyond his own name," said Lord Henry Somerset, aide-de-camp to the Lord Lieutenant.
A moment and I was perfectly calm, though cold as ice. Dismounting, and stepping to the side of the speaker, I said in a low firm voice:—
A moment later, I was completely calm, though as cold as ice. I dismounted and stepped beside the speaker, saying in a low, steady voice:—
“Had your lordship read Terence more carefully, you would have learned that banditti are sometimes proficient in other arts beside horsemanship,” and I touched his holster significantly with my hand. I had not read Terence myself, but with the skillful audacity of my race I calculated that a vague allusion, coupled with a threat, would embarrass him. It did.
“Had you read Terence more closely, you would have discovered that criminals can be skilled in areas beyond just riding horses,” and I emphasized my point by touching his holster. I hadn’t read Terence myself, but with the bold cleverness of my background, I figured that a vague reference along with a threat would put him on the spot. It did.
“Ah—what mean you?” he said, white with rage.
“Ah—what do you mean?” he said, pale with anger.
“Enough, we are observed,” I replied; “Father Tom will wait on you this evening; and to-morrow morning, my lord, in the glen below Pilwiddle, we will meet again.”
“Enough, we’re being watched,” I replied; “Father Tom will see you this evening; and tomorrow morning, my lord, we’ll meet again in the glen below Pilwiddle.”
“Father Tom—glen!” ejaculated the Englishman, with genuine surprise. “What? do priests carry challenges and act as seconds in your infernal country?”
“Father Tom—glen!” exclaimed the Englishman, genuinely surprised. “What? Do priests deliver challenges and act as seconds in your hellish country?”
“Yes,” I answered scornfully; “why should they not? Their services are more often necessary than those of a surgeon,” I added significantly, turning away.
“Yes,” I replied sarcastically; “why shouldn’t they? Their services are needed more often than those of a surgeon,” I added pointedly, turning away.
The party slowly rode off, with the exception of the Hon. Blanche Sackville, who lingered for a moment behind. In an instant I was at her side. Bending her blushing face over the neck of her white filly, she said hurriedly:—
The group gradually rode away, except for the Hon. Blanche Sackville, who paused for a moment. In an instant, I was by her side. Leaning her flushed face over the neck of her white filly, she said quickly:—
“Words have passed between Lord Somerset and yourself. You are about to fight. Don’t deny it—but hear me. You will meet him—I know your skill of weapons. He will be at your mercy. I entreat you to spare his life!”
“Words have been exchanged between you and Lord Somerset. You’re about to fight. Don’t deny it—but listen to me. You’ll face him—I know your skill with weapons. He will be at your mercy. I beg you to spare his life!”
I hesitated. “Never!” I cried passionately; “he has insulted a Denville!”
I paused. “Absolutely not!” I exclaimed passionately. “He has disrespected a Denville!”
“Terence,” she whispered, “Terence—for my sake?”
“Terence,” she whispered, “Terence—for me?”
The blood rushed to my cheeks, and her eyes sought the ground in bashful confusion.
The blood rushed to my cheeks, and her eyes dropped to the ground in shy embarrassment.
“You love him then?” I cried bitterly.
“You love him then?” I said, feeling upset.
“No, no,” she said agitatedly,—“no, you do me wrong. I—I—cannot explain myself. My father!—the Lady Dowager Sackville—the estate of Sackville—the borough—my uncle, Fitzroy Somerset. Ah! what am I saying? Forgive me. Oh, Terence,” she said, as her beautiful head sank on my shoulder, “you know not what I suffer!”
“No, no,” she said anxiously, “no, you’re misunderstanding me. I—I—can’t explain myself. My father!—the Lady Dowager Sackville—the estate of Sackville—the borough—my uncle, Fitzroy Somerset. Ah! What am I saying? Please forgive me. Oh, Terence,” she said, as her beautiful head rested on my shoulder, “you have no idea what I’m going through!”
I seized her hand and covered it with passionate kisses.
I took her hand and showered it with passionate kisses.
But the high-bred English girl, recovering something of her former hauteur, said hastily, “Leave me, leave me, but promise!”
But the upper-class English girl, regaining some of her former pride, said quickly, “Leave me, leave me, but promise!”
“I promise,” I replied enthusiastically; “I will spare his life!”
“I promise,” I said excitedly; “I will save his life!”
“Thanks, Terence,—thanks!” and disengaging her hand from my lips she rode rapidly away.
“Thanks, Terence—thanks!” She pulled her hand away from my lips and rode off quickly.
The next morning, the Hon. Captain Henry Somerset and myself exchanged nineteen shots in the glen, and at each fire I shot away a button from his uniform. As my last bullet shot off the last button from his sleeve, I remarked quietly, “You seem now, my lord, to be almost as ragged as the gentry you sneered at,” and rode haughtily away.
The next morning, the Hon. Captain Henry Somerset and I exchanged nineteen shots in the glen, and with each shot, I took off a button from his uniform. As my last bullet knocked off the last button from his sleeve, I quietly commented, “You seem, my lord, to be almost as ragged as the gentry you mocked,” and rode off arrogantly.
CHAPTER II
When I was nineteen years old my father sold the Chateau d’ Enville, and purchased my commission in the “Fifty-sixth” with the proceeds. “I say, Denville,” said young McSpadden, a boy-faced ensign, who had just joined, “you’ll represent the estate in the Army, if you won’t in the House.” Poor fellow, he paid for his meaningless joke with his life, for I shot him through the heart the next morning. “You’re a good fellow, Denville,” said the poor boy faintly, as I knelt beside him; “good-by!” For the first time since my grandfather’s death I wept. I could not help thinking that I would have been a better man if Blanche—But why proceed? Was she not now in Florence—the belle of the English embassy?
When I was nineteen, my father sold the Chateau d’Enville and used the money to buy my commission in the “Fifty-sixth.” “Hey, Denville,” said young McSpadden, a fresh-faced ensign who had just arrived, “you’ll represent the estate in the Army if you can't in the House.” Poor guy, he paid for his meaningless joke with his life, because I shot him through the heart the next morning. “You’re a good guy, Denville,” the poor boy said weakly as I knelt by him; “goodbye!” For the first time since my grandfather passed away, I cried. I couldn’t help but think I might have been a better person if Blanche—But why go on? Wasn't she now in Florence—the star of the English embassy?
But Napoleon had returned from Elba. Europe was in a blaze of excitement. The Allies were preparing to resist the Man of Destiny. We were ordered from Gibraltar home, and were soon again en route for Brussels. I did not regret that I was to be placed in active service. I was ambitious, and longed for an opportunity to distinguish myself. My garrison life in Gibraltar had been monotonous and dull. I had killed five men in duel, and had an affair with the colonel of my regiment, who handsomely apologized before the matter assumed a serious aspect. I had been twice in love. Yet these were but boyish freaks and follies. I wished to be a man.
But Napoleon was back from Elba. Europe was buzzing with excitement. The Allies were getting ready to stand up against the Man of Destiny. We were ordered back from Gibraltar and soon headed for Brussels again. I didn't regret being assigned to active duty. I was ambitious and eager for a chance to make a name for myself. My time in Gibraltar had been boring and uneventful. I had fought five duels and had an incident with the colonel of my regiment, who nicely apologized before things got serious. I had fallen in love twice. But those were just youthful antics and mistakes. I wanted to be seen as a man.
The time soon came,—the morning of Waterloo. But why describe that momentous battle, on which the fate of the entire world was hanging? Twice were the Fifty-sixth surrounded by French cuirassiers, and twice did we mow them down by our fire. I had seven horses shot under me, and was mounting the eighth, when an orderly rode up hastily, touched his cap, and, handing me a dispatch, galloped rapidly away.
The time soon arrived—the morning of Waterloo. But why describe that significant battle, on which the fate of the entire world depended? Twice the Fifty-sixth was surrounded by French cuirassiers, and twice we cut them down with our fire. I had seven horses shot under me and was getting on the eighth when an orderly rode up quickly, tipped his cap, and, handing me a dispatch, galloped away.
I opened it hurriedly and read:—
I opened it quickly and read:—
“LET PICTON ADVANCE IMMEDIATELY ON THE RIGHT.”
“LET PICTON MOVE FORWARD IMMEDIATELY ON THE RIGHT.”
I saw it all at a glance. I had been mistaken for a general officer. But what was to be done? Picton’s division was two miles away, only accessible through a heavy cross-fire of artillery and musketry. But my mind was made up.
I noticed everything in an instant. I had been mistaken for a general officer. But what could I do? Picton’s division was two miles away, only reachable through intense gunfire and cannon blasts. But I had made up my mind.
In an instant I was engaged with an entire squadron of cavalry, who endeavored to surround me. Cutting my way through them, I advanced boldly upon a battery and sabred the gunners before they could bring their pieces to bear. Looking around, I saw that I had in fact penetrated the French centre. Before I was well aware of the locality, I was hailed by a sharp voice in French,—
In a瞬时, I found myself facing a whole squad of cavalry trying to surround me. I fought my way through them and moved confidently toward a battery, taking out the gunners before they could aim their cannons. As I looked around, I realized I had actually broken into the French center. Before I fully grasped my surroundings, a sharp voice called out to me in French,—
“Come here, sir!”
“Come here, dude!”
I obeyed, and advanced to the side of a little man in a cocked hat.
I followed his instructions and moved over to stand next to a short man in a tricorn hat.
“Has Grouchy come?”
"Has Grouchy arrived?"
“Not yet, sire,” I replied,—for it was the Emperor.
“Not yet, your Majesty,” I replied,—for it was the Emperor.
“Ha!” he said suddenly, bending his piercing eyes on my uniform; “a prisoner?”
“Ha!” he said suddenly, fixing his intense gaze on my uniform. “A prisoner?”
“No, sire,” I said proudly.
“No, sir,” I said proudly.
“A spy?”
"Is that a spy?"
I placed my hand upon my sword, but a gesture from the Emperor bade me forbear.
I put my hand on my sword, but a signal from the Emperor stopped me.
“You are a brave man,” he said.
“You're a brave man,” he said.
I took my snuff-box from my pocket, and, taking a pinch, replied by handing it, with a bow, to the Emperor.
I took my snuffbox out of my pocket, and after taking a pinch, I handed it to the Emperor with a bow.
His quick eye caught the cipher on the lid.
His sharp eye spotted the code on the lid.
“What! a D’Enville? Ha! this accounts for the purity of your accent. Any relation to Roderick d’Enville?”
“What! A D’Enville? Ha! That explains the purity of your accent. Are you any relation to Roderick d’Enville?”
“My father, sire.”
“My dad, sire.”
“He was my schoolfellow at the Ecole Polytechnique. Embrace me!” And the Emperor fell upon my neck in the presence of his entire staff. Then, recovering himself, he gently placed in my hand his own magnificent snuff-box, in exchange for mine, and hanging upon my breast the cross of the Legion of Honor which he took from his own, he bade one of his marshals conduct me back to my regiment.
“He was my classmate at the Ecole Polytechnique. Give me a hug!” And the Emperor threw his arms around me in front of his whole staff. Then, regaining his composure, he carefully put his own beautiful snuff-box in my hand, swapping it for mine. He then draped the cross of the Legion of Honor around my neck, which he took from his own, and asked one of his marshals to escort me back to my regiment.
I was so intoxicated with the honor of which I had been the recipient, that on reaching our lines I uttered a shout of joy and put spurs to my horse. The intelligent animal seemed to sympathize with my feelings, and fairly flew over the ground. On a rising eminence a few yards before me stood a gray-haired officer, surrounded by his staff. I don’t know what possessed me, but putting spurs to my horse, I rode at him boldly, and with one bound cleared him, horse and all. A shout of indignation arose from the assembled staff. I wheeled suddenly, with the intention of apologizing, but my mare misunderstood me, and, again dashing forward, once more vaulted over the head of the officer, this time unfortunately uncovering him by a vicious kick of her hoof. “Seize him!” roared the entire army. I was seized. As the soldiers led me away, I asked the name of the gray-haired officer. “That—why, that’s the DUKE OF WELLINGTON!”
I was so overwhelmed by the honor I received that when I reached our lines, I let out a joyful shout and urged my horse on. The smart animal seemed to share my excitement and raced eagerly across the ground. A few yards ahead of me, on a small hill, stood a gray-haired officer surrounded by his staff. I don’t know why I did it, but I spurred my horse and rode right at him boldly, leaping over him in one bound, horse and all. A shout of outrage erupted from the gathered staff. I quickly turned around to apologize, but my mare misinterpreted my intentions and charged forward again, vaulting over the officer, this time unfortunately kicking him with a vicious blow from her hoof. “Arrest him!” yelled the entire army. I was captured. As the soldiers took me away, I asked who the gray-haired officer was. “That—well, that’s the DUKE OF WELLINGTON!”
I fainted.
I passed out.
For six months I had brain fever. During my illness ten grapeshot were extracted from my body which I had unconsciously received during the battle. When I opened my eyes I met the sweet glance of a Sister of Charity.
For six months, I had a severe fever. During my illness, ten pieces of grapeshot were removed from my body that I had unknowingly taken during the battle. When I opened my eyes, I was greeted by the kind gaze of a Sister of Charity.
“Blanche!” I stammered feebly.
“Blanche!” I stuttered weakly.
“The same,” she replied.
"Same," she replied.
“You here?”
“You here?”
“Yes, dear; but hush! It’s a long story. You see, dear Terence, your grandfather married my great-aunt’s sister, and your father again married my grandmother’s niece, who, dying without a will, was, according to the French law”—
“Yes, dear; but shh! It’s a long story. You see, dear Terence, your grandfather married my great-aunt’s sister, and your father married my grandmother’s niece, who, passing away without a will, was, according to French law”—
“But I do not comprehend,” I said.
“But I don’t understand,” I said.
“Of course not,” said Blanche, with her old sweet smile; “you’ve had brain fever; so go to sleep.”
“Of course not,” said Blanche, with her usual sweet smile; “you’ve had brain fever, so get some sleep.”
I understood, however, that Blanche loved me; and I am now, dear reader, Sir Terence Sackville, K. C. B., and Lady Blanche is Lady Sackville.
I realized, though, that Blanche loved me; and I am now, dear reader, Sir Terence Sackville, K. C. B., and Lady Blanche is Lady Sackville.
MARY McGILLUP
INTRODUCTION
“Will you write me up?”
"Will you write me up?"
The scene was near Temple Bar. The speaker was the famous rebel Mary McGillup,—a young girl of fragile frame, and long, lustrous black hair. I must confess that the question was a peculiar one, and, under the circumstances, somewhat puzzling. It was true I had been kindly treated by the Northerners, and, though prejudiced against them, was to some extent under obligations to them. It was true that I knew little or nothing of American politics, history, or geography. But when did an English writer ever weigh such trifles? Turning to the speaker, I inquired with some caution the amount of pecuniary compensation offered for the work.
The scene was near Temple Bar. The speaker was the famous rebel Mary McGillup—a young girl with a delicate build and long, shiny black hair. I have to admit that the question was an unusual one and, given the situation, a bit confusing. It was true that I had been treated well by the Northerners, and even though I had my biases against them, I felt somewhat indebted to them. It was also true that I knew very little about American politics, history, or geography. But when has an English writer ever cared about such minor details? Turning to the speaker, I cautiously asked how much financial compensation was offered for the work.
“Sir!” she said, drawing her fragile form to its full height, “you insult me,—you insult the South.”
“Sir!” she said, straightening her delicate figure, “you’re insulting me—you’re insulting the South.”
“But look ye here, d’ye see—the tin—the blunt—the ready—the stiff, you know. Don’t ye see, we can’t do without that, you know!”
“But look here, you see—the cash—the money—the funds, you know. Don’t you see, we can’t do without that, you know!”
“It shall be contingent on the success of the story,” she answered haughtily. “In the mean time take this precious gem.” And drawing a diamond ring from her finger, she placed it with a roll of MSS. in my hands, and vanished.
“It will depend on how the story goes,” she replied arrogantly. “In the meantime, take this valuable gem.” Then, taking a diamond ring off her finger, she put it along with a stack of manuscripts in my hands and disappeared.
Although unable to procure more than 1 pound 2s. 6d. from an intelligent pawnbroker to whom I stated the circumstances and with whom I pledged the ring, my sympathies with the cause of a downtrodden and chivalrous people were at once enlisted. I could not help wondering that in rich England, the home of the oppressed and the free, a young and lovely woman like the fair author of those pages should be obliged to thus pawn her jewels—her marriage gift—for the means to procure her bread! With the exception of the English aristocracy,—who much resemble them,—I do not know of a class of people that I so much admire as the Southern planters. May I become better acquainted with both!
Although I could only get £1 2s. 6d. from a smart pawnbroker after explaining my situation and pawning the ring, I immediately felt sympathy for the struggle of a downtrodden and noble people. I couldn't help but think that in wealthy England, the land of both the oppressed and the free, a young and beautiful woman like the talented author of these pages should have to pawn her jewelry—her wedding gift—to buy food! Aside from the English aristocracy, who are quite similar, I can't think of any group I admire more than the Southern planters. I hope to learn more about both!
Since writing the above, the news of Mr. Lincoln’s assassination has reached me. It is enough for me to say that I am dissatisfied with the result. I do not attempt to excuse the assassin. Yet there will be men who will charge this act upon the chivalrous South. This leads me to repeat a remark once before made by me in this connection, which has become justly celebrated. It is this:—
Since writing the above, I have heard about Mr. Lincoln’s assassination. I can only say that I am not happy with the outcome. I don't try to defend the assassin. However, there will be people who will blame this act on the noble South. This reminds me to repeat a statement I made before, which has become well-known. It is this:—
“It is usual, in cases of murder, to look for the criminal among those who expect to be benefited by the crime. In the death of Lincoln, his immediate successor in office alone receives the benefit of his dying.”
“It’s common in murder cases to suspect those who stand to gain from the crime. In Lincoln's death, only his immediate successor in office benefits from his passing.”
If her Majesty Queen Victoria were assassinated, which Heaven forbid, the one most benefited by her decease would, of course, be his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, her immediate successor. It would be unnecessary to state that suspicion would at once point to the real culprit, which would of course be his Royal Highness. This is logic.
If Queen Victoria were to be assassinated, which we hope never happens, the person who would benefit the most from her passing would obviously be the Prince of Wales, her direct successor. It's unnecessary to mention that suspicion would immediately fall on the actual perpetrator, who would, of course, be the Prince of Wales. This is just common sense.
But I have done. After having thus stated my opinion in favor of the South, I would merely remark that there is One who judgeth all things,—who weigheth the cause between brother and brother,—and awardeth the perfect retribution; and whose ultimate decision I, as a British subject, have only anticipated.
But I have finished. After sharing my opinion in support of the South, I just want to point out that there is One who judges everything—who weighs the cause between brother and brother—and gives perfect justice; and whose final decision I, as a British subject, have merely anticipated.
CHAPTER I
Every reader of Belle Boyd’s narrative will remember an allusion to a “lovely, fragile-looking girl of nineteen,” who rivaled Belle Boyd in devotion to the Southern cause, and who, like her, earned the enviable distinction of being a “rebel spy.”
Every reader of Belle Boyd’s story will recall a mention of a “lovely, fragile-looking girl of nineteen,” who matched Belle Boyd in her commitment to the Southern cause and who, like her, earned the notable title of a “rebel spy.”
I am that “fragile” young creature. Although on friendly terms with the late Miss Boyd, now Mrs. Hardinge, candor compels me to state that nothing but our common politics prevents me from exposing the ungenerous spirit she has displayed in this allusion. To be dismissed in a single paragraph after years of—But I anticipate. To put up with this feeble and forced acknowledgment of services rendered would be a confession of a craven spirit, which, thank God, though “fragile” and only “nineteen,” I do not possess. I may not have the “blood of a Howard” in my veins, as some people, whom I shall not disgrace myself by naming, claim to have, but I have yet to learn that the race of McGillup ever yet brooked slight or insult. I shall not say that attention in certain quarters seems to have turned some people’s heads; nor that it would have been more delicate if certain folks had kept quiet on the subject of their courtship, and the rejection of certain offers, when it is known that their forward conduct was all that procured them a husband! Thank Heaven, the South has some daughters who are above such base considerations! While nothing shall tempt me to reveal the promises to share equally the fame of certain enterprises, which were made by one who shall now be nameless, I have deemed it only just to myself to put my own adventures upon record. If they are not equal to those of another individual, it is because, though “fragile,” my education has taught me to have some consideration for the truth. I am done.
I am that “fragile” young person. While I have a friendly relationship with the late Miss Boyd, now Mrs. Hardinge, I must honestly say that our shared political views are the only thing keeping me from calling out the unkind attitude she has shown in this mention. To be dismissed in a single paragraph after years of—But I’m getting ahead of myself. Accepting this weak and forced acknowledgment of my contributions would mean admitting to a cowardly spirit, which, thank God, although “fragile” and only “nineteen,” I do not have. I might not have the “blood of a Howard” flowing through my veins, as some people, whom I won't embarrass myself by naming, claim to have, but I know that the McGillup family has never tolerated disrespect or insult. I won’t say that the attention in certain circles seems to have gone to some people’s heads; nor that it would have been more graceful if certain individuals had kept quiet about their courtship and the rejection of certain proposals when it is known that their bold actions are what got them a husband! Thank heaven, the South has daughters who rise above such petty concerns! While nothing will persuade me to disclose the promises of equal fame in certain ventures made by someone who shall remain nameless, I feel it's only fair to document my own experiences. If they don't measure up to someone else's, it's because, though “fragile,” my education has taught me to value the truth. I'm done.
CHAPTER II
I was born in Missouri. My dislike for the Northern scum was inherent. This was shown, at an early age, in the extreme distaste I exhibited for Webster’s spelling-book,—the work of a well-known Eastern Abolitionist. I cannot be too grateful for the consideration shown by my chivalrous father,—a gentleman of the old school,—who resisted to the last an attempt to introduce Mitchell’s Astronomy and Geography into the public school of our district. When I state that this same Mitchell became afterward a hireling helot in the Yankee Army, every intelligent reader will appreciate the prophetic discrimination of this true son of the South.
I was born in Missouri. I inherently disliked Northern people. This was evident from a young age in my strong aversion to Webster's spelling book—created by a well-known Eastern abolitionist. I am very grateful for the support my honorable father—a true gentleman—showed when he fought until the end against the effort to introduce Mitchell's Astronomy and Geography into our local public school. When I mention that this same Mitchell later became a hired servant in the Yankee Army, any smart reader will understand the foresight of this true son of the South.
I was eight years old when I struck the first blow for Southern freedom against the Northern Tyrant. It is hardly necessary to state that in this instance the oppressor was a pale, overworked New England “schoolmarm.” The principle for which I was contending, I felt, however, to be the same. Resenting an affront put upon me, I one day heaved a rock [Footnote: NOTE, BY G. A. S.—In the Southwest, any stone larger than a pea is termed “a rock.”] at the head of the Vandal schoolmistress. I was seized and overpowered. My pen falters as I reach the climax. English readers will not give credit to this sickening story,—the civilized world will avert its head,—but I, Mary McGillup, was publicly SPANKED!
I was eight years old when I made my first stand for Southern freedom against the Northern oppressor. It's not really necessary to say that in this case, the oppressor was a weary New England "schoolmarm." However, I felt the principle I was fighting for was the same. After being insulted, I once threw a rock [Footnote: NOTE, BY G. A. S.—In the Southwest, any stone larger than a pea is called “a rock.”] at the head of the rude schoolmistress. I was caught and overpowered. My pen hesitates as I reach the climax. English readers won’t believe this awful story—the civilized world will turn away—but I, Mary McGillup, was publicly SPANKED!
CHAPTER III
But the chaotic vortex of civil war approached, and fell destruction, often procrastinated, brooded in storm. [Footnote: I make no pretension to fine writing, but perhaps Mrs. Hardinge can lay over that. Oh, of course! M. McG.] As the English people may like to know what was really the origin of the Rebellion, I have no hesitation in giving them the true and only cause. Slavery had nothing to do with it, although the violation of the Declaration of Independence, in the disregard by the North of the Fugitive Slave Law, [Footnote: The Declaration of Independence grants to each subject “the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness.” A fugitive slave may be said to personify “life, liberty, and happiness.” Hence his pursuit is really legal. This is logic. G.A.S.] might have provoked a less fiery people than the Southrons. At the inception of the struggle a large amount of Southern indebtedness was held by the people of the North. To force payment from the generous but insolvent debtor—to obtain liquidation from the Southern planter—was really the soulless and mercenary object of the craven Northerners. Let the common people of England look to this. Let the improvident literary hack, the starved impecunious Grub Street debtor, the newspaper frequenter of sponging-houses, remember this in their criticisms of the vile and slavish Yankee.
But the chaotic whirlwind of civil war was coming, and destruction, often delayed, loomed like a storm. [Footnote: I don’t claim to be a great writer, but maybe Mrs. Hardinge can improve on that. Oh, of course! M. McG.] Since the English people might want to know the real origin of the Rebellion, I won’t hesitate to share the true and only cause. Slavery had nothing to do with it, although the Northern disregard for the Fugitive Slave Law, which violated the Declaration of Independence, [Footnote: The Declaration of Independence gives every individual the right to “the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness.” A runaway slave can be seen as embodying “life, liberty, and happiness.” Thus, their pursuit is indeed legal. This is logic. G.A.S.] might have angered a less passionate people than those from the South. At the start of the conflict, a significant amount of Southern debt was owed to Northern citizens. Forcing repayment from the generous but financially struggling debtor—to obtain payment from the Southern planter—was truly the greedy and mercenary aim of the cowardly Northerners. Let the average people of England take note of this. Let the imprudent literary hack, the starving, broke Grub Street writer, the newspaper frequenter of free-loading establishments, keep this in mind when criticizing the despicable and servile Yankee.
CHAPTER IV
The roasting of an Abolitionist, by a greatly infuriated community, was my first taste of the horrors of civil war. Heavens! Why will the North persist in this fratricidal warfare? The expulsion of several Union refugees, which soon followed, now fairly plunged my beloved State into the seething vortex.
The public shaming of an Abolitionist by an extremely angry community was my first experience of the horrors of civil war. Why does the North continue this brother-against-brother fighting? The expulsion of several Union refugees that followed quickly dragged my beloved State into the chaotic turmoil.
I was sitting at the piano one afternoon, singing that stirring refrain, so justly celebrated, but which a craven spirit, unworthy of England, has excluded from some of her principal restaurants, and was dwelling with some enthusiasm on the following line:—
I was sitting at the piano one afternoon, singing that powerful refrain, so rightly praised, but which a cowardly spirit, unworthy of England, has kept out of some of her main restaurants, and I was getting a bit carried away with the following line:—
when a fragment of that scum, clothed in that detestable blue uniform which is the symbol of oppression, entered the apartment.
when a piece of that filth, dressed in that disgusting blue uniform which represents oppression, walked into the apartment.
“I have the honor of addressing the celebrated rebel spy, Miss McGillup?” said the Vandal officer.
"I have the pleasure of speaking to the famous rebel spy, Miss McGillup?" said the Vandal officer.
In a moment I was perfectly calm. With the exception of slightly expectorating twice in the face of the minion, I did not betray my agitation. Haughtily, yet firmly, I replied,—
In a moment, I was completely calm. Aside from spitting twice in the face of the lackey, I didn't show any sign of my agitation. Proudly, yet firmly, I responded,—
“I am.”
"I am."
“You looked as if you might be,” the brute replied, as he turned on his heel to leave the apartment.
“You looked like you might be,” the brute replied, turning on his heel to leave the apartment.
In an instant I threw myself before him. “You shall not leave here thus,” I shrieked, grappling him with an energy which no one, seeing my frail figure, would have believed. “I know the reputation of your hireling crew. I read your dreadful purpose in your eye. Tell me not that your designs are not sinister. You came here to insult me,—to kiss me, perhaps. You shan’t,—you naughty man. Go away!”
In a flash, I threw myself in front of him. “You can’t leave like this,” I shouted, grabbing him with a strength that no one would have expected from my delicate frame. “I know what your hired thugs are like. I can see your horrible intentions in your eyes. Don’t tell me your plans aren’t shady. You came here to insult me—maybe even to kiss me. You won’t,—you bad man. Just go away!”
The blush of conscious degradation rose to the cheek of the Lincoln hireling as he turned his face away from mine.
The embarrassment of aware humiliation flushed the cheek of the Lincoln worker as he turned his face away from me.
In an instant I drew my pistol from my belt, which, in anticipation of some such outrage, I always carried, and shot him.
In an instant, I pulled my gun from my belt, which I always carried just in case something like this happened, and shot him.
CHAPTER V
After committing the act described in the preceding chapter, which every English reader will pardon, I went upstairs, put on a clean pair of stockings, and, placing a rose in my lustrous black hair, proceeded at once to the camp of Generals Price and Mosby to put them in possession of information which would lead to the destruction of a portion of the Federal Army. During a great part of my flight I was exposed to a running fire from the Federal pickets of such coarse expressions as, “Go it, Sally Reb,” “Dust it, my Confederate Beauty,” but I succeeded in reaching the glorious Southern camp uninjured.
After doing what I mentioned in the last chapter, something every English reader will forgive, I went upstairs, put on a clean pair of stockings, and, placing a rose in my shiny black hair, headed straight to the camp of Generals Price and Mosby to share information that could lead to taking out part of the Federal Army. Throughout much of my escape, I was under fire from the Federal pickets, who shouted crude remarks like, “Go for it, Sally Reb,” and “Look good, my Confederate Beauty,” but I managed to reach the proud Southern camp unharmed.
In a week afterwards I was arrested, by a lettre de cachet of Mr. Stanton, and placed in the Bastile. British readers of my story will express surprise at these terms, but I assure them that not only these articles but tumbrils, guillotines, and conciergeries were in active use among the Federals. If substantiation be required, I refer to the Charleston “Mercury,” the only reliable organ, next to the New York “Daily News,” published in the country. At the Bastile I made the acquaintance of the accomplished and elegant author of “Guy Livingstone,” [Footnote: The recent conduct of Mr. Livingstone renders him unworthy of my notice. His disgusting praise of Belle Boyd, and complete ignoring of my claims, show the artfulness of some females and puppyism of some men. M. McG.] to whom I presented a curiously carved thigh-bone of a Union officer, and from whom I received the following beautiful acknowledgment:—
A week later, I was arrested by a letter from Mr. Stanton and locked up in the Bastille. British readers might be surprised by these details, but I promise that not only were these measures but also tumbrils, guillotines, and jails actively being used by the Federals. If anyone needs proof, I refer you to the Charleston “Mercury,” the most reliable source, next to the New York “Daily News,” published in the country. While at the Bastille, I got to know the talented and stylish author of “Guy Livingstone,” [Footnote: The recent actions of Mr. Livingstone make him not worth my attention. His offensive praise of Belle Boyd and total disregard for my claims reveal the cunning of some women and the foolishness of some men. M. McG.] to whom I gave a uniquely carved thigh bone of a Union officer, and from whom I received the following lovely acknowledgment:—
DEMOISELLE:—Should I ever win hame to my ain countrie, I make mine avow to enshrine in my reliquaire this elegant bijouterie and offering of La belle Rebelle. Nay, methinks this fraction of man’s anatomy were some compensation for the rib lost by the “grand old gardener,” Adam.
DEMOISELLE:—If I ever make it back to my own country, I promise to keep this beautiful piece of jewelry and gift from La belle Rebelle safe. No, I think this small part of a man's body would be some compensation for the rib lost by the “grand old gardener,” Adam.
CHAPTER VI
Released at last from durance vile, and placed on board of an Erie canal-boat, on my way to Canada, I for a moment breathed the sweets of liberty. Perhaps the interval gave me opportunity to indulge in certain reveries which I had hitherto sternly dismissed. Henry Breckinridge Folair, a consistent Copperhead, captain of the canal-boat, again and again pressed that suit I had so often rejected.
Finally free from horrible confinement and on an Erie canal boat heading to Canada, I took a moment to enjoy the sweetness of freedom. Maybe this brief moment allowed me to entertain some thoughts I had previously pushed away. Henry Breckinridge Folair, a steadfast Copperhead and the captain of the canal boat, kept trying to persuade me about the proposal I had turned down so many times before.
It was a lovely moonlight night. We sat on the deck of the gliding craft. The moonbeam and the lash of the driver fell softly on the flanks of the off horse, and only the surging of the tow-rope broke the silence. Folair’s arm clasped my waist. I suffered it to remain. Placing in my lap a small but not ungrateful roll of checkerberry lozenges, he took the occasion to repeat softly in my ear the words of a motto he had just unwrapped—with its graceful covering of the tissue paper—from a sugar almond. The heart of the wicked little rebel, Mary McGillup, was won!
It was a beautiful moonlit night. We sat on the deck of the moving boat. The moonlight and the driver's whip gently fell on the side of the horse, and the only sound breaking the silence was the pulsing of the tow-rope. Folair's arm wrapped around my waist. I allowed it to stay there. He placed a small but thoughtful roll of checkerberry lozenges in my lap and took the moment to softly whisper in my ear the words of a motto he had just unwrapped—with its elegant tissue paper—from a sugar almond. The heart of the mischievous little rebel, Mary McGillup, was captured!
The story of Mary McGillup is done. I might have added the journal of my husband, Henry Breckinridge Folair, but as it refers chiefly to his freights and a schedule of his passengers, I have been obliged, reluctantly, to suppress it.
The story of Mary McGillup is complete. I could have included my husband Henry Breckinridge Folair's journal, but since it mainly details his freight and a list of his passengers, I've had to, regretfully, leave it out.
It is due to my friends to say that I have been requested not to write this book. Expressions have reached my ears, the reverse of complimentary. I have been told that its publication will probably insure my banishment for life. Be it so. If the cause for which I labored have been subserved, I am content.
It’s important to mention that my friends have asked me not to write this book. I’ve heard some unflattering comments. I’ve been warned that publishing it might lead to my permanent exile. If that’s the case, so be it. If the purpose I worked for has been served, I'm fine with that.
THE HOODLUM BAND
CHAPTER I
It was a quiet New England village. Nowhere in the valley of the Connecticut the autumn sun shone upon a more peaceful, pastoral, manufacturing community. The wooden nutmegs were slowly ripening on the trees, and the white-pine hams for Western consumption were gradually rounding into form under the deft manipulation of the hardy American artisan. The honest Connecticut farmer was quietly gathering from his threshing-floor the shoe-pegs, which, when intermixed with a fair proportion of oats, offered a pleasing substitute for fodder to the effete civilizations of Europe. An almost Sabbath-like stillness prevailed. Doemville was only seven miles from Hartford, and the surrounding landscape smiled with the conviction of being fully insured.
It was a quiet New England town. Nowhere in the Connecticut valley did the autumn sun shine on a more peaceful, rural, manufacturing community. The wooden nutmegs were slowly ripening on the trees, and the white-pine hams for Western markets were gradually taking shape under the skilled hands of the hardworking American craftsman. The honest Connecticut farmer was quietly collecting shoe pegs from his threshing floor, which, when mixed with a good amount of oats, made a nice alternative for feed for the exhausted civilizations of Europe. An almost serene stillness filled the air. Doemville was only seven miles from Hartford, and the surrounding landscape looked confident in its safety.
Few would have thought that this peaceful village was the home of the three young heroes whose exploits would hereafter—But we anticipate.
Few would have thought that this peaceful village was home to the three young heroes whose adventures would soon become legendary—but we’re getting ahead of ourselves.
Doemville Academy was the principal seat of learning in the county. Under the grave and gentle administration of the venerable Doctor Context, it had attained just popularity. Yet the increasing infirmities of age obliged the doctor to relinquish much of his trust to his assistants, who, it is needless to say, abused his confidence. Before long their brutal tyranny and deep-laid malevolence became apparent. Boys were absolutely forced to study their lessons. The sickening fact will hardly be believed, but during school-hours they were obliged to remain in their seats with the appearance, at least, of discipline. It is stated by good authority that the rolling of croquet-balls across the floor during recitation was objected to, under the fiendish excuse of its interfering with their studies. The breaking of windows by baseballs, and the beating of small scholars with bats, was declared against. At last, bloated and arrogant with success, the under-teachers threw aside all disguise, and revealed themselves in their true colors. A cigar was actually taken out of a day-scholar’s mouth during prayers! A flask of whiskey was dragged from another’s desk, and then thrown out of the window. And finally, Profanity, Hazing, Theft, and Lying were almost discouraged.
Doemville Academy was the main school in the county. Under the serious yet kind leadership of the respected Doctor Context, it gained considerable popularity. However, his growing frailties due to age forced him to hand over much of his responsibilities to his assistants, who, needless to say, let him down. Soon, their harsh treatment and hidden malice became obvious. Students were completely forced to study their lessons. It’s hard to believe, but during school hours, they had to stay in their seats pretending to be disciplined. Reliable sources say that the sound of croquet balls rolling across the floor during lessons was frowned upon, absurdly claimed to disrupt their studies. Breaking windows with baseballs and hitting younger students with bats was prohibited. Eventually, swollen with arrogance from their success, the assistant teachers dropped all pretense and showed their true selves. They even took a cigar out of a day student’s mouth during prayers! A flask of whiskey was yanked from another's desk and tossed out the window. And in the end, Profanity, Hazing, Theft, and Lying were practically encouraged.
Could the youth of America, conscious of their power, and a literature of their own, tamely submit to this tyranny? Never! We repeat it firmly. Never! We repeat it to parents and guardians. Never! But the fiendish tutors, chuckling in their glee, little knew what was passing through the cold, haughty intellect of Charles Francis Adams Golightly, aged ten; what curled the lip of Benjamin Franklin Jenkins, aged seven; or what shone in the bold, blue eyes of Bromley Chitterlings, aged six and a half, as they sat in the corner of the playground at recess. Their only other companion and confidant was the negro porter and janitor of the school, known as “Pirate Jim.”
Could the youth of America, aware of their power and having their own literature, just accept this oppression? Never! We state it with conviction. Never! We communicate this to parents and guardians. Never! But the wicked teachers, laughing with delight, had no idea what was going through the cold, proud mind of Charles Francis Adams Golightly, age ten; what made Benjamin Franklin Jenkins, age seven, curl his lip; or what sparkled in the bold, blue eyes of Bromley Chitterlings, age six and a half, as they sat in the corner of the playground during recess. Their only other friend and confidant was the Black porter and janitor of the school, known as “Pirate Jim.”
Fitly, indeed, was he named, as the secrets of his early wild career—confessed freely to his noble young friends—plainly showed. A slaver at the age of seventeen, the ringleader of a mutiny on the African coast at the age of twenty, a privateersman during the last war with England, the commander of a fire-ship and its sole survivor at twenty-five, with a wild, intermediate career of unmixed piracy, until the Rebellion called him to civil service again as a blockade runner, and peace and a desire for rural repose led him to seek the janitorship of the Doemville Academy, where no questions were asked and references not exchanged—he was, indeed, a fit mentor for our daring youth. Although a man whose days had exceeded the usual space allotted to humanity, the various episodes of his career footing his age up to nearly one hundred and fifty-nine years, he scarcely looked it, and was still hale and vigorous.
He was aptly named, as the secrets of his early reckless life—shared openly with his young noble friends—clearly revealed. A slave trader at seventeen, the leader of a mutiny on the African coast at twenty, a privateer during the last war with England, the captain of a fire ship and its only survivor at twenty-five, with a wild period of pure piracy until the Rebellion brought him back to civil service as a blockade runner, and a longing for peace and a quiet life led him to apply for the janitor position at Doemville Academy, where no questions were asked and references were not required—he was truly a suitable mentor for our adventurous youth. Even though his experiences added up to nearly one hundred and fifty-nine years, he hardly looked it and was still healthy and vigorous.
“Yes,” continued Pirate Jim critically; “I don’t think he was any bigger nor you, Master Chitterlings, if as big, when he stood on the fork’stle of my ship and shot the captain o’ that East Injyman dead. We used to call him little Weevils, he was so young-like. But, bless your hearts, boys! he wa’n’t anything to Little Sammy Barlow, ez once crep’ up inter the captain’s stateroom on a Rooshin frigate, stabbed him to the heart with a jack-knife, then put on the captain’s uniform and his cocked hat, took command of the ship, and fout her hisself.”
“Yes,” continued Pirate Jim critically; “I don’t think he was any bigger than you, Master Chitterlings, if he was even that big, when he stood on the forecastle of my ship and shot the East Indian captain dead. We used to call him little Weevils, he was so young. But, bless your hearts, boys! he wasn’t anything compared to Little Sammy Barlow, who once crept into the captain’s stateroom on a Russian frigate, stabbed him to the heart with a jackknife, then put on the captain’s uniform and his cocked hat, took command of the ship, and fought her himself.”
“Wasn’t the captain’s clothes big for him?” asked B. Franklin Jenkins anxiously.
“Weren’t the captain’s clothes too big for him?” asked B. Franklin Jenkins anxiously.
The janitor eyed young Jenkins with pained dignity.
The janitor looked at young Jenkins with a pained sense of dignity.
“Didn’t I say the Rooshin captain was a small, a very small, man? Rooshins is small, likewise Greeks.”
“Didn’t I say the Russian captain was a short, really short, guy? Russians are short, just like Greeks.”
A noble enthusiasm beamed in the faces of the youthful heroes.
A noble excitement shone in the faces of the young heroes.
“Was Barlow as large as me?” asked C. F. Adams Golightly, lifting his curls from his Jove-like brow.
“Was Barlow as big as me?” asked C. F. Adams Golightly, lifting his curls from his god-like brow.
“Yes; but, then, he hed hed, so to speak, experiences. It was allowed that he had pizened his schoolmaster afore he went to sea. But it’s dry talking, boys.”
“Yes; but he had, so to speak, experiences. It was said that he had poisoned his schoolmaster before he went to sea. But it’s boring to talk about, boys.”
Golightly drew a flask from his jacket and handed it to the janitor. It was his father’s best brandy. The heart of the honest old seaman was touched.
Golightly pulled a flask from his jacket and gave it to the janitor. It was his dad's finest brandy. The kind-hearted old sailor was moved.
“Bless ye, my own pirate boy!” he said in a voice suffocating with emotion.
“Bless you, my own pirate boy!” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“I’ve got some tobacco,” said the youthful Jenkins, “but it’s fine cut; I use only that now.”
“I’ve got some tobacco,” said the young Jenkins, “but it’s fine cut; I only use that now.”
“I kin buy some plug at the corner grocery,” said Pirate Jim, “only I left my portmoney at home.”
“I can buy some plug at the corner store,” said Pirate Jim, “but I left my cash at home.”
“Take this watch,” said young Golightly; “’tis my father’s. Since he became a tyrant and usurper, and forced me to join a corsair’s band, I’ve begun by dividing the property.”
“Take this watch,” said young Golightly; “it belongs to my father. Ever since he became a tyrant and took over, forcing me to join a pirate crew, I’ve started by dividing the belongings.”
“This is idle trifling,” said young Chitterlings wildly. “Every moment is precious. Is this an hour to give to wine and wassail? Ha, we want action—action! We must strike the blow for freedom to-night—ay, this very night. The scow is already anchored in the mill-dam, freighted with provisions for a three months’ voyage. I have a black flag in my pocket. Why, then, this cowardly delay?”
“This is pointless nonsense,” young Chitterlings exclaimed frantically. “Every moment counts. Is this the time to waste on drinks and celebrations? No, we want action—action! We need to make our move for freedom tonight—yes, tonight. The boat is already anchored at the mill-dam, loaded with supplies for a three-month journey. I have a black flag in my pocket. So why this cowardly delay?”
The two elder youths turned with a slight feeling of awe and shame to gaze on the glowing cheeks and high, haughty crest of their youngest comrade—the bright, the beautiful Bromley Chitterlings. Alas! that very moment of forgetfulness and mutual admiration was fraught with danger. A thin, dyspeptic, half-starved tutor approached.
The two older boys turned with a mix of awe and embarrassment to look at the glowing cheeks and arrogant posture of their youngest friend—the bright and beautiful Bromley Chitterlings. Unfortunately, that moment of forgetfulness and shared admiration was filled with danger. A thin, picky, half-starved tutor was approaching.
“It is time to resume your studies, young gentlemen,” he said, with fiendish politeness.
“It’s time to get back to your studies, young men,” he said, with a cruel politeness.
They were his last words on earth.
They were his final words on earth.
“Down, Tyrant!” screamed Chitterlings.
"Down, Tyrant!" yelled Chitterlings.
“Sic him—I mean, sic semper tyrannis!” said the classical Golightly.
“Sic him—I mean, sic semper tyrannis!” said the classic Golightly.
A heavy blow on the head from a baseball bat, and the rapid projection of a baseball against his empty stomach, brought the tutor a limp and lifeless mass to the ground. Golightly shuddered. Let not my young readers blame him too rashly. It was his first homicide. “Search his pockets,” said the practical Jenkins.
A hard hit to the head with a baseball bat, followed by a fast throw of a baseball into his empty stomach, left the tutor a limp and lifeless heap on the ground. Golightly shuddered. Let's not judge him too quickly, young readers. It was his first time committing murder. "Check his pockets," said the practical Jenkins.
They did so, and found nothing hut a Harvard Triennial Catalogue.
They did this and found nothing but a Harvard Triennial Catalogue.
“Let us fly,” said Jenkins.
"Let's fly," said Jenkins.
“Forward to the boats!” cried the enthusiastic Chitterlings.
“Let’s go to the boats!” shouted the excited Chitterlings.
But C. F. Adams Golightly stood gazing thoughtfully at the prostrate tutor.
But C. F. Adams Golightly stood looking thoughtfully at the fallen tutor.
“This,” he said calmly, “is the result of a too free government and the common-school system. What the country needs is reform. I cannot go with you, boys.”
“This,” he said calmly, “is the result of a government that’s too permissive and the public school system. What the country needs is reform. I can’t join you, boys.”
“Traitor!” screamed the others.
"Traitor!" shouted the others.
C. F. A. Golightly smiled sadly.
C. F. A. Golightly smiled with a hint of sadness.
“You know me not. I shall not become a pirate—but a Congressman!”
"You don't know me. I won't be a pirate—I'll be a Congressman!"
Jenkins and Chitterlings turned pale.
Jenkins and Chitterlings went pale.
“I have already organized two caucuses in a baseball club, and bribed the delegates of another. Nay, turn not away. Let us be friends, pursuing through various ways one common end. Farewell!” They shook hands.
“I’ve already set up two meetings in a baseball club and bribed the delegates from another one. No, don’t walk away. Let’s be friends, working together in different ways towards the same goal. Goodbye!” They shook hands.
“But where is Pirate Jim?” asked Jenkins.
“But where is Pirate Jim?” Jenkins asked.
“He left us but for a moment to raise money on the watch to purchase armament for the scow. Farewell!”
“He left us for just a moment to raise money from the watch to buy equipment for the boat. Goodbye!”
And so the gallant, youthful spirits parted, bright with the sunrise of hope.
And so the brave, young souls said their goodbyes, filled with the bright light of hope at dawn.
That night a conflagration raged in Doemville. The Doemville Academy, mysteriously fired, first fell a victim to the devouring element. The candy-shop and cigar-store, both holding heavy liabilities against the academy, quickly followed. By the lurid gleams of the flames, a long, low, sloop-rigged scow, with every mast gone except one, slowly worked her way out of the mill-dam towards the Sound. The next day three boys were missing—C. F. Adams Golightly, B. F. Jenkins, and Bromley Chitterlings. Had they perished in the flames? Who shall say? Enough that never more under these names did they again appear in the homes of their ancestors.
That night a huge fire broke out in Doemville. The Doemville Academy, which was mysteriously set on fire, was the first to fall victim to the flames. The candy shop and cigar store, both carrying significant debts to the academy, quickly went up in flames as well. By the eerie glow of the fire, a long, low, sloop-rigged scow, with all but one mast gone, slowly made its way out of the mill-dam toward the Sound. The next day, three boys went missing—C. F. Adams Golightly, B. F. Jenkins, and Bromley Chitterlings. Did they perish in the flames? Who can say? It’s enough to know that they never again appeared under those names in the homes of their families.
Happy, indeed, would it have been for Doemville had the mystery ended here. But a darker interest and scandal rested upon the peaceful village. During that awful night the boarding-school of Madame Brimborion was visited stealthily, and two of the fairest heiresses of Connecticut—daughters of the president of a savings bank and insurance director—were the next morning found to have eloped. With them also disappeared the entire contents of the savings bank, and on the following day the Flamingo Fire Insurance Company failed.
Happy, indeed, would it have been for Doemville had the mystery ended here. But a darker interest and scandal hung over the peaceful village. During that terrible night, Madame Brimborion's boarding school was stealthily visited, and two of Connecticut's most beautiful heiresses—daughters of the president of a savings bank and an insurance director—were found to have run away the next morning. With them also vanished all the assets of the savings bank, and the following day, the Flamingo Fire Insurance Company went under.
CHAPTER II
Let my young readers now sail with me to warmer and more hospitable climes. Off the coast of Patagonia a long, low, black schooner proudly rides the seas, that break softly upon the vine-clad shores of that luxuriant land. Who is this that, wrapped in Persian rugs, and dressed in the most expensive manner, calmly reclines on the quarter-deck of the schooner, toying lightly ever and anon with the luscious fruits of the vicinity, held in baskets of solid gold by Nubian slaves? or at intervals, with daring grace, guides an ebony velocipede over the polished black walnut decks, and in and out the intricacies of the rigging? Who is it? well may be asked. What name is it that blanches with terror the cheeks of the Patagonian navy? Who but the Pirate Prodigy—the relentless Boy Scourer of Patagonian seas? Voyagers slowly drifting by the Silurian beach, coasters along the Devonian shore, still shudder at the name of Bromley Chitterlings—the Boy Avenger, late of Hartford, Connecticut.
Let my young readers now join me on a journey to warmer and friendlier places. Off the coast of Patagonia, a long, low, black schooner confidently sails the seas, where waves gently break against the lush, vine-covered shores of that rich land. Who is this person, wrapped in Persian rugs and dressed in the finest fashion, calmly lounging on the quarter-deck of the schooner, occasionally playing with the delicious fruits from the area, held in solid gold baskets by Nubian slaves? Or at times, skillfully maneuvering an ebony bicycle over the polished black walnut decks and through the complex rigging? Who is this? It’s a fair question. What name sends chills of fear through the Patagonian navy? Who but the Pirate Prodigy—the relentless Boy Scourge of Patagonian seas? Travelers slowly passing the Silurian beach, coasters along the Devonian shore, still tremble at the name of Bromley Chitterlings—the Boy Avenger, formerly of Hartford, Connecticut.
It has been often asked by the idly curious, Why Avenger, and of what? Let us not seek to disclose the awful secret hidden under that youthful jacket. Enough that there may have been that of bitterness in his past life that they “Whose soul would sicken o’er the heaving wave,” or “whose soul would heave above the sickening wave,” did not understand. Only one knew him, perhaps too well—a queen of the Amazons taken prisoner off Terra del Fuego a week previous. She loved the Boy Avenger. But in vain; his youthful heart seemed obdurate.
It has often been asked by the casually curious, Why Avenger, and what does he avenge? Let’s not try to reveal the terrible secret hidden under that youthful jacket. It’s enough to say that there might have been bitterness in his past that those “whose soul would sicken over the heaving wave,” or “whose soul would rise above the sickening wave,” couldn’t understand. Only one person knew him, perhaps too well—a queen of the Amazons who was captured off Terra del Fuego a week earlier. She loved the Boy Avenger. But it was in vain; his youthful heart seemed unyielding.
“Hear me,” at last he said, when she had for the seventh time wildly proffered her hand and her kingdom in marriage, “and know once and forever why I must decline your flattering proposal. I love another.”
“Listen to me,” he finally said, after she had offered her hand and her kingdom in marriage for the seventh time, “and understand once and for all why I must turn down your flattering proposal. I love someone else.”
With a wild, despairing cry she leaped into the sea, but was instantly rescued by the Pirate Prodigy. Yet, even in that supreme moment, such was his coolness, that on his way to the surface he captured a mermaid, and placing her in charge of his steward, with directions to give her a stateroom, with hot and cold water, calmly resumed his place by the Amazon’s side. When the cabin door closed on his faithful servant, bringing champagne and ices to the interesting stranger, Chitterlings resumed his narrative with a choking voice—
With a desperate scream, she jumped into the sea, but was immediately saved by the Pirate Prodigy. Even in that crucial moment, he was so composed that on his way to the surface, he caught a mermaid and handed her over to his steward, instructing him to give her a stateroom with hot and cold water. He then calmly returned to his spot beside the Amazon. When the cabin door shut behind his loyal servant, who was bringing champagne and ice to the intriguing stranger, Chitterlings continued his story with a choked voice—
“When I first fled from the roof of a tyrannical parent I loved the beautiful and accomplished Eliza J. Sniffen. Her father was president of the Workingmen’s Savings Bank, and it was perfectly understood that in the course of time the entire deposits would be his. But, like a vain fool, I wished to anticipate the future, and in a wild moment persuaded Miss Sniffen to elope with me; and with the entire cash assets of the bank, we fled together.” He paused, overcome with emotion. “But fate decreed it otherwise. In my feverish haste, I had forgotten to place among the stores of my pirate craft that peculiar kind of chocolate caramel to which Eliza Jane was most partial. We were obliged to put into New Rochelle on the second day out, to enable Miss Sniffen to procure that delicacy at the nearest confectioner’s, and match some zephyr worsteds at the first fancy shop. Fatal mistake. She went—she never returned!” In a moment he resumed, in a choking voice, “After a week’s weary waiting, I was obliged to put to sea again, bearing a broken heart and the broken bank of her father. I have never seen her since.”
“When I first ran away from the roof of a controlling parent, I loved the beautiful and talented Eliza J. Sniffen. Her dad was the president of the Workingmen’s Savings Bank, and it was perfectly understood that eventually all the deposits would be his. But, like a foolish dreamer, I wanted to rush things, and in a moment of wild impulse, I convinced Miss Sniffen to elope with me; and with the bank's entire cash assets, we ran off together.” He paused, overwhelmed with emotion. “But fate had other plans. In my frantic rush, I forgot to pack that special kind of chocolate caramel that Eliza Jane adored. We had to stop in New Rochelle on the second day out so Miss Sniffen could find that treat at the nearest candy store, and pick up some fancy yarn at the first craft shop. A disastrous mistake. She went—and never came back!” In a moment he continued, his voice trembling, “After a week of exhausting waiting, I had no choice but to set out to sea again, heartbroken and carrying the burden of her father’s bankrupt bank. I have never seen her again.”
“And you still love her?” asked the Amazon queen excitedly.
“And you still love her?” the Amazon queen asked eagerly.
“Ay, forever!”
"Yeah, forever!"
“Noble youth. Here, take the reward of thy fidelity; for know, Bromley Chitterlings, that I am Eliza Jane. Wearied with waiting, I embarked on a Peruvian guano ship—it’s a long story, dear.”
“Noble youth. Here, take the reward for your loyalty; for you should know, Bromley Chitterlings, that I am Eliza Jane. Tired of waiting, I set sail on a Peruvian guano ship—it’s a long story, my dear.”
“And altogether too thin,” said the Boy Avenger, fiercely releasing himself from her encircling arms. “Eliza Jane’s age, a year ago, was only thirteen, and you are forty, if a day.”
“And way too thin,” the Boy Avenger said, fiercely pulling himself free from her arms. “Eliza Jane was only thirteen a year ago, and you’re pushing forty, at least.”
“True,” she returned sadly, “but I have suffered much, and time passes rapidly, and I’ve grown. You would scarcely believe that this is my own hair.”
“True,” she replied sadly, “but I’ve been through a lot, and time flies by quickly, and I’ve changed. You’d hardly believe that this is my real hair.”
“I know not,” he replied, in gloomy abstraction.
“I don’t know,” he replied, lost in dark thoughts.
“Forgive my deceit,” she returned. “If you are affianced to another, let me at least be—a mother to you.”
“Forgive my deception,” she replied. “If you're engaged to someone else, then let me at least be—a mother to you.”
The Pirate Prodigy started, and tears came to his eyes. The scene was affecting in the extreme. Several of the oldest seamen—men who had gone through scenes of suffering with tearless eyes and unblanched cheeks—now retired to the spirit room to conceal their emotion. A few went into caucus in the forecastle, and returned with the request that the Amazonian queen should hereafter be known as the “Queen of the Pirates’ Isle.”
The Pirate Prodigy began, and tears filled his eyes. The moment was incredibly moving. Several of the oldest sailors—men who had faced suffering with dry eyes and pale faces—now went to the spirit room to hide their emotions. A few gathered in the forecastle and returned with the suggestion that the Amazonian queen should be known as the “Queen of the Pirates’ Isle” from now on.
“Mother!” gasped the Pirate Prodigy.
"Mom!" gasped the Pirate Prodigy.
“My son!” screamed the Amazonian queen.
“My son!” yelled the Amazonian queen.
They embraced. At the same moment a loud flop was heard on the quarter-deck. It was the forgotten mermaid, who, emerging from her stateroom, and ascending the companion-way at that moment, had fainted at the spectacle. The Pirate Prodigy rushed to her side with a bottle of smelling-salts.
They hugged. At the same time, a loud thud was heard on the quarter-deck. It was the overlooked mermaid, who, coming out of her stateroom and climbing up the stairs at that moment, had fainted at the sight. The Pirate Prodigy hurried to her side with a bottle of smelling salts.
She recovered slowly. “Permit me,” she said, rising with dignity, “to leave the ship. I am unaccustomed, to such conduct.”
She recovered slowly. “Allow me,” she said, standing up with dignity, “to leave the ship. I’m not used to this kind of behavior.”
“Hear me—she is my mother!”
“Listen—she's my mom!”
“She certainly is old enough to be,” replied the mermaid. “And to speak of that being her own hair!” she said, as she rearranged with characteristic grace, a comb, and a small hand-mirror, her own luxuriant tresses.
“She definitely is old enough to be,” replied the mermaid. “And to say that this is her own hair!” she said, as she elegantly fixed her own luxurious locks with a comb and a small hand mirror.
“If I couldn’t afford any other clothes, I might wear a switch, too!” hissed the Amazonian queen. “I suppose you don’t dye it on account of the salt water? But perhaps you prefer green, dear?”
“If I couldn’t afford any other clothes, I might wear a switch, too!” hissed the Amazonian queen. “I guess you don’t dye it because of the salt water? But maybe you prefer green, darling?”
“A little salt water might improve your own complexion, love.”
“A little saltwater might improve your complexion, darling.”
“Fishwoman!” screamed the Amazonian queen.
“Fishwoman!” yelled the Amazon queen.
“Bloomerite!” shrieked the mermaid.
“Bloomerite!” yelled the mermaid.
In another instant they had seized each other.
In another moment, they grabbed onto each other.
“Mutiny! Overboard with them!” cried the Pirate Prodigy, rising to the occasion, and casting aside all human affection in the peril of the moment.
“Mutiny! Throw them overboard!” shouted the Pirate Prodigy, rising to the occasion and putting aside all human feelings in the heat of the moment.
A plank was brought and the two women placed upon it.
A plank was brought, and the two women were placed on it.
“After you, dear,” said the mermaid significantly to the Amazonian queen; “you’re the oldest.”
“After you, dear,” said the mermaid meaningfully to the Amazon queen; “you’re the oldest.”
“Thank you!” said the Amazonian queen, stepping back. “Fish is always served first.”
“Thank you!” said the Amazon queen, stepping back. “Fish is always served first.”
Stung by the insult, with a wild scream of rage the mermaid grappled her in her arms and leaped into the sea.
Stung by the insult, with a wild scream of rage, the mermaid grabbed her in her arms and jumped into the sea.
As the waters closed over them forever, the Pirate Prodigy sprung to his feet. “Up with the black flag, and bear away for New London,” he shouted in trumpet-like tones.
As the waters engulfed them for good, the Pirate Prodigy jumped to his feet. “Raise the black flag, and head for New London!” he shouted in a booming voice.
“Ha! ha! Once more the Rover is free!”
“Ha! Ha! The Rover is free again!”
Indeed it was too true. In that fatal moment he had again loosed himself from the trammels of human feeling and was once more the Boy Avenger.
Indeed it was all too real. In that fateful moment, he had once again freed himself from the constraints of human emotion and was once more the Boy Avenger.
CHAPTER III
Again I must ask my young readers to mount my hippogriff and hie with me to the almost inaccessible heights of the Rocky Mountains. There, for years, a band of wild and untamable savages, known as the Pigeon Feet, had resisted the blankets and Bibles of civilization. For years the trails leading to their camp were marked by the bones of teamsters and broken wagons, and the trees were decked with the dying scalp-locks of women and children. The boldest of military leaders hesitated to attack them in their fortresses, and prudently left the scalping-knives, rifles, powder, and shot provided by a paternal government for their welfare lying on the ground a few miles from their encampment, with the request that they were not to be used until the military had safely retired. Hitherto, save an occasional incursion into the territory of the Knock-knees, a rival tribe, they had limited their depredations to the vicinity.
Once again, I must ask my young readers to hop on my hippogriff and join me in soaring to the nearly unreachable heights of the Rocky Mountains. There, for years, a group of wild and untamed savages, known as the Pigeon Feet, had resisted the comforts and teachings of civilization. For years, the trails leading to their camp were littered with the bones of teamsters and shattered wagons, and the trees were adorned with the dying scalp-locks of women and children. Even the bravest military leaders hesitated to attack them in their strongholds and wisely left the scalping-knives, rifles, powder, and shot supplied by a caring government for their benefit lying on the ground a few miles from their camp, with a request that they not be used until the military had safely withdrawn. Until now, except for the occasional raid into the territory of the Knock-knees, a rival tribe, they had confined their raids to the surrounding area.
But lately a baleful change had come over them. Acting under some evil influence, they now pushed their warfare into the white settlements, carrying fire and destruction with them. Again and again had the Government offered them a free pass to Washington and the privilege of being photographed, but under the same evil guidance they refused. There was a singular mystery in their mode of aggression. Schoolhouses were always burned, the schoolmasters taken into captivity, and never again heard from. A palace car on the Union Pacific Railway, containing an excursion party of teachers en route to San Francisco, was surrounded, its inmates captured, and—their vacancies in the school catalogue never again filled. Even a hoard of educational examiners, proceeding to Cheyenne, were taken prisoners, and obliged to answer questions they themselves had proposed, amidst horrible tortures. By degrees these atrocities were traced to the malign influence of a new chief of the tribe. As yet little was known of him but through his baleful appellations, “Young Man who Goes for His Teacher,” and “He Lifts the Hair of the School-Marm.” He was said to be small and exceedingly youthful in appearance. Indeed, his earlier appellative, “He Wipes His Nose on His Sleeve,” was said to have been given to him to indicate his still boy-like habits.
But lately, a dark change had come over them. Under some evil influence, they started pushing their attacks into the white settlements, bringing fire and destruction with them. Time and again, the Government had offered them a free pass to Washington and the chance to be photographed, but under the same dark guidance, they refused. There was a strange mystery in how they attacked. Schoolhouses were always burned, the teachers taken captive, and never heard from again. A luxury train car on the Union Pacific Railway, carrying a group of teachers traveling to San Francisco, was surrounded, and its passengers were captured—their spots in the school roster were never filled again. Even a group of educational examiners heading to Cheyenne was taken prisoner and had to answer questions they had asked themselves while facing horrible torture. Gradually, these atrocities were linked to the evil influence of a new chief of the tribe. So far, not much was known about him except for his ominous nicknames, “Young Man who Goes for His Teacher,” and “He Lifts the Hair of the School-Marm.” He was said to be small and very young in appearance. In fact, his earlier nickname, “He Wipes His Nose on His Sleeve,” was believed to have been given to highlight his still boy-like habits.
It was night in the encampment and among the lodges of the Pigeon Toes. Dusky maidens flitted in and out among the campfires like brown moths, cooking the toothsome buffalo-hump, frying the fragrant bear’s-meat, and stewing the esculent bean for the braves. For a few favored ones sput grasshoppers were reserved as a rare delicacy, although the proud Spartan soul of their chief scorned all such luxuries.
It was nighttime in the camp among the Pigeon Toes' lodges. Dark-skinned young women moved around the campfires like brown moths, cooking delicious buffalo hump, frying the savory bear meat, and stewing the tasty beans for the warriors. For a few lucky ones, grasshoppers were set aside as a special treat, although their proud chief looked down on such luxuries.
He was seated alone in his wigwam, attended only by the gentle Mushymush, fairest of the Pigeon Feet maidens. Nowhere were the characteristics of her great tribe more plainly shown than in the little feet that lapped over each other in walking. A single glance at the chief was sufficient to show the truth of the wild rumors respecting his youth. He was scarcely twelve, of proud and lofty bearing, and clad completely in wrappings of various-colored scalloped cloths, which gave him the appearance of a somewhat extra-sized penwiper. An enormous eagle’s feather, torn from the wing of a bald eagle who once attempted to carry him away, completed his attire. It was also the memento of one of his most superhuman feats of courage. He would undoubtedly have scalped the eagle but that nature had anticipated him.
He sat alone in his wigwam, with only the gentle Mushymush by his side, the fairest of the Pigeon Feet maidens. Nowhere were the traits of her great tribe more clearly displayed than in her little feet that overlapped as she walked. A single glance at the chief was enough to confirm the wild rumors about his youth. He was barely twelve, with a proud and elevated demeanor, dressed entirely in colorful scalloped cloths that made him look like a slightly oversized dust cloth. An enormous eagle’s feather, ripped from the wing of a bald eagle that once tried to carry him away, completed his outfit. It was also a reminder of one of his most remarkable acts of bravery. He would have undoubtedly scalped the eagle if nature hadn’t intervened.
“Why is the Great Chief sad?” said Mushymush softly. “Does his soul still yearn for the blood of the palefaced teachers? Did not the scalping of two professors of geology in the Yale exploring party satisfy his warrior’s heart yesterday? Has he forgotten that Gardener and King are still to follow? Shall his own Mushymush bring him a botanist to-morrow? Speak, for the silence of my brother lies on my heart like the snow on the mountain, and checks the flow of my speech.”
“Why is the Great Chief sad?” Mushymush asked gently. “Does his spirit still crave the blood of the pale-faced teachers? Didn't the scalping of two geology professors from the Yale expedition satisfy his warrior heart yesterday? Has he forgotten that Gardener and King are still to come? Will his own Mushymush bring him a botanist tomorrow? Speak, for the silence of my brother weighs on my heart like snow on the mountain, and holds back my words.”
Still the proud Boy Chief sat silent. Suddenly he said, “Hiss!” and rose to his feet. Taking a long rifle from the ground he adjusted its sight. Exactly seven miles away on the slope of the mountain the figure of a man was seen walking. The Boy Chief raised the rifle to his unerring eye and fired. The man fell.
Still the proud Boy Chief sat quietly. Suddenly he said, “Hiss!” and stood up. Picking up a long rifle from the ground, he adjusted the sight. Exactly seven miles away on the slope of the mountain, a man was walking. The Boy Chief aimed the rifle at his steady eye and fired. The man fell.
A scout was dispatched to scalp and search the body. He presently returned.
A scout was sent to check the body and find the scalp. He soon came back.
“Who was the paleface?” eagerly asked the chief.
“Who was the white guy?” eagerly asked the chief.
“A life insurance agent.”
"Insurance agent."
A dark scowl settled on the face of the chief.
A dark frown settled on the chief's face.
“I thought it was a book peddler.”
“I thought it was a book salesman.”
“Why is my brother’s heart sore against the book peddler?” asked Mushymush.
“Why is my brother upset with the book peddler?” asked Mushymush.
“Because,” said the Boy Chief fiercely, “I am again without my regular dime novel—and I thought he might have one in his pack. Hear me, Mushymush. The United States mails no longer bring me my ‘Young America’ or my ‘Boys’ and Girls’ Weekly.’ I find it impossible, even with my fastest scouts, to keep up with the rear of General Howard, and replenish my literature from the sutler’s wagon. Without a dime novel or a ‘Young America,’ how am I to keep up this Injin business?”
“Because,” said the Boy Chief fiercely, “I don't have my usual dime novel, and I thought he might have one in his pack. Listen to me, Mushymush. The United States mail no longer delivers my ‘Young America’ or my ‘Boys’ and Girls’ Weekly.’ I can’t seem to keep up with the back of General Howard, even with my fastest scouts, and get my reading material from the sutler’s wagon. Without a dime novel or a ‘Young America,’ how am I supposed to keep this Injin act going?”
Mushymush remained in meditation a single moment. Then she looked up proudly.
Mushymush stayed in meditation for just a moment. Then she looked up proudly.
“My brother has spoken. It is well. He shall have his dime novel. He shall know the kind of hairpin his sister Mushymush is.”
“My brother has spoken. That's fine. He'll get his dime novel. He'll find out what kind of hairpin his sister Mushymush is.”
And she arose and gamboled lightly as the fawn out of his presence.
And she got up and danced away playfully like a young deer out of his sight.
In two hours she returned. In one hand she held three small flaxen scalps, in the other “The Boy Marauder,” complete in one volume, price ten cents.
In two hours, she came back. In one hand, she was holding three small blonde scalps, and in the other, “The Boy Marauder,” all in one volume, costing ten cents.
“Three palefaced children,” she gasped, “were reading it in the tail-end of an emigrant wagon. I crept up to them softly. Their parents are still unaware of the accident,” and she sank helpless at his feet.
“Three pale-faced kids,” she gasped, “were reading it at the back of an immigrant wagon. I quietly crept up to them. Their parents still don’t know about the accident,” and she collapsed helplessly at his feet.
“Noble girl!” said the Boy Chief, gazing proudly on her prostrate form; “and these are the people that a military despotism expects to subdue!”
“Noble girl!” said the Boy Chief, looking proudly at her lying down; “and these are the people that a military dictatorship expects to control!”
CHAPTER IV
But the capture of several wagon-loads of commissary whiskey, and the destruction of two tons of stationery intended for the general commanding, which interfered with his regular correspondence with the War Department, at last awakened the United States military authorities to active exertion. A quantity of troops were massed before the Pigeon Feet encampment, and an attack was hourly imminent.
But the seizure of several wagonloads of supply whiskey and the destruction of two tons of stationery meant for the commanding general, which disrupted his regular correspondence with the War Department, finally got the United States military authorities to take action. A number of troops were gathered before the Pigeon Feet camp, and an attack was expected at any moment.
“Shine your boots, sir?”
"Shine your shoes, sir?"
It was the voice of a youth in humble attire, standing before the flap of the commanding general’s tent.
It was the voice of a young person in simple clothes, standing in front of the opening of the general's tent.
The general raised his head from his correspondence.
The general looked up from his papers.
“Ah,” he said, looking down on the humble boy, “I see; I shall write that the appliances of civilization move steadily forward with the army. Yes,” he added, “you may shine my military boots. You understand, however, that to get your pay you must first”—
“Ah,” he said, looking down at the humble boy, “I get it; I’ll write that the tools of civilization march forward with the army. Yes,” he added, “you can polish my military boots. You do understand, though, that to receive your pay you must first”—
“Make a requisition on the commissary-general, have it certified to by the quartermaster, countersigned by the post-adjutant, and submitted by you to the War Department”—
"Request something from the supply officer, get it approved by the quartermaster, have it signed off by the post-adjutant, and submit it to the War Department yourself."
“And charged as stationery” added the general gently. “You are, I see, an intelligent and thoughtful boy. I trust you neither use whiskey, tobacco, nor are ever profane?”
“And charged as stationery,” the general added gently. “I can see you're an intelligent and thoughtful young man. I hope you don’t use whiskey, tobacco, or ever speak disrespectfully?”
“I promised my sainted mother”—
“I promised my late mother”—
“Enough! Go on with your blacking; I have to lead the attack on the Pigeon Feet at eight precisely. It is now half past seven” said the general, consulting a large kitchen clock that stood in the corner of his tent.
“Enough! Keep working on your blacking; I have to lead the attack on the Pigeon Feet at exactly eight. It’s now half past seven,” said the general, checking a large kitchen clock that was in the corner of his tent.
The little bootblack looked up—the general was absorbed in his correspondence. The bootblack drew a tin putty-blower from his pocket, took unerring aim, and nailed in a single shot the minute hand to the dial. Going on with his blacking, yet stopping ever and anon to glance over the general’s plan of campaign, spread on the table before him, he was at last interrupted by the entrance of an officer.
The little bootblack looked up—the general was focused on his papers. The bootblack pulled a tin putty-blower from his pocket, took careful aim, and hit the minute hand to the dial in one shot. As he continued polishing the boots, he occasionally paused to check out the general’s campaign plan laid out on the table in front of him, until he was finally interrupted by the arrival of an officer.
“Everything is ready for the attack, general. It is now eight o’clock”
“Everything is set for the attack, general. It’s now eight o’clock.”
“Impossible! It is only half past seven.”
"No way! It's just 7:30."
“But my watch, and the watches of the staff”—
“But my watch, and the staff's watches”—
“Are regulated by my kitchen clock, that has been in my family for years. Enough! it is only half past seven.”
“Are governed by my kitchen clock, which has been in my family for years. Enough! It’s only 7:30.”
The officer retired; the bootblack had finished one boot. Another officer appeared.
The officer left; the shoeshiner had completed one boot. Another officer showed up.
“Instead of attacking the enemy, general, we are attacked ourselves. Our pickets are already driven in.”
“Instead of going after the enemy, general, we’re being attacked ourselves. Our scouts have already been pushed back.”
“Military pickets should not differ from other pickets” said the bootblack modestly. “To stand firmly they should be well driven in.” “Ha! there is something in that,” said the general thoughtfully. “But who are you, who speak thus?”
“Military pickets shouldn't be any different from other pickets,” said the bootblack modestly. “To stand firm, they need to be well driven in.” “Ha! There's something to that,” said the general thoughtfully. “But who are you, to speak like this?”
Rising to his full height, the bootblack threw off his outer rags, and revealed the figure of the Boy Chief of the Pigeon Feet.
Rising to his full height, the bootblack tossed aside his tattered clothes, revealing the figure of the Boy Chief of the Pigeon Feet.
“Treason!” shrieked the general. “Order an advance along the whole line.”
“Treason!” yelled the general. “Command an advance along the entire line.”
But in vain. The next moment he fell beneath the tomahawk of the Boy Chief, and within the next quarter of an hour the United States army was dispersed. Thus ended the battle of Bootblack Creek.
But it was pointless. The next moment he fell to the Boy Chief's tomahawk, and within the next 15 minutes, the United States army was scattered. This is how the battle of Bootblack Creek came to an end.
CHAPTER V
And yet the Boy Chief was not entirely happy. Indeed, at times he seriously thought of accepting the invitation extended by the Great Chief at Washington immediately after the massacre of his soldiers, and once more revisiting the haunts of civilization, His soul sickened in feverish inactivity; schoolmasters palled on his taste; he had introduced baseball, blind hooky, marbles, and peg-top among his Indian subjects, but only with indifferent success. The squaws persisted in boring holes through the china alleys and wearing them as necklaces; his warriors stuck pipes in their baseball bats, and made war-clubs of them. He could not but feel, too, that the gentle Mushymush, although devoted to her paleface brother, was deficient in culinary education. Her mince-pies were abominable; her jam far inferior to that made by his Aunt Sally of Doemville. Only an unexpected incident kept him equally from the extreme of listless sybaritic indulgence or of morbid cynicism. Indeed, at the age of twelve, he already had become disgusted with existence.
And yet the Boy Chief wasn’t completely happy. In fact, he sometimes seriously considered accepting the invitation from the Great Chief in Washington right after the massacre of his soldiers, and going back to the world of civilization. His soul felt sick from doing nothing; schoolteachers bored him; he had tried introducing baseball, blind hooky, marbles, and peg-top to his Indian friends, but they were only somewhat successful. The women continued to bore holes through china alleyways and wear them as necklaces; his warriors were shoving pipes into their baseball bats and turning them into war clubs. He also couldn’t help but notice that the gentle Mushymush, despite her dedication to her light-skinned brother, lacked cooking skills. Her mince pies were terrible; her jam was nowhere near as good as his Aunt Sally's from Doemville. Only an unexpected event prevented him from slipping into either a lazy hedonistic lifestyle or a grim cynicism. In fact, at just twelve years old, he was already fed up with life.
He had returned to his wigwam after an exhausting buffalo hunt, in which he had slain two hundred and seventy-five buffaloes with his own hand, not counting the individual buffalo on which he had leaped, so as to join the herd, and which he afterward led into the camp a captive and a present to the lovely Mushymush. He had scalped two express riders, and a correspondent of the “New York Herald;” had despoiled the Overland Mail stage of a quantity of vouchers which enabled him to draw double rations from the Government, and was reclining on a bearskin, smoking and thinking of the vanity of human endeavor, when a scout entered, saying that a paleface youth had demanded access to his person.
He had come back to his cabin after a tiring buffalo hunt, in which he had taken down two hundred seventy-five buffaloes by himself, not including the single buffalo he had jumped onto to join the herd, which he later brought into camp as a captive gift for the beautiful Mushymush. He had scalped two express riders and a reporter from the “New York Herald,” robbed the Overland Mail stage of a bunch of vouchers that allowed him to get double rations from the Government, and was lounging on a bearskin, smoking and pondering the futility of human effort, when a scout came in and said that a white youth wanted to see him.
“Is he a commissioner? If so, say that the red man is rapidly passing to the happy hunting-grounds of his fathers, and now desires only peace, blankets, and ammunition; obtain the latter, and then scalp the commissioner.”
“Is he a commissioner? If he is, tell him that the Native American is quickly moving on to the happy hunting grounds of his ancestors, and now only wants peace, blankets, and ammunition; get the ammunition, and then take care of the commissioner.”
“But it is only a youth who asks an interview.”
“But only a young person asks for an interview.”
“Does he look like an insurance agent? If so, say that I have already policies in three Hartford companies. Meanwhile prepare the stake, and see that the squaws are ready with their implements of torture.”
“Does he look like an insurance agent? If he does, tell him that I already have policies with three Hartford companies. In the meantime, get the stake ready and make sure the women are prepared with their tools for torture.”
The youth was admitted; he was evidently only half the age of the Boy Chief. As he entered the wigwam, and stood revealed to his host, they both started. In another moment they were locked in each other’s arms. “Jenky, old boy!”
The young man came in; he was clearly only half the age of the Boy Chief. As he walked into the wigwam and stood in front of his host, they both flinched. A moment later, they were embracing each other. “Jenky, old buddy!”
“Bromley, old fel!”
"Bromley, old buddy!"
B. F. Jenkins, for such was the name of the Boy Chief, was the first to recover his calmness. Turning to his warriors he said proudly,—
B. F. Jenkins, which was the name of the Boy Chief, was the first to regain his calm. Turning to his warriors, he said proudly,—
“Let my children retire while I speak to the agent of our Great Father in Washington. Hereafter no latch-keys will be provided for the wigwams of the warriors. The practice of late hours must be discouraged.”
“Let my kids go play while I talk to the representative of our Great Father in Washington. From now on, there won’t be any latch-keys given for the warriors' homes. We need to discourage staying out late.”
“How!” said the warriors, and instantly retired.
“How!” said the warriors, and instantly backed off.
“Whisper!” said Jenkins, drawing his friend aside. “I am known here only as the Boy Chief of the Pigeon Toes.”
“Whisper!” said Jenkins, pulling his friend to the side. “I'm only known here as the Boy Chief of the Pigeon Toes.”
“And I,” said Bromley Chitterlings proudly, “am known everywhere as the Pirate Prodigy—the Boy Avenger of the Patagonian coast.”
“And I,” said Bromley Chitterlings proudly, “am known everywhere as the Pirate Prodigy—the Boy Avenger of the Patagonian coast.”
“But how came you here?”
“But how did you get here?”
“Listen! My pirate brig, the Lively Mermaid, now lies at Meiggs’s wharf in San Francisco, disguised as a Mendocino lumber vessel. My pirate crew accompanied me here in a palace car from San Francisco.”
“Listen! My pirate ship, the Lively Mermaid, is currently docked at Meiggs’s wharf in San Francisco, pretending to be a lumber vessel from Mendocino. My pirate crew traveled with me here in a luxury train car from San Francisco.”
“It must have been expensive,” said the prudent Jenkins. “It was, but they defrayed it by a collection from the other passengers, you understand. The papers will be full of it to-morrow. Do you take in the ‘New York Sun’?”
“It must have cost a lot,” said the cautious Jenkins. “It did, but they covered it with a collection from the other passengers, you see. The newspapers will be all over it tomorrow. Do you get the ‘New York Sun’?”
“No; I dislike their Indian policy. But why are you here?”
“No; I don't like their Indian policy. But why are you here?”
“Hear me, Jenk! ’T is a long and a sad story. The lovely Eliza J. Sniffen, who fled with me from Doemville, was seized by her parents and torn from my arms at New Rochelle. Reduced to poverty by the breaking of the savings bank of which he was president—a failure to which I largely contributed, and the profits of which I enjoyed—I have since ascertained that Eliza Jane Sniffen was forced to become a schoolmistress, departed to take charge of a seminary in Colorado, and since then has never been heard from.”
“Hear me, Jenk! It’s a long and sad story. The lovely Eliza J. Sniffen, who ran away with me from Doemville, was taken by her parents and ripped from my arms at New Rochelle. Reduced to poverty after the savings bank, where he was president, failed—a failure I played a big part in, and from which I benefited—I’ve since found out that Eliza Jane Sniffen was made to become a teacher, went to manage a seminary in Colorado, and hasn’t been heard from since.”
Why did the Boy Chief turn pale, and clutch at the tent-pole for support? Why, indeed?
Why did the Boy Chief turn pale and grab the tent pole for support? Why, really?
“Eliza Jane Sniffen,” gasped Jenkins,—“aged fourteen, red-haired, with a slight tendency to strabismus?”
“Eliza Jane Sniffen,” gasped Jenkins, “age fourteen, red-haired, with a slight tendency to cross-eyed?”
“The same.”
"Same here."
“Heaven help me! She died by my mandate!”
"Heaven help me! She died because I ordered it!"
“Traitor!” shrieked Chitterlings, rushing at Jenkins with a drawn poniard.
“Traitor!” screamed Chitterlings, charging at Jenkins with a drawn dagger.
But a figure interposed. The slight girlish form of Mushymush with outstretched hands stood between the exasperated Pirate Prodigy and the Boy Chief.
But a figure stepped in. The slender, girlish form of Mushymush with outstretched hands stood between the frustrated Pirate Prodigy and the Boy Chief.
“Forbear,” she said sternly to Chitterlings; “you know not what you do.”
“Wait,” she said firmly to Chitterlings; “you don’t know what you’re doing.”
The two youths paused.
The two young people paused.
“Hear me,” she said rapidly. “When captured in a confectioner’s shop at New Rochelle, E. J. Sniffen was taken back to poverty. She resolved to become a schoolmistress. Hearing of an opening in the West, she proceeded to Colorado to take exclusive charge of the pensionnat of Mdme. Choflie, late of Paris. On the way thither she was captured by the emissaries of the Boy Chief”—
“Hear me,” she said quickly. “When caught in a candy store in New Rochelle, E. J. Sniffen was returned to poverty. She decided to become a teacher. Hearing about a job opening in the West, she went to Colorado to take complete charge of the boarding school run by Mdme. Choflie, formerly of Paris. On her way there, she was captured by the agents of the Boy Chief—”
“In consummation of a fatal vow I made, never to spare educational instructors,” interrupted Jenkins.
“In fulfilling a deadly promise I made, never to hold back on educational instructors,” interrupted Jenkins.
“But in her captivity,” continued Mushymush, “she managed to stain her face with poke-berry juice, and mingling with the Indian maidens was enabled to pass for one of the tribe. Once undetected, she boldly ingratiated herself with the Boy Chief,—how honestly and devotedly he best can tell,—for I, Mushymush, the little sister of the Boy Chief, am Eliza Jane Sniffen.”
“But during her captivity,” continued Mushymush, “she managed to stain her face with pokeberry juice, and by mingling with the Indian maidens, she was able to pass for one of the tribe. Once she went unnoticed, she confidently ingratiated herself with the Boy Chief—how honestly and devotedly he can best explain that—because I, Mushymush, the little sister of the Boy Chief, am Eliza Jane Sniffen.”
The Pirate Prodigy clasped her in his arms. The Boy Chief, raising his hand, ejaculated,—
The Pirate Prodigy held her in his arms. The Boy Chief, lifting his hand, exclaimed,—
“Bless you, my children!”
"Bless you, kids!"
“There is but one thing wanting to complete this reunion,” said Chitterlings, after a pause, but the hurried entrance of a scout stopped his utterance.
“There’s just one thing missing to make this reunion complete,” said Chitterlings, but the sudden arrival of a scout interrupted him.
“A commissioner from the Great Father in Washington.”
“A representative from the Great Father in Washington.”
“Scalp him!” shrieked the Boy Chief; “this is no time for diplomatic trifling.”
"Scalp him!" yelled the Boy Chief; "this is not the moment for diplomatic nonsense."
“We have; but he still insists upon seeing you, and has sent in his card.”
“We do, but he still insists on seeing you and has sent in his card.”
The Boy Chief took it, and read aloud, in agonized accents,—
The Boy Chief took it and read aloud, in pained tones,—
“Charles Francis Adams Golightly, late page in United States Senate, and acting commissioner of United States.”
“Charles Francis Adams Golightly, former page in the United States Senate, and acting commissioner of the United States.”
In another moment, Golightly, pale, bleeding, and, as it were, prematurely bald, but still cold and intellectual, entered the wigwam. They fell upon his neck and begged his forgiveness.
In another moment, Golightly, pale, bleeding, and, in a way, prematurely bald, but still cold and intellectual, walked into the wigwam. They threw themselves around his neck and pleaded for his forgiveness.
“Don’t mention it,” he said quietly; “these things must and will happen under our present system of government. My story is brief. Obtaining political influence through caucuses, I became at last page in the Senate. Through the exertions of political friends, I was appointed clerk to the commissioner whose functions I now represent. Knowing through political spies in your own camp who you were, I acted upon the physical fears of the commissioner, who was an ex-clergyman, and easily induced him to deputize me to consult with you. In doing so, I have lost my scalp, but as the hirsute signs of juvenility have worked against my political progress, I do not regret it. As a partially bald young man I shall have more power. The terms that I have to offer are simply this: you can do everything you want, go anywhere you choose, if you will only leave this place. I have a hundred-thousand-dollar draft on the United States Treasury in my pocket at your immediate disposal.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said quietly; “these things are bound to happen with our current government system. My story is short. By gaining political influence through caucuses, I eventually became a page in the Senate. Thanks to my political friends, I was appointed clerk to the commissioner whose role I now represent. Knowing through political spies in your camp who you were, I took advantage of the commissioner’s physical fears—he’s an ex-clergyman—and easily got him to allow me to consult with you. In doing so, I’ve lost my job, but since my youthful appearance has hindered my political progress, I don’t regret it. As a young man with a bit of baldness, I’ll have more influence. The offer I have is simple: you can do whatever you want, go wherever you wish, as long as you leave this place. I have a hundred-thousand-dollar draft on the United States Treasury in my pocket, ready for you.”
“But what’s to become of me?” asked Chitterlings.
“But what’s going to happen to me?” asked Chitterlings.
“Your case has already been under advisement. The Secretary of State, who is an intelligent man, has determined to recognize you as de jure and de facto the only loyal representative of the Patagonian Government. You may safely proceed to Washington as its envoy extraordinary. I dine with the secretary next week.”
“Your case has already been considered. The Secretary of State, who is a smart guy, has decided to recognize you as both de jure and de facto the only loyal representative of the Patagonian Government. You can confidently go to Washington as its special envoy. I'm having dinner with the secretary next week.”
“And yourself, old fellow?”
“And you, old buddy?”
“I only wish that twenty years from now you will recognize by your influence and votes the rights of C. F. A. Golightly to the presidency.”
“I really hope that in twenty years, you will acknowledge by your influence and votes C. F. A. Golightly's right to the presidency.”
And here ends our story. Trusting that my dear young friends may take whatever example or moral their respective parents and guardians may deem fittest from these pages, I hope in future years to portray further the career of those three young heroes I have already introduced in the springtime of life to their charitable consideration.
And with that, our story comes to a close. I hope that my young friends can find whatever lessons or morals their parents and guardians think are most appropriate in these pages. In the future, I look forward to sharing more about the lives of the three young heroes I introduced to you at the beginning of their journeys.
M’LISS
[Pagenote: There are two forms of this tale. The earlier one is that printed originally in The Golden Era and afterward and until this time included in Mr. Harte’s collected writings. It is comprised in four chapters and occupies about thirty pages. When the present edition was under consideration, Mr. Harte called his publishers’ attention to the fact that the editor of the same paper proposed to him some time later to continue it as a serial. In order to do this, he found himself obliged to make some changes in the earlier incidents. Accordingly he republished the story in its first form, but with some interpolations and alterations, and then proceeded with other chapters, making ten in all, “concluding it,” he says, “rather abruptly when I found it was inartistically prolonged.” This was in 1863. But even thus the story was not to be let alone. Ten years later, in 1873, another writer took the tale up at the end of the tenth chapter, added fifty more, and issued the whole in The Golden Era. When the continuation had been running some time, Mr. Harte discovered the fraud, and inserted a card in the same paper, advising the public that he had nothing whatever to do with this further amplification of his story. Afterward, when the whole was published in book form, he instituted legal proceedings and suppressed the sale.
[Pagenote: There are two versions of this story. The earlier one was originally published in The Golden Era and has since been included in Mr. Harte’s collected works. It consists of four chapters and spans about thirty pages. When the current edition was being prepared, Mr. Harte informed his publishers that the editor of the same paper had proposed he continue it as a serial later on. To do this, he had to make some changes to the earlier events. Consequently, he republished the story in its original form but with some additions and alterations, and then he continued with additional chapters, totaling ten, remarking that he “concluded it” rather abruptly as he felt it had become inartistically extended. This was in 1863. However, the story didn’t stay untouched. A decade later, in 1873, another writer picked up the tale from the end of the tenth chapter, added fifty more chapters, and published the whole in The Golden Era. After the continuation had been running for a while, Mr. Harte discovered the deception and placed a notice in the same paper, informing the public that he had no connection to this further expansion of his story. Later, when the complete work was published in book format, he took legal action to stop its sale.]
The present form is Mr. Harte’s revision and extension of his first, and is reprinted from The Golden Era with his consent. EDITOR.]
The current version is Mr. Harte's updated and expanded edition of his original work, and it is reprinted from The Golden Era with his permission. [EDITOR.]
CHAPTER I
Just where the Sierra Nevada begins to subside in gentle undulations, and the rivers grow less rapid and yellow, on the side of a great red mountain stands Smith’s Pocket. Seen from the red road at sunset, in the red light and the red dust, its white houses look like the outcroppings of quartz on the mountain side. The red stage, topped with red-shirted passengers, is lost to view half a dozen times in the tortuous descent, turning up unexpectedly in out-of-the-way places, and vanishing altogether within a hundred yards of the town. It is probably owing to this sudden twist in the road that the advent of a stranger at Smith’s Pocket is usually attended with a peculiar circumstance. Dismounting from the vehicle at the stage office the too-confident traveler is apt to walk straight out of town under the impression that it lies in quite another direction. It is related that one of the tunnel men, two miles from town, met one of these self-reliant passengers with a carpetbag, umbrella, “Harper’s Magazine,” and other evidences of “civilization and refinement,” plodding along over the road he had just ridden, vainly endeavoring to find the settlement of Smith’s Pocket.
Just where the Sierra Nevada starts to slope gently and the rivers become slower and more yellow, on the side of a great red mountain, lies Smith’s Pocket. From the red road at sunset, in the red light and dust, its white houses resemble quartz outcroppings on the mountainside. The red stagecoach, filled with passengers in red shirts, disappears from view several times during the winding descent, suddenly appearing in unexpected spots and vanishing completely within a hundred yards of the town. This abrupt turn in the road is likely why the arrival of a stranger in Smith’s Pocket often comes with a peculiar situation. When dismounting from the vehicle at the stage office, an overly confident traveler tends to walk straight out of town, thinking it’s in a completely different direction. It’s said that one of the tunnel workers, two miles from town, encountered one of these self-assured travelers, who was carrying a carpetbag, an umbrella, “Harper’s Magazine,” and other signs of “civilization and refinement,” trudging along the road he had just traveled, futilely trying to locate the settlement of Smith’s Pocket.
Had he been an observant traveler he might have found some compensation for his disappointment in the weird aspect of that vicinity. There were huge fissures on the hillside, and displacements of the red soil, resembling more the chaos of some primary elementary upheaval than the work of man; while, halfway down, a long flume straddled its narrow body and disproportionate legs over the chasm, like an enormous fossil of some forgotten antediluvian. At every step smaller ditches crossed the road, hiding in their shallow depths unlovely streams that crept away to a clandestine union with the great yellow torrent below. Here and there the ruins of some cabin, with the chimney alone left intact and the hearthstone open to the skies, gave such a flat contradiction to the poetic delusion of Lares and Penates that the heart of the traveler must have collapsed as he gazed, and even the bar-room of the National Hotel have afterward seemed festive, and invested with preternatural comfort and domesticity.
Had he been a careful traveler, he might have found some solace for his disappointment in the strange look of the area. There were large cracks on the hillside and displacements of the red soil, looking more like the aftermath of some ancient natural disaster than the work of humans; meanwhile, halfway down, a long flume stretched its narrow body and uneven legs over the chasm, resembling a giant fossil of some long-forgotten creature. Everywhere he stepped, smaller ditches crossed the road, concealing in their shallow depths unappealing streams that flowed away to join the huge yellow river below. Here and there, the ruins of a cabin stood, with only the chimney left intact and the hearthstone exposed to the sky, starkly contradicting the idealized image of home, making the traveler's heart sink as he looked on. Even the bar room of the National Hotel must have seemed lively, filled with an almost magical comfort and homeliness afterward.
The settlement of Smith’s Pocket owed its origin to the finding of a “pocket” on its site by a veritable Smith. Five thousand dollars were taken out of it in one half-hour by Smith. Three thousand dollars were expended by Smith and others in erecting a flume and in tunneling. And then Smith’s Pocket was found to be only a pocket, and subject like other pockets to depletion. Although Smith pierced the bowels of the great red mountain, that five thousand dollars was the first and the last return of his labor. The mountain grew reticent of its golden secrets, and the flume steadily ebbed away the remainder of Smith’s fortune. Then Smith went into quartz mining. Then into quartz milling. Then into hydraulics and ditching, and then by easy degrees into saloon keeping. Presently it was whispered that Smith was drinking a good deal; then it was known that Smith was an habitual drunkard; and then people began to think, as they are apt to, that he had never been anything else. But the settlement of Smith’s Pocket, like that of most discoveries, was happily not dependent on the fortune of its pioneer, and other parties projected tunnels and found pockets. So Smith’s Pocket became a settlement with its two fancy stores, its two hotels, its one express office, and its two first families. Occasionally its one long straggling street was overawed by the assumption of the latest San Francisco fashions, imported per express, exclusively to the first families; making outraged nature, in the ragged outline of her furrowed surface, look still more homely, and putting personal insult on that greater portion of the population to whom the Sabbath, with a change of linen, brought merely the necessity of cleanliness without the luxury of adornment. Then there was a Methodist church, and hard by a monte bank, and a little beyond, on the mountain side, a graveyard; and then a little schoolhouse.
The settlement of Smith’s Pocket started when a guy named Smith discovered a “pocket” right on the site. Smith pulled five thousand dollars out of it in just thirty minutes. He, along with others, spent three thousand dollars building a flume and digging tunnels. Eventually, it turned out that Smith’s Pocket was just another pocket, like many others, and it ran out quickly. Even though Smith dug deep into the massive red mountain, that five thousand dollars was the only profit he made from his efforts. After that, the mountain kept its golden secrets to itself, and the flume slowly drained away the rest of Smith’s money. Then Smith shifted to quartz mining, then quartz milling, then hydraulics and ditching, and eventually, gradually, he ended up running a saloon. Soon, people started whispering that Smith was drinking a lot; then it became known that he was a heavy drinker, and eventually, folks began to think, as they often do, that he had never been anything else. But the settlement of Smith’s Pocket, like most discoveries, luckily didn’t rely on its founder’s luck, and other people started digging tunnels and finding pockets. So, Smith’s Pocket developed into a settlement with its two nice stores, two hotels, one express office, and two prominent families. Occasionally, its one long, winding street was dominated by the latest San Francisco fashions, shipped in just for the first families, making the rugged, natural landscape look even more uninviting, and leaving the majority of the population feeling insulted, as the Sabbath, with a change of clothes, brought just the need for cleanliness without the extra of dressing up. There was also a Methodist church, a monte bank nearby, a graveyard a little further up the mountain, and a small schoolhouse.
“The master,” as he was known to his little flock, sat alone one night in the schoolhouse, with some open copybooks before him, carefully making those bold and full characters which are supposed to combine the extremes of chirographical and moral excellence, and had got as far as “Riches are deceitful,” and was elaborating the noun with an insincerity of flourish that was quite in the spirit of his text, when he heard a gentle tapping. The woodpeckers had been busy about the roof, during the day, and the noise did not disturb his work. But the opening of the door, and the tapping continuing from the inside, caused him to look up. He was slightly startled by the figure of a young girl, dirty, and shabbily clad. Still her great black eyes, her coarse uncombed lusterless black hair falling over her sunburned face, her red arms and feet streaked with the red soil, were all familiar to him. It was Melissa Smith—Smith’s motherless child.
“The master,” as he was known to his little group, sat alone one night in the schoolhouse, with some open copybooks in front of him, carefully writing those bold and neat letters that are meant to represent the highest standards of writing and moral character. He had just written “Riches are deceitful” and was adding some extra flourishes to the letters that matched the message of his text when he heard a gentle tapping. The woodpeckers had been busy on the roof during the day, and the noise hadn’t bothered him. But when the door opened and the tapping continued from inside, he looked up. He was slightly startled by the sight of a young girl, dirty and poorly dressed. Yet her big black eyes, her rough, uncombed hair falling over her sunburned face, and her red arms and feet stained with red soil were all familiar to him. It was Melissa Smith—Smith’s motherless child.
“What can she want here?” thought the master. Everybody knew “M’liss,” as she was called, throughout the length and height of Red Mountain. Everybody knew her as an incorrigible girl. Her fierce, ungovernable disposition, her mad freaks and lawless character, were in their way as proverbial as the story of her father’s weakness, and as philosophically accepted by the townsfolk. She wrangled with and fought the schoolboys with keener invective and quite as powerful arm. She followed the trails with woodman’s craft, and the master had met her before, miles away, shoeless, stockingless, and bareheaded on the mountain road. The miners’ camps along the stream supplied her with subsistence during these voluntary pilgrimages, in freely offered alms. Not but that a larger protection had been previously extended to M’liss. The Rev. Joshua McSnagley, “stated” preacher, had placed her in the hotel as servant, by way of preliminary refinement, and had introduced her to his scholars at Sunday-school. But she threw plates occasionally at the landlord, and quickly retorted to the cheap witticisms of the guests, and created in the Sabbath-school a sensation that was so inimical to the orthodox dullness and placidity of that institution, that, with a decent regard for the starched frocks and unblemished morals of the two pink-and-white-faced children of the first families, the reverend gentleman had her ignominiously expelled. Such were the antecedents and such the character of M’liss, as she stood before the master. It was shown in the ragged dress, the unkempt hair and bleeding feet, and asked his pity. It flashed from her black fearless eyes, and commanded his respect.
“What does she want here?” thought the master. Everyone knew “M’liss,” as she was called, throughout all of Red Mountain. Everyone recognized her as an unstoppable girl. Her fierce, unmanageable personality, her wild antics, and rebellious nature were as well-known as the tale of her father's weakness, and were accepted by the townsfolk with a kind of resigned understanding. She would argue with and fight the schoolboys with sharper insults and just as much strength. She roamed the trails with the skill of a woodsman, and the master had seen her before, miles away, without shoes, stockings, or a hat on the mountain road. The miners’ camps along the stream provided her with food during these self-imposed journeys, with donations freely given. However, before this, M’liss had received more formal guardianship. The Rev. Joshua McSnagley, a so-called preacher, had placed her in the hotel as a servant for some basic training and had introduced her to his students at Sunday school. But she sometimes threw plates at the landlord, quickly retaliated against the cheap jokes of the guests, and created such a stir in the Sunday school that was detrimental to the orthodox dullness of that institution, that, out of respect for the neatly dressed and morally upright children from respectable families, the reverend had her embarrassingly expelled. Such were M’liss’s background and character as she stood before the master. It was evident in her tattered dress, messy hair, and bleeding feet, pleading for his sympathy. It shone from her dark, fearless eyes, demanding his respect.
“I come here to-night,” she said rapidly and boldly, keeping her hard glance on his, “because I knew you was alone. I wouldn’t come here when them gals was here. I hate ’em and they hates me. That’s why. You keep school,—don’t you? I want to be teached!”
“I came here tonight,” she said quickly and confidently, maintaining her intense gaze on his, “because I knew you were alone. I wouldn't come here when those girls were around. I can’t stand them, and they can’t stand me. That’s why. You teach school, right? I want to be taught!”
If to the shabbiness of her apparel and uncomeliness of her tangled hair and dirty face she had added the humility of tears the master would have extended to her the usual moiety of pity, and nothing more. But with the natural though illogical instincts of his species, her boldness awakened in him something of that respect which all original natures pay unconsciously to one another in any grade. And he gazed at her the more fixedly as she went on still rapidly, her hand on the door-latch and her eyes on his.
If she had combined her shabby clothes and the untidiness of her tangled hair and dirty face with the humility of tears, the master would have shown her the usual amount of pity, and nothing more. But, with the natural yet illogical instincts of his kind, her boldness stirred in him a bit of the respect that all original natures unconsciously show to one another, regardless of their status. He continued to stare at her more intently as she spoke quickly, her hand on the door latch and her eyes on his.
“My name is M’liss—M’liss Smith! You can bet your life on that. My father’s Old Smith—Old Bummer Smith—that’s what’s the matter with him. M’liss Smith—and I’m comin’ to school!”
“My name is M’liss—M’liss Smith! You can count on that. My dad’s Old Smith—Old Bummer Smith—that’s what’s wrong with him. M’liss Smith—and I’m going to school!”
“Well?” said the master.
"Well?" said the teacher.
Accustomed to be thwarted and opposed, often wantonly and cruelly, for no other purpose than to excite the violent impulses of her nature, the master’s phlegm evidently took her by surprise. She stopped. She began to twist a lock of her hair between her fingers; and the rigid line of upper lip, drawn over the wicked little teeth, relaxed and quivered slightly. Then her eyes dropped, and something like a blush struggled up to her cheek, and tried to assert itself through the splashes of redder soil and the sunburn of years. Suddenly she threw herself forward, calling on God to strike her dead, and fell quite weak and helpless, with her face on the master’s desk, crying and sobbing as if her heart would break.
Used to being thwarted and opposed, often in a mean and cruel way, just to provoke her intense emotions, the master’s calmness clearly surprised her. She stopped. She started to twist a lock of her hair around her fingers, and the stiff line of her upper lip, drawn tight over her small, sharp teeth, softened and trembled slightly. Then her eyes fell, and a blush emerged on her cheek, trying to show through the patches of red dirt and years of sun exposure. Suddenly, she threw herself forward, crying out to God to strike her dead, and collapsed weak and helpless, laying her face on the master’s desk, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break.
The master lifted her gently, and waited for the paroxysm to pass. When, with face still averted, she was repeating between her sobs the mea culpa of childish penitence—that “she’d be good, she didn’t mean to,” etc., it came to him to ask her why she had left Sabbath-school.
The master gently lifted her and waited for the outburst to subside. When, still looking away, she was repeating through her sobs the mea culpa of childish remorse—that “she’d be good, she didn’t mean to,” etc., he thought to ask her why she had left Sunday school.
Why had she left Sabbath-school? Why? Oh, yes. What did he (McSnagley) want to tell her she was wicked for? What did he tell her that God hated her for? If God hated her, what did she want to go to Sabbath school for? She didn’t want to be beholden to anybody who hated her.
Why had she left Sunday school? Why? Oh, right. What did he (McSnagley) want to say she was wrong for? What did he tell her that God hated her for? If God hated her, why would she even want to go to Sunday school? She didn’t want to owe anything to anyone who hated her.
Had she told McSnagley this?
Did she tell McSnagley this?
Yes, she had.
Yes, she did.
The master laughed. It was a hearty laugh, and echoed so oddly in the little schoolhouse, and seemed so inconsistent and discordant with the sighing of the pines without, that he shortly corrected himself with a sigh. The sigh was quite as sincere in its way, however, and after a moment of serious silence he asked about her father.
The teacher laughed. It was a loud, cheerful laugh that echoed strangely in the small schoolhouse and felt so out of place with the soft sighing of the pines outside that he quickly corrected himself with a sigh. The sigh was just as sincere in its own way, though, and after a moment of thoughtful silence, he asked about her father.
Her father. What father? Whose father? What had he ever done for her? Why did the girls hate her? Come, now! What made the folks say, “Old Bummer Smith’s M’liss” when she passed? Yes; oh, yes. She wished he was dead—she was dead—everybody was dead; and her sobs broke forth anew.
Her father. What father? Whose father? What had he ever done for her? Why did the other girls hate her? Seriously! Why did people say, “Old Bummer Smith’s M’liss” when she walked by? Yes, oh yes. She wished he was dead—she felt dead—everyone felt dead; and her cries started up again.
The master then, leaning over her, told her, as well as he could, what you or I might have said after hearing such unnatural theories from childish lips, only bearing in mind perhaps better than you or I the unnatural facts of her ragged dress, her bleeding feet, and the omnipresent shadow of her drunken father. Then raising her to her feet, he wrapped his shawl around her, and bidding her come early in the morning he walked with her down the road. Then he bade her “good-night.” The moon shone brightly on the narrow path before them. He stood and watched the bent little figure as it staggered down the road, and waited until it had passed the little graveyard and reached the curve of the hill, where it turned and stood for a moment, a mere atom of suffering outlined against the far-off patient stars. Then he went back to his work. But the lines of the copybook thereafter faded into long parallels of never-ending road, over which childish figures seemed to pass sobbing and crying to the night. Then, the little schoolhouse seeming lonelier than before, he shut the door and went home.
The master, leaning over her, tried to explain, as best as he could, what you or I might have said after hearing such bizarre ideas from a child, keeping in mind perhaps more clearly than we do the harsh reality of her torn dress, her bleeding feet, and the constant shadow of her intoxicated father. He then helped her to her feet, wrapped his shawl around her, and told her to come back early in the morning as he walked her down the road. After wishing her “good-night,” the moon illuminated the narrow path ahead. He stood and watched the small, bent figure stumble along the road, waiting until she passed the little graveyard and reached the curve of the hill, where she paused for a moment, a tiny silhouette of suffering outlined against the distant, calm stars. Then he returned to his work. But the lines on the page began to blur into endless stretches of road, where childlike figures seemed to wander, sobbing and crying into the night. With the little schoolhouse feeling lonelier than ever, he shut the door and went home.
The next morning M’liss came to school. Her face had been washed, and her coarse black hair bore evidence of recent struggles with the comb, in which both had evidently suffered. The old defiant look shone occasionally in her eyes, but her manner was tamer and more subdued. Then began a series of little trials and self-sacrifices in which master and pupil bore an equal part, and which increased the confidence and sympathy between them. Although obedient under the master’s eye, at times during recess, if thwarted or stung by a fancied slight, M’liss would rage in ungovernable fury, and many a palpitating young savage, finding himself matched with his own weapons of torment, would seek the master with torn jacket and scratched face, and complaints of the dreadful M’liss. There was a serious division among the townspeople on the subject; some threatening to withdraw their children from such evil companionship, and others as warmly upholding the course of the master in his work of reclamation. Meanwhile, with a steady persistence that seemed quite astonishing to him on looking back afterward, the Master drew M’liss gradually out of the shadow of her past life, as though it were but her natural progress down the narrow path on which he had set her feet the moonlight night of their first meeting. Remembering the experience of the evangelical McSnagley, he carefully avoided that Rock of Ages on which that unskillful pilot had shipwrecked her young faith. But if, in the course of her reading, she chanced to stumble upon those few words which have lifted such as she above the level of the older, the wiser, and the more prudent,—if she learned something of a faith that is symbolized by suffering, and the old light softened in her eyes, it did not take the shape of a lesson. A few of the plainer people had made up a little sum by which the ragged M’liss was enabled to assume the garments of respect and civilization, and often a rough shake of the hand and words of commendation from a red-shirted and burly figure, sent a glow to the cheek of the young master and set him to thinking if it was altogether deserved.
The next morning, M’liss showed up at school. Her face was clean, and her rough black hair was evidence of a recent battle with a comb, showing that both had clearly been through a struggle. The old defiant look occasionally sparkled in her eyes, but her demeanor was tamer and more subdued. This kicked off a series of small trials and sacrifices that both the teacher and student shared, increasing their confidence and connection with each other. Although she obeyed when the teacher was watching, during recess, if she felt slighted or insulted, M’liss would explode in uncontrollable rage. Many a young kid, feeling just as tormented, would end up approaching the teacher with a torn jacket and scratched face, complaining about the terrible M’liss. There was a significant divide among the townspeople over the issue; some threatened to pull their children from such bad company, while others passionately supported the teacher’s efforts to help her. In the meantime, with a persistent approach that surprised him when he reflected on it later, the teacher gradually helped M’liss step out of the shadows of her past life, as if it were just a natural progression along the narrow path he had set her on during their first meeting under the moonlight. Remembering the experience of the evangelical McSnagley, he skillfully avoided the pitfalls that had caused that inexperienced guide to wreck her young faith. But if, during her reading, she happened upon those few words that had lifted others like her beyond the wisdom of the older and more cautious—if she discovered something about a faith represented by suffering, and that old light softened in her eyes, it didn't morph into a lesson. A few of the simpler townsfolk pooled together some money so that the ragged M’liss could wear clothes of respect and civility, and often a hearty handshake and words of praise from a burly figure in a red shirt would bring a blush to the young teacher's cheeks and lead him to wonder if he truly deserved it.
Three months had passed, from the time of their first meeting, and the master was sitting late one evening over the moral and sententious copies, when there came a tap at the door, and again M’liss stood before him. She was neatly clad and clean-faced, and there was nothing perhaps but the long black hair and bright black eyes to remind him of his former apparition. “Are you busy?” she asked; “can you come with me?” and on his signifying his readiness, in her old willful way she said, “Come, then, quick!”
Three months had passed since their first meeting, and the master was sitting late one evening going over some moral and thought-provoking papers when there was a knock at the door. M’liss stood before him again. She was nicely dressed and looked clean, and the only things that reminded him of his earlier encounter were her long black hair and bright black eyes. “Are you busy?” she asked. “Can you come with me?” When he indicated he was ready, she said in her usual demanding way, “Come on, then, quick!”
They passed out of the door together and into the dark road. As they entered the town, the master asked her whither she was going. She replied, “to see her father.”
They walked out of the door together and into the dark street. As they entered the town, the master asked her where she was going. She replied, “to see her father.”
It was the first time he had heard her use that filial expression, or, indeed, allude to him in any other way than “Old Smith” or the “Old Man.” It was the first time in many weeks that she had spoken of him at all. He had been missed from the settlement for the past fortnight, and the master had credited the rumors of the townsfolk that Smith had “struck something rich” on the “North Fork,” about ten miles from the village. As they neared the settlement, the master gathered from M’liss that the rumor was untrue, and that she had seen her father that day. As she grew reticent to further questioning, and as the master was satisfied from her manner that she had some definite purpose beyond her usual willfulness, he passively resigned himself and followed her.
It was the first time he had heard her refer to him in such a familial way or, for that matter, mention him at all in anything other than “Old Smith” or the “Old Man.” It had been weeks since she had talked about him. He had been away from the settlement for the past two weeks, and the master had believed the locals' gossip that Smith had “struck something rich” at the “North Fork,” about ten miles from the village. As they got closer to the settlement, the master learned from M’liss that the rumor wasn’t true and that she had seen her father that day. When she became hesitant to answer more questions and the master sensed from her demeanor that she had a specific reason for her behavior beyond her usual stubbornness, he resigned himself to following her.
Through remote groggeries, restaurants, and saloons; in gambling-hells and dance-houses, the master, preceded by M’liss, passed and repassed. In the reeking smoke and blasphemous outcries of noisome dens, the child, holding the master’s hand, pursued her search with a strange familiarity, perfect self-possession, and implied protection of himself, that even in his anxiety seemed ludicrous. Some of the revelers, recognizing M’liss, called to her to sing and dance for them, and would have forced liquor upon her but for the master’s interference. Others mutely made way for them. So an hour slipped by, and as yet their search was fruitless. The master had yawned once or twice and whistled,—two fatal signs of failing interest,—and finally came to a full stop.
Through remote bars, restaurants, and pubs; in gambling dens and dance halls, the master, followed by M’liss, wandered back and forth. Amid the thick smoke and loud, profane shouts of these unpleasant places, the child, holding the master’s hand, searched with an odd familiarity, complete confidence, and a sense of protection for herself that seemed almost funny, even in his worry. Some of the party-goers, recognizing M’liss, called out for her to sing and dance for them, and would have forced drinks on her if it weren’t for the master stepping in. Others silently moved aside for them. An hour passed, and still their search yielded nothing. The master had yawned a couple of times and whistled—two clear signs of dwindling interest—and finally came to a complete stop.
“It’s half past eleven, Melissa,” said he, consulting his watch by a broad pencil of light from an open shutter,—“half past eleven; and it strikes me that our old friends, the woodpeckers, must have gone to bed some hours ago, unless they are waiting up for us. I’m much obliged to you for the evening’s entertainment, but I’m afraid that even the pretext of looking for a parent won’t excuse further dissipation. We’d better put this off till to-morrow. What do you say, Melissa? Why! what ails the child? What’s that noise? Why, a pistol!—You’re not afraid of that?”
“It’s 11:30, Melissa,” he said, checking his watch in the bright beam of light from an open window. “It’s 11:30; and it seems to me that our old friends, the woodpeckers, must have gone to sleep a few hours ago, unless they’re still waiting up for us. I really appreciate the evening’s entertainment, but I’m afraid that even the excuse of looking for a parent won’t justify staying out longer. We should probably save this for tomorrow. What do you think, Melissa? Wait! What’s wrong with the child? What’s that noise? Is that a gunshot? You’re not scared of that, are you?”
Few children brought up in the primeval seclusion of Smith’s Pocket were unfamiliar with those quick and sharp notes which usually rendered the evening zephyrs of that locality vocal; certainly not M’liss, to have started when that report rang on the clear night air. The echoes caught it as usual, and carried it round and round Red Mountain, and set the dogs to barking all along the streams. The lights seemed to dance and move quickly on the outskirts of the town for a few moments afterward, the stream suddenly rippled quite audibly behind them, a few stones loosened themselves from the hillside and splashed into the stream, a heavy wind seemed to suage the branches of the funereal pines, and then the silence fell again, heavier, deadlier than ever.
Few kids growing up in the isolated area of Smith’s Pocket were unfamiliar with those quick, sharp sounds that usually filled the evening air in that place; certainly not M’liss, who jumped when that shot rang out into the clear night. The echoes caught it as usual and looped around Red Mountain, setting the dogs barking along the streams. For a moment after, the lights seemed to flicker and dart on the outskirts of the town, the stream suddenly rippled audibly behind them, a few stones tumbled down from the hillside and splashed into the water, a heavy wind rustled the branches of the solemn pines, and then silence fell again, heavier and more oppressive than ever.
When the last echo had died away, the master felt his companion’s hand relax its grasp. Taking advantage of this outward expression of tractability, he drew her gently with him until they reached the hotel, which—in her newer aspect of a guest whose board was secured by responsible parties—had forgivingly opened its hospitable doors to the vagrant child. Here the master lingered a moment to assure her that she might count upon his assistance to-morrow; and having satisfied his conscience by this anticipated duty, bade her good-night. In the darkness of the road—going astray several times on his way home, and narrowly escaping the yawning ditches in the trail—he had reason to commend his foresight in dissuading M’liss from a further search that night, and in this pleasant reflection went to hed and slept soundly.
When the last echo faded away, the master felt his companion’s hand loosen its grip. Taking this as a sign of her compliance, he gently led her until they reached the hotel, which—now that she was a guest with her stay funded by responsible parties—had opened its welcoming doors to the wandering child. Here, the master paused for a moment to reassure her that she could rely on his help tomorrow; having eased his conscience with this promise, he wished her goodnight. As he walked home in the darkness, getting lost several times and narrowly avoiding the open ditches in the path, he was grateful for his decision to convince M’liss not to search any further that night, and with this comforting thought, he went to bed and slept soundly.
For some hours after a darkness thick and heavy brooded over the settlement. The sombre pines encompassing the village seemed to close threateningly about it as if to reclaim the wilderness that had been wrested from them. A low rustling as of dead leaves, and the damp breath of forest odors filled the lonely street. Emboldened by the darkness other shadows slipped by, leaving strange footprints in the moist ditches for people to point at next day, until the moon, round and full, was lifted above the crest of the opposite hill, and all was magically changed.
For several hours, a heavy darkness settled over the village. The gloomy pines surrounding the area seemed to loom closer, as if to take back the wild land that had been taken from them. A faint rustling of dead leaves and the damp scent of the forest filled the empty street. Encouraged by the darkness, more shadows moved through, leaving odd footprints in the wet ditches for people to notice the next day, until the full moon rose above the ridge of the opposite hill, and everything was transformed.
The shadows shrank away, leaving the straggling street sleeping in a beauty it never knew by day. All that was unlovely, harsh, and repulsive in its jagged outlines was subdued and softened by that uncertain light. It smoothed the rough furrows and unsightly chasms of the mountain with an ineffable love and tenderness. It fell upon the face of the sleeping M’liss, and left a tear glittering on her black lashes and a smile on her lip, which would have been rare to her at any other time; and fell also on the white upturned face of “Old Smith,” with a pistol in his hand and a bullet in his heart, lying dead beside his empty pocket.
The shadows faded, revealing the quiet street in a beauty it never experienced during the day. Everything unappealing, harsh, and ugly in its rough outlines was softened by that dim light. It smoothed the rough crevices and unsightly gaps of the mountain with an indescribable love and gentleness. It shone on the face of the sleeping M’liss, leaving a tear sparkling on her black lashes and a smile on her lips, which would have been unusual for her at any other time; and it also illuminated the pale, upturned face of “Old Smith,” who lay dead with a pistol in his hand and a bullet in his heart beside his empty pocket.
CHAPTER II
The opinion which McSnagley expressed in reference to a “change of heart,” as experienced by M’liss, was more forcibly described in the gulches and tunnels. It was thought there that M’liss had struck a “good lead.” And when there was a new grave added to the little inclosure, and—at the expense of the master—a little board and inscription put above it, the “Red Mountain Banner” came out quite handsomely and did the correct thing for the memory of one of “our oldest pioneers,” alluding gracefully to that “bane of noble intellects,” touching slightly on the “vicissitudes of fortune,” and otherwise assisting our dear brother into genteel obscurity. “He leaves an only child to mourn his loss,” said the “Banner,” “who is now an exemplary scholar, thanks to the efforts of the Rev. J. McSnagley.” That reverend gentleman, in fact, made a strong point of M’liss’s conversion, and, indirectly attributing to her former bad conduct the suicide of her father, made affecting allusions in Sunday-school to the beneficial effects of the “silent tomb,” and in that cheerful contemplation froze most of the children into speechless horror, and caused the fair-complexioned scions of the first families to howl dismally and refuse to be comforted.
The opinion that McSnagley shared about M’liss having a “change of heart” was described more vividly in the gulches and tunnels. People there believed that M’liss had found a “good lead.” When a new grave was added to the small enclosure, and — at the master's expense — a little board and inscription were placed above it, the “Red Mountain Banner” published a very respectable tribute to the memory of one of “our oldest pioneers,” elegantly referencing that “bane of noble intellects,” briefly touching on the “ups and downs of fortune,” and otherwise helping our dear brother fade into genteel obscurity. “He leaves an only child to mourn his loss,” the “Banner” stated, “who is now an exemplary student, thanks to the efforts of Rev. J. McSnagley.” That reverend gentleman made a strong point of M’liss’s transformation and, indirectly blaming her father's suicide on her past behavior, made emotional references in Sunday school to the positive effects of the “silent tomb,” which left most of the children frozen in speechless horror, and caused the fair-skinned kids from prominent families to wail uncontrollably and refuse to be comforted.
Of the homes that were offered to M’liss when her conversion became known, the master had preferred that of Mrs. Morpher, a womanly and kind-hearted specimen of Southwestern efflorescence, known in her maidenhood as the “Per-ra-rie Rose.” By a steady system of struggle and self-sacrifice, she had at last subjugated her naturally careless disposition to principles of “order,” which as a pious woman she considered, with Pope, as “Heaven’s first law.” But she could not entirely govern the orbits of her satellites, however regular her own movements, and her old nature asserted itself in her children. Lycurgus dipped in the cupboard “between meals,” and Aristides came home from school without shoes, leaving those important articles at the threshold, for the delights of a barefooted walk down the ditches. Octavia and Cassandra were “keerless” of their clothes. So that with but one exception, however the “Prairie Rose” might have trimmed, pruned, and trained her own natural luxuriance, the little shoots came up defiantly wild and straggling. That one exception was Clytemnestra Morpher, aged fifteen. She was the realization of her mother’s most extravagant dream. I stay my hand with difficulty at this moment, for I long to describe this model of deportment; but the progress of my story just at present supplants Clytemnestra in the larger prominence it gives to another member of the family,—the just Aristides.
Of the homes offered to M'liss once her transformation became known, the master preferred that of Mrs. Morpher, a warm-hearted and nurturing example of Southwestern charm, once known as the “Prairie Rose.” Through consistent effort and selflessness, she had managed to shape her naturally carefree nature to follow the principles of “order,” which she believed, like Pope, to be “Heaven’s first law.” However, she couldn't entirely control the behavior of her children, and her old nature showed through in them. Lycurgus sneaked snacks from the cupboard “between meals,” and Aristides came home from school without shoes, leaving them at the door for the joy of walking barefoot in the ditches. Octavia and Cassandra were “careless” with their clothes. So, with one exception, despite how much the “Prairie Rose” worked to refine and shape her own natural abundance, the little ones grew up wild and untamed. That one exception was Clytemnestra Morpher, aged fifteen. She was everything her mother had dreamed of. I find it hard to hold back from describing this model of behavior, but the direction of my story right now shifts focus to another member of the family—the just Aristides.
The long dry summer had come. As each fierce day seemed to burn itself out in little whiffs of pearl gray smoke on the mountain summits, and as the upspringing breeze scattered what might have been its red embers over the landscape, the green wave which, in early spring, had upheaved above Smith’s grave grew sere and dry and hard. In those days, the master, strolling in the little churchyard of a Sabbath afternoon, was sometimes surprised to find a few wild flowers, plucked from the damp pine forest, scattered there, and oftener rude wreaths hung upon the little pine cross. Most of these wreaths were formed of a sweet-scented grass which the children loved to keep in their desks, entwined with the pompon-like plumes of the buckeye and syringa, the wood anemone, and here and there the master noticed the dark blue cowl of the monk’s-hood or deadly aconite. One day, during a walk, in crossing a wooded ridge, he came upon M’liss in the heart of the forest, perched upon a prostrate pine, on a fantastic throne, formed by the hanging plumes of lifeless branches, her lap full of grasses and pine burrs, and crooning to the just Aristides, who sat humbly at her feet, one of the negro melodies of her younger life. It was perhaps the influence of the season, or the memory of this sylvan enjoyment, which caused Aristides, one midsummer day, to have a singular vision.
The long dry summer had arrived. As each blazing day seemed to burn away in little puffs of gray smoke on the mountain tops, and as the rising breeze scattered what might have been its red embers across the landscape, the green wave that had emerged above Smith’s grave in early spring became withered and hard. During those times, the master, walking in the small churchyard on a Sunday afternoon, was sometimes surprised to find a few wildflowers, picked from the damp pine forest, scattered there, and more often, crude wreaths hanging on the little pine cross. Most of these wreaths were made of a sweet-smelling grass that the children loved to keep in their desks, woven with the pom-pom-like plumes of the buckeye and syringa, the wood anemone, and now and then the master noticed the dark blue hood of the monk’s-hood or poisonous aconite. One day, while walking across a wooded ridge, he came across M’liss in the heart of the forest, sitting on a fallen pine, on a whimsical throne formed by the drooping plumes of lifeless branches, her lap full of grasses and pine cones, singing to the humble Aristides, who sat at her feet, one of the soulful melodies from her younger years. It was perhaps the effect of the season, or the memory of this forest enjoyment, that caused Aristides, one midsummer day, to have a strange vision.
The just Aristides had begun that morning with a serious error. Loitering on his way to school, occasionally stopping to inspect the footprints of probable bears, or indulging in cheerful badinage with the tunnel men,—to whom the apparition of a short-legged boy weighed down by a preternaturally large satchel was an object of boisterous solicitude,—Aristides suddenly found that he was an hour and a half too late for school. Whether this circumstance was purely accidental or not is a question of some uncertainty, for Aristides, on finding himself occupying this criminal position, at once resolved to play truant. I shall not stop to inquire by what system of logic this result presented itself to that just youth as a consistent deduction, or whether some indistinct apprehension of another and a better world beyond the settlement, where there were no schools and blackberries were plenty, had not influenced him in taking this fatal step. Enough that he entered on his rash career by instantly eating the dinner which he carried with him, and having propitiated that terrible god whose seat is every small boy’s stomach, with a feeling of inexpressible guiltiness creeping over him, he turned his back upon the schoolhouse and ran into the woods.
That morning, the good Aristides made a serious mistake. He lingered on his way to school, occasionally stopping to check out the footprints of what might be bears or joking around with the tunnel workers—who found the sight of a short-legged boy weighed down by an unusually large backpack quite amusing. Suddenly, Aristides realized he was an hour and a half late for school. It’s uncertain whether this was purely accidental, but upon realizing his predicament, he decided to skip school. I won’t delve into how this conclusion made sense to such a principled youth or whether some vague idea of a better world beyond town—where there were no schools and blackberries grew abundantly—led him to make this poor choice. What matters is that he jumped into his reckless adventure by immediately eating the lunch he had brought with him, and after appeasing the terrible god that resides in every young boy’s stomach, a wave of guilt washed over him as he turned away from the schoolhouse and ran into the woods.
Away from the glare of the red road, how deliciously cool was the damp breath and twilight dimness of the stately pines. How they seemed to welcome him in their deepest recesses, ranging themselves silently around him as he ran, shutting out the world and its schoolhouses, and the pursuit of indignant parents and vindictive teachers. How in the forest depths the blue jay called to him mockingly, and the kingbird, spreading his tail like a crimson pennant, beckoned him onward. How there was recognition and greeting even in the squirrel that scampered past him, mischievously whisking his ridiculous tail within an inch of his outstretched fingers. And how Aristides, at last flinging away hat, shoes, and satchel, uttered a shrill whoop and dashed forward like a youthful savage. But are not these things written in the dog’s-eared pages of every boy’s memory, even though they seemed afterward to the just Aristides a part and parcel of his own strange vision?
Away from the glare of the red road, how wonderfully cool was the damp air and twilight shade of the tall pines. They seemed to welcome him into their depths, silently surrounding him as he ran, blocking out the world, the schoolhouses, and the angry parents and spiteful teachers chasing after him. In the deep forest, the blue jay called to him mockingly, and the kingbird, spreading its tail like a crimson flag, urged him on. Even the squirrel that scurried past him seemed to recognize him, playfully flicking its silly tail just inches from his outstretched fingers. And how Aristides, finally tossing aside his hat, shoes, and satchel, let out a joyful whoop and dashed forward like a wild child. But aren’t these moments captured in the weathered pages of every boy’s memory, even if they later seemed to Aristides like a part of his own strange vision?
Yet even such delights had their hour of culmination, and Aristides found himself at high noon back on the road again in a state of feverish excitement, carrying a ravished jay’s nest, two pine cones, a dead hare, and a plume of the white syringa. Somewhat overpowered by the weight of these trophies, which he had collected in the vague belief that they would be of future service to him, he began to look about for some convenient place to bestow his booty. It was nearly time for the great Wingdam stage to go by, and when it came at last with a sharp rattle of wheels and prancing of horses, and a red pillar of dust hanging over it that partook of both the fiery and cloudy attributes of the Israelitish sign, Aristides exchanged epithets with the driver, and, although standing knee-deep in red dust, felt a thrill of joy in the recognition which no future honor or dignity might ever give him.
Yet even such pleasures had their peak, and Aristides found himself back on the road again at noon, buzzing with excitement, carrying a ruined jay’s nest, two pine cones, a dead hare, and a plume of white syringa. Overwhelmed by the weight of these trophies, which he had gathered with the vague idea they might be useful later, he began looking for a suitable place to stash his haul. It was almost time for the big Wingdam stagecoach to pass by, and when it finally arrived with a loud rattle of wheels and the prancing of horses, kicking up a red cloud of dust that seemed to capture both fiery and cloudy qualities, Aristides exchanged words with the driver. Although he was standing knee-deep in red dust, he felt a thrill of joy at the recognition that no future honor or status could ever provide.
Retracing his steps, the truant presently came to a semicircular opening in the side of Red Mountain, which inclosed, like the walls of some vast amphitheatre, what had been the arena of the early struggles of the gladiators of fortune. There were terrible traces of that struggle still—in the rock blasted by fire—in the bank furrowed by water—and in the debris of Red Mountain scattered along the gulch two miles in extent. Their forgotten engines were lying half buried in the ditches—the primeval structure which had served them for a banking-house was roofless, and held the hoards of field-mice and squirrels. The unshapely stumps of ancient pines dotted the ground, and Aristides remembered that under the solitary redwood, which of all its brothers remained still standing, one of those early pioneers lay buried. No wonder that, as the gentle breeze of that summer day swept through its branches, the just Aristides might have heard, as part of his wonderful dream, some echo of its far off brothers of Lebanon, saying, “Since thou art fallen, no feller has risen up against us!”
Retracing his steps, the truant soon came to a semicircular opening in the side of Red Mountain, which enclosed, like the walls of a huge amphitheater, what had once been the arena of the early struggles of fortune's gladiators. There were still terrible signs of that struggle—in the rock blasted by fire—in the bank worn by water—and in the debris of Red Mountain scattered along the gulch for two miles. Their forgotten tools were half buried in the ditches—the original structure that had served them as a bank was roofless and now sheltered field mice and squirrels. The gnarled stumps of ancient pines dotted the ground, and Aristides remembered that under the solitary redwood, which was the last of its kind standing, one of those early pioneers lay buried. No wonder that as the gentle summer breeze swept through its branches, the just Aristides might have heard, as part of his incredible dream, some echo of its distant brothers from Lebanon, saying, “Since you have fallen, no one has risen up against us!”
But the short legs of Aristides were aching, and he was getting thirsty. There was a rough cavern close at hand; and as most of these openings condensed their general dampness somewhere in quiet pools, Aristides turned into the first one. When he had slaked his thirst, he looked around him and recognized Smith’s Pocket.
But Aristides' short legs were aching, and he was getting thirsty. There was a rough cave nearby, and since most of these openings collected their general dampness in quiet pools, Aristides stepped inside the first one. After quenching his thirst, he looked around and realized he was at Smith’s Pocket.
It had undergone little change in the last two years. The winter rains had detached those portions of the wall which were not upheld by decaying timbers. It was certainly a dirty pocket—a pocket filled with rubbish—a shabby pocket—a worn-out and ragged pocket. It was so unpromising in its present exterior, so graphic in its story of misfortune, and so terrible in its recent memories, that the most sanguine prospector would have passed it by, as though the hopeless sentence of Dante had been written over its ragged portal.
It hadn't changed much in the last two years. The winter rains had loosened parts of the wall that weren't supported by rotting wood. It was definitely a filthy spot—packed with trash—a shabby spot—a worn-out and tattered place. Its current appearance was so bleak, its tale of hardship so vivid, and its recent memories so grim that even the most optimistic prospector would have ignored it, as if a hopeless line from Dante had been written over its torn entrance.
The active mind of Aristides, however, saw in the lurking shadows of its arches much promise as a future play-room, to which he intended to induct hereafter his classical brother Lycurgus. In this reflection he threw himself on the ground, and luxuriously burying his bare feet in the cool, loose soil, gave himself up to serene meditation. But the heat and exertion were beginning to exert a certain influence over him, and once or twice his eyes closed. The water rippled beside him with a sleepy sound. The sunlight on the hill without made him wink. The long-drawn cawing of a crow on the opposite hillside, and the buzzing of a bluebottle fly who had sought retreat in the cavern, had a like effect, and he felt himself falling asleep. How long he slept, or if he slept at all, he could not remember, for he started suddenly, and, listening a moment, sprang to his feet. The low, heavy blows of a pick came deadened and muffled from the extremity of the cavern.
The active mind of Aristides, however, envisioned in the hidden shadows of its arches a promising future playground, which he planned to introduce to his classical brother Lycurgus later on. While reflecting on this, he lay down on the ground and luxuriously sank his bare feet into the cool, loose soil, giving himself over to peaceful meditation. But the heat and effort were starting to take their toll on him, and a couple of times he found his eyes closing. The water next to him rippled with a drowsy sound. The sunlight outside on the hill made him squint. The long cawing of a crow on the opposite hillside and the buzzing of a bluebottle fly that had sought refuge in the cavern had a similar effect, and he felt himself drifting off to sleep. He couldn’t tell how long he had slept, or if he had slept at all, as he suddenly jolted awake and, listening for a moment, sprang to his feet. The low, heavy strikes of a pickaxe came to him, muted and muffled, from the far end of the cavern.
At first a terrible fear took possession of him; for an instant the white, rigid face of Smith, as he had seen it on the day of the inquest, when an irresistible curiosity led him to creep into the room where the dead man was lying—for an instant only, this fearful remembrance seemed to rise before him out of the gloom of the pit. The terror passed away.
At first, he was overwhelmed by a terrible fear; for a moment, the pale, stiff face of Smith, as he had seen it on the day of the inquest when an undeniable curiosity made him sneak into the room where the dead man was lying—just for an instant, that horrifying memory seemed to emerge from the darkness of the pit. The fear eventually subsided.
Ghosts were historically unknown to Aristides, and even had his imaginative faculty been more prominent, the education of Smith’s Pocket was not of a kind to foster such weaknesses. Except a twinge of conscience, a momentary recollection of the evil that comes to bad boys through the severe pages of Sunday-school books—with this exception, Aristides was not long in recovering his self-possession. He did not run away, for his curiosity was excited. The same instinct which prompted an examination of bear-tracks gave a fascination to the situation, and a nervous energy to his frame.
Ghosts were completely unfamiliar to Aristides, and even if his imagination had been more active, Smith’s Pocket wasn’t the kind of place to encourage such weaknesses. Aside from a flicker of guilt and a brief memory of the misfortunes that befall naughty kids as warned in Sunday school books—other than that, Aristides quickly got his composure back. He didn’t flee, as his curiosity had been piqued. The same instinct that made him want to check out bear tracks made the situation intriguing and filled him with nervous energy.
The regular blows of the pick still resounded through the cavern. He crept cautiously to the deepest recesses of the pocket, and held his breath and listened. The sound seemed to come from the bowels of the mountain. There was no sign of opening or ingress; an impenetrable veil of quartz was between him and the mysterious laborer. He was creeping back, between the displaced rafters, when a light glanced suddenly in his face, and flashed on the wet roof above him. Looking fearfully down, Aristides beheld between the interstices of the rafters, which formed a temporary flooring, that there was another opening below, and in that opening a man was working. In the queer fantasy of Aristides’s dream, it took the aspect of a second pocket and a duplicate Smith!
The steady sound of the pick still echoed through the cave. He cautiously crept into the deepest parts of the pocket, held his breath, and listened. The noise seemed to come from deep within the mountain. There was no sign of an opening or entrance; an impenetrable layer of quartz separated him from the mysterious worker. As he was making his way back through the displaced beams, a light suddenly flashed in his face and reflected off the wet roof above him. Looking down in fear, Aristides saw through the gaps in the beams, which formed a temporary floor, that there was another opening below, and in that opening, a man was working. In the strange fantasy of Aristides's dream, it appeared like a second pocket and a duplicate of Smith!
He had no time to utter his astonishment, for at that moment an ominous rattling of loose soil upon his back made him look up, and he had barely time to spring away before a greater portion of the roof of Smith’s Pocket, loosened by the displacement of its supports in his search, fell heavily to the ground. But in the fall a long-handled shovel which had been hidden somewhere in the crevices of the rock above came rattling down with it, and, seizing this as a trophy, Aristides emerged from Smith’s Pocket, at a rate of speed which seemed singularly disproportionate with his short legs and round stomach.
He couldn't express his shock because, at that moment, he heard a dangerous rattling of loose soil on his back that made him look up. He barely had time to jump away before a larger chunk of the roof of Smith’s Pocket, weakened by the shifting of its supports during his search, crashed to the ground. Along with it, a long-handled shovel that had been hiding in the rock above came tumbling down. Grabbing it as a trophy, Aristides burst out of Smith’s Pocket at a speed that seemed oddly out of sync with his short legs and round belly.
When he reached the road the sun was setting. Inspecting his prize by that poetic light, he found that the shovel was a new one, and bore neither mark of use nor exposure. Shouldering it again, with the intention of presenting it as a peace-offering to propitiate the just wrath of his parents, Aristides had gone but a few rods when an unexpected circumstance occurred which dashed his fond hope, and to the conscientious child seemed the shadow of an inevitable Nemesis. At the curve of the road, as the settlement of Smith’s Pocket came into view, with its straggling street, and its church spire that seemed a tongue of flame in the setting sun, a broad-shouldered figure sprang, apparently, from out of the bank, and stood in the path of that infelix infant.
When he got to the road, the sun was setting. In the warm light, he examined his find and saw it was a brand new shovel, showing no signs of use or weathering. He slung it over his shoulder, planning to bring it home as a peace offering to calm his parents' justified anger. But he had only walked a short distance when something unexpected happened that crushed his hopes and felt like a looming punishment to the conscientious child. At the bend in the road, as he spotted the settlement of Smith’s Pocket with its uneven street and its church spire glowing like a flame in the sunset, a broad-shouldered figure suddenly appeared from the bank and blocked the path of that unfortunate child.
“Where are you going with that shovel, you young devil?”
“Where are you headed with that shovel, you little rascal?”
Aristides looked up and saw that his interlocutor was a man of powerful figure, whose face, though partially concealed by a red handkerchief, even in that uncertain light was not prepossessing. Children are quick physiognomists, and Aristides, feeling the presence of evil, from the depths of his mighty little soul then and there took issue with the giant.
Aristides looked up and saw that his conversation partner was a tall, imposing man whose face, though partly hidden by a red handkerchief, was not attractive even in the dim light. Children are good at reading faces, and Aristides, sensing something wrong, instinctively confronted the giant with all the courage his small frame could muster.
“Where are you going with that shovel; d—n you, do you hear?” said he of the red handkerchief impatiently.
“Where are you going with that shovel? Damn you, do you hear me?” said the guy with the red handkerchief, impatiently.
“Home,” said Aristides stoutly.
“Home,” said Aristides confidently.
“Home, eh!” said the stranger sneeringly. “And where did you steal it, you young thief?”
“Home, huh!” the stranger said with a sneer. “And where did you steal it from, you young thief?”
The Morpher stock not being of a kind to receive opprobrious epithets meekly, Aristides slowly, and with an evident effort, lifted the shovel in a menacing attitude.
The Morpher stock, not the type to just take insults lying down, Aristides slowly and with visible effort raised the shovel in a threatening way.
A single step was all that separated six feet of Strength from three feet of Valor. The stranger eyed Aristides with an expression of surly amazement, and hesitated. The elephant quailed before the gad-fly. As that precocious infant waved the threatening shovel, his youthful lips slowly fashioned this tremendous sentence:—
A single step was all that stood between six feet of Strength and three feet of Valor. The stranger looked at Aristides with a mix of annoyance and disbelief, pausing for a moment. The elephant recoiled from the gadfly. As that precocious child swung the threatening shovel, his young lips gradually formed this powerful sentence:—
“You let me pass and I won’t hit you!”
You let me go and I won’t hurt you!
And here I must pause. I would that for the sake of poetry I could leave my hero, bathed in that heroic light, erect and menacing. But alas, in this practical world of ours, the battle is too often to the strong. And I hasten over the humiliating spectacle of Aristides, spanked, cuffed, and kicked, and pick him from the ditch into which he was at last ignominiously tossed, a defeated but still struggling warrior, and so bring him, as the night closes charitably around him, in contrite tears and muddy garments to his father’s door.
And here I have to stop. I wish that for the sake of poetry I could leave my hero, glowing in that heroic light, standing tall and intimidating. But sadly, in this practical world of ours, the battle often goes to the strong. So, I quickly move past the embarrassing scene of Aristides, spanked, slapped, and kicked, and grab him from the ditch where he was shamefully tossed, a defeated yet still fighting warrior, and bring him, as night gently surrounds him, in remorseful tears and dirty clothes to his father’s door.
When the master stopped at Mrs. Morpher’s to inquire after his errant pupil that night, he found Aristides in bed, smelling strongly of soap and water, and sinking into a feverish sleep. As he muttered from time to time some incoherent sentence, tossing restlessly in his cot, the master turned to those about him and asked what it was he said.
When the teacher stopped by Mrs. Morpher’s that night to check on his missing student, he found Aristides in bed, smelling strongly of soap and water, and slipping into a restless sleep. As he occasionally mumbled some jumbled phrases, tossing around in his bed, the teacher turned to the others around him and asked what he was saying.
It was nothing. Aristides had been dreaming, and that was his dream.
It was nothing. Aristides had been dreaming, and that was his dream.
That was all. Yet a dream that foreshadowed a slow-coming but unerring justice, that should give the little dreamer in after years some credit to the title of Aristides the Just.
That was it. But a dream that hinted at a slowly approaching yet inevitable justice, which would eventually earn the little dreamer the title of Aristides the Just in later years.
CHAPTER III
It was an amiable weakness of Mrs. Morpher to imagine that, of all her classical progeny, Clytemnestra was particularly the model for M’liss. Following this fallacy she threw “Clytie” at the head of M’liss when she was “bad,” and set her up before the child for adoration in her penitential moments. It was not therefore surprising to the master to hear that Clytie was coming to school, obviously as a favor to the master and as an example for M’liss and others. For Clytie was quite a young lady. Inheriting her mother’s physical peculiarities, and in obedience to the climatic laws of the Red Mountain region, she was an early bloomer. The youth of Smith’s Pocket, to whom this kind of flower was rare, sighed for her in April and languished in May. Enamored swains haunted the schoolhouse at the hour of dismissal. A few were jealous of the master.
It was a charming quirk of Mrs. Morpher to think that out of all her classical inspirations, Clytemnestra was especially the role model for M’liss. Believing this, she would throw “Clytie” at M’liss when she was being “bad,” and would hold her up as a role model during M’liss’s moments of regret. So, it wasn’t surprising to the teacher to hear that Clytie was coming to school, obviously as a favor to him and to serve as an example for M’liss and the others. Clytie was quite a young lady. Inheriting her mother’s unique physical traits and influenced by the climate of the Red Mountain area, she blossomed early. The boys of Smith’s Pocket, where such a girl was rare, sighed over her in April and yearned for her in May. Lovestruck boys lingered around the schoolhouse when the school day ended. A few of them were even jealous of the teacher.
Perhaps it was this latter circumstance that opened the master’s eyes to another. He could not help noticing that Clytie was romantic; that in school she required a great deal of attention; that her pens were uniformly bad and wanted fixing; that she usually accompanied the request with a certain expectation in her eye that was somewhat disproportionate to the quality of service she verbally required; that she sometimes allowed the curves of a round plump white arm to rest on his when he was writing her copies; that she always blushed and flung back her blond curls when she did so. I don’t remember whether I have stated that the master was a young man—it’s of little consequence, however. He had been severely educated in the school in which Clytie was taking her first lesson, and on the whole withstood the flexible curves and facetious glance like the fine young Spartan that he was. Perhaps an insufficient quality of food may have tended to this asceticism. He generally avoided Clytie; but one evening when she returned to the schoolhouse after something she had forgotten,—and did not find it until the master walked home with her,—I hear that he endeavored to make himself particularly agreeable, partly from the fact, I imagine, that his conduct was adding gall and bitterness to the already overcharged hearts of Clytemnestra’s admirers.
Maybe it was this latter situation that opened the teacher’s eyes to another. He couldn’t help but notice that Clytie was romantic; that in school she needed a lot of attention; that her pens were always bad and needed fixing; that she usually accompanied this request with a certain look in her eye that was somewhat out of proportion to the service she was asking for; that she sometimes let the curves of her round, plump white arm rest on his when he was writing out her assignments; that she always blushed and tossed her blond curls back when she did that. I don’t remember if I mentioned that the teacher was a young man—it doesn’t really matter, though. He had been educated in the strict school where Clytie was having her first lessons, and overall he withstood her flexible curves and playful glances like the fine young Spartan that he was. Perhaps a lack of good food contributed to this discipline. He generally tried to stay away from Clytie; but one evening, when she came back to the schoolhouse to get something she had forgotten—and only found it after the teacher walked home with her—I hear that he made an effort to be especially pleasant, partly because I think his behavior was adding to the frustration of Clytie’s admirers.
The morning after this affecting episode, M’liss did not come to school. Noon came, but not M’liss. Questioning Clytie on the subject, it appeared that they had left for school together, but the willful M’liss had taken another road. The afternoon brought her not. In the evening he called on Mrs. Morpher, whose motherly heart was really alarmed. Mr. Morpher had spent all day in search of her, without discovering a trace that might lead to her discovery. Aristides was summoned as a probable accomplice, but that equitable infant succeeding in impressing the household with his innocence, Mrs. Morpher entertained a vivid impression that the child would yet be found drowned in a ditch, or—what was almost as terrible—mud-dyed and soiled beyond the redemption of soap and water. Sick at heart, the master returned to the schoolhouse. As he lit his lamp and seated himself at his desk, he found a note lying before him, addressed to himself in M’liss’s handwriting. It seemed to be written on a leaf torn from some old memorandum-book, and, to prevent sacrilegious trifling, had been sealed with six broken wafers. Opening it almost tenderly, the master read as follows:—
The morning after this emotional incident, M’liss didn’t come to school. Noon arrived, but still no M’liss. When he asked Clytie about it, she told him they had left for school together, but the headstrong M’liss had taken a different route. The afternoon passed without her showing up. In the evening, he visited Mrs. Morpher, whose motherly instincts were genuinely worried. Mr. Morpher had spent the whole day searching for her but hadn’t found any clues that could lead to her. They called Aristides as a possible accomplice, but the fair-minded child managed to convince everyone of his innocence. Mrs. Morpher had a strong feeling that the girl would be found either drowned in a ditch or—what was nearly as bad—muddy and filthy beyond any hope of being cleaned. Heartbroken, the teacher returned to the schoolhouse. As he lit his lamp and sat down at his desk, he discovered a note lying in front of him, addressed to him in M’liss’s handwriting. It looked like it was written on a page ripped from an old notebook and was sealed with six broken wax seals, as if to keep it safe from any careless handling. Opening it almost gently, the teacher read the following:—
RESPECTED SIR: When you read this, I am run away. Never to come back. Never Never NEVER. You can give my beeds to Mary Jennings, and my Amerika’s Pride [a, highly colored lithograph from a tobacco box] to Sally Flanders. But don’t you give anything to Clytie Morpher. Don’t you dair to. Do you know what my opinion is of her, it is this, she is perfekly disgustin. That is all and no more at present from MELISSA SMITH.
RESPECTED SIR: When you read this, I've run away. Never coming back. Never Never NEVER. You can give my beads to Mary Jennings and my Amerika’s Pride [a brightly colored lithograph from a tobacco box] to Sally Flanders. But don’t you give anything to Clytie Morpher. Don’t you dare. Do you know what I think of her? I think she’s perfectly disgusting. That’s all for now from MELISSA SMITH.
The master mused for some time over this characteristic epistle. As he was mechanically refolding it his eye caught a sentence written on the back in pencil, in another handwriting, somewhat blurred and indistinct from the heavy incisive strokes of M’liss’s pen on the other side. It seemed to be a memorandum belonging to the book from which the leaf was originally torn:—
The master thought for a while about this typical letter. As he was automatically refolding it, he noticed a sentence written on the back in pencil, in a different handwriting that was a bit blurred and unclear compared to the bold, sharp strokes of M’liss’s pen on the other side. It looked like a note that belonged to the book from which the page was originally torn:—
July 17th. 5 hours in drift—dipping west—took out 20 oz.; cleaned up 40 oz. Mem.—saw M. S.
July 17th. 5 hours drifting—heading west—retrieved 20 oz.; finished with 40 oz. Note—saw M. S.
“July 17th,” said the master, opening his desk and taking out a file of the “Red Mountain Banner.” “July 17th,” he repeated, running over the pages till he came to a paragraph headed “DISTRESSING SUICIDE.” “July 17th—why, that’s the day Smith killed himself. That’s funny!”
“July 17th,” said the boss, opening his desk and pulling out a file of the “Red Mountain Banner.” “July 17th,” he repeated, flipping through the pages until he found a section titled “DISTRESSING SUICIDE.” “July 17th—hey, that’s the day Smith took his own life. How strange!”
In a strict etymological sense there was nothing so very ludicrous in this coincidence, nor did the master’s face betray any expression of the kind. Perhaps the epithet was chosen to conceal the vague uneasiness which it produced in his mind. We are all of us more affected by these coincidences than we care to confess to one another. If the most matter-of-fact reader of these pages were to find a hearse standing in front of his door for three consecutive mornings, although the circumstance might be satisfactorily explained,—shall I go further and say, because the circumstance might be satisfactorily explained,—he would vaguely wish it hadn’t happened. Philosophize as we may, the simple fact of two remote lines crossing each other always seems to us of tremendous significance, and quite overshadows the more important truth that the real parallels of life’s journey are the lines that never meet. It will do us good to remember these things, and look more kindly on our brothers of Borrioboola-Gha and their fetich superstitions, when we drop our silver in the missionary box next Sabbath.
In a strict etymological sense, there was nothing particularly ridiculous about this coincidence, nor did the master’s face show any sign of that. Maybe the term was picked to hide the vague discomfort it caused him. We are all affected by these coincidences more than we admit to each other. If even the most practical reader of these pages were to see a hearse parked in front of their door for three straight mornings, even if the situation could be easily explained—shall I go further and say, because it could be easily explained—they would still wish it hadn’t happened. No matter how we try to rationalize it, the simple fact of two distant lines crossing each other always seems to hold great significance for us, overshadowing the more crucial truth that the real parallels in life’s journey are the lines that never intersect. It’s good to remember these things and be more understanding of our brothers from Borrioboola-Gha and their superstitions when we drop our coins in the missionary box next Sunday.
“I wonder where that memorandum came from,” said the master, as he rose at last and buttoned up his coat. “Who is ‘M. S.’? M. S. stands for manuscript and Melissa Smith. Why don’t”—But checking an impulsive query as to why people don’t make their private memoranda generally intelligible, the master put the letter in his pocket and went home.
“I wonder where that memo came from,” said the boss as he finally got up and buttoned his coat. “Who is ‘M. S.’? M. S. stands for manuscript and Melissa Smith. Why don’t”—But stopping himself from asking why people don’t make their private notes clearer, the boss put the letter in his pocket and headed home.
At sunrise the next morning he was picking his way through the palm-like fern and thick underbrush of the pine forest, starting the hare from its form, and awakening a querulous protest from a few dissipated crows, who had evidently been making a night of it, and so came to the wooded ridge where he had once found M’liss. There he found the prostrate pine and tessellated branches, but the throne was vacant. As he drew nearer, what might have been some frightened animal started through the crackling limbs. It ran up the tossed arms of the fallen monarch, and sheltered itself in some friendly foliage. The master, reaching the old seat, found the nest still warm; looking up in the intertwining branches, he met the black eyes of the errant M’liss. They gazed at each other without speaking. She was first to break the silence.
At sunrise the next morning, he was carefully making his way through the palm-like ferns and thick underbrush of the pine forest, disturbing a hare from its hiding spot and stirring up a few grumpy crows who had clearly been out all night. He arrived at the wooded ridge where he had once found M’liss. There, he noticed the fallen pine and the patterned branches, but the throne was empty. As he got closer, what might have been a scared animal dashed through the crackling limbs. It scrambled up the broken branches of the fallen tree and hid itself in some friendly leaves. When he reached the old seat, he found the nest still warm; looking up into the tangled branches, he met the black eyes of the elusive M’liss. They stared at each other without saying a word. She was the first to break the silence.
“What do you want?” she asked curtly.
“What do you want?” she asked sharply.
The master had decided on a course of action. “I want some crab apples,” he said humbly.
The master had made up his mind. “I want some crab apples,” he said politely.
“Shan’t have ’em! go away! Why don’t you get ’em of Clytemnerestera?” It seemed to be a relief to M’liss to express her contempt in additional syllables to that classical young woman’s already long-drawn title. “Oh, you wicked thing!”
“Won’t have them! Go away! Why don’t you get them from Clytemnestra?” It seemed to be a relief for M’liss to express her disdain in extra syllables to that classical young woman’s already lengthy name. “Oh, you naughty thing!”
“I am hungry, Lissy. I have eaten nothing since dinner yesterday. I am famished!” and the young man, in a state of remarkable exhaustion, leaned against the tree.
“I’m really hungry, Lissy. I haven’t eaten anything since dinner last night. I’m starving!” the young man said, clearly exhausted, as he leaned against the tree.
Melissa’s heart was touched. In the bitter days of her gypsy life she had known the sensation he so artfully simulated. Overcome by his heartbroken tone, but not entirely divested of suspicion, she said:—
Melissa's heart was moved. During the tough times of her wandering life, she had felt the emotion he so skillfully pretended to have. Overwhelmed by his sorrowful tone, but still a bit skeptical, she said:—
“Dig under the tree near the roots, and you’ll find lots: but mind you don’t tell,” for M’liss had her hoards as well as the rats and squirrels.
"Dig under the tree near the roots, and you’ll find plenty: but just make sure you don’t tell," because M'liss had her treasures just like the rats and squirrels.
But the master of course was unable to find them, the effects of hunger probably blinding his senses. M’liss grew uneasy. At length she peered at him through the leaves in an elfish way, and questioned:—
But the master, of course, couldn't find them; hunger was probably clouding his senses. M’liss started to feel uneasy. Finally, she looked at him through the leaves in a mischievous way and asked:—
“If I come down and give you some, you’ll promise you won’t touch me?”
“If I come down and give you some, will you promise not to touch me?”
The master promised.
The boss promised.
“Hope you’ll die if you do?”
“Hope you’ll die if you do?”
The master accepted instant dissolution as a forfeit. M’liss slid down the tree. The duties of hospitality fulfilled, she seated herself at a little distance and eyed the master with extreme caution.
The master accepted immediate dissolution as a penalty. M’liss slid down the tree. After fulfilling the duties of hospitality, she sat a little way off and watched the master with great caution.
“Why didn’t you eat your breakfast, you bad man?”
“Why didn’t you eat your breakfast, you bad guy?”
“Because I’ve run away.”
"Because I've escaped."
“Where to?” said M’liss, her eyes twinkling.
“Where to?” asked M’liss, her eyes sparkling.
“Anywhere—anywhere, away from here!” responded that deceitful wretch with tragic wildness of demeanor.
“Anywhere—anywhere, away from here!” replied that deceitful jerk with an intense, dramatic flair.
“What made you?—bad boy!” said M’liss, with a sudden respect of conventionalities, and a rare touch of tenderness in her tones. “You’d better go back where your vittals are.”
“What made you?—bad boy!” said M’liss, with a sudden awareness of social norms and a rare hint of tenderness in her voice. “You’d better go back where your food is.”
“What are victuals to a wounded spirit?” asked the young man dramatically. He had reached the side of M’liss during this dialogue, and had taken her unresisting hand. He was too wise to notice his victory, however; and drawing Melissa’s note from his pocket, opened it before her.
“What are meals to a wounded spirit?” asked the young man dramatically. He had reached M’liss's side during this conversation and had taken her unresisting hand. He was wise enough not to acknowledge his triumph, however, and pulling Melissa’s note from his pocket, opened it in front of her.
“Couldn’t you find any paper in the schoolhouse without tearing a leaf out of my memorandum book, Melissa?” he asked.
“Couldn’t you find any paper in the schoolhouse without ripping a page out of my notebook, Melissa?” he asked.
“It ain’t out of your memorandum book,” responded M’liss fiercely.
“It’s not in your notebook,” M’liss replied fiercely.
“Indeed,” said the master, turning to the lines in pencil; “I thought it was my handwriting.”
“Yeah,” said the master, looking at the pencil lines; “I thought it was my handwriting.”
M’liss, who had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly seized the paper and snatched it out of his hand.
M’liss, who had been glancing over his shoulder, suddenly grabbed the paper and yanked it out of his hand.
“It’s father’s writing!” she said, after a pause, in a softer tone.
“It’s Dad’s writing!” she said, after a pause, in a softer tone.
“Where did you get it, M’liss?”
“Where did you get it, M’liss?”
“Aristides gave it to me.”
"Aristides gave it to me."
“Where did he get it?”
“Where did he get that?”
“Don’t know. He had the book in his pocket when I told him I was going to write to you, and he tore the leaf out. There now—don’t bother me any more.” M’liss had turned her face away, and the black hair had hid her downcast eyes.
“Don’t know. He had the book in his pocket when I told him I was going to write to you, and he ripped the page out. There now—don’t bother me anymore.” M’liss had turned her face away, and her black hair had hidden her downcast eyes.
Something in her gesture and expression reminded him of her father. Something, and more that was characteristic to her at such moments, made him fancy another resemblance, and caused him to ask impulsively, and less cautiously than was his wont:—
Something in her gesture and expression reminded him of her father. Something, along with what was typical of her in those moments, made him imagine another resemblance and led him to ask impulsively, and with less caution than usual:—
“Do you remember your mother, M’liss?”
“Do you remember your mom, M’liss?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Did you never see her?”
“Have you never seen her?”
“No—didn’t I tell you not to bother, and you’re a-goin’ and doin’ it,” said M’liss savagely.
“No—didn’t I tell you not to bother, and you’re going and doing it,” M’liss said angrily.
The master was silent a moment. “Did you ever think you would like to have a mother, M’liss?” he asked again.
The master paused for a moment. “Have you ever thought about wanting a mother, M’liss?” he asked again.
“No-o-o-o!”
“No!”
The master rose; M’liss looked up.
The master stood up; M’liss looked up.
“Does Aristides come to school to-day?”
“Is Aristides coming to school today?”
“I don’t know.”
"I dunno."
“Are you going back? You’d better,” she said.
“Are you heading back? You should,” she said.
“Well!—perhaps I may. Good-by!”
"Well! Maybe I will. Goodbye!"
He had proceeded a few steps when, as he expected, she called him back. He turned. She was standing by the tree, with tears glistening in her eyes. The master felt the right moment had come. Going up to her, he took both her hands in his, and looking in her tearful eyes, said gravely:—
He had taken a few steps when, just as he thought, she called him back. He turned around. She was standing by the tree, tears sparkling in her eyes. The master felt it was the right moment. Approaching her, he took both of her hands in his, and looking into her tear-filled eyes, said seriously:—
“M’liss, do you remember the first evening you came to see me?”
“M’liss, do you remember the first night you came to see me?”
M’liss remembered.
M’liss recalled.
“You asked me if you might come to school, and I said—”
“You asked me if you could come to school, and I said—”
“Come!” responded the child softly.
“Come!” the child replied softly.
“If I told you I was lonely without my little scholar, and that I wanted her to come, what would you say?”
“If I told you I was feeling lonely without my little scholar and that I wanted her to come, what would you say?”
The child hung her head in silence. The master waited patiently. Tempted by the quiet, a hare ran close to the couple, and raising her bright eyes and velvet fore paws, gazed at them fearlessly. A squirrel ran halfway down the furrowed bark of the fallen tree, and there stopped.
The child lowered her head in silence. The master waited calmly. Attracted by the stillness, a hare approached the pair, lifting her bright eyes and soft front paws, looking at them without fear. A squirrel scurried partway down the rough bark of the fallen tree and then paused.
“We are waiting, Lissy,” said the master in a whisper, and the child smiled. Stirred by a passing breeze, the treetops rocked, and a slanting sunbeam stole through their interlaced boughs and fell on the doubting face and irresolute little figure. But a step in the dry branches and a rustling in the underbrush broke the spell.
We are waiting, Lissy,” the master said softly, and the child smiled. Awakened by a passing breeze, the treetops swayed, and a angled sunbeam slipped through their intertwined branches and landed on the uncertain face and hesitant little figure. But a crunch in the dry leaves and a rustle in the bushes shattered the moment.
A man dressed as a miner, carrying a long-handled shovel, came slowly through the woods. A red handkerchief tied around his head under his hat, with the loose ends hanging from beneath, did not add much favor to his unprepossessing face. He did not perceive the master and M’liss until he was close upon them. When he did, he stopped suddenly and gazed at them with an expression of lowering distrust. M’liss drew nearer to the master.
A man dressed as a miner, holding a long-handled shovel, walked slowly through the woods. A red handkerchief tied around his head under his hat, with the loose ends hanging down, didn’t do much to improve his unattractive face. He didn’t notice the master and M’liss until he was almost right next to them. When he did, he stopped abruptly and stared at them with a look of deep suspicion. M’liss moved closer to the master.
“Good-mornin’—picknickin’, eh?” he asked, with an attempt at geniality that was more repulsive than his natural manner.
“Good morning—going for a picnic, huh?” he asked, with a forced friendliness that was more off-putting than his usual behavior.
“How are you—prospecting, eh?” said the master quietly, after the established colloquial formula of Red Mountain.
“How are you—looking for opportunities, huh?” said the master quietly, after the usual casual greeting of Red Mountain.
“Yes—a little in that way.”
"Yeah—a bit like that."
The stranger still hesitated, apparently waiting for them to go first, a matter which M’liss decided by suddenly taking the master’s hand in her quick way. What she said was scarcely audible, but the master, parting her hair over her forehead, kissed her, and so, hand in hand, they passed out of the damp aisles and forest odors into the open sunlit road. But M’liss, looking back, saw that her old seat was occupied by the hopeful prospector, and fancied that in the shadows of her former throne something of a gratified leer overspread his face. “He’ll have to dig deep to find the crab apples,” said the child to the master, as they came to the Red Mountain road.
The stranger still hesitated, seemingly waiting for them to go first, a decision M’liss made by suddenly taking the master’s hand in her quick way. What she said was barely audible, but the master, parting her hair over her forehead, kissed her, and so, hand in hand, they walked out of the damp aisles and forest scents into the open sunlit road. But M’liss, looking back, saw that her old seat was taken by the hopeful prospector and imagined that in the shadows of her former seat, something like a satisfied smirk crossed his face. “He’ll have to dig deep to find the crab apples,” the child said to the master as they reached the Red Mountain road.
When Aristides came to school that day he was confronted by M’liss. But neither threats nor entreaties could extract from that reticent youth the whereabout of the memorandum book nor where he got it. Two or three days afterward, during recess, he approached M’liss, and beckoned her one side.
When Aristides arrived at school that day, he was faced with M’liss. But neither threats nor pleas could get that reserved kid to reveal where the memo book was or how he got it. A couple of days later, during recess, he went up to M’liss and signaled for her to step aside.
“Well,” said M’liss impatiently.
“Well,” said M’liss, impatient.
“Did you ever read the story of ‘Ali Baba’?”
“Have you ever read the story of ‘Ali Baba’?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Do you believe it?”
"Do you really believe this?"
“No.”
“No.”
“Well,” said that sage infant, wheeling around on his stout legs, “it’s true!”
“Well,” said that wise little kid, turning around on his sturdy legs, “it’s true!”
CHAPTER IV
Somewhat less spiteful in her intercourse with the other scholars, M’liss still retained an offensive attitude toward Clytemnestra. Perhaps the jealous element was not entirely stilled in her passionate little breast. Perhaps it was that Clytemnestra’s round curves and plump outlines afforded an extensive pinching surface. But while these ebullitions were under the master’s control, her enmity occasionally took a new and irresponsible form.
Somewhat less bitter in her interactions with the other scholars, M’liss still held a negative attitude toward Clytemnestra. Maybe the jealousy inside her passionate little heart wasn’t completely gone. It could also be that Clytemnestra’s rounded curves and soft shapes provided plenty of opportunities for pinching. But while these outbursts were kept in check by the master, her hostility sometimes took on a new and reckless form.
In his first estimate of the child’s character he could not conceive that she had ever possessed a doll. But the master, like many other professed readers of character, was safer in a posteriori than a priori reasoning, for M’liss had a doll. But then it was a peculiar doll,—a frightful perversion of wax and sawdust,—a doll fearfully and wonderfully made,—a smaller edition of M’liss. Its unhappy existence had been a secret discovered accidentally by Mrs. Morpher. It had been the oldtime companion of M’liss’s wanderings, and bore evident marks of suffering. Its original complexion was long since washed away by the weather, and anointed by the slime of ditches. It looked very much as M’liss had in days past. Its one gown of faded stuff was dirty and ragged as hers had been. M’liss had never been known to apply to it any childish term of endearment. She never exhibited it in the presence of other children. It was put severely to bed in a hollow tree near the schoolhouse, and only allowed exercise during M’liss’s rambles. Fulfilling a stern duty to her doll—as she would to herself—it knew no luxuries.
In his initial assessment of the child’s character, he couldn't imagine that she had ever owned a doll. But the master, like many self-proclaimed character experts, was better at understanding things after the fact than predicting them beforehand, because M’liss did have a doll. However, it was a strange doll—a horrifying mix of wax and sawdust—a doll that was fearfully and wonderfully made, and a smaller version of M’liss herself. Its unfortunate existence had been accidentally discovered by Mrs. Morpher. It had been M’liss’s old companion during her wanderings and clearly showed signs of wear. Its original color had long been washed away by the weather and coated with mud from ditches. It looked very much like M’liss used to. Its one dress, made of faded fabric, was as dirty and tattered as hers had been. M’liss had never been known to call it any cute names. She never showed it off in front of other kids. It was strictly kept to bed in a hollow tree near the schoolhouse and only brought out during M’liss’s outings. Living under a strict sense of duty to her doll—just as she would to herself—it experienced no luxuries.
Now, Mrs. Morpher, obeying a commendable impulse, bought another doll and gave it to M’liss. The child received it gravely and curiously. The master, on looking at it one day, fancied he saw a slight resemblance in its round red cheeks and mild blue eyes to Clytemnestra. It became evident before long that M’liss had also noticed the same resemblance. Accordingly she hammered its waxen head on the rocks when she was alone, and sometimes dragged it with a string round its neck to and from school. At other times, setting it up on her desk, she made a pincushion of its patient and inoffensive body. Whether this was done in revenge of what she considered a second figurative obtrusion of Clytie’s excellencies upon her; or whether she had an intuitive appreciation of the rites of certain other heathens, and indulging in that “fetich” ceremony imagined that the original of her wax model would pine away and finally die, is a metaphysical question I shall not now consider.
Now, Mrs. Morpher, acting on a good instinct, bought another doll and handed it to M’liss. The child accepted it with a serious and curious expression. One day, the master noticed that the doll's round red cheeks and soft blue eyes reminded him slightly of Clytemnestra. It soon became clear that M’liss had noticed the same resemblance. Consequently, when she was by herself, she smashed its wax head against the rocks and sometimes dragged it to and from school with a string tied around its neck. At other times, she would place it on her desk and use its patient and harmless body as a pincushion. Whether she did this in revenge for what she perceived as a second intrusion of Clytie's virtues upon her, or if she had an instinctive understanding of certain other rituals and thought that by performing this “fetich” ceremony, the original of her wax model would wither away and ultimately die, is a philosophical question I won't delve into right now.
In spite of these moral vagaries, the master could not help noticing in her different tasks the workings of a quick, restless, and vigorous perception. She knew neither the hesitancy nor the doubts of childhood. Her answers in class were always slightly dashed with audacity. Of course she was not infallible. But her courage and daring in venturing beyond her own depth and that of the floundering little swimmers around her, in their minds outweighed all errors of judgment. Children are no better than grown people in this respect, I fancy; and whenever the little red hand flashed above her desk, there was a wondering silence, and even the master was sometimes oppressed with a doubt of his own experience and judgment.
Despite these moral ups and downs, the teacher couldn't help but notice a quick, restless, and vibrant perception in her various tasks. She showed no hesitation or uncertainty that you might expect from a child. Her answers in class always had a dash of boldness. Of course, she wasn't perfect. But her bravery and willingness to go beyond her own limits and that of the struggling kids around her made her mistakes seem minor in their eyes. Honestly, kids aren't much different from adults in this regard; whenever the little red hand shot up above her desk, there would be a moment of awe-filled silence, and even the teacher sometimes felt a twinge of doubt about his own experience and judgment.
Nevertheless, certain attributes which at first amused and entertained his fancy began to affect him with grave doubts. He could not but see that M’liss was revengeful, irreverent, and willful. But there was one better quality which pertained to her semi-savage disposition—the faculty of physical fortitude and self-sacrifice, and another—though not always an attribute of the noble savage—truth. M’liss was both fearless and sincere—perhaps in such a character the adjectives were synonymous.
Nevertheless, certain traits that initially amused and entertained him started to fill him with serious doubts. He couldn’t ignore the fact that M’liss was vengeful, irreverent, and headstrong. However, there was one positive quality that came with her wild nature—the ability to be physically strong and self-sacrificing, along with another trait—although not always found in the noble savage—honesty. M’liss was both courageous and genuine—perhaps in her case, those words were interchangeable.
The master had been doing some hard thinking on this subject, and had arrived at that conclusion quite common to all who think sincerely, that he was generally the slave of his own prejudices, when he determined to call on the Rev. Mr. McSnagley for advice. This decision was somewhat humiliating to his pride, as he and McSnagley were not friends. But he thought of M’liss, and the evening of their first meeting; and perhaps with a pardonable superstition that it was not chance alone that had guided her willful feet to the schoolhouse, and perhaps with a complacent consciousness of the rare magnanimity of the act, he choked back his dislike and went to McSnagley.
The master had been thinking hard about this and came to the conclusion that’s pretty typical for anyone who thinks earnestly: he was often a slave to his own biases. So, he decided to ask the Rev. Mr. McSnagley for advice. This choice was a bit of a blow to his pride since he and McSnagley were not friends. But he thought about M’liss and the night they first met, and maybe, with a bit of a hopeful feeling, he believed it wasn’t just chance that had led her to the schoolhouse. With a sense of the unusual generosity of his decision, he pushed aside his dislike and went to see McSnagley.
The reverend gentleman was glad to see him. Moreover, he observed that the master was looking “peartish” and hoped he had got over the “neuralgy” and “rheumatiz.” He himself had been troubled with a dumb “ager” since last conference. But he had learned to “rastle and pray.”
The reverend gentleman was happy to see him. He also noticed that the master seemed “peartish” and hoped he had gotten over the “neuralgy” and “rheumatiz.” He had been dealing with a bad “ager” since the last conference. But he had learned to “rastle and pray.”
Pausing a moment to enable the master to write this certain method of curing the dumb “ager” upon the book and volume of his brain, Mr. McSnagley proceeded to inquire after Sister Morpher. “She is an adornment to Christewanity, and has a likely, growin’ young family,” added Mr. McSnagley; “and there is that mannerly young gal—so well behaved—Miss Clytie.” In fact, Clytie’s perfections seemed to affect him to such an extent that he dwelt for several minutes upon them. The master was doubly embarrassed. In the first place, there was an enforced contrast with poor M’liss in all this praise of Clytie. Secondly, there was something unpleasantly confidential in his tone of speaking of Morpher’s earliest born. So that the master, after a few futile efforts to say something natural, found it convenient to recall another engagement and left without asking the information required, but in his after reflections somewhat unjustly giving the Rev. Mr. McSnagley the full benefit of having refused it.
Taking a moment to let the master jot down this specific method of curing the mute "ager" in his mind, Mr. McSnagley then asked about Sister Morpher. “She’s a true asset to Christianity and has a lovely growing family,” Mr. McSnagley added; “and there’s that polite young lady—so well-mannered—Miss Clytie.” In fact, Clytie’s qualities seemed to impress him so much that he spent several minutes talking about them. The master felt even more uncomfortable. First, there was an awkward contrast to poor M’liss in all this praise of Clytie. Secondly, there was something uncomfortably personal in how he spoke about Morpher’s oldest child. So, after a few unsuccessful attempts to say something casual, the master decided to mention another commitment and left without asking the information he needed, but in his later thoughts, he somewhat unfairly credited the Rev. Mr. McSnagley with having denied it.
But the master obtained the advice in another and unexpected direction.
But the master got the advice from a surprising and different source.
The resident physician of Smith’s Pocket was a Dr. Duchesne, or as he was better known to the locality, “Dr. Doochesny.” Of a naturally refined nature and liberal education, he had steadily resisted the aggressions and temptations of Smith’s Pocket, and represented to the master a kind of connecting link between his present life and the past. So that an intimacy sprang up between the two men, involving prolonged interviews in the doctor’s little back shop, often to the exclusion of other suffering humanity and their physical ailments. It was in one of these interviews that the master mentioned the coincidence of the date of the memoranda on the back of M’liss’s letter and the day of Smith’s suicide.
The local doctor in Smith's Pocket was Dr. Duchesne, or as everyone called him, "Dr. Doochesny." He had a refined personality and a good education, and he had managed to resist the pressures and temptations of Smith's Pocket. He served as a connection between the master’s current life and his past. Because of this, a friendship developed between the two men, leading to long conversations in the doctor's small back room, often at the expense of other people and their health needs. It was during one of these conversations that the master pointed out the coincidence between the date on M’liss’s letter and the day of Smith’s suicide.
“If it were Smith’s own handwriting, as the child says it is,” said the master, “it shows a queer state of mind that could contemplate suicide and indite private memoranda within the same twenty-four hours.”
“If this is really Smith’s handwriting, like the kid says,” said the master, “it shows a strange state of mind that could think about suicide and write private notes in the same twenty-four hours.”
Dr. Duchesne removed his cigar from his lips and looked attentively at his friend.
Dr. Duchesne took his cigar out of his mouth and focused intently on his friend.
“The only hypothesis,” continued the master, “is that Smith was either drunk or crazy, and the fatal act was in a measure unpremeditated.”
“The only explanation,” the teacher continued, “is that Smith was either drunk or insane, and the deadly act was somewhat unplanned.”
“Every man who commits suicide,” returned the doctor gravely, “is in my opinion insane, or, what is nearly the same thing, becomes through suffering an irresponsible agent. In my professional experience I have seen most of the forms of mental and physical agony, and know what sacrifices men will make to preserve even an existence that to me seemed little better than death, so long as their intellect remained unclouded. When you come to reflect on the state of mind that chooses death as a preferable alternative, you generally find an exaltation and enthusiasm that differs very little from the ordinary diagnosis of delirium. Smith was not drunk,” added the doctor in his usual careless tone; “I saw his body.”
“Every man who takes his own life,” the doctor replied seriously, “is, in my view, insane, or, what’s almost the same, becomes an irresponsible agent through suffering. In my professional experience, I’ve witnessed most forms of mental and physical pain and understand the sacrifices people will make to hold onto a life that, to me, often seems barely better than death, as long as their mind remains clear. When you think about the mindset that chooses death over living, you usually find a kind of euphoria and passion that’s very similar to the typical signs of delirium. Smith wasn’t drunk,” the doctor added casually; “I examined his body.”
The master remained buried in reflection. Presently the doctor removed his cigar.
The master stayed lost in thought. Meanwhile, the doctor took out his cigar.
“Perhaps I might help you to explain the coincidence you speak of.”
“Maybe I can help you explain the coincidence you’re talking about.”
“How?”
“How?”
“Very easily. But this is a professional secret, you understand.”
“Very easily. But this is a professional secret, you get it.”
“Yes, I understand,” said the master hastily, with an ill-defined uneasiness creeping over him.
“Yes, I get it,” said the master quickly, feeling a vague unease wash over him.
“Do you know anything of the phenomena of death by gunshot wounds?”
“Do you know anything about the effects of gunshot wounds leading to death?”
“No!”
“No way!”
“Then you must take certain facts as granted. Smith, you remember, was killed instantly! The nature of his wound and the manner of his death were such as would have caused an instantaneous and complete relaxation of all the muscles. Rigidity and contraction would have supervened of course, but only after life was extinct and consciousness fled. Now Smith was found with his hand tightly grasping a pistol.”
“Then you have to accept certain facts as true. Smith, as you remember, was killed instantly! The type of wound he had and the way he died would have caused all his muscles to relax completely and immediately. Rigidity and contraction would have set in, of course, but only after he was dead and consciousness was gone. Now, Smith was found with his hand tightly gripping a pistol.”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Well, my dear boy, he must have grasped it after he was dead, or have prevailed on some friend to stiffen his fingers round it.”
“Well, my dear boy, he must have figured it out after he was dead, or convinced some friend to help him hold onto it.”
“Do you mean that he was murdered?”
“Are you saying that he was murdered?”
Dr. Duchesne rose and closed the door. “We have different names for these things in Smith’s Pocket. I mean to say that he didn’t kill himself—that’s all.”
Dr. Duchesne stood up and closed the door. “We call these things different names in Smith’s Pocket. What I mean is that he didn’t take his own life—that’s all.”
“But, doctor,” said the master earnestly; “do you think you have done right in concealing this fact? Do you think it just—do you think it consistent with your duty to his orphan child?”
“But, doctor,” the master said seriously, “do you really think it was right to keep this from us? Do you think it's fair—do you think it aligns with your duty to his orphan child?”
“That’s why I have said nothing about it,” replied the doctor coolly,—“because of my consideration for his orphan child.”
“That's why I haven't said anything about it,” the doctor replied calmly, “because I care about his orphaned child.”
The master breathed quickly, and stared at the doctor.
The master breathed quickly and stared at the doctor.
“Doctor! you don’t think that M’liss”—
“Doctor! you don’t think that M’liss”—
“Hush!—don’t get excited, my young friend. Remember I am not a lawyer—only a doctor.”
“Hush!—don’t get worked up, my young friend. Remember, I’m not a lawyer—just a doctor.”
“But M’liss was with me the very night he must have been killed. We were walking together when we heard the report—that is—a report—which must have been the one”—stammered the master.
“But M’liss was with me the very night he must have been killed. We were walking together when we heard the noise—that is—a noise—which must have been the one”—stammered the master.
“When was that?”
"When was that supposed to be?"
“At half past eleven. I remember looking at my watch.”
“At 11:30, I remember checking my watch.”
“Humph!—when did you meet her first?”
“Humph! — when did you first meet her?”
“At half past eight. Come, doctor, you have made a mistake here at least,” said the young man with an assumption of ease he was far from feeling. “Give M’liss the benefit of the doubt.”
“At eight-thirty. Come on, doctor, you’ve made a mistake here at least,” said the young man, pretending to be at ease, though he was far from it. “Give M’liss the benefit of the doubt.”
Dr. Duchesne replied by opening a drawer of his desk. After rummaging among the powders and mysterious looking instruments with which it was stored, he finally brought forth a longitudinal slip of folded white paper. It was appropriately labeled “Poison.”
Dr. Duchesne replied by opening a drawer in his desk. After digging through the powders and strange-looking instruments inside, he finally pulled out a long, folded slip of white paper. It was clearly labeled “Poison.”
“Look here,” said the doctor, opening the paper. It contained two or three black coarse hairs. “Do you know them?”
“Look here,” said the doctor, opening the paper. It had two or three thick black hairs. “Do you recognize them?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Look again!”
"Check again!"
“It looks something like Melissa’s hair,” said the master, with a fathomless sinking of the heart.
“It looks something like Melissa’s hair,” said the master, feeling an overwhelming sadness.
“When I was called to look at the body,” continued the doctor with the deliberate cautiousness of a professional diagnosis, “my suspicions were aroused by the circumstance I told you of. I managed to get possession of the pistol, and found these hairs twisted around the lock as though they had been accidentally caught and violently disentangled. I don’t think that any one else saw them. I removed them without observation, and—they are at your service.”
“When I was asked to examine the body,” the doctor said cautiously, speaking with the precision of a medical professional, “my suspicions were raised by the detail I mentioned earlier. I was able to take the pistol and noticed some hairs tangled around the lock as if they had been unintentionally caught and roughly pulled out. I doubt anyone else noticed them. I took them without drawing attention, and— they are available for you.”
The master sank back in his seat and pressed his hand to his forehead. The image of M’liss rose before him with flashing eye and long black hair, and seemed to beat down and resist defiantly the suspicion that crept slowly over his heart.
The master leaned back in his seat and pressed his hand against his forehead. The image of M’liss appeared before him with her bright eyes and long black hair, and seemed to push back against the suspicion that slowly crept into his heart.
“I forbore to tell you this, my friend,” continued the doctor slowly and gravely, “because when I learned that you had taken this strange child under your protection I did not wish to tell you that which—though I contend does not alter her claims to man’s sympathy and kindness—still might have prejudiced her in your eyes. Her improvement under your care has proven my position correct. I have, as you know, peculiar ideas of the extent to which humanity is responsible. I find in my heart—looking back over that child’s career—no sentiment but pity. I am mistaken in you if I thought this circumstance aroused any other feeling in yours.”
“I held back from telling you this, my friend,” the doctor continued slowly and seriously, “because when I found out that you had taken this unusual child under your wing, I didn’t want to share something that—while I believe doesn’t change her right to sympathy and kindness—might have influenced your opinion of her. Her progress under your care has confirmed my views. As you know, I have some unique beliefs about how far humanity is responsible. Looking back over that child’s life, I feel nothing but pity in my heart. I would be mistaken in you if I thought this situation stirred any different feelings in you.”
Still the figure of M’liss stood before the master as he bent before the doctor’s words, in the same defiant attitude, with something of scorn in the great dark eyes, that made the blood tingle in his cheeks, and seemed to make the reasoning of the speaker but meaningless and empty words. At length he rose. As he stood with his hand on the latch he turned to Dr. Duchesne, who was watching him with careful solicitude.
Still, M’liss stood before the master as he leaned in response to the doctor’s words, maintaining the same defiant posture. There was a hint of scorn in her deep dark eyes that made his cheeks flush and made the speaker's reasoning feel like nothing more than meaningless chatter. Finally, he stood up. With his hand on the latch, he turned to Dr. Duchesne, who was observing him with careful concern.
“I don’t know but that you have done well to keep this from me. At all events it has not—cannot, and should not alter my opinion toward M’liss. You will of course keep it a secret. In the mean time you must not blame me if I cling to my instincts in preference to your judgment. I still believe that you are mistaken in regard to her.”
“I don’t know, but you’ve probably done well to keep this from me. In any case, it hasn’t—cannot, and shouldn’t change how I feel about M’liss. You’ll, of course, keep it a secret. In the meantime, don’t blame me if I trust my instincts over your judgment. I still think you’re wrong about her.”
“Stay, one moment,” said the doctor; “promise me you will not say anything of this, nor attempt to prosecute the matter further till you have consulted with me.”
“Wait, just a moment,” said the doctor; “promise me you won’t say anything about this or try to take it further until you’ve talked to me.”
“I promise. Good-night.”
"I promise. Good night."
“Good-night;” and so they parted.
“Goodnight;” and so they parted.
True to that promise and his own instinctive promptings the master endeavored to atone for his momentary disloyalty by greater solicitude for M’liss. But the child had noticed some change in the master’s thoughtful manner, and in one of their long post-prandial walks she stopped suddenly, and mounting a stump, looked full in his face with big searching eyes.
True to that promise and his own instinctive feelings, the master tried to make up for his brief disloyalty by being more caring towards M’liss. But the child had noticed a shift in the master’s thoughtful demeanor, and during one of their long walks after dinner, she suddenly stopped, climbed onto a stump, and looked him straight in the face with wide, searching eyes.
“You ain’t mad?” said she, with an interrogative shake of the black braids.
“You not mad?” she asked, shaking her black braids questioningly.
“No.”
“No.”
“Nor bothered?”
"Not bothered?"
“No.”
“No.”
“Nor hungry?” (Hunger was to M’liss a sickness that might attack a person at any moment.)
“Not hungry?” (To M’liss, hunger was an illness that could strike anyone at any time.)
“No.”
“Nope.”
“Nor thinking of her?”
"Not thinking about her?"
“Of whom, Lissy?”
"Who are you talking about, Lissy?"
“That white girl.” (This was the latest epithet invented by M’liss, who was a very dark brunette, to express Clytemnestra.)
“That white girl.” (This was the latest nickname created by M’liss, who was a very dark brunette, to refer to Clytemnestra.)
“No.”
“No.”
“Upon your word?” (A substitute for “Hope you’ll die!” proposed by the master.)
“Really?” (A replacement for “Hope you’ll die!” suggested by the master.)
“Yes.”
"Yeah."
“And sacred honor?”
“And sacred honor?”
“Yes.”
"Yep."
Then M’liss gave him a fierce little kiss, and hopping down, fluttered off. For two or three days after that she condescended to appear like other children and be, as she expressed it, “good.”
Then M’liss gave him a quick, fierce kiss and, hopping down, fluttered off. For the next couple of days, she let herself act like other kids and be, as she put it, “good.”
When the summer was about spent, and the last harvest had been gathered in the valleys, the master bethought him of gathering in a few ripened shoots of the young idea, and of having his Harvest Home, or Examination. So the savans and professionals of Smith’s Pocket were gathered to witness that time-honored custom of placing timid children in a constrained position, and bullying them as in a witness-box. As usual in such cases, the most audacious and self-possessed were the lucky recipients of the honors. The reader will imagine that in the present instance M’liss and Clytie were preeminent and divided public attention: M’liss with her clearness of material perception and self-reliance, and Clytie with her placid self-esteem and saintlike correctness of deportment. The other little ones were timid and blundering. M’liss’s readiness and brilliancy, of course, captivated the greatest number, and provoked the greatest applause, and M’liss’s antecedents had unconsciously awakened the strongest sympathies of the miners, whose athletic forms were ranged against the walls, or whose handsome bearded faces looked in at the window. But M’liss’s popularity was overthrown by an unexpected circumstance.
When summer was almost over and the last harvest had been collected in the valleys, the master thought about gathering a few ripened ideas and holding his Harvest Home, or Examination. So, the scholars and professionals of Smith’s Pocket came together to witness the traditional custom of putting shy children in a tight spot and pressuring them like they were in a witness box. As is typical in these situations, the boldest and most self-assured were the ones who received the accolades. The reader can imagine that, in this case, M’liss and Clytie stood out and grabbed public attention: M’liss with her sharp perception and confidence, and Clytie with her calm self-assurance and almost saintly composure. The other little kids were shy and awkward. M’liss's quickness and brilliance, naturally, won over the most people and earned the loudest applause, while her background had unknowingly stirred the deepest sympathies among the miners, whose muscular figures lined the walls or whose handsome bearded faces peeked in through the window. But M’liss’s popularity was suddenly challenged by an unexpected event.
McSnagley had invited himself, and had been going through the pleasing entertainment of frightening the more timid pupils by the vaguest and most ambiguous questions, delivered in an impressive, funereal tone; and M’liss had soared into astronomy, and was tracking the course of our “spotted ball” through space, and defining the “tethered orbits” of the planets, when McSnagley deliberately arose.
McSnagley had invited himself and was enjoying the fun of scaring the more timid students with vague and ambiguous questions, asked in a serious, theatrical tone. Meanwhile, M'liss had taken off into astronomy, following the path of our “spotted ball” through space and explaining the “tethered orbits” of the planets when McSnagley stood up deliberately.
“Meelissy, ye were speaking of the revolutions of this yer yearth, and its movements with regard to the sun, and I think you said it had been a-doin’ of it since the creation, eh?”
“Melissa, you were talking about the rotations of this yearth, and its movements in relation to the sun, and I think you said it’s been doing that since the beginning, right?”
M’liss nodded a scornful affirmative.
M’liss nodded with disdain.
“Well, was that the truth?” said McSnagley, folding his arms.
"Well, was that the truth?" McSnagley said, crossing his arms.
“Yes,” said M’liss, shutting up her little red lips tightly.
“Yes,” M’liss said, closing her little red lips tightly.
The handsome outlines at the windows peered further into the schoolroom, and a saintly, Raphael-like face, with blond beard and soft blue eyes, belonging to the biggest scamp in the diggings, turned toward the child and whispered:—
The good-looking figures at the windows gazed deeper into the classroom, and a saintly, Raphael-like face, with a blond beard and gentle blue eyes, belonging to the biggest troublemaker in the area, turned toward the child and whispered:—
“Stick to it, M’liss! It’s only a big bluff of the parson.”
“Hang in there, M’liss! It’s just a big bluff from the preacher.”
The reverend gentleman heaved a deep sigh, and cast a compassionate glance at the master, then at the children, and then rested his eye on Clytemnestra. That young woman softly elevated her round, white arm. Its seductive curves were enhanced by a gorgeous and massive specimen bracelet, the gift of one of her humblest worshipers, worn in honor of the occasion. There was a momentary pause. Clytie’s round cheeks were very pink and soft. Clytie’s big eyes were very bright and blue. Clytie’s low-necked white book-muslin rested softly on Clytie’s white, plump shoulders. Clytie looked at the master, and the master nodded. Then Clytie spoke softly:
The reverend let out a deep sigh and looked compassionately at the master, then at the children, and finally focused on Clytemnestra. She gently lifted her round, pale arm. Its alluring curves were accentuated by a stunning and large bracelet, a gift from one of her most devoted admirers, worn to honor the occasion. There was a brief pause. Clytie’s round cheeks were a lovely pink and soft. Clytie’s bright blue eyes sparkled. Clytie’s low-cut white muslin dress rested delicately on her white, plump shoulders. Clytie glanced at the master, who nodded in response. Then, Clytie spoke softly:
“Joshua commanded the sun to stand still, and it obeyed him.”
“Joshua ordered the sun to stop moving, and it did what he said.”
There was a low hum of applause in the schoolroom, a triumphant expression on McSnagley’s face, a grave shadow on the master’s, and a comical look of disappointment reflected from the windows. M’liss skimmed rapidly over her astronomy, and then shut the book with a loud snap. A groan burst from McSnagley, an expression of astonishment from the schoolroom, and a yell from the windows, as M’liss brought her red fist down on the desk, with the emphatic declaration:—
There was a low murmur of applause in the classroom, a triumphant look on McSnagley’s face, a serious shadow on the teacher’s, and a funny look of disappointment reflecting from the windows. M’liss quickly skimmed through her astronomy book and then slammed it shut with a loud snap. A groan escaped from McSnagley, astonishment spread through the classroom, and a shout came from the windows as M’liss slammed her red fist down on the desk, emphatically declaring:—
“It’s a d—n lie. I don’t believe it!”
“It’s a damn lie. I don’t believe it!”
CHAPTER V
The long wet season had drawn near its close. Signs of spring were visible in the swelling buds and rushing torrents. The pine forests exhaled a fresher spicery. The azaleas were already budding; the ceanothus getting ready its lilac livery for spring. On the green upland which climbed the Red Mountain at its southern aspect, the long spike of the monk’s-hood shot up from its broad-leaved stool and once more shook its dark blue bells. Again the billow above Smith’s grave was soft and green, its crest just tossed with the foam of daisies and buttercups. The little graveyard had gathered a few new dwellers in the past year, and the mounds were placed two by two by the little paling until they reached Smith’s grave, and there, there was but one. General superstition had shunned the enforced companionship. The plot beside Smith was vacant.
The long rainy season was coming to an end. Signs of spring were visible in the budding flowers and rushing streams. The pine forests smelled fresher. The azaleas were starting to bloom, and the ceanothus was preparing its lilac outfit for spring. On the green hillside that climbed Red Mountain on its southern side, the long spike of monk’s-hood shot up from its broad leaves and once again shook its dark blue bells. The hill above Smith’s grave was soft and green, its top sprinkled with daisies and buttercups. The little graveyard had gained a few new residents over the past year, and the mounds were arranged two by two along the little fence until they reached Smith’s grave, where there was only one. General superstition had avoided the forced company. The plot next to Smith was empty.
It was the custom of the driver of the great Wingdam stage to whip up his horses at the foot of the hill, and soenter Smith’s Pocket at that remarkable pace which the woodcuts in the hotel bar-room represented to credulous humanity as the usual rate of speed of that conveyance. At least, Aristides Morpher thought so as he stood one Sunday afternoon, uneasily conscious of his best jacket and collar, waiting its approach. Nor could anything shake his belief that regularly on that occasion the horses ran away with the driver, and that that individual from motives of deep policy pretended not to notice it until they were stopped.
The driver of the Wingdam stage had a habit of revving up his horses at the bottom of the hill, so they would enter Smith’s Pocket at the impressive speed that the pictures in the hotel bar portrayed as the typical pace of the ride. At least, that’s what Aristides Morpher thought as he stood anxiously on a Sunday afternoon, fully aware he was wearing his best jacket and collar, waiting for it to arrive. He was convinced that every time on this occasion, the horses would take off with the driver, and that he would pretend not to notice until they finally stopped.
“Anybody up from below, Bill?” said the landlord as the driver slowly descended from his perch.
“Anyone coming up from downstairs, Bill?” asked the landlord as the driver carefully got down from his spot.
“Nobody for you,” responded Bill shortly. “Dusenberry kem up as usual, and got off at the old place. You can’t make a livin’ off him, I reckon.”
“Nobody for you,” Bill replied curtly. “Dusenberry showed up as always and got off at the old spot. You can’t make a living off him, I guess.”
“Have you found out what his name is yet?” continued the landlord, implying that “Dusenberry” was simply a playful epithet of the driver.
“Have you figured out what his name is yet?” the landlord continued, suggesting that “Dusenberry” was just a funny nickname for the driver.
“He says his name is Waters,” returned Bill. “Jake said he saw him at the North Fork in ’50—called himself Moore then. Guess he ain’t no good, nowhow. What’s he doin’ round here?”
“He says his name is Waters,” Bill replied. “Jake said he saw him at the North Fork in ’50—he called himself Moore back then. I guess he’s no good, anyway. What’s he doing around here?”
“Says he’s prospectin’,” replied the landlord. “He has a claim somewhere in the woods. Gambles a little too, I reckon. He don’t travel on his beauty anyhow.”
“Claims he’s searching for opportunities,” replied the landlord. “He has a stake somewhere in the woods. Bets a bit too, I guess. He doesn’t get by on his looks, that’s for sure.”
“If you had seen him makin’ up to a piece of calico inside, last trip, and she a-makin’ up to him quite confidential-like, I guess you’d think he was a lady-killer. My eye, but wasn’t she a stunner! Clytie Morpher wasn’t nowhere to begin with her.”
“If you had seen him flirting with a piece of calico inside last trip, and she was flirting back in a pretty friendly way, I bet you’d think he was a real charmer. Wow, wasn’t she a looker! Clytie Morpher didn’t even come close to her.”
“Who was she, Bill?” asked half a dozen masculine voices.
“Who was she, Bill?” asked a bunch of guys.
“Don’t know. We picked her up this side of ‘Coyote.’ Fancy? I tell you!—pretty little hat and pink ribbings—eyes that ud bore you through at a hundred yards—white teeth—brown gaiters, and such an ankle! She didn’t want to show it,—oh, no!” added the sarcastic Bill with deep significance.
“Don’t know. We picked her up this side of ‘Coyote.’ Fancy? I tell you!—pretty little hat and pink trim—eyes that could pierce you from a hundred yards—white teeth—brown gaiters, and what an ankle! She didn’t want to show it,—oh, no!” added the sarcastic Bill with deep significance.
“Where did you leave her, Bill?” asked a gentle village swain who had been fired by the glowing picture of the fair unknown.
“Where did you leave her, Bill?” asked a kind-hearted local guy who had been inspired by the charming image of the beautiful stranger.
“That’s what’s the matter. You see after we picked her up, she said she was goin’ through to Wingdam. Of course there wasn’t anything in the stage or on the road too good to offer her. Old Major Spaffler wanted to treat her to lemonade at every station. Judge Plunkett kep’ a-pullin’ down the blinds and a-h’istin’ of them up to keep out the sun and let in the air. Blest if old McSnagley didn’t want to carry her travelin’-bag. There wasn’t any attention, boys, she didn’t get—but it wasn’t no use—bless you! She never so much as passed the time of day with them.”
"That’s what’s going on. You see, after we picked her up, she said she was heading to Wingdam. Of course, there wasn’t anything on the stage or the road that was good enough for her. Old Major Spaffler wanted to treat her to lemonade at every stop. Judge Plunkett kept pulling down the blinds and raising them up to block the sun and let in some air. I swear, old McSnagley wanted to carry her travel bag. There was no attention, guys, that she didn’t get—but it was pointless—trust me! She didn’t even bother to acknowledge them.”
“But where did she go?” inquired another anxious auditor.
“But where did she go?” asked another worried listener.
“Keep your foot off the drag, and I’ll tell you. Arter we left Ring Tail Canon, Dusenberry, as usual, got on. Presently one of the outsides turned round to me, and says he, ‘D—d if Ugly Mug ain’t got the inside track of all of you this time!’ I looked down, and dern my skin if there wasn’t Dusenberry a-sittin’ up alongside of the lady, quite comfortable, as if they had ben children together. At the next station Dusenberry gets off. So does the lady. ‘Ain’t you goin’ on to Wingdam,’ says I. ‘No,’ says she. ‘Mayn’t we have the pleasure of your kempany further?’ says the judge, taking off his hat. ‘No, I’ve changed my mind,’ says she, and off she got, and off she walked arm in arm with him as cool as you please.”
“Keep your foot off the gas, and I’ll tell you. After we left Ring Tail Canyon, Dusenberry, as usual, hopped on. Eventually, one of the guys sitting outside turned to me and said, ‘Damn, if Ugly Mug hasn’t got the inside track on all of you this time!’ I looked down, and sure enough, there was Dusenberry sitting next to the lady, looking perfectly at ease, as if they had been kids together. At the next stop, Dusenberry got off. So did the lady. ‘Aren’t you going to Wingdam?’ I asked. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘May we have the pleasure of your company further?’ the judge asked, taking off his hat. ‘No, I’ve changed my mind,’ she said, and off she went, walking arm in arm with him as casually as can be.”
“Wonder if that wa’n’t the party that passed through here last July?” asked the blacksmith, joining the loungers in front of the stage-office. “Waters brought up a buggy to get the axle bolted. There was a woman setting in the buggy, but the hood was drawn down, and I didn’t get to see her face.” During this conversation Aristides, after a long, lingering glance at the stage, had at last torn himself away from its fascinations, and was now lounging down the long straggling street in a peculiarly dissipated manner, with his hat pushed on the back part of his head, his right hand and a greater portion of his right arm buried in his trousers pocket. This might have been partly owing to the shortness of his legs and the comparative amplitude of his trousers, which to the casual observer seemed to obviate the necessity of any other garment. But when he reached the bottom of the street, and further enlivened his progress by whistling shrilly between his fingers, and finally drew a fragment of a cigar from his pocket and placed it between his teeth, it was evident that there was a moral as well as physical laxity in his conduct. The near fact was that Aristides had that afternoon evaded the Sunday-school, and was open to any kind of infant iniquity.
“Wonder if that was the group that came through here last July?” asked the blacksmith, joining the people hanging out in front of the stage-office. “Waters brought a buggy to get the axle fixed. There was a woman sitting in the buggy, but the hood was pulled down, and I didn’t get to see her face.” During this conversation, Aristides, after a long, lingering stare at the stage, finally pulled himself away from its allure and was now walking down the long, winding street in a uniquely careless way, with his hat pushed back on his head, his right hand, and most of his right arm stuffed into his pants pocket. This may have been partly due to his short legs and the bagginess of his pants, which to a casual observer seemed to make any other clothing unnecessary. But when he got to the bottom of the street, further adding to his carefree attitude by whistling sharply between his fingers, and finally pulled out a piece of a cigar from his pocket and stuck it between his teeth, it was clear that there was both a moral and physical slackness in his behavior. The truth was that Aristides had skipped Sunday school that afternoon and was open to any kind of childish mischief.
The main street of Smith’s Pocket gradually lost its civilized character, and after one or two futile attempts at improvement at its lower extremity, terminated impotently in a chaos of ditches, races, and trailings. Out of this again a narrow trail started along the mountain side, and communicated with that vast amphitheatre which still exhibited the pioneer efforts of the early settlers. It was this trail that Aristides took that Sunday afternoon, and which he followed until he reached the hillside a few rods below the yawning fissure of Smith’s Pocket. After a careful examination of the vicinity, he cleared away the underbrush beside a fallen pine that lay near, and sat down in the attitude of patient and deliberate expectancy.
The main street of Smith’s Pocket gradually lost its civilized feel, and after a couple of useless tries to improve it at the lower end, it ended up in a mess of ditches, streams, and debris. From this point, a narrow trail began along the mountainside and led to a vast amphitheater that still showed the early efforts of the first settlers. It was this trail that Aristides took that Sunday afternoon, and he followed it until he reached the hillside a short distance below the gaping crack of Smith’s Pocket. After carefully looking around the area, he cleared away the underbrush next to a fallen pine nearby and sat down in a posture of patient and deliberate waiting.
Five minutes passed—ten, twenty—and finally a half-hour was gone. Aristides threw away his cigar, which he had lacked determination to light, and peeled small slips from the inner bark of the pine-tree, and munched them gravely. Another five, ten, and twenty minutes passed, and the sun began to drop below the opposite hillside. Another ten minutes, and the whole of the amphitheatre above was in heavy shadow. Ten minutes more, and the distant windows in the settlement flamed redly. Five minutes, and the spire of the Methodist church caught the glow—and then the underbrush crackled.
Five minutes went by—then ten, twenty—and finally, half an hour had passed. Aristides tossed aside his cigar, which he hadn’t had the will to light, and peeled off small strips from the inner bark of the pine tree, chewing them quietly. Another five, ten, and then twenty minutes went by, and the sun began to sink below the hillside across from him. Ten minutes more, and the entire amphitheater above was cloaked in heavy shadow. Another ten minutes, and the distant windows in the settlement glowed red. Five minutes later, the spire of the Methodist church caught the light—and then the underbrush started to crackle.
Aristides, looking up, saw the trunk of the prostrate pine slowly lifting itself before him.
Aristides looked up and saw the trunk of the fallen pine gradually rising in front of him.
A second glance showed the fearless and self-possessed boy that the apparent phenomenon was simply and easily explained. The tree had fallen midway and at right angles across the trunk of another prostrate monarch. So accurately and evenly was it balanced that the child was satisfied, from a liberal experience of the application of these principles to the game of “seesaw,” that a very slight impulse to either end was sufficient to destroy the equilibrium. That impulse proceeded from his end of the tree, as he saw when the uplifted trunk disclosed an opening in the ground beneath it, and the head and shoulders of a man emerging therefrom.
A second look revealed to the brave and composed boy that the strange sight had a simple explanation. The tree had fallen across the trunk of another fallen tree at a right angle. It was so perfectly balanced that the child, drawing from his extensive experience with “seesaw,” understood that just a small push on either side would upset the balance. That push came from his end of the tree, as he observed when the raised trunk revealed a space in the ground underneath, and he saw a man's head and shoulders coming out of it.
Aristides threw himself noiselessly on his stomach. The thick clump of an azalea hid him from view, though it did not obstruct his survey of the stranger, whom he at once recognized as his former enemy,—the man with the red handkerchief,—the hopeful prospector of Red Mountain, and the hypothetical “Dusenberry” of the stage-driver.
Aristides silently lay down on his stomach. The dense bush of an azalea concealed him from sight, but it didn't block his view of the stranger, whom he immediately recognized as his old enemy—the man with the red handkerchief—the eager prospector from Red Mountain, and the supposed “Dusenberry” that the stage-driver had mentioned.
The stranger looked cautiously round, and Aristides shrank close behind the friendly azalea.
The stranger glanced around carefully, and Aristides huddled close behind the welcoming azalea.
Satisfied that he was unobserved, the subterranean proprietor returned to the opening and descended, reappearing with a worn black enameled traveling-bag which he carried with difficulty. This he again enveloped in a blanket and strapped tightly on his back, and a long-handled shovel, brought up from the same mysterious storehouse, completed his outfit. As he stood for a moment leaning on the shovel, it was the figure of the hopeful prospector in the heart of the forest. A very slight effort was sufficient to replace the fallen tree in its former position. Raising the shovel to his shoulder, he moved away, brushing against the azalea bush which hid the breathless Aristides. The sound of his footsteps retreating through the crackling brush presently died out, and a drowsy Sabbath stillness succeeded.
Satisfied that no one was watching, the underground owner went back to the opening and came back with a worn black traveling bag that he struggled to carry. He wrapped it again in a blanket and strapped it tightly to his back, and a long-handled shovel, pulled from the same mysterious storage, completed his gear. For a moment, as he leaned on the shovel, he looked like a hopeful prospector in the heart of the forest. With just a slight effort, he was able to put the fallen tree back in its original position. Raising the shovel to his shoulder, he walked away, brushing against the azalea bush that concealed the breathless Aristides. The sound of his footsteps faded as they retreated through the crackling brush, leaving a drowsy stillness in the air.
Aristides rose. There was a wonderful brightness in his gray eyes, and a flush on his sunburned cheek. Seizing a root of the fallen pine he essayed to move it. But it defied his endeavors. Aristides looked round.
Aristides stood up. There was a brilliant light in his gray eyes and a flush on his sunburned cheek. Grabbing a root from the fallen pine, he tried to move it. But it resisted his efforts. Aristides glanced around.
“There’s some trick about it, but I’ll find it yet,” said that astute child. Breaking off the limb of a buckeye, he extemporized a lever. The first attempt failed. The second succeeded, and the long roots of the tree again, ascended. But as it required prolonged effort to keep the tree up, before the impetus was lost Aristides seized the opportunity to jump into the opening. At the same moment the tree slowly returned to its former position.
“There’s some trick to it, but I’ll figure it out,” said that clever kid. He broke off a branch from a buckeye tree and made a lever on the spot. His first try didn’t work. The second one did, and the long roots of the tree lifted up again. But since it took a lot of effort to keep the tree up, before the momentum faded, Aristides jumped into the opening. At the same time, the tree slowly went back to its original position.
In the sudden change from the waning light to complete darkness, Aristides was for a moment confounded. Recovering himself, he drew a match from his capacious pocket, and striking it against the sole of his shoe, by the upspringing flash perceived a candle stuck in the crevices of the rock beside him. Lighting it, he glanced curiously around him. He was at the entrance of a long gallery at the further extremity of which he could faintly see the glimmering of the outer daylight. Following this gallery cautiously he presently came to an antechamber, and by the glimmering of the light above him at once saw that it was the same he had seen in his wonderful dream.
In the sudden shift from dim light to complete darkness, Aristides was momentarily confused. Once he gathered himself, he pulled a match from his large pocket and struck it against the sole of his shoe. The sudden flash revealed a candle nestled in the cracks of the rock beside him. After lighting it, he looked around with curiosity. He found himself at the entrance of a long corridor, at the far end of which he could faintly see the glimmer of daylight. Moving cautiously down the corridor, he soon reached an antechamber, and from the light above him, he realized it was the same one he had seen in his incredible dream.
The antechamber was about fourteen feet square, with walls of decomposed quartz, mingling with flaky mica that reflected here and there the gleam of Aristides’s candle with a singular brilliancy. It did not need much observation on his part to determine the reason of the stranger’s lonely labors. On a rough rocker beside him were two fragments of ore taken from the adjacent wall, the smallest of which the two arms of Aristides could barely clasp. To his dazzled eyes they seemed to be almost entirely of pure gold. The great strike of ’56 at Ring Tail Canon had brought to the wonderful vision of Smith’s Pocket no such nuggets as were here.
The antechamber was about fourteen feet square, with walls made of decomposed quartz mixed with flaky mica that reflected the light from Aristides’s candle in a brilliant way. It didn't take him long to figure out why the stranger was working alone. Next to him on a rough rocker were two pieces of ore taken from the nearby wall, the smaller one being barely within the grasp of Aristides’s arms. To his astonished eyes, they appeared to be almost completely made of pure gold. The big find of ’56 at Ring Tail Canon didn’t produce anything as impressive as these nuggets.
Aristides turned to the wall again, which had been apparently the last scene of the stranger’s labors, and from which the two masses of ore were taken. Even to his inexperienced eye it represented a wealth almost incalculable. Through the loose, red soil everywhere glittering star points of the precious metal threw back the rays of his candle. Aristides turned pale and trembled.
Aristides turned back to the wall, which seemed to be the final spot where the stranger had worked, and from which the two chunks of ore were taken. Even with his limited experience, it looked like a fortune almost beyond measure. Through the loose, red dirt, glimmering flecks of the precious metal reflected the light from his candle. Aristides turned pale and shook.
Here was the realization of his most extravagant fancy. Ever since his strange dream and encounter with the stranger, he had felt an irresistible desire to follow up his adventure, and discover the secrets of the second cavern. But when he had returned to Smith’s Pocket, a few days after, the wreck of the fallen roof had blocked up that part of the opening from which he had caught sight of the hidden workman below. During his visit he had picked up from among the rubbish the memorandum book which had supplied M’liss with letter paper. Still haunting the locality after school hours, he had noticed that regularly at sunset the man with the red handkerchief appeared in some mysterious way from the hillside below Smith’s Pocket, and went away in the direction of the settlement. By careful watching, Aristides had fixed the location of his mysterious appearance to a point a few rods below the opening of Smith’s Pocket. Flushed by this discovery, he had been betrayed from his usual discretion so far as to intimate a hinting of the suspicion that possessed him in the few mysterious words he had whispered to M’liss at school. The accident we have described above determined the complete discovery of the secret.
Here was the realization of his wildest dream. Ever since his strange dream and encounter with the mysterious stranger, he had felt an intense urge to pursue his adventure and uncover the secrets of the second cave. But when he returned to Smith’s Pocket a few days later, the fallen roof had blocked the part of the entrance where he had glimpsed the hidden worker below. During that visit, he had picked up the notebook that M’liss had used for letter writing. Still hanging around the area after school, he noticed that regularly at sunset, the man with the red handkerchief would mysteriously appear from the hillside below Smith’s Pocket and head towards the settlement. By carefully observing, Aristides had pinpointed this strange appearance to a spot just a few yards below the entrance of Smith’s Pocket. Excited by this discovery, he had let slip some hints of his suspicions in the few cryptic words he whispered to M’liss at school. The accident we described earlier led to the complete unraveling of the secret.
Who was the stranger, and why did he keep the fact of this immense wealth hidden from the world? Suppose he, Aristides, were to tell? Wouldn’t the schoolboys look up at him with interest as the hero and discoverer of this wonderful cavern, and wouldn’t the stage-driver feel proud of his acquaintance and offer him rides for nothing?
Who was the stranger, and why did he keep his incredible wealth a secret from everyone? What if he, Aristides, decided to share? Wouldn't the schoolboys see him as the hero and discoverer of this amazing cave, and wouldn't the stagecoach driver feel proud to know him and offer him free rides?
Why hadn’t Smith discovered it—who was poor and wanted money, whom Aristides had liked, who was the father of M’liss, for whom Aristides confessed a secret passion, who belonged to the settlement and helped to build it up—instead of the stranger? Had Smith never a suspicion that gold was so near him, and if so, why had he killed himself? But did Smith kill himself? And at this thought and its correlative fancy, again the cheek of Aristides blanched, and the candle shook in his nerveless fingers.
Why hadn’t Smith figured it out—who was poor and needed money, whom Aristides had liked, who was the father of M’liss, for whom Aristides admitted he had a secret crush, who was part of the settlement and helped build it up—instead of the stranger? Did Smith never suspect that gold was so close, and if he did, why did he take his own life? But did Smith actually take his own life? This thought and its connected idea made Aristides’ face go pale again, and the candle trembled in his unsteady hands.
Apart and distinct from these passing conjectures one idea remained firm and dominant in his mind: the man with the red handkerchief had no right to this treasure! The mysterious instinct which directed this judicial ruling of Aristides had settled this fact as indubitably as though proven by the weight of the strongest testimony. For an instant a wild thought sprang up in his heart, and he seized the nearest mass of ore with the half-formed intention of bearing it directly to the feet of M’liss as her just and due inheritance. But Aristides could not lift it, and the idea passed out of his mind with the frustrated action.
Separated from these fleeting speculations, one idea remained strong and clear in his mind: the man with the red handkerchief had no right to this treasure! The mysterious instinct guiding Aristides' judgment had established this fact as firmly as if it had been proven by solid evidence. For a moment, a wild thought surged in his heart, and he grabbed the nearest chunk of ore with the half-formed intention of bringing it directly to M’liss as her rightful inheritance. But Aristides couldn't lift it, and the thought faded from his mind along with the failed action.
At the further end of the gallery a few blankets were lying, and with some mining implements, a kettle of water, a few worn flannel shirts, were the only articles which this subterranean habitation possessed. In turning over one of the blankets Aristides picked up a woman’s comb. It was a tortoise-shell, and bright with some fanciful ornamentation. Without a moment’s hesitation Aristides pocketed it as the natural property of M’liss. A pocketbook containing a few old letters in the breast pocket of one of the blue shirts was transferred to that of Aristides with the same coolness and sentiment of instinctive justice.
At the far end of the gallery, a few blankets were spread out, and alongside some mining tools, a kettle of water, and a couple of tattered flannel shirts, these were the only items this underground dwelling had. While flipping over one of the blankets, Aristides found a woman’s comb. It was made of tortoise shell and decorated with some elaborate designs. Without a second thought, Aristides pocketed it, considering it rightfully belonging to M’liss. He also casually took a pocketbook containing a few old letters from the breast pocket of one of the blue shirts, feeling a sense of instinctive fairness.
Aristides wisely reflected that these unimportant articles would excite no suspicion if found in his possession. A fragment of the rock, which, if he had taken it as he felt impelled, would have precipitated the discovery that Aristides had decided to put off until he had perfected a certain plan. The light from the opening above had gradually faded, and Aristides knew that night had fallen. To prevent suspicion he must return home. He reentered the gallery and reached the opening of the egress. One of the roots of the tree projected into the opening.
Aristides smartly considered that these minor items would raise no suspicion if found with him. A piece of the rock, which he felt compelled to take, could have led to the discovery that Aristides had chosen to delay until he had perfected a specific plan. The light from the opening above had slowly dimmed, and Aristides realized that night had come. To avoid raising any suspicion, he needed to go home. He went back into the gallery and made his way to the exit. One of the tree's roots stuck out into the opening.
He seized it and endeavored to lift it, but in vain. Panting with exertion, he again and again exerted the fullest power of his active sinews, but the tree remained immovable—the opening remained sealed as firmly as with Solomon’s signet. Raising his candle towards it, Aristides saw the reason of its resistance. In his hurried ingress he had allowed the tree to revolve sufficiently to permit one of its roots to project into the opening, which held it firmly down. In the shock of the discovery the excitement which had sustained him gave way, and with a hopeless cry the just Aristides fell senseless on the floor of the gallery.
He grabbed it and tried to lift it, but it was no use. Breathing heavily from the effort, he kept pushing himself to use all his strength, but the tree wouldn’t budge—the opening was sealed as tightly as if it had Solomon’s signet on it. Raising his candle towards it, Aristides saw why it was so resistant. In his rush to get inside, he had allowed the tree to turn enough for one of its roots to extend into the opening, which held it down securely. In the shock of this realization, the adrenaline that had kept him going faded away, and with a desperate cry, the just Aristides collapsed, unconscious on the floor of the gallery.
CHAPTER VI
“Now, where on earth can that child be?” said Mrs. Morpher, shading her eyes with her hand, as she stood at the door of the “Mountain Ranch,” looking down the Wingdam road at sunset. “With his best things on; too. Goodness!—what were boys made for?”
“Now, where could that kid be?” said Mrs. Morpher, shielding her eyes with her hand as she stood at the door of the “Mountain Ranch,” gazing down the Wingdam road at sunset. “And he's all dressed up, too. Goodness!—what are boys even for?”
Mr. Morpher, without replying to this question, apparently addressed to himself as an adult representative of the wayward species, appeared at the door, and endeavored to pour oil on the troubled waters.
Mr. Morpher, not answering the question that seemed directed at him as an adult representative of the lost species, showed up at the door and tried to calm the situation.
“Oh, he’s all right, Sue! Don’t fuss about him,” said Mr. Morpher with an imbecile sense of conveying comfort in the emphasized pronoun. “He’s down the gulch, or in the tunnel, or over to the claim. He’ll turn up by bedtime. Don’t you worry about him. I’ll look him up in a minit,” and Mr. Morpher, taking his hat, sauntered down the road in the direction of the National Hotel.
“Oh, he’s fine, Sue! Stop worrying about him,” said Mr. Morpher with a clueless attempt to reassure her with the emphasized pronoun. “He’s either down the gulch, in the tunnel, or over at the claim. He’ll show up by bedtime. Don’t stress about him. I’ll check on him in a minute,” and Mr. Morpher, grabbing his hat, strolled down the road towards the National Hotel.
Mrs. Morpher gazed doubtfully after her liege. “Looking up” Aristides, in her domestic experience, implied a prolonged absence in the bar-room of the hotel, the tedium whereof was beguiled by seven-up or euchre. But she only said: “Don’t be long, James,” and sighed hopelessly as she turned back into the house.
Mrs. Morpher watched uncertainly as her husband left. “Looking up” Aristides, in her home experience, meant he would be gone for a while in the hotel bar, where the boredom was eased by playing seven-up or euchre. But all she said was, “Don’t take too long, James,” and she sighed in resignation as she went back inside the house.
Once again within her own castle walls Mrs. Morpher dropped her look of patient suffering and glanced defiantly around for a fresh grievance.
Once again inside her own castle, Mrs. Morpher dropped her look of patient suffering and glanced defiantly around for a new reason to be upset.
The decorous little parlor offered nothing to provoke the hostility of her peculiar instincts. Spotless were the white curtains; the bright carpet guiltless of stain or dust. The chairs were placed arithmetically in twos, and added up evenly on the four sides with nothing to carry over. Two bunches of lavender and fennel breathed an odor of sanctified cleanliness through the room. Five daguerreotypes on the mantelpiece represented the Morpher family in the progressive stages of petrifaction, and had the Medusa-like effect of freezing visitors into similar attitudes in their chairs. The walls were further enlivened with two colored engravings of scenes in the domestic history of George Washington, in which the Father of his Country seemed to look blandly from his own correct family circle into Morpher’s, and to breathe quite audibly from his gilt frame a dignified blessing.
The tidy little parlor held nothing to trigger the peculiar instincts she had. The white curtains were spotless, and the bright carpet was free of stains or dust. The chairs were arranged in pairs, perfectly balanced on all four sides with no leftovers. Two bunches of lavender and fennel filled the room with a scent of pure cleanliness. Five daguerreotypes on the mantel showcased the Morpher family in various stages of aging, freezing visitors in similar poses in their chairs with a Medusa-like effect. The walls were further decorated with two colored engravings depicting scenes from George Washington's domestic life, where the Father of His Country seemed to gaze quietly from his own proper family circle into Morpher's, offering a dignified blessing that was almost audible from his ornate frame.
Lingering a moment in this sacred inclosure to readjust the tablecloth, Mrs. Morpher passed into the dining-room, where the correct Clytie presided at the supper-table, at which the rest of the family were seated. Mrs. Morpher’s quick eyes caught the spectacle of M’liss with her chin resting on her hands, and her elbows on the table, sardonically surveying the model of deportment opposite to her.
Lingering for a moment in this sacred space to straighten the tablecloth, Mrs. Morpher stepped into the dining room, where the proper Clytie was in charge of the supper table, with the rest of the family seated around it. Mrs. Morpher quickly noticed M’liss, who had her chin resting on her hands, elbows on the table, sarcastically judging the example of behavior across from her.
“M’liss!”
“M’liss!”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Where’s your elbows?”
"Where are your elbows?"
“Here’s one and there’s the other,” said M’liss quietly, indicating their respective localities by smartly tapping them with the palm of her hand.
“Here’s one and there’s the other,” M’liss said softly, pointing to their locations by quickly tapping them with her palm.
“Take them off the table, instantly, you bold, forward girl—and you, sir, quit that giggling and eat your supper, if you don’t want to be put to bed without it!” added Mrs. Morpher to Lycurgus, to whom M’liss’s answer had afforded boundless satisfaction. “You’re getting to be just as bad as her, and mercy knows you never were a seraphim!”
“Take those off the table right now, you bold girl—and you, sir, stop giggling and eat your dinner if you don’t want to go to bed without it!” Mrs. Morpher added to Lycurgus, who found M’liss’s response extremely amusing. “You’re becoming just as troublesome as she is, and goodness knows you were never an angel!”
“What’s a seraphim, mother, and what do they do?” asked Lycurgus, with growing interest.
“What’s a seraphim, Mom, and what do they do?” asked Lycurgus, with growing interest.
“They don’t ask questions when they should be eating their supper, and thankful for it,” interposed Clytie, authoritatively, as one to whom the genteel attributes and social habits of the seraphim had been a privileged revelation.
“They don’t ask questions when they should be eating their dinner and being thankful for it,” Clytie interjected, confidently, as someone who had been granted an insightful understanding of the refined traits and social customs of the seraphim.
“But, mother”—
"But, Mom"
“Hush—and don’t be a heathen—run and see who is coming in,” said Mrs. Morpher, as the sound of footsteps was heard in the passage.
“Hush—and don’t be rude—go see who is coming in,” said Mrs. Morpher, as the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.
The door opened and McSnagley entered.
The door swung open and McSnagley walked in.
“Why, bless my soul—how do you do?” said Mrs. Morpher, with genteel astonishment. “Quite a stranger, I declare.”
“Why, bless my soul—how are you?” said Mrs. Morpher, with polite surprise. “You’re quite a stranger, I must say.”
This was a polite fiction. M’liss knew the fact to be that Mrs. Morpher was reputed to “set the best table” in Smith’s Pocket, and McSnagley always called in on Sunday evenings at supper to discuss the current gossip, and “nag” M’liss with selected texts. The verbal McSnagley as usual couldn’t stop a moment—and just dropped in “in passin’.” The actual McSnagley deposited his hat in the corner, and placed himself, in the flesh, on a chair by the table.
This was a polite fantasy. M’liss knew the truth: Mrs. Morpher was known for “having the best meals” in Smith’s Pocket, and McSnagley always came over on Sunday evenings for dinner to chat about the latest gossip and “bug” M’liss with chosen quotes. The talkative McSnagley, as usual, couldn’t stick around and just popped in “while passing through.” The real McSnagley dropped his hat in the corner and settled himself, in person, on a chair by the table.
“And how’s Brother James, and the fammerly?”
“And how’s Brother James, and the family?”
“They’re all well—except ‘Risty;’ he’s off again,—as if my life weren’t already pestered out with one child,” and Mrs. Morpher glanced significantly at M’liss.
“They're all fine—except ‘Risty;’ he's gone again,—as if my life wasn’t already troubled with one kid,” and Mrs. Morpher looked meaningfully at M’liss.
“Ah, well, we all of us have our trials,” said McSnagley. “I’ve been ailin’ again. That ager must be in my bones still. I’ve been rather onsettled myself to-day.”
“Ah, well, we all have our struggles,” said McSnagley. “I’ve been feeling unwell again. That fever must still be in my bones. I’ve been feeling pretty off myself today.”
There was the appearance of truth in this statement; Mr. McSnagley’s voice had a hollow resonant sound, and his eyes were nervous and fidgety. He had an odd trick, too, of occasionally stopping in the middle of a sentence, and listening as though he heard some distant sound. These things, which Mrs. Morpher recalled afterwards, did not, in the undercurrent of uneasiness about Aristides which she felt the whole of that evening, so particularly attract her notice.
There was something true about this statement; Mr. McSnagley’s voice had a hollow, resonant quality, and his eyes looked anxious and restless. He also had a strange habit of occasionally pausing in the middle of a sentence, as if he was listening for some distant noise. These details, which Mrs. Morpher remembered later, didn’t really catch her attention at the time, overshadowed as she was by a feeling of unease about Aristides that lingered throughout the evening.
“I know something,” said Lycurgus, during one of these pauses, from the retirement of his corner.
"I know something," said Lycurgus, from the safety of his corner during one of these pauses.
“If you dare to—Kerg!” said M’liss.
“If you dare to—Kerg!” said M’liss.
“M’liss says she knows where Risty is, but she won’t tell,” said the lawgiver, not heeding the warning. The words were scarcely uttered before M’liss’s red hand flashed in the air and descended with a sounding box on the traitor’s ear. Lycurgus howled, Mrs. Morpher darted into the corner, and M’liss was dragged defiant and struggling to the light.
“M’liss says she knows where Risty is, but she won’t tell,” said the lawmaker, ignoring the warning. The words had barely left his lips when M’liss’s red hand shot up and came down with a loud slap on the traitor’s ear. Lycurgus howled, Mrs. Morpher dashed into the corner, and M’liss was pulled away, defiant and fighting, into the light.
“Oh, you wicked, wicked child—why don’t you say where, if you know?” said Mrs. Morpher, shaking her, as if the information were to be dislodged from some concealed part of her clothing.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty child—why don’t you just say where it is, if you know?” said Mrs. Morpher, shaking her as if the information would fall out from some hidden pocket in her clothes.
“I didn’t say I knew for sure,” at last responded M’liss. “I said I thought I knew.”
“I didn’t say I knew for sure,” M’liss finally replied. “I said I thought I knew.”
“Well, where do you think he is?”
“Well, where do you think he is now?”
But M’liss was firm. Even the gloomy picture of the future state devised by McSnagley could not alter her determination. Mrs. Morpher, who had a wholesome awe for this strange child, at last had recourse to entreaty. Finally M’liss offered a compromise.
But M’liss was resolute. Even the bleak vision of the future created by McSnagley couldn’t change her mind. Mrs. Morpher, who felt a deep respect for this unusual girl, eventually turned to pleading. In the end, M’liss proposed a compromise.
“I’ll tell the master, but I won’t tell you—partikerly him,” said M’liss, indicating the parson with a bodkin-like dart of her forefinger.
“I’ll tell the boss, but I won’t tell you—especially him,” said M’liss, pointing at the parson with a quick jab of her finger.
Mrs. Morpher hesitated. Her maternal anxiety at length overcame her sense of dignity and discipline.
Mrs. Morpher hesitated. Her motherly worry eventually overshadowed her sense of dignity and discipline.
“Who knows where the master is, or where he is to be found to-night?” she asked hastily.
“Does anyone know where the master is, or where he might be tonight?” she asked quickly.
“He’s over to Dr. Duchesne’s,” said Clytie eagerly; “that is,” she stammered, a rich color suddenly flushing from her temples to her round shoulders, “he’s usually there in the evenings, I mean.”
“He's at Dr. Duchesne's,” Clytie said eagerly; “that is,” she stammered, a warm color suddenly spreading from her temples to her round shoulders, “he's usually there in the evenings, I mean.”
“Run over, there’s a dear, and ask him to come here,” said Mrs. Morpher, without noticing a sudden irregularity of conduct in her firstborn. “Run quick!”
“Go over there, dear, and ask him to come here,” said Mrs. Morpher, not realizing her firstborn was behaving oddly. “Hurry now!”
Clytie did not wait for a second command. Without availing herself of the proffered company of McSnagley she hastily tied the strings of her school hat under her plump chin, and slipped out of the house. It was not far to the doctor’s office, and Clytie walked quickly, overlooking in her haste and preoccupation the admiring glances which several of the swains of Smith’s Pocket cast after her as she passed. But on arriving at the doctor’s door, so out of breath and excited was this usual model of deportment that, on finding herself in the presence of the master and his friend, she only stood in embarrassed silence, and made up for her lack of verbal expression by a succession of eloquent blushes.
Clytie didn’t wait for a second request. Without taking up the offer of McSnagley’s company, she quickly tied the strings of her school hat under her round chin and slipped out of the house. It wasn’t far to the doctor’s office, and Clytie walked fast, ignoring the admiring looks from several of the guys in Smith’s Pocket as she passed by. But when she got to the doctor’s door, she was so out of breath and excited—this usually well-behaved girl—that upon seeing the doctor and his friend, she just stood there in awkward silence, making up for her inability to speak with a series of telling blushes.
Let us look at her for a moment as she stands there. Her little straw hat, trimmed with cherry-colored ribbons, rests on the waves of her blonde hair. There are other gay ribbons on her light summer dress, clasping her round waist, girdling her wrist, and fastening her collar about her white throat. Her large blue eyes are very dark and moist—it may be with excitement or a tearful thought of the lost Aristides—or the tobacco smoke, with which I regret to say the room is highly charged. But certainly as she stands leaning against the doorway, biting her moist scarlet lip, and trying to pull down the broad brim of her hat over the surging waves of color that will beat rhythmically up to her cheeks and temples, she is so dangerously pretty that I am glad for the masters sake he is the philosopher he has just described himself to his friend the doctor, and that he prefers to study human physiology from the inner surfaces.
Let’s take a moment to look at her as she stands there. Her little straw hat, trimmed with cherry-colored ribbons, sits on the waves of her blonde hair. There are other bright ribbons on her light summer dress, hugging her round waist, circling her wrist, and fastening her collar around her white throat. Her large blue eyes are very dark and wet—it might be from excitement or a tearful thought about the lost Aristides—or the tobacco smoke that fills the room, sadly. But as she leans against the doorway, biting her wet scarlet lip, and tries to pull down the wide brim of her hat over the swirling colors that keep rising to her cheeks and temples, she is so dangerously pretty that I’m glad for the master's sake that he’s the philosopher he just described to his friend the doctor, and that he prefers to study human physiology from the inside out.
When Clytie had recovered herself sufficiently to state her message, the master offered to accompany her back. As Clytie took his arm with some slight trepidation Dr. Duchesne, who had taken sharp notes of these “febrile” symptoms, uttered a prolonged whistle and returned thoughtfully to his office.
When Clytie had gathered herself enough to deliver her message, the master offered to walk her back. As Clytie took his arm with a bit of apprehension, Dr. Duchesne, who had noted these "febrile" symptoms, let out a long whistle and returned thoughtfully to his office.
Although Clytie found the distance returning no further than the distance going, with the exhaustion of her first journey it was natural that her homeward steps should be slower, and that the master should regulate his pace to accommodate her. It was natural, too, that her voice should be quite low and indistinct, so that the master was obliged to bring his hat nearer the cherry-colored ribbons in the course of conversation. It was also natural that he should offer the sensitive young girl such comfort as lay in tenderly modulated tones and playful epithets. And if in the irregularities of the main street it was necessary to take Clytie’s hand or to put his arm around her waist in helping her up declivities, that the master saw no impropriety in the act was evident from the fact that he did not remove his arm when the difficulty was surmounted. In this way Clytie’s return occupied some moments more than her going, and Mrs. Morpher was waiting anxiously at the door when the young people arrived. As the master entered the room, M’liss called him to her. “Bend down your head” she said, “and I’ll whisper. But mind, now, I don’t say I know for truth where Risty is, I only reckon.”
Although Clytie noticed that the distance back felt just as far as the distance there, the fatigue from her first journey made it natural for her to walk more slowly on the way home, and for the master to adjust his pace to match hers. It also made sense that her voice was quite soft and hard to hear, so the master had to lean closer to her, near the cherry-colored ribbons in her hair, to talk with her. It was natural for him to offer the sensitive young girl comfort through gentle tones and playful nicknames. And when they faced uneven parts of the main street, it was necessary for him to take Clytie's hand or put his arm around her waist to help her navigate the dips, which showed he thought nothing inappropriate of it, especially since he didn’t remove his arm once they had overcome the challenge. Because of this, Clytie's return took a bit longer than her outgoing journey, and Mrs. Morpher was waiting anxiously at the door when the young people arrived. As the master entered the room, M’liss called out to him, “Bend down your head,” she said, “and I’ll whisper. But remember, I’m not claiming I know for sure where Risty is; I’m just guessing.”
The master bent down his head. As usual in such cases, everybody else felt constrained to listen, and McSnagley’s curiosity was awakened to its fullest extent. When the master had received the required information, he said quietly:—
The master lowered his head. As is typical in these situations, everyone else felt obligated to listen, and McSnagley’s curiosity was piqued to its maximum. Once the master had gathered the necessary information, he said calmly:—
“I think I’ll go myself to this place which M’liss wishes to make a secret of and see if the boy is there. It will save trouble to any one else, if she should be mistaken.”
“I think I’ll go to this place that M’liss wants to keep secret and see if the boy is there. It will save everyone else some trouble if she’s wrong.”
“Hadn’t you better take some one with you?” said Mrs. Morpher.
“Don’t you think you should take someone with you?” said Mrs. Morpher.
“By all means. I’ll go!” said Mr. McSnagley, with feverish alacrity.
“Of course. I’ll go!” said Mr. McSnagley, with eager enthusiasm.
The master looked inquiringly at M’liss.
The master looked at M’liss with curiosity.
“He can go if he wants to, but he’d better not,” said M’liss, looking directly into McSnagley’s eyes.
“He can go if he wants to, but he’d better not,” M’liss said, looking directly into McSnagley’s eyes.
“What do you mean by that, you little savage?” said McSnagley quickly.
“What do you mean by that, you little monster?” McSnagley said quickly.
M’liss turned scornfully away. “Go,” she said,—“go if you want to,” and resumed her seat in the corner.
M’liss turned away in disdain. “Go,” she said, “go if you want to,” and went back to her seat in the corner.
The master hesitated. But he could not withstand the appeal in the eyes of the mother and daughter, and after a short inward struggle he turned to McSnagley and bade him briefly “Come.”
The master hesitated. But he couldn't resist the pleading look in the eyes of the mother and daughter, and after a brief internal struggle, he turned to McSnagley and simply said, “Come.”
When they had left the house and stood in the road together, McSnagley stopped.
When they left the house and stood together on the road, McSnagley stopped.
“Where are you goin’?”
"Where are you going?"
“To Smith’s Pocket.”
"To Smith's Pocket."
McSnagley still lingered. “Do you ever carry any weppings?” he at length asked.
McSnagley still lingered. “Do you ever carry any weapons?” he finally asked.
“Weapons? No. What do you want with weapons to go a mile on a starlit road to a deserted claim. Nonsense, man, what are you thinking of? We’re hunting a lost child, not a runaway felon. Come along,” and the master dragged him away.
“Weapons? No. What do you need weapons for to walk a mile on a starlit road to an abandoned claim? That’s ridiculous, man, what are you talking about? We’re looking for a lost child, not a fugitive. Come on,” and the master pulled him away.
Mrs. Morpher watched them from the door until their figures were lost in the darkness. When she returned to the dining-room, Clytie had already retired to her room, and Mrs. Morpher, overruling M’liss’s desire to sit up until the master returned, bade her follow that correct example. “There’s Clytie, now, gone to bed like a young lady, and do you do like her,” and Mrs. Morpher, with this one drop of balm in the midst of her trials, trimmed the light and sat down in patience to wait for Aristides, and console herself with the reflection of Clytie’s excellence. “Poor Clytie!” mused that motherly woman; “how excited and worried she looks about her brother. I hope she’ll be able to get to sleep.”
Mrs. Morpher watched them from the door until they disappeared into the darkness. When she went back to the dining room, Clytie had already gone to her room, and Mrs. Morpher, dismissing M’liss’s wish to stay up until the master returned, told her to follow Clytie's good example. “Look at Clytie, already in bed like a proper young lady, so you should do the same,” and with this small bit of comfort amidst her struggles, Mrs. Morpher adjusted the light and sat down patiently to wait for Aristides, finding solace in her thoughts about Clytie’s virtues. “Poor Clytie!” reflected that caring woman; “she looks so anxious and worried about her brother. I hope she can fall asleep.”
It did not occur to Mrs. Morpher that there were seasons in the life of young girls when younger brothers ceased to become objects of extreme solicitude. It did not occur to her to go upstairs and see how her wish was likely to be gratified. It was well in her anxiety that she did not, and that the crowning trial of the day’s troubles was spared her then. For at that moment Clytie was lying on the bed where she had flung herself without undressing, the heavy masses of her blond hair tumbled about her neck, and her hot face buried in her hands.
Mrs. Morpher didn't realize that there are times in a young girl's life when younger brothers stop being the center of her attention. She didn't think to go upstairs and see how her wish might be fulfilled. Fortunately for her, she didn’t, and she was spared the biggest challenge of the day's troubles. At that moment, Clytie was lying on her bed, having thrown herself down without getting ready for bed, her thick blond hair spilling around her neck, and her hot face buried in her hands.
Of what was the correct Clytie thinking?
Of what was the right Clytie thinking?
She was thinking, lying there with her burning cheeks pressed against the pillow, that she loved the master! She was recalling step by step every incident that had occurred in their lonely walk. She was repeating to herself his facile sentences, wringing and twisting them to extract one drop to assuage the strange thirst that was growing up in her soul. She was thinking—silly Clytie!—that he had never appeared so kind before, and she was thinking—sillier Clytie!—that no one had ever before felt as she did then.
She was lying there with her flushed cheeks pressed against the pillow, thinking that she loved the master! She was recalling every moment of their solitary walk, going over each detail. She was repeating his smooth words to herself, twisting them around to squeeze out even a bit to quench the strange thirst growing in her soul. She was thinking—silly Clytie!—that he had never seemed so kind before, and she was thinking—sillier Clytie!—that no one had ever felt like she did in that moment.
How soft and white his hands were! How sweet and gentle were the tones of his voice! How easily he spoke—so unlike her father, McSnagley, or the young men whom she met at church or on picnics! How tall and handsome he looked as he pressed her hand at the door! Did he press her hand, or was it a mistake? Yes, he must have pressed her hand, for she remembers now to have pressed his in return. And he put his arm around her waist once, and she feels it yet, and the strange perfume as he drew her closer to him. (Mem.—The master had been smoking. Poor Clytie!)
How soft and white his hands were! How sweet and gentle his voice sounded! How effortlessly he spoke—so different from her father, McSnagley, or the young men she met at church or picnics! How tall and handsome he looked as he held her hand at the door! Did he really hold her hand, or was it just a slip? Yes, he definitely held her hand, because she remembers pressing his in return. And he put his arm around her waist once, and she still feels it, along with the strange perfume as he pulled her closer. (Mem.—The master had been smoking. Poor Clytie!)
When she had reached this point she raised herself and sat up, and began the process of undressing, mechanically putting each article away in the precise, methodical habit of her former life. But she found herself soon sitting again on the bed, twisting her hair, which fell over her plump white shoulders, idly between her fingers, and patting the carpet with her small white foot. She had been sitting thus some minutes when she heard the sound of voices without, the trampling of many feet, and a loud rapping at the door below. She sprang to the door and looked out in the passage. Something white passed by her like a flash and crouched down at the head of the stairs. It was M’liss.
When she reached this point, she sat up and started taking off her clothes, putting each piece away in the precise, methodical way she was used to from her old life. But soon, she found herself back on the bed, idly twisting her hair, which fell over her soft white shoulders, between her fingers, and tapping the carpet with her small white foot. She had been sitting there for a few minutes when she heard voices outside, the sound of many footsteps, and a loud knocking at the door below. She quickly went to the door and looked out into the hallway. Something white zipped past her and crouched down at the top of the stairs. It was M’liss.
Mrs. Morpher opened the door.
Mrs. Morpher opened the door.
“Is Mr. Morpher in?” said a half dozen strange, hoarse voices.
“Is Mr. Morpher in?” asked about six unfamiliar, raspy voices.
“No!”
“NO!”
“Where is he?”
“Where's he?”
“He’s at some of the saloons. Oh, tell me, has anything happened? Is it about Aristides? Where is he—is he safe?” said Mrs. Morpher, wringing her hands in agony.
“He's at some of the bars. Oh, please tell me, has something happened? Is it about Aristides? Where is he— is he alright?” said Mrs. Morpher, nervously wringing her hands.
“He’s all right,” said one of the men, with Mr. Morpher’s old emphasis; “but”—
“He's good,” one of the guys said, using Mr. Morpher's old tone; “but”—
“But what?”
“But why?”
M’liss moved slowly down the staircase, and Clytie from the passage above held her breath.
M’liss walked slowly down the stairs, and Clytie from the hallway above held her breath.
“There’s been a row down to Smith’s old Pocket—a fight—a man killed.”
“There’s been a commotion down at Smith’s old Pocket—a fight—a man was killed.”
“Who?” shouted M’liss from the stairs.
“Who?” shouted M’liss from the stairs.
“McSnagley—shot dead.”
“McSnagley—killed.”
CHAPTER VII
The hurried statement of the messenger was corroborated in the streets that night. It was certain that McSnagley was killed. Smith’s Pocket, excited but skeptical, had seen the body, had put its fingers in the bullethole, and was satisfied. Smith’s Pocket, albeit hoarse with shouting and excitement, still discussed details with infinite relish in bar-rooms and saloons, and in the main street in clamorous knots that in front of the jail where the prisoner was confined seemed to swell into a mob. Smith’s Pocket, bearded, blue-shirted, and belligerent, crowding about this locality, from time to time uttered appeals to justice that swelled on the night wind, not unfrequently coupling these invocations with the name of that eminent jurist—Lynch.
The rushed message from the messenger was confirmed in the streets that night. It was clear that McSnagley was dead. Smith’s Pocket, excited but doubtful, had seen the body, had touched the bullet hole, and was convinced. Smith’s Pocket, though hoarse from yelling and excitement, still eagerly discussed the details in bars and saloons, and on the main street in noisy groups that seemed to grow into a mob in front of the jail where the prisoner was held. Smith’s Pocket, with beards, blue shirts, and a combative spirit, crowded around that area, occasionally calling for justice that echoed in the night air, often linking these pleas with the name of the famous jurist—Lynch.
Let not the simple reader suppose that the mere taking off of a fellow mortal had created this uproar. The tenure of life in Smith’s Pocket was vain and uncertain at the best, and as such philosophically accepted, and the blowing out of a brief candle here and there seldom left a permanent shadow with the survivors. In such instances, too, the victims had received their quietus from the hands of brother townsmen, socially, as it were, in broad day, in the open streets, and under other mitigating circumstances. Thus, when Judge Starbottle of Virginia and “French Pete” exchanged shots with each other across the plaza until their revolvers were exhausted, and the luckless Pete received a bullet through the lungs, half the town witnessed it, and were struck with the gallant and chivalrous bearing of these gentlemen, and to this day point with feelings of pride and admiration to the bulletholes in the door of the National Hotel, as they explain how narrow was the escape of the women in the parlor. But here was a man murdered at night, in a lonely place, and by a stranger—a man unknown to the saloons of Smith’s Pocket—a wretch who could not plead the excitement of monte or the delirium of whiskey as an excuse. No wonder that Smith’s Pocket surged with virtuous indignation beneath the windows of his prison, and clamored for his blood.
Don't let the average reader think that the death of one person caused all this chaos. Life in Smith’s Pocket was always fragile and uncertain, and everyone accepted that. The occasional death rarely left a lasting impact on those left behind. In the past, when someone died, it was often at the hands of fellow townsfolk, during the day, in public, under less dramatic circumstances. For instance, when Judge Starbottle from Virginia and “French Pete” shot at each other across the plaza until their guns were empty, and Pete got shot in the lungs, half the town watched it unfold. They admired the brave manner in which these men fought and still take pride in the bullet holes in the door of the National Hotel, recounting how close the women in the parlor came to danger. But this time, a man was killed at night, in a secluded spot, by a stranger—someone who wasn't part of Smith’s Pocket's social scene—a guy with no excuse, not even the thrill of gambling or the influence of alcohol. It’s no surprise that the town was filled with righteous anger outside the prison, demanding justice.
And as the crowd thickened and swayed to and fro, the story of his crime grew exaggerated by hurried and frequent repetition. Half a dozen speakers volunteered to give the details with an added horror to every sentence. How one of Morpher’s children had been missing for a week or more. How the schoolmaster and the parson were taking a walk that evening, and coming to Smith’s Pocket heard a faint voice from its depths which they recognized as belonging to the missing child. How they had succeeded in dragging him out and gathered from his infant lips the story of his incarceration by the murderer, Waters, and his enforced labors in the mine. How they were interrupted by the appearance of Waters, followed by a highly colored and epithet-illustrated account of the interview and quarrel. How Waters struck the schoolmaster, who returned the blow with a pick. How Waters thereupon drew a derringer and fired, missing the schoolmaster, but killing McSnagley behind him. How it was believed that Waters was one of Joaquin’s gang, that he had killed Smith, etc., etc. At each pause the crowd pushed and panted, stealthily creeping around the doors and windows of the jail like some strange beast of prey, until the climax was reached, and a hush fell, and two men were silently dispatched for a rope, and a critical examination was made of the limbs of a pine-tree in the vicinity.
As the crowd grew larger and swayed back and forth, the story of his crime became exaggerated with every hurried retelling. Multiple speakers stepped up to share the details, adding more horror to each sentence. They talked about how one of Morpher’s children had been missing for over a week. They recounted how the schoolmaster and the pastor were out for a walk that evening, and while passing Smith’s Pocket, they heard a faint voice from deep within, which they recognized as belonging to the missing child. They described how they managed to pull him out and got the story from his little lips about how the murderer, Waters, had imprisoned him and forced him to work in the mine. They mentioned how they were interrupted by Waters’ sudden appearance, followed by a vividly dramatized account of their confrontation. They said that Waters hit the schoolmaster, who retaliated with a pick. They reported that Waters then pulled out a derringer and fired, missing the schoolmaster but hitting McSnagley behind him. It was rumored that Waters was part of Joaquin’s gang and had killed Smith, and so on. With each pause, the crowd pushed closer, breathing heavily, stealthily moving around the doors and windows of the jail like some strange beast stalking its prey, until finally, a hush fell over the scene. Two men were quietly sent to get a rope, and they carefully examined the limbs of a nearby pine tree.
The man to whom these incidents had the most terrible significance might have seemed the least concerned as he sat that night but a few feet removed from the eager crowd without, his hands lightly clasped together between his knees, and the expression on his face of one whose thoughts were far away. A candle stuck in a tin sconce on the wall flickered as the night wind blew freshly through a broken pane of the window. Its uncertain light revealed a low room whose cloth ceiling was stained and ragged, and from whose boarded walls the torn paper hung in strips; a lumber-room partitioned from the front office, which was occupied by a justice of the peace. If this temporary dungeon had an appearance of insecurity, there was some compensation in the spectacle of an armed sentinel who sat upon a straw mattress in the doorway, and another who patrolled the narrow hall which led to the street. That the prisoner was not placed in one of the cells in the floor below may have been owing to the fact that the law recognized his detention as only temporary, and while providing the two guards as a preventive against the egress of crime within, discreetly removed all unnecessary and provoking obstacles to the ingress of justice from without.
The man who found these events most disturbing seemed the least worried as he sat that night just a few feet away from the eager crowd outside, his hands lightly clasped together between his knees and his expression distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. A candle stuck in a tin sconce on the wall flickered as the night wind blew fresh air through a broken window. Its wavering light revealed a small room with a stained and ragged cloth ceiling, and torn wallpaper hanging in strips from the boarded walls; it was a storage room separated from the front office occupied by a justice of the peace. Though this makeshift dungeon looked insecure, there was some comfort in the sight of an armed guard sitting on a straw mattress in the doorway and another patrolling the narrow hallway leading to the street. The prisoner wasn't placed in one of the cells below likely because the law viewed his detention as temporary, and while providing two guards to prevent crime from escaping, it discreetly removed unnecessary barriers to ensure justice could come in.
Since the prisoner’s arrest he had refused to answer any interrogatories. Since he had been placed in confinement he had not moved from his present attitude. The guard, finding all attempts at conversation fruitless, had fallen into a reverie, and regaled himself with pieces of straw plucked from the mattress. A mouse ran across the floor. The silence contrasted strangely with the hum of voices in the street.
Since the prisoner’s arrest, he had refused to answer any questions. Since being put in confinement, he hadn’t changed his stance at all. The guard, realizing that all attempts to talk were pointless, had drifted off into daydreams, entertaining himself with bits of straw pulled from the mattress. A mouse scurried across the floor. The silence felt oddly stark compared to the buzz of voices outside.
The candle-light, falling across the prisoner’s forehead, showed the features which Smith’s Pocket knew and recognized as Waters, the strange prospector. Had M’liss or Aristides seen him then they would have missed that sinister expression which was part of their fearful remembrance. The hard, grim outlines of his mouth were relaxed, the broad shoulders were bent and contracted, the quick, searching eyes were fixed on vacancy. The strong man—physically strong only—was breaking up. The fist that might have felled an ox could do nothing more than separate its idle fingers with childishness of power and purpose. An hour longer in this condition, and the gallows would have claimed a figure scarcely less limp and impotent than that it was destined to ultimately reject.
The candlelight, casting a glow across the prisoner’s forehead, revealed the face that Smith’s Pocket recognized as Waters, the odd prospector. If M’liss or Aristides had seen him then, they wouldn’t have noticed that sinister look that haunted their memories. The hard, grim lines of his mouth were softened, his broad shoulders slumped and drawn in, and his quick, probing eyes stared blankly into space. The strong man—strong only in a physical sense—was falling apart. The fist that could have taken down an ox could now only weakly spread its idle fingers like a child. Another hour in this state, and the gallows would claim a figure barely less limp and powerless than the one it was meant to ultimately reject.
He had been trying to collect his thoughts. Would they hang him? No, they must try him first, legally, and he could prove—he could prove—But what could he prove? For whenever he attempted to consider the uncertain chances of his escape, he found his thoughts straying wide of the question. It was of no use for him to clasp his fingers or knit his brows. Why did the recollection of a school-fellow, long since forgotten, blot out all the fierce and feverish memories of the night and the terrible certainty of the future? Why did the strips of paper hanging from the wall recall to him the pattern of a kite he had flown forty years ago. In a moment like this, when all his energies were required and all his cunning and tact would be called into service, could he think of nothing better than trying to match the torn paper on the wall, or to count the cracks in the floor? And an oath rose to his lips, but from very feebleness died away without expression.
He had been trying to gather his thoughts. Would they execute him? No, they had to put him on trial first, legally, and he could prove—he could prove—But what could he actually prove? Every time he tried to think about his uncertain chances of escaping, his mind wandered far from the issue. It was useless for him to clench his fists or furrow his brows. Why did remembering a long-forgotten school friend erase all the intense and chaotic memories of the night and the grim certainty of what was to come? Why did the scraps of paper hanging on the wall remind him of a kite he had flown forty years ago? In a moment like this, when he needed all his energy and every bit of cleverness and strategy he had, could he think of nothing better than trying to piece together the torn paper on the wall or count the cracks in the floor? An oath almost escaped his lips, but out of sheer weakness, it faded away without being said.
Why had he ever come to Smith’s Pocket? If he had not been guided by that hell-cat, this would not have happened. What if he were to tell all he knew? What if he should accuse her? But would they be willing to give up the bird they had already caught? Yet he again found himself cursing his own treachery and cowardice, and this time an exclamation burst from his lips and attracted the attention of the guard.
Why had he ever come to Smith’s Pocket? If he hadn’t been led by that troublemaker, this wouldn’t have happened. What if he revealed everything he knew? What if he accused her? But would they really be willing to let go of the bird they’d already caught? Still, he found himself cursing his own betrayal and fear, and this time an outburst escaped his lips, catching the guard's attention.
“Hello, there! easy, old fellow; thar ain’t any good in that,” said the sentinel, looking up. “It’s a bad fix you’re in, sure, but rarin’ and pitchin’ won’t help things. ’T ain’t no use cussin’—leastways, ’t ain’t that kind o’ swearing that gets a chap out o’ here”, he added, with a conscientious reservation. “Now, ef I was in your place, I’d kinder reflect on my sins, and make my peace with God Almighty, for I tell you the looks o’ them people outside ain’t pleasant. You’re in the hands of the law, and the law will protect you as far as it can,—as far as two men can stand agin a hundred; sabe? That’s what’s the matter; and it’s as well that you knowed that now as any time.”
“Hey there! Take it easy, my friend; that’s not going to do any good,” said the sentinel, looking up. “You’re in a tough spot, for sure, but yelling and thrashing around won’t help. It’s useless to curse—at least, it’s not that kind of swearing that will get you out of here,” he added, with a thoughtful pause. “Now, if I were you, I’d think about my mistakes and make my peace with God, because I tell you, the looks of those people outside aren’t friendly. You’re in the hands of the law, and the law will protect you as much as it can— as much as two men can stand against a hundred; got it? That’s the situation, and it’s better you know that now than later.”
But the prisoner had relapsed into his old attitude, and was surveying the jailor with the same abstracted air as before. That individual resumed his seat on the mattress, and now lent his ear to a colloquy which seemed to be progressing at the foot of the stairs. Presently he was bailed by his brother turnkey from below.
But the prisoner had fallen back into his old demeanor, looking at the jailor with the same distracted expression as before. The jailor settled back onto the mattress and listened to a conversation that seemed to be happening at the foot of the stairs. Soon, he was called by his fellow guard from below.
“Oh, Bill,” said fidus Achates from the passage, with the usual Californian prefatory ejaculation.
“Oh, Bill,” said fidus Achates from the hallway, with the typical Californian introductory exclamation.
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Here’s M’liss! Says she wants to come up. Shall I let her in?”
“Here’s M’liss! She says she wants to come in. Should I let her in?”
The subject of inquiry, however, settled the question of admission by darting past the guard below in this moment of preoccupation, and bounded up the stairs like a young fawn. The guards laughed.
The person being questioned, however, resolved the issue of getting in by quickly slipping past the distracted guard below and leaping up the stairs like a young deer. The guards laughed.
“Now, then, my infant phenomenon,” said the one called Bill, as M’liss stood panting before him, “wot ’s up? and nextly, wot’s in that bottle?”
“Now, then, my little wonder,” said the one called Bill, as M’liss stood breathing heavily in front of him, “what’s going on? And by the way, what’s in that bottle?”
M’liss whisked the bottle which she held in her hand smartly under her apron, and said curtly, “Where’s him that killed the parson?”
M’liss quickly tucked the bottle she was holding under her apron and said sharply, “Where’s the guy that killed the parson?”
“Yonder,” replied the man, indicating the abstracted figure with his hand. “Wot do you want with him? None o’ your tricks here, now,” he added threateningly.
“Over there,” the man said, pointing to the distracted figure with his hand. “What do you want with him? No tricks here, understood?” he added menacingly.
“I want to see him!”
"I want to see him!"
“Well, look! make the most of your time, and his too, for the matter of that; but mind, now, no nonsense, M’liss, he won’t stand it!” repeated the guard with an emphasis in the caution.
“Well, look! Make the most of your time, and his too, for that matter; but remember, no nonsense, M’liss, he won’t put up with it!” the guard repeated, stressing the warning.
M’liss crossed the room, until opposite the prisoner. “Are you the chap that killed the parson?” she said, addressing the motionless figure.
M’liss crossed the room until she was facing the prisoner. “Are you the guy who killed the parson?” she asked, speaking to the unmoving figure.
Something in the tone of her voice startled the prisoner from the reverie. He raised his head and glanced quickly, and with his old sinister expression, at the child.
Something in her voice jolted the prisoner out of his thoughts. He lifted his head and shot a quick glance at the child, his old sinister look returning.
“What’s that to you?” he asked, with the grim lines setting about his mouth again, and the old harshness of his voice.
“What’s that to you?” he asked, with the tight lines around his mouth reappearing and the familiar roughness in his voice.
“Didn’t I tell you he wouldn’t stand any of your nonsense, M’liss?” said the guard testily.
“Didn’t I tell you he wouldn’t put up with any of your nonsense, M’liss?” the guard said, annoyed.
M’liss only repeated her question.
M'liss just asked her question again.
“And what if I did kill him?” said the prisoner savagely; “what’s that to you, you young hell-cat? Guard!—damnation!—what do you let her come here for? Do you hear? Guard!” he screamed, rising in a transport of passion, “take her away! fling her downstairs! What the h—ll is she doing here?”
“And what if I did kill him?” the prisoner shouted angrily. “What does that matter to you, you young troublemaker? Guard!—damn it!—why do you let her come here? Do you hear me? Guard!” he yelled, getting up in a fit of rage. “Take her away! Throw her down the stairs! What the hell is she doing here?”
“If you was the man that killed McSnagley,” said M’liss, without heeding the interruption, “I’ve brought you something;” and she drew the bottle from under her apron and extended it to Waters, adding, “It’s brandy—Cognac—A1.”
“If you were the man who killed McSnagley,” said M’liss, ignoring the interruption, “I’ve brought you something;” and she pulled the bottle from under her apron and held it out to Waters, adding, “It’s brandy—Cognac—A1.”
“Take it away, and take yourself with it,” returned Waters, without abating his angry accents. “Take it away! do you hear?”
“Get it out of here, and take yourself with it,” Waters replied, his anger still evident. “Get it out of here! Do you hear me?”
“Well, that’s what I call ongrateful, dog-gone my skin if it ain’t,” said the guard, who had been evidently struck with M’liss’s generosity. “Pass the licker this way, my beauty, and I’ll keep it till he changes his mind. He’s naturally a little flustered just now, but he’ll come round after you go.”
“Well, that’s what I call ungrateful, damn it if it isn’t,” said the guard, who had clearly been impressed by M’liss’s generosity. “Hand the drink over here, darling, and I’ll hold onto it until he comes to his senses. He’s just a bit rattled right now, but he’ll come around after you leave.”
But M’liss didn’t accede to this change in the disposition of the gift, and was evidently taken aback by her reception and the refusal of the proffered comfort.
But M’liss didn’t agree to this change regarding the gift, and she was clearly caught off guard by her reception and the rejection of the offered comfort.
“Come, hand the bottle here!” repeated the guard. “It’s agin rules to bring the pris’ner anything, anyway, and it’s confiscated to the law. It’s agin the rules, too, to ask a pris’ner any question that’ll criminate him, and on the whole you’d better go, M’liss,” added the guard, to whom the appearance of the bottle had been the means of provoking a spasm of discipline.
“Come on, pass the bottle here!” the guard repeated. “It’s against the rules to bring the prisoner anything, and it’s confiscated by the law. It's also against the rules to ask a prisoner any questions that could incriminate them, so you’d better leave, M’liss,” the guard added, as the sight of the bottle triggered a flare-up of discipline.
But M’liss refused to make over the coveted treasure. Bill arose half jestingly and endeavored to get possession of the bottle. A struggle ensued, good-naturedly on the part of the guard, but characterized on the part of M’liss by that half-savage passion which any thwarted whim or instinct was sure to provoke in her nature. At last with a curse she freed herself from his grasp, and seizing the bottle by the neck aimed it with the full strength of her little arm fairly at his head. But he was quick enough to avert that important object, if not quick enough to save his shoulder from receiving the strength of the blow, which shattered the thin glass and poured the fiery contents of the bottle over his shirt and breast, saturating his clothes, and diffusing a sharp alcoholic odor through the room.
But M’liss refused to give up the prized treasure. Bill got up half-jokingly and tried to take the bottle from her. A playful struggle broke out, with the guard being all in good fun, but M’liss showed a wild passion that any thwarted desire would trigger in her. Finally, with a curse, she broke free from his grip, grabbed the bottle by the neck, and aimed it with all her little strength at his head. But he was quick enough to dodge that crucial target, though not quick enough to save his shoulder from taking the impact, which shattered the thin glass and spilled the fiery contents all over his shirt and chest, soaking his clothes and filling the room with a strong alcoholic smell.
A forced laugh broke from his lips, as he sank back on the mattress, not without an underlying sense of awe at this savage girl who stood panting before him, and from whom he had just escaped a blow which might have been fatal. “It’s a pity to waste so much good licker,” he added, with affected carelessness, narrowly watching each movement of the young pythoness, whose rage was not yet abated.
A forced laugh escaped his lips as he fell back onto the mattress, feeling a mix of awe for the fierce girl standing there, still breathing heavily, from whom he had just dodged a potentially deadly strike. “It's a shame to waste such good stuff,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant while closely observing every move of the young woman, whose anger hadn’t really subsided yet.
“Come, M’liss,” he said at last, “we’ll say quits. You’ve lost your brandy, and I’ve got some of the pieces of yonder bottle sticking in my shoulder yet. I suppose brandy is good for bruises, though. Hand me the light!”
“Come on, M’liss,” he said finally, “let’s call it even. You’ve lost your brandy, and I still have some of the broken bottle stuck in my shoulder. I guess brandy is good for bruises, though. Pass me the light!”
M’liss reached the candle from the sconce and held it by the guard as he turned back the collar of his shirt to lay bare his shoulder. “So,” he muttered, “black and blue; no bones broken, though no fault of yours, eh? my young cherub, if it wasn’t. There—why, what are you looking at in that way, M’liss, are you crazy?—Hell’s furies, don’t hold the light so near! What are you doing; Hell—ho, there! Help!”
M'liss grabbed the candle from the wall and held it by the base as he turned back the collar of his shirt to expose his shoulder. “So,” he mumbled, “black and blue; no broken bones, though that’s not your fault, right? My young angel, if it wasn’t. There—why are you staring like that, M'liss, are you out of your mind?—For heaven's sake, don’t hold the light so close! What are you doing; hey—someone! Help!”
Too late, for in an instant he was a sheet of living flame. When or how the candle had touched his garments, saturated with the inflammable fluid, Waters, the only inactive spectator in the room, could never afterward tell. He only knew that the combustion was instantaneous and complete, and before the cry had died from his lips, not only the guard, but the straw mattress on which he had been sitting, and the loose strips of paper hanging from the walls, and the torn cloth ceiling above were in flames.
Too late, because in an instant he was a sheet of living fire. When or how the candle had come into contact with his clothes, soaked in flammable liquid, Waters, the only passive observer in the room, could never say. He only knew that the fire ignited immediately and completely, and before the scream had faded from his lips, not just the guard but also the straw mattress he had been sitting on, the loose pieces of paper hanging from the walls, and the torn fabric ceiling above were all in flames.
“Help! Help! Fire! Fire!”
“Help! Fire!”
With a superhuman effort, M’liss dragged the prisoner past the blazing mattress, through the doorway into the passage, and drew the door, which opened outwardly, against him. The unhappy guard, still blazing like a funeral pyre, after wildly beating the air with his arms for a few seconds, dashed at the broken window, which gave way with his weight, and precipitated him, still flaming, into the yard below. A column of smoke and a licking tongue of flame leaped from the open window at the same moment, and the cry of fire was reechoed from a hundred voices in the street. But scarcely had M’liss closed the open door against Waters, when the guard from the doorway mounted the stairs in time to see a flaming figure leap from the window. The room was filled with smoke and fire. With an instinct of genius, M’liss, pointing to the open window, shouted hoarsely in his ear:—
Using extraordinary strength, M’liss pulled the prisoner past the burning mattress, through the doorway into the hallway, and shut the door, which opened outward, against him. The unfortunate guard, still ablaze like a funeral pyre, flailed his arms wildly for a few seconds before he charged at the broken window, which gave way under his weight and sent him, still on fire, into the yard below. A column of smoke and a flickering flame burst from the open window at that moment, and the alarm of fire echoed from a hundred voices on the street. But just as M’liss closed the door against Waters, the guard from the doorway rushed up the stairs in time to see a flaming figure leap from the window. The room filled with smoke and fire. Acting on instinct, M’liss pointed to the open window and shouted hoarsely in his ear:—
“Waters has escaped!”
"Waters has fled!"
A cry of fury from the guard was echoed from the stairs, even now crowded by the excited mob, who feared the devastating element might still cheat them of their intended victim. In another moment the house was emptied, and the front street deserted, as the people rushed to the rear of the jail—climbing fences and stumbling over ditches in pursuit of the imagined runaway. M’liss seized the hat and coat of the luckless “Bill,” and dragging the prisoner from his place of concealment hurriedly equipped him, and hastened through the blinding smoke of the staircase boldly on the heels of the retiring crowd. Once in the friendly darkness of the street, it was easy to mingle with the pushing throng until an alley crossing at right angles enabled them to leave the main thoroughfare. A few moments’ rapid flight, and the outskirts of the town were reached, the tall pines opened their abysmal aisles to the fugitives, and M’liss paused with her companion. Until daybreak, at least, here they were safe!
A furious shout from the guard echoed up the stairs, which were still crowded with the excited mob, worried that the devastating element might stop them from getting their intended victim. In a moment, the house was cleared out, and the front street was empty as people rushed to the back of the jail—climbing fences and tripping over ditches in pursuit of the imagined escapee. M’liss grabbed the hat and coat of the unfortunate “Bill,” and pulling the prisoner from his hiding spot quickly dressed him and rushed through the thick smoke of the staircase right behind the fleeing crowd. Once in the welcoming darkness of the street, it was easy to blend in with the pushing crowd until an alley crossing at a right angle let them slip off the main road. A few moments of quick running, and they reached the edge of town, where the tall pines opened their deep paths to the fugitives, and M’liss paused with her companion. At least until dawn, they were safe here!
From the time they had quitted the burning room to that moment, Waters had passed into his listless, abstracted condition, so helpless and feeble that he retained the grasp of M’liss’s hand more through some instinctive prompting rather than the dictates of reason. M’liss had found it necessary to almost drag him from the main street and the hurrying crowd, which seemed to exercise a strange fascination over his bewildered senses. And now he sat down passively beside her, and seemed to submit to the guidance of her superior nature.
Since they left the burning room, Waters had gone into a disengaged, dazed state, so weak and helpless that he held onto M’liss’s hand more from instinct than conscious thought. M’liss had to nearly pull him away from the main street and the rushing crowd, which oddly captivated his confused mind. Now, he sat quietly next to her, appearing to defer to her stronger presence.
“You’re safe enough now till daylight,” said M’liss, when she had recovered her breath, “but you must make the best time you can through these woods to-night, keeping the wind to your back, until you come to the Wingdam road. There! do you hear?” said M’liss, a little vexed at her companion’s apathy.
“You're safe enough now until morning,” M’liss said, catching her breath. “But you need to move as quickly as you can through these woods tonight, keeping the wind at your back, until you reach the Wingdam road. There! Do you hear that?” she added, slightly annoyed by her companion's indifference.
Waters released the hand of M’liss, and commenced mechanically to button his coat around his chest with fumbling, purposeless fingers. He then passed his hand across his forehead as if to clear his confused and bewildered brain; all this, however, to no better result than to apparently root his feet to the soil and to intensify the stupefaction which seemed to be creeping over him.
Waters let go of M’liss's hand and started to button his coat around his chest with clumsy, aimless fingers. He then ran his hand across his forehead as if trying to clear his dazed and confused mind; however, all of this only served to seem to anchor his feet to the ground and deepen the daze that was washing over him.
“Be quick, now! You’ve no time to lose! Keep straight on through the woods until you see the stars again before you, and you’re on the other side of the ridge. What are you waiting for?” And M’liss stamped her little foot impatiently.
“Be quick, now! You’ve got no time to waste! Keep going straight through the woods until you see the stars in front of you again, and then you’ll be on the other side of the ridge. What are you waiting for?” And M’liss stamped her little foot impatiently.
An idea which had been struggling for expression at last seemed to dawn in his eyes. Something like a simpering blush crept over his face as he fumbled in his pocket. At last, drawing forth a twenty-dollar piece, he bashfully offered it to M’liss. In a twinkling the extended arm was stricken up, and the bright coin flew high in the air, and disappeared in the darkness.
An idea that had been trying to come out finally seemed to light up his eyes. A shy blush crept across his face as he rummaged in his pocket. Finally, pulling out a twenty-dollar bill, he nervously offered it to M’liss. In an instant, the outstretched arm was swatted away, and the shiny coin flew high into the air, vanishing into the darkness.
“Keep your money! I don’t want it. Don’t do that again!” said M’liss, highly excited, “or I’ll—I’ll—bite you!”
“Keep your money! I don’t want it. Don’t do that again!” said M’liss, very upset. “Or I’ll—I’ll—bite you!”
Her wicked little white teeth flashed ominously as she said it.
Her sly little white teeth gleamed menacingly as she said it.
“Get off while you can. Look!” she added, pointing to a column of flame shooting up above the straggling mass of buildings in the village, “the jail is burning; and if that goes, the block will go with it. Before morning these woods will be filled with people. Save yourself while you can!”
“Get out while you still can. Look!” she said, pointing to a column of flames shooting up above the scattered buildings in the village, “the jail is on fire; and if that goes, the whole block will go with it. Before morning, these woods will be filled with people. Save yourself while you can!”
Waters turned and moved away in the darkness. “Keep straight on, and don’t waste a moment,” urged the child, as the man seemed still disposed to linger. “Trot now!” and in another moment he seemed to melt into the forest depths.
Waters turned and moved away in the darkness. “Keep going straight and don’t waste any time,” urged the child, as the man appeared to still want to hang around. “Hurry up now!” and in another moment, he seemed to disappear into the depths of the forest.
M’liss threw her apron around her head, and coiled herself up at the root of a tree in something of her old fashion. She had prophesied truly of the probable extent of the fire. The fresh wind, whirling the sparks over the little settlement, had already fanned the single flame into the broad sheet which now glowed fiercely, defining the main street along its entire length. The breeze which fanned her cheek bore the crash of falling timbers and the shouts of terrified and anxious men. There were no engines in Smith’s Pocket, and the contest was unequal. Nothing but a change of wind could save the doomed settlement.
M’liss tossed her apron over her head and curled up at the base of a tree in something resembling her old style. She had accurately predicted how bad the fire would get. The strong wind, blowing the sparks across the small settlement, had already turned the single flame into a wide blaze that now lit up the main street for its entire length. The breeze against her cheek carried the sound of crashing timber and the shouts of scared and worried men. There were no fire trucks in Smith’s Pocket, making the battle against the flames unfair. Only a change in the wind could save the doomed settlement.
The red glow lit up the dark cheek of M’liss and kindled a savage light in her black eyes. Relieved by the background of the sombre woods, she might have been a red-handed Nemesis looking over the city of Vengeance. As the long tongues of flame licked the broad colonnade of the National Hotel, and shot a wreathing pillar of fire and smoke high into the air, M’liss extended her tiny fist and shook it at the burning building with an inspiration that at the moment seemed to transfigure her.
The red glow illuminated M’liss's dark cheek and sparked a fierce light in her black eyes. Set against the gloomy woods, she could have been a vengeful spirit surveying the city of Retribution. As the flames danced over the wide colonnade of the National Hotel and sent a spiraling column of fire and smoke into the sky, M’liss raised her small fist and shook it at the burning building with a determination that seemed to transform her in that moment.
So the night wore away until the first red bars of morning light gleamed beyond the hill, and seemed to emulate the dying embers of the devastated settlement. M’liss for the first time began to think of the home she had quitted the night before, and looked with some anxiety in the direction of “Mountain Ranch.” Its white walls and little orchard were untouched, and looked peacefully over the blackened and deserted village. M’liss rose, and, stretching her cramped limbs, walked briskly toward the town. She had proceeded but a short distance when she heard the sound of cautious and hesitating footsteps behind her, and, facing quickly about, encountered the figure of Waters.
So the night passed until the first red streaks of morning light shone over the hill, seeming to mimic the dying embers of the ruined settlement. For the first time, M’liss began to think about the home she had left the night before and looked with some worry in the direction of “Mountain Ranch.” Its white walls and small orchard were untouched and looked down peacefully on the blackened and deserted village. M’liss got up, stretched her cramped limbs, and walked briskly toward the town. She had only gone a short distance when she heard the sound of careful, hesitant footsteps behind her, and when she turned around quickly, she saw Waters.
“Are you drunk?” said M’liss passionately, “or what do you mean by this nonsense?”
“Are you drunk?” M’liss asked fiercely. “What do you mean by all this nonsense?”
The man approached her with a strange smile on his face, rubbing his hands together, and shivering as with cold. When he had reached her side he attempted to take her hand. M’liss shrank away from him with an expression of disgust.
The man walked up to her with a weird smile, rubbing his hands together and shivering like he was cold. When he got to her side, he tried to take her hand. M’liss pulled away from him, looking disgusted.
“What are you doing here again?” she demanded.
“What are you doing back here?” she asked.
“I want to go with you. It’s dark in there,” he said, motioning to the wood he had just quitted, “and I don’t like to be alone. You’ll let me be with you, won’t you? I won’t be any trouble;” and a feeble smile flickered on his lips.
“I want to go with you. It’s dark in there,” he said, pointing to the woods he had just left, “and I don’t like being alone. You’ll let me come with you, right? I promise I won’t be any trouble;” and a weak smile appeared on his lips.
M’liss darted a quick look into his face. The grim outlines of his mouth were relaxed, and his lips moved again impotently. But his eyes were bright and open,—bright with a look that was new to M’liss—that imparted a strange softness and melancholy to his features,—the incipient gleam of insanity!
M’liss shot a quick glance at his face. The harsh lines of his mouth had softened, and his lips moved again without strength. But his eyes were bright and wide open—bright with a look that was unfamiliar to M’liss—that added a strange softness and sadness to his features—the first hint of madness!
CHAPTER VIII
If I remember rightly, in one of the admirable tragedies of Tsien Tsiang at a certain culminating point of interest an innocent person is about to be sacrificed. The knife is raised and the victim meekly awaits the stroke. At this moment the author of the play appears on the stage, and, delivering an excellent philosophical dissertation on the merits of the “situation,” shows that by the purest principles of art the sacrifice is necessary, but at the same time offers to the audience the privilege of changing the denouement. Such, however, is the nice aesthetic sense of a Chinese auditory, and so universal the desire of bloodshed in the heathen breast, that invariably at each representation of this remarkable tragedy the cause of humanity gives way to the principles of art.
If I remember correctly, in one of Tsien Tsiang's amazing tragedies, at a key moment, an innocent person is about to be sacrificed. The knife is raised, and the victim quietly awaits the blow. At this moment, the playwright steps onto the stage and, giving an insightful philosophical talk about the merits of the “situation,” explains that according to the purest principles of art, the sacrifice is necessary. However, he also offers the audience the chance to change the outcome. Yet, the refined aesthetic sense of a Chinese audience, combined with the universal desire for bloodshed within a savage heart, means that each time this remarkable tragedy is performed, the cause of humanity is sacrificed to the principles of art.
I offer this precedent as an excuse for digressing at a moment when I have burned down a small settlement, dispatched a fellow being, and left my heroine alone in the company of an escaped convict who has just developed insanity as a new social quality. My object in thus digressing is to confer with the reader in regard to the evolution of this story,—a familiarity not without precedent, as I might prove from most of the old Greek comedies, whose parabasis permits the poet to mingle freely with the dramatis personae, to address the audience and descant at length in regard to himself, his play, and his own merits.
I bring this up as a reason to stray off-topic at a time when I've just burned down a small settlement, killed someone, and left my heroine alone with an escaped convict who’s recently gone insane. I’m digressing to talk to you, the reader, about the development of this story—a discussion that isn’t without precedent, as I could show by referencing most of the old Greek comedies, where the parabasis allows the poet to interact freely with the dramatis personae, address the audience, and talk at length about themselves, their play, and their own talents.
The fact is that, during the progress of this story, I have received many suggestions from intimate friends in regard to its incidents and construction. I have also been in the receipt of correspondence from distant readers, one letter of which I recall signed by an “Honest Miner,” who advises me to “do the right thing by M’liss,” or intimates somewhat obscurely that he will “bust my crust for me,” which, though complimentary in its abstract expression of interest, and implying a taste for euphonism, evinces an innate coarseness which I fear may blunt his perceptions of delicate shades and Greek outlines.
The truth is that, as this story has developed, I’ve gotten a lot of feedback from close friends about its events and structure. I’ve also received letters from readers far away, including one that I remember signed by an “Honest Miner,” who tells me to “do right by M’liss,” or hints in a somewhat vague way that he will “bust my crust for me.” While that’s flattering in its somewhat indirect expression of interest and shows a preference for euphemism, it reveals a certain roughness that I worry might dull his appreciation for subtle nuances and finer details.
Again, the practical nature of Californians and their familiarity with scenes and incidents which would be novel to other people have occasioned me great uneasiness. In the course of the last three chapters of M’liss I have received some twenty or thirty communications from different parts of the State corroborating incidents of my story, which I solemnly assure the reader is purely fictitious. Some one has lately sent me a copy of an interior paper containing an old obituary of Smith of Smith’s Pocket. Another correspondent writes to me that he was acquainted with the schoolmaster in the fall of ’49, and that they “grubbed together.” The editors of the serial in which this story appears assure me that they have received an advertisement from the landlord of the “National Hotel” contingent upon an editorial notice of its having been at one time the abode of M’liss; while an aunt of the heroine, alluding in excellent terms to the reformed character of her niece M’liss, clenches her sincerity by requesting the loan of twenty dollars to buy clothes for the desolate orphan.
Once again, the practical nature of Californians and their familiarity with situations and events that would be new to others has made me quite uneasy. In the last three chapters of M’liss, I have received about twenty or thirty messages from different parts of the State confirming events from my story, which I assure the reader is completely made up. Recently, someone sent me a copy of a local newspaper with an old obituary for Smith of Smith’s Pocket. Another person wrote to say he knew the schoolmaster back in the fall of ’49 and that they “grubbed together.” The editors of the magazine where this story is published have told me they got an ad from the landlord of the “National Hotel,” depending on an editorial mention of its past as the home of M’liss; meanwhile, an aunt of the main character, praising her reformed behavior, emphasizes her sincerity by asking for a loan of twenty dollars to buy clothes for the poor orphan.
Under these circumstances I have hesitated to go on. What were the bodiless creatures of my fancy—the pale phantoms of thought, evoked in the solitude of my chamber, and sometimes even midst the hum of busy streets—have suddenly grown into flesh and blood, living people, protected by the laws of society, and having their legal right to actions for slander in any court. Worse than that, I have sometimes thought with terror of the new responsibility which might attach to my development of their characters. What if I were obliged to support and protect these Frankenstein monsters? What if the original of the principal villain of my story should feel impelled through aesthetic principles of art to work out in real life the supposititious denouement I have sketched for him?
Given these circumstances, I've hesitated to continue. The bodiless creatures of my imagination—the pale phantoms of thought, conjured in the solitude of my room, and sometimes even amidst the buzz of busy streets—have suddenly come to life as real people, protected by societal laws, and holding the legal right to sue for defamation in any court. Even worse, I’ve sometimes felt a sense of dread about the new responsibility that comes with developing their characters. What if I felt compelled to support and protect these Frankenstein monsters? What if the original of the main villain in my story decided, driven by artistic principles, to bring to life the fictional outcome I've laid out for him?
I have therefore concluded to lay aside my pen for this week, leaving the catastrophe impending, and await the suggestion of my correspondents. I do so the more cheerfully as it enables the editors of this weekly to publish twenty-seven more columns of Miss Braddon’s “Outcasts of Society” and the remainder of the “Duke’s Motto,”—two works which in the quiet simplicity of their home-like pictures and household incidents are attended with none of the difficulties which beset my unhappy story.
I’ve decided to put down my pen for this week, leaving the disaster hanging, and wait for input from my correspondents. I do this more happily because it allows the editors of this weekly to publish twenty-seven more columns of Miss Braddon’s “Outcasts of Society” and the rest of the “Duke’s Motto”—two works that, with their simple, homey scenes and everyday events, don’t come with the challenges that my unfortunate story does.
CHAPTER IX
As the master, wan-eyed and unrefreshed by slumber, strayed the next morning among the blackened ruins of the fire, he was conscious of having undergone some strange revulsion of sentiment. What he remembered of the last evening’s events, though feverish and indistinct as a dream, and though, like a dream, without coherency or connected outline, had nevertheless seriously impressed him. How frivolous and trifling his past life and its pursuits looked through the lightning vista opened to his eyes by the flash of Waters’s pistol! “Suppose I had been killed,” ruminated the master, “what then? A paragraph in the ‘Banner,’ headed ‘Fatal Affray,’ and my name added to the already swollen list of victims to lawless violence and crime! Humph! A pretty scrape, truly!” And the master ground his teeth with vexation.
As the master, bleary-eyed and exhausted from a lack of sleep, wandered the next morning through the charred remains of the fire, he felt a strange shift in his feelings. What he recalled from the previous night, although hazy and unclear like a dream, and lacking any structure or clarity, had still made a significant impact on him. His past life and its pursuits seemed so trivial and insignificant in the harsh light brought to his mind by the flash of Waters's gun! "What if I had been killed?" the master thought. "What then? A brief story in the 'Banner,' titled 'Fatal Altercation,' and my name added to the already long list of victims of lawless violence and crime! Ugh! What a mess!" And the master clenched his teeth in frustration.
Let not the reader judge him too hastily. In the best regulated mind, thankfulness for deliverance from danger is apt to be mingled with some doubts as to the necessity of the trial.
Let the reader not judge him too quickly. In the best organized mind, gratitude for being saved from danger often comes mixed with some questions about the need for the struggle.
In this frame of mind the last person he would have cared to meet was Clytie. That young woman’s evil genius, however, led her to pass the burnt district that morning. Perhaps she had anticipated the meeting. At all events, he had proceeded but a few steps before he was confronted by the identical round hat and cherry colored ribbons. But in his present humor the cheerful color somehow reminded him of the fire and of a ruddy stain over McSnagley’s heart, and invested the innocent Clytie with a figurative significance. Now Clytie’s reveries at that moment were pleasant, if the brightness of her eyes and the freshened color on her cheeks were any sign, and, as she had not seen the master since then, she naturally expected to take up the thread of romance where it had been dropped. But it required all her feminine tact to conceal her embarrassment at his formal greeting and constrained manner.
In this mindset, the last person he wanted to run into was Clytie. But that young woman's mischievous nature drove her to walk through the burned area that morning. Maybe she was expecting to see him. At any rate, he had only taken a few steps when he came face to face with the same round hat and cherry-colored ribbons. Yet, in his current mood, that cheerful color reminded him of the fire and the deep red stain on McSnagley’s heart, giving the innocent Clytie an unexpected depth. At that moment, Clytie was lost in pleasant thoughts, if her bright eyes and rosy cheeks were anything to go by, and since she hadn’t seen him since then, she naturally expected to pick up their romantic thread right where they left off. But it took all her feminine charm to hide her embarrassment at his formal greeting and stiff demeanor.
“He is bashful,” reasoned Clytie to herself.
"He is shy," Clytie thought to herself.
“This girl is a tremendous fool,” growled the master inwardly.
“This girl is such a huge idiot,” the master thought to himself.
An awkward pause ensued. Finally, Clytie loquitur:—
An awkward pause followed. Finally, Clytie said:—
“M’liss has been missing since the fire!”
“M’liss has been missing since the fire!”
“Missing?” echoed the master in his natural tone.
“Missing?” echoed the master in his usual tone.
Clytie bit her lip with vexation. “Yes, she’s always running away. She’ll be back again. But you look interested. Do you know,” she continued with exceeding archness, “I sometimes think, Mr. Gray, if M’liss were a little older”—
Clytie bit her lip in frustration. “Yeah, she’s always running off. She’ll be back soon. But you seem interested. Do you know,” she continued with a playful tone, “I sometimes think, Mr. Gray, if M’liss were a little older—”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“Well, putting this and that together, you know!”
“Well, connecting the dots, you know!”
“Well?”
"What's up?"
“People will talk, you know,” continued Clytie, with that excessive fondness weak people exhibit in enveloping in mystery the commonest affairs of life.
“People will gossip, you know,” continued Clytie, with that excessive affection weak people show in wrapping even the simplest aspects of life in mystery.
“People are d——d fools!” roared the master.
“People are damned fools!” roared the master.
The correct Clytie was a little shocked. Perhaps underneath it was a secret admiration of the transgressor. Force even of this cheap quality goes a good way with some natures.
The right Clytie was a bit taken aback. Maybe beneath it all was a hidden admiration for the rule-breaker. Even this kind of low-quality force can have a significant impact on some personalities.
“That is,” continued the master, with an increase of dignity in inverse proportion to the lapse he had made, “people are apt to be mistaken, Miss Morpher, and without meaning it, to do infinite injustice to their fellow mortals. But I see I am detaining you. I will try and find Melissa. I wish you good-morning.” And Don Whiskerandos stalked solemnly away.
“That is,” continued the master, with a growing sense of dignity that was inversely related to his earlier mistake, “people tend to be mistaken, Miss Morpher, and unintentionally do great injustice to their fellow humans. But I realize I’m keeping you. I will look for Melissa. Have a good morning.” And Don Whiskerandos walked away solemnly.
Clytie turned red and white by turns, and her eyes filled with tears. This denouement to her dreams was utterly unexpected. While a girl of stronger character and active intelligence would have employed the time in digesting plans of future retaliation and revenge, Clytie’s dull brain and placid nature were utterly perplexed and shaken.
Clytie flushed red and white, and tears filled her eyes. The end of her dreams took her completely by surprise. While a girl with a stronger character and sharper mind would have used the time to come up with plans for future retaliation and revenge, Clytie’s slow mind and calm nature left her confused and shaken.
“Dear me!” said Clytie to herself, as she started home, “if he don’t love me, why don’t he say so?”
“Wow!” Clytie said to herself as she headed home, “if he doesn’t love me, why doesn’t he just say it?”
The master, or Mr. Gray, as we may now call him as he draws near the close of his professional career, took the old trail through the forest, which led to M’liss’s former hiding-place. He walked on briskly, revolving in his mind the feasibility of leaving Smith’s Pocket. The late disaster, which would affect the prosperity of the settlement for some time to come, offered an excuse to him to give up his situation. On searching his pockets he found his present capital to amount to ten dollars. This increased by forty dollars, due him from the trustees, would make fifty dollars; deduct thirty dollars for liabilities, and he would have twenty dollars left to begin the world anew. Youth and hope added an indefinite number of ciphers to the right hand of these figures, and in this sanguine mood our young Alnaschar walked on until he had reached the old pine throne in the bank of the forest. M’liss was not there. He sat down on the trunk of the tree, and for a few moments gave himself up to the associations it suggested. What would become of M’liss after he was gone? But he quickly dropped the subject as one too visionary and sentimental for his then fiercely practical consideration, and, to prevent the recurrence of such distracting fancies, began to retrace his steps toward the settlement. At the edge of the woods, at a point where the trail forked toward the old site of Smith’s Pocket, he saw M’liss coming toward him. Her ordinary pace on such occasions was a kind of Indian trot; to his surprise she was walking slowly, with her apron thrown over her head,—an indication of meditation with M’liss and the usual way in which she excluded the outer world in studying her lessons. When she was within a few feet of him he called her by name. She started as she recognized him. There was a shade of seriousness in her dark eyes, and the hand that took his was listless and totally unlike her old frank, energetic grasp.
The master, or Mr. Gray, as we can now call him as he gets closer to the end of his professional career, took the old path through the forest that led to M’liss’s former hiding place. He walked briskly, considering whether it was practical to leave Smith’s Pocket. The recent disaster, which would affect the settlement's prosperity for a while, gave him a reason to quit his job. He checked his pockets and found he had ten dollars to his name. Adding forty dollars he was owed from the trustees brought his total to fifty dollars; after subtracting thirty dollars for liabilities, he would have twenty dollars left to start fresh. Youth and hope added an endless number of zeros to the right of those figures, and in this optimistic mood, our young Alnaschar walked on until he reached the old pine throne by the bank of the forest. M’liss wasn’t there. He sat on the trunk of the tree for a moment, lost in thought about the memories it brought back. What would happen to M’liss after he was gone? But he quickly dismissed the thought as too dreamy and sentimental for his currently practical mindset. To avoid such distracting thoughts, he began to head back toward the settlement. At the edge of the woods, where the trail split toward the old site of Smith’s Pocket, he saw M’liss walking toward him. Usually, she walked at a quick pace, but to his surprise, she was moving slowly, with her apron covering her head—an indication that she was deep in thought, typical for her when she was studying her lessons. When she got within a few feet of him, he called her name. She flinched as she recognized him. There was a seriousness in her dark eyes, and the hand that took his felt limp and completely unlike her usual strong, energetic grip.
“You look worried, M’liss,” said Mr. Gray soothingly, as the old sentimental feeling crept over his heart. “What’s the matter now?”
“You look worried, M’liss,” Mr. Gray said gently, as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. “What’s going on now?”
M’liss replied by seating herself on the bank beside the road, and pointed to a place by her side. Mr. Gray took the proffered seat. M’liss then, fixing her eyes on some distant part of the view, remained for some moments in silence. Then, without turning her head or moving her eyes, she asked:—
M’liss replied by sitting down on the bank next to the road and pointed to a spot beside her. Mr. Gray took the seat she offered. M’liss then, staring at some distant part of the view, stayed silent for a few moments. Then, without turning her head or moving her gaze, she asked:—
“What’s that they call a girl that has money left her?”
“What do they call a girl who has money left to her?”
“An heiress, M’liss?”
"An heiress, M’liss?"
“Yes, an heiress.”
"Yep, a rich heiress."
“Well?” said Mr. Gray.
“Well?” asked Mr. Gray.
“Well,” said M’liss, without moving her eyes, “I’m one,—I’m a heiress!”
“Well,” said M’liss, without moving her eyes, “I’m one—I’m an heiress!”
“What’s that, M’liss?” said Mr. Gray laughingly.
“What’s that, M’liss?” Mr. Gray said with a laugh.
M’liss was silent again. Suddenly turning her eyes full upon him, she said:—
M’liss was quiet again. Suddenly looking directly at him, she said:—
“Can you keep a secret?”
"Can you keep a secret?"
“Yes,” said Mr. Gray, beginning to be impressed by the child’s manner. “Listen, then.”
“Yes,” Mr. Gray said, starting to be impressed by the child's demeanor. “Listen, then.”
In short quick sentences, M’liss began. How Aristides had several times hinted of the concealed riches of Smith’s Pocket. How he had last night repeated the story to her of a strange discovery he had made. How she remembered to have heard her father often swear that there was money “in that hole,” if he only had means to work it. How, partly impressed by this statement and partly from curiosity and pity for the prisoner, she had visited him in confinement. An account of her interview, the origin of the fire, her flight with Waters. (Questions by Mr. Gray: What was your object in assisting this man to escape? Ans. They were going to kill him. Ques. Hadn’t he killed McSnagley. Ans. Yes, but McSnagley ought to have been killed long ago.) How she had taken leave of him that morning. How he had come back again “silly.” How she had dragged him on toward the Wingdam road, and how he had told her that all the hidden wealth of Smith’s Pocket had belonged to her father. How she had found out, from some questions, that he had known her father. But how all his other answers were “silly.”
In short, quick sentences, M'liss started. She talked about how Aristides had hinted several times about the hidden riches of Smith’s Pocket. She mentioned how he had repeated the story to her last night about a strange discovery he made. She recalled hearing her father often say that there was money “in that hole,” if he only had the means to work it. Partly intrigued by this and partly feeling sorry for the prisoner, she had visited him in jail. She recounted her interview, the cause of the fire, and her escape with Waters. (Questions by Mr. Gray: What was your reason for helping this man escape? Ans. They were going to kill him. Ques. Didn’t he kill McSnagley? Ans. Yes, but McSnagley should have been killed a long time ago.) She talked about how she had said goodbye to him that morning. How he had come back again "silly." How she had pulled him along toward the Wingdam road, and how he had told her that all the hidden wealth of Smith’s Pocket belonged to her father. How she discovered, through some questions, that he knew her father. But how all his other answers were “silly.”
“And where is he now?” asked Mr. Gray.
“And where is he now?” Mr. Gray asked.
“Gone,” said M’liss. “I left him at the edge of the wood to go back and get some provisions, and when I returned he was gone. If he had any senses left, he’s miles away by this time. When he was off I went back to Smith’s Pocket. I found the hidden opening and saw the gold.”
“Gone,” said M’liss. “I left him at the edge of the woods to go back and get some supplies, and when I returned he was gone. If he had any sense left, he’s miles away by now. When he took off, I went back to Smith’s Pocket. I found the hidden entrance and saw the gold.”
Mr. Gray looked at her curiously. He had, in his more intimate knowledge of her character, noticed the unconcern with which she spoke of the circumstances of her father’s death and the total lack of any sentiment of filial regard. The idea that this man whom she had aided in escaping had ever done her injury had not apparently entered her mind, nor did Mr. Gray think it necessary to hint the deeper suspicion he had gathered from Dr. Duchesne that Waters had murdered her father. If the story of the concealed treasures of Smith’s Pocket were exaggerated he could easily satisfy himself on that point. M’liss met his suggestion to return to the Pocket with alacrity, and the two started away in that direction.
Mr. Gray looked at her with curiosity. From his closer understanding of her character, he had noticed how casually she talked about her father’s death and how she showed no signs of filial affection. The thought that the man she had helped escape could have ever harmed her didn’t seem to cross her mind, and Mr. Gray didn’t feel it was necessary to hint at the deeper suspicion he had picked up from Dr. Duchesne that Waters had killed her father. If the tales about the hidden treasures of Smith’s Pocket were exaggerated, he could easily find out for himself. M’liss eagerly accepted his suggestion to return to the Pocket, and the two headed that way.
It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Gray returned. His heightened color and eager inquiry for Dr. Duchesne provoked the usual hope from the people that he met “that it was nothing serious.” No, nothing was the matter, the master answered with a slight laugh, but would they send the doctor to his schoolhouse when he returned? “That young chap’s worse than he thinks,” was one sympathizing suggestion; “this kind of life’s too rough for his sort.”
It was late in the afternoon when Mr. Gray came back. His flushed cheeks and eager question about Dr. Duchesne sparked the usual hope from the people he encountered: “It’s nothing serious, right?” No, nothing was wrong, the master replied with a slight laugh, but could they send the doctor to his schoolhouse when he got back? “That young guy is worse off than he realizes,” was one sympathetic suggestion; “this kind of life is too tough for him.”
To while away the interim, Mr. Gray stopped on his way to the schoolhouse at the stage office as the Wingdam stage drew up and disgorged its passengers. He was listlessly watching the passengers as they descended when a soft voice from the window addressed him, “May I trouble you for your arm as I get down?” Mr. Gray looked up. It was a singular request, as the driver was at that moment standing by the door, apparently for that purpose. But the request came from a handsome woman, and with a bow the young man stepped to the door. The lady laid her hand lightly on his arm, sprang from the stage with a dexterity that showed the service to have been merely ceremonious, thanked him with an elaboration of acknowledgment which seemed equally gratuitous, and disappeared in the office.
To pass the time, Mr. Gray stopped by the stage office on his way to the schoolhouse as the Wingdam stage arrived and let its passengers out. He was casually watching the passengers as they got off when a gentle voice from the window said to him, “Could I ask you for your arm as I get down?” Mr. Gray looked up. It was an unusual request since the driver was standing by the door at that moment, seemingly for that purpose. However, the request came from a beautiful woman, and with a bow, the young man approached the door. The lady lightly placed her hand on his arm, jumped down from the stage with a grace that suggested the gesture was purely formal, thanked him with an exaggerated show of gratitude that felt a bit excessive, and then went into the office.
“That’s what I call a dead set,” said the driver, drawing a long breath, as he turned to Mr. Gray, who stood in some embarrassment. “Do you know her?”
"That's what I call a dead set," said the driver, taking a deep breath, as he turned to Mr. Gray, who looked a bit awkward. "Do you know her?"
“No,” said Mr. Gray laughingly, “do you?”
“No,” Mr. Gray said with a laugh, “do you?”
“Nary time! But take care of yourself, young man; she’s after you, sure!”
“Not a chance! But take care of yourself, young man; she’s definitely after you!”
But Mr. Gray was continuing his walk to the schoolhouse, unmindful of the caution. For the momentary glimpse he had caught of this woman’s face, she appeared to be about thirty. Her dress, though tasteful and elegant, in the present condition of California society afforded no criterion of her social status. But the figure of Dr. Duchesne waiting for him at the schoolhouse door just then usurped the place of all others, and she dropped out of his mind.
But Mr. Gray kept walking to the schoolhouse, not paying attention to the warning. From the brief glimpse he had of this woman’s face, she seemed to be around thirty. Her dress, although classy and stylish, didn’t really indicate her social standing in the current state of California society. But the sight of Dr. Duchesne waiting for him at the schoolhouse door quickly took over his thoughts, and he forgot about her.
“Now then,” said the doctor, as the young man grasped his hand, “you want me to tell you why your eyes are bloodshot, why your cheeks burn, and your hand is dry and hot?”
“Now then,” said the doctor, as the young man shook his hand, “you want me to explain why your eyes are red, why your cheeks are flushed, and why your hand is dry and hot?”
“Not exactly! Perhaps you’ll understand the symptoms better when you’ve heard my story. Sit down here and listen.”
“Not really! Maybe you'll get what I'm feeling better after you hear my story. Come sit here and listen.”
The doctor took the proffered seat on top of a desk, and Mr. Gray, after assuring himself that they were entirely alone, related the circumstances he had gathered from M’liss that morning.
The doctor sat down on the desk, and Mr. Gray, making sure they were completely alone, shared the details he had learned from M’liss that morning.
“You see, doctor, how unjust were your surmises in regard to this girl,” continued Mr. Gray. “But let that pass now. At the conclusion of her story, I offered to go with her to this Ali Baba cave. It was no easy job finding the concealed entrance, but I found it at last, and ample corroboration of every item of this wild story. The pocket is rich with the most valuable ore. It has evidently been worked for some time since the discovery was made, but there is still a fortune in its walls, and several thousand dollars of ore sacked up in its galleries. Look at that!” continued Mr. Gray, as he drew an oblong mass of quartz and metal from his pocket. “Think of a secret of this kind having been intrusted for three weeks to a penniless orphan girl of twelve and an eccentric schoolboy of ten, and undivulged except when a proper occasion offered.”
“You see, doctor, how unfair your assumptions about this girl were,” Mr. Gray continued. “But let’s put that aside for now. After she finished her story, I offered to go with her to this Ali Baba cave. It wasn't easy to find the hidden entrance, but I eventually discovered it, along with plenty of proof for every part of this crazy tale. The pocket is filled with some of the most valuable ore. It’s clear it’s been mined for a while since the discovery was made, but there’s still a fortune in its walls, along with several thousand dollars worth of ore gathered in its tunnels. Look at this!” Mr. Gray said as he pulled out a rectangular chunk of quartz and metal from his pocket. “Can you believe a secret like this was kept for three weeks by a broke orphan girl of twelve and an eccentric schoolboy of ten, only revealed when the moment was right?”
Dr. Duchesne smiled. “And Waters is really clear?”
Dr. Duchesne smiled. “So, Waters is really clear?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Gray.
“Yes,” Mr. Gray replied.
“And M’liss assisted him to escape?”
“And M’liss helped him get away?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Well, you are an innocent one! And you see nothing in this but an act of thoughtless generosity? No assisting of an old accomplice to escape?”
“Well, you really are naive! You see nothing in this but a careless act of kindness? No helping an old partner in crime escape?”
“I see nothing but truth in her statement,” returned Mr. Gray stoutly. “If there has been any wrong committed, I believe her to be innocent of its knowledge.”
“I see nothing but truth in her statement,” Mr. Gray replied firmly. “If any wrong has been done, I believe she is unaware of it.”
“Well, I’m glad at least the money goes to her and not to him. But how are you to establish her right to this property?”
"Well, I'm just happy that the money goes to her and not him. But how are you going to prove that she has the right to this property?"
“That was my object in conferring with you. At present the claim is abandoned. I have taken up the ground in my own name (for her), and this afternoon I posted up the usual notice.”
"That was my purpose in talking to you. Right now, the claim is dropped. I've taken on the land in my own name (for her), and this afternoon I put up the usual notice."
“Go on. You are not so much of a fool, after all.”
“Go ahead. You're not as much of a fool as I thought.”
“Thank you! This will hold until a better claim is established. Now, if Smith had discovered this lead, and was, as the lawyers say, ‘seized and possessed’ of it at the time of his death, M’liss, of course, as next of kin, inherits it.”
“Thank you! This will hold until a stronger claim is made. Now, if Smith had found this lead and was, as the lawyers put it, ‘seized and possessed’ of it at the time of his death, M’liss, of course, as the next of kin, inherits it.”
“But how can this be proved? It is the general belief that Smith committed suicide through extreme poverty and destitution.”
“But how can this be proven? Most people believe that Smith took his own life due to severe poverty and hardship.”
Mr. Gray drew a letter from his pocket.
Mr. Gray pulled a letter out of his pocket.
“You remember the memorandum I showed you, which came into my possession. Here it is; it is dated the day of his death.”
“You remember the memo I showed you that I got my hands on. Here it is; it’s dated the day he died.”
Dr. Duchesne took it and read:—
Dr. Duchesne took it and read:—
“July 17th. Five hours in drift—dipping west. Took out 20 oz.—cleaned up 40 oz.—Mem. Saw M. S.”
“July 17th. Five hours drifting—heading west. Retrieved 20 oz.—cleared 40 oz.—Note: Saw M. S.”
“This evidently refers to actual labor in the mine at the time,” said Dr. Duchesne. “But is it legally sufficient to support a claim of this magnitude? That is the only question now. You say this paper was the leaf of an old memorandum, torn off and used for a letter by M’liss; do you know where the orignal book can be found?”
“This clearly refers to actual work in the mine at that time,” Dr. Duchesne said. “But is it legally enough to back up a claim of this size? That’s the only question now. You mentioned this paper was a page from an old notebook, torn out and used for a letter by M’liss; do you know where the original book is?”
“Aristides has it, or knows where it is,” answered Mr. Gray.
“Aristides has it, or knows where it is,” Mr. Gray replied.
“Find it by all means. And get legal advice before you do anything. Go this very evening to Judge Plunkett and state your case to him. The promise of a handsome contingent fee won’t hurt M’liss’s prospects any. Remember, our ideas of abstract justice and the letter of the law in this case may be entirely different. Take Judge Plunkett your proofs; that is,” said the Doctor, stopping and eying his friend keenly, “if you have no fears for M’liss if this matter should be thoroughly ventilated.”
“Definitely find it. And make sure to get legal advice before you take any steps. Go to Judge Plunkett tonight and present your case to him. Offering a nice contingency fee could help M’liss's chances. Keep in mind that our ideas of fairness and what the law actually says might not align in this situation. Bring Judge Plunkett your evidence; that is,” said the Doctor, pausing and looking at his friend closely, “if you aren't worried about M’liss if this issue gets examined in depth.”
Mr. Gray did not falter.
Mr. Gray didn't hesitate.
“I go at once,” said he gayly, “if only to prove the child’s claim to a good name if we fail in getting her property.”
“I’ll go right away,” he said cheerfully, “just to validate the child’s claim to a good name if we don’t succeed in securing her property.”
The two men left the schoolhouse together. As they reached the main street, the doctor paused:—
The two men left the schoolhouse together. As they got to the main street, the doctor stopped:—
“You are still determined?”
"Are you still determined?"
“I am,” responded the young man.
“I am,” replied the young man.
“Good-night, and God speed you, then,” and the doctor left him.
“Goodnight, and take care,” the doctor said before leaving.
The fire had been particularly severe on the legal fraternity in the settlement, and Judge Plunkett’s office, together with those of his learned brethren, had been consumed with the courthouse on the previous night. The judge’s house was on the outskirts of the village, and thither Mr. Gray proceeded. The judge was at home, but engaged at that moment. Mr. Gray would wait, and was ushered into a small room evidently used as a kitchen, but just then littered with law books, bundles of papers, and blanks that had been hastily rescued from the burning building. The sideboard groaned with the weight of several volumes of New York Reports, that seemed to impart a dusty flavor to the adjoining victual. Mr. Gray picked up a volume of supreme court decisions from the coal-scuttle, and was deep in an interesting case, when the door of the adjoining room opened and Judge Plunkett appeared.
The fire had been especially devastating for the legal community in the settlement, and Judge Plunkett’s office, along with those of his colleagues, had been destroyed with the courthouse the previous night. The judge’s house was on the edge of the village, and Mr. Gray made his way there. The judge was at home but occupied at that moment. Mr. Gray would wait and was shown into a small room that clearly served as a kitchen, but was now cluttered with law books, stacks of papers, and documents that had been hurriedly saved from the fire. The sideboard was weighed down with several volumes of New York Reports, which seemed to give a dusty taste to the nearby food. Mr. Gray picked up a volume of supreme court decisions from the coal-scuttle and was engrossed in an interesting case when the door to the next room opened and Judge Plunkett walked in.
He was an oily man of about fifty, with spectacles. He was glad to see the schoolmaster. He hoped he was not suffering from the excitement of the previous evening. For his part, the spectacle of sober citizens rising in a body to vindicate the insulted majesty of the laws of society, and of man, had always something sublime in it. And the murderer had really got away after all. And it was a narrow escape the schoolmaster had, too, at Smith’s Pocket.
He was a slick man of around fifty, wearing glasses. He was happy to see the schoolmaster and hoped he wasn't still feeling the effects of the excitement from the night before. For him, the sight of respectable citizens coming together to uphold the dignity of society's laws had always been somewhat inspiring. And the murderer really did get away after all. The schoolmaster had a close call at Smith’s Pocket too.
Mr. Gray took advantage of the digression to state his business. He briefly recounted the circumstances of the discovery of the hidden wealth of Smith’s Pocket, and exhibited the memorandum he had shown the doctor. When he had concluded, Judge Plunkett looked at him over his spectacles, and rubbed his hands with satisfaction.
Mr. Gray seized the opportunity of the sidetrack to share his purpose. He quickly went over how the hidden wealth of Smith’s Pocket was discovered and showed the note he had previously shared with the doctor. Once he finished, Judge Plunkett glanced at him over his glasses and rubbed his hands together with satisfaction.
“You apprehend,” said the judge eagerly, “that you will have no difficulty in procuring this book from which the leaf was originally torn?”
“You understand,” said the judge eagerly, “that you won’t have any trouble getting this book from which the page was originally taken?”
“None,” replied Mr. Gray.
“None,” said Mr. Gray.
“Then, sir, I should give as my professional opinion that the case was already won.”
“Then, sir, I would say that my professional opinion is that the case was already won.”
Mr. Gray shook the hand of the little man with great fervor, and thanked him for his belief. “And so this property will go entirely to M’liss?” he asked again.
Mr. Gray shook the little man's hand enthusiastically and thanked him for his trust. “So this property will belong completely to M’liss?” he asked again.
“Well—ah—no—not exactly,” said Judge Plunkett, with some caution. “She will benefit by it undoubtedly—undoubtedly,” and he rubbed his hands again.
“Well—ah—no—not really,” said Judge Plunkett, with some caution. “She will definitely benefit from it—definitely,” and he rubbed his hands again.
“Why not M’liss alone? There are no other claimants!” said Mr. Gray.
“Why not just M’liss? There aren’t any other claimants!” said Mr. Gray.
“I beg your pardon—you mistake,” said Judge Plunkett, with a smile. “You surely would not leave out the widow and mother?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken,” said Judge Plunkett, smiling. “Surely you wouldn’t forget the widow and mother?”
“Why, M’liss is an orphan,” said Mr. Gray in utter bewilderment.
“Why, M’liss is an orphan,” Mr. Gray said, completely bewildered.
“A sad mistake, sir,—a painful though natural mistake. Mr. Smith, though separated from his wife, was never divorced. A very affecting history—the old story, you know—an injured and loving woman deserted by her natural protector, but disdaining to avail herself of our legal aid. By a singular coincidence that I should have told you, I am anticipating you in this very case. Your services, however, I feel will be invaluable. Your concern for her amiable and interesting daughter Narcissa—ah, no, Melissa—will, of course, make you with us. You have never seen Mrs. Smith? A fine-looking, noble woman, sir,—though still disconsolate,—still thinking of the departed one. By another singular coincidence that I should have told you, she is here now. You shall see her, sir. Pray, let me introduce you;” and still rubbing his hands, Judge Plunkett led the way to the adjoining room.
“A sad mistake, sir—a painful but natural one. Mr. Smith, although separated from his wife, was never divorced. It’s a touching story—the classic tale, you know—an injured and loving woman abandoned by her natural protector, yet refusing to seek our legal help. By a strange coincidence that I should mention, I'm actually ahead of you in this very case. Your services, however, will undoubtedly be invaluable. Your concern for her lovely and interesting daughter Narcissa—oh wait, it's Melissa—will certainly align you with us. You’ve never met Mrs. Smith? A striking and dignified woman, sir—despite being heartbroken—still thinking of the one who’s gone. By another odd coincidence that I should mention, she’s here right now. You will meet her, sir. Please, let me introduce you;” and still rubbing his hands, Judge Plunkett led the way to the next room.
Mr. Gray followed him mechanically. A handsome woman rose from the sofa as they entered. It was the woman he assisted to alight from the Wingdam stage.
Mr. Gray followed him automatically. A beautiful woman stood up from the sofa as they walked in. It was the woman he helped get off the Wingdam stage.
CHAPTER X
In the strong light that fell upon her face, Mr. Gray had an opportunity to examine her features more closely. Her eyes, which were dark and singularly brilliant, were half closed, either from some peculiar conformation of the lids, or an habitual effort to conceal expression. Her skin was colorless with that satin-like lustre that belongs to some brunettes, relieved by one or two freckles that were scarcely blemishes. Her face was squared a little at the lower angles, but the chin was round and soft, and the curves about the mouth were full and tender enough to destroy the impression left by contemplation of those rigid outlines. The effect of its general contour was that of a handsome woman of thirty. In detail, as the eye dwelt upon any particular feature, you could have added a margin of ten years either way.
In the bright light that illuminated her face, Mr. Gray had a chance to look at her features more closely. Her eyes, which were dark and strikingly bright, were half closed, either due to a unique shape of the eyelids or a habitual effort to hide her feelings. Her skin was pale with that satin-like sheen found in some brunettes, accented by one or two freckles that were barely noticeable. Her face had a slightly squared shape at the lower angles, but her chin was round and soft, and the curves around her mouth were full and gentle enough to soften the impression left by those angular features. Overall, her face looked like that of a beautiful woman in her thirties. However, when focusing on any specific feature, you could imagine her being ten years older or younger.
“Mrs. Smith—Mr. Gray,” said the lawyer briskly. “Mr. Gray is the gentleman who, since the decease of your husband, has taken such a benevolent interest in our playful Narcissa—Melissa, I should say. He is the preceptor of our district school, and beside his relation as teacher to your daughter has, I may say in our legal fashion, stood in loco parentis—in other words, has been a parent, a—a—father to her.”
“Mrs. Smith—Mr. Gray,” said the lawyer quickly. “Mr. Gray is the man who, since your husband's passing, has taken a kind interest in our playful Narcissa—Melissa, I should say. He is the principal of our district school, and besides being a teacher to your daughter, I should mention in legal terms that he has acted in loco parentis—in other words, he has been a parent, a—a—father to her.”
At the conclusion of this speech Mrs. Smith darted a quick glance at Mr. Gray, which was unintelligible to any but a woman. As there were none of her own keen-witted sex present to make an ungracious interpretation of it, it passed unnoticed, except the slight embarrassment and confusion it caused the young man from its apparent gratuity.
At the end of her speech, Mrs. Smith quickly glanced at Mr. Gray in a way that only a woman could understand. Since there were no other sharp-minded women around to interpret it unfavorably, it went unnoticed, except for the minor embarrassment and confusion it caused the young man due to its seeming randomness.
“We have met before, I believe,” said Mrs. Smith, with her bright eyes half hid and her white teeth half disclosed. “I can easily imagine Mr. Gray’s devotion to a friend from his courtesy to a stranger. Let me thank you again for both my daughter and myself.”
“We’ve met before, I think,” said Mrs. Smith, her bright eyes partially hidden and her white teeth partially showing. “I can easily see Mr. Gray’s loyalty to a friend from how polite he is to a stranger. Let me thank you again on behalf of both my daughter and myself.”
In the desperate hope of saying something natural, Mr. Gray asked if she had seen Melissa yet.
In a desperate attempt to sound casual, Mr. Gray asked if she had seen Melissa yet.
“Oh, dear, no! Think how provoking! Judge Plunkett says it is absolutely impossible till some tiresome formalities are over. There are so many stupid forms to go through with first. But how is she? You have seen her, have you not? you will see her again to-night, perhaps? How I long to embrace her again! She was a mere baby when she left me. Tell her how I long to fly to her.”
“Oh, no! How annoying! Judge Plunkett says it’s totally impossible until all these annoying formalities are done. There are so many pointless steps to get through first. But how is she? You’ve seen her, right? Maybe you’ll see her again tonight? I can’t wait to hug her again! She was just a little kid when she left me. Tell her how much I want to rush to her.”
Her impassioned utterance and the dramatic gestures that accompanied these words afforded a singular contrast to the cool way with which she rearranged the folds of her dress when she had finished, folding her hands over her lap and settling herself unmistakably back again on the sofa. Perhaps it was this that made Mr. Gray think she had, at some time, been an actress. But the next moment he caught her eye again and felt pleased,—and again vexed with himself for being so,—and in this mental condition began to speak in favor of his old pupil. His embarrassment passed away as he warmed with his subject, dwelling at length on M’liss’s better qualities, and did not return until in a breathless pause he became aware that this woman’s bright eyes were bent upon him. The color rose in his cheek, and with a half-muttered apology for his prolixity he offered his excuses to retire.
Her passionate speech and the dramatic gestures that went with it were a striking contrast to the calm way she smoothed the folds of her dress when she was done, folding her hands in her lap and settling back onto the sofa. Maybe that’s what made Mr. Gray think she had, at some point, been an actress. But the next moment, he caught her eye again and felt pleased—and then irritated with himself for feeling that way—and in this mental state, he started to speak up for his old student. His embarrassment faded as he got into the topic, elaborating on M’liss’s better qualities, and didn’t return until he suddenly noticed that this woman’s bright eyes were on him. Color rose to his cheeks, and with a half-hearted apology for being so wordy, he made excuses to leave.
“Stay a moment, Mr. Gray,” said the lawyer. “You are going to town, and will not think it a trouble to see Mrs. Smith safely back to her hotel. You can talk these things over with our fair friend on the way. To-morrow, at ten, I trust to see you both again.”
“Hold on a second, Mr. Gray,” said the lawyer. “You’re heading into town, and it won't be a hassle to make sure Mrs. Smith gets back to her hotel safely. You can discuss everything with her on the way. Tomorrow at ten, I hope to see you both again.”
“Perhaps I am taxing Mr. Gray’s gallantry too much,” interposed the lady with a very vivid disclosure of eyes and teeth. “Mr. Gray would be only too happy.” After he had uttered this civility, there was a slight consciousness of truth about it that embarrassed him again. But Mrs. Smith took his proffered arm, and they bade the lawyer good-night and passed out in the starlit night together.
“Maybe I’m asking too much of Mr. Gray’s kindness,” chimed in the lady, her eyes and smile shining brightly. “Mr. Gray would be more than happy to help.” After he said this polite remark, he felt a little awkward because there was a hint of truth in it. But Mrs. Smith took his offered arm, and they said goodnight to the lawyer and walked out into the starry night together.
Four weeks have elapsed since the advent of Mrs. Smith to the settlement,—four weeks that might have been years in any other but a California mining camp, for the wonderful change that has been wrought in its physical aspect. Each stage has brought its load of fresh adventurers; another hotel, which sprang up on the site of the National, has its new landlord, and a new set of faces about its hospitable board, where the conventional bean appears daily as a modest vegetable or in the insincerer form of coffee. The sawmills have been hard at work for the last month, and huge gaps appear in the circling files of redwood where the fallen trees are transmuted to a new style of existence in the damp sappy tenements that have risen over the burnt district. The “great strike” at Smith’s Pocket has been heralded abroad, and above and below, and on either side of the crumbling tunnel that bears that name, as other tunnels are piercing the bowels of the mountain, shafts are being sunk, and claims are taken up even to the crest of Red Mountain, in the hope of striking the great Smith lead. Already an animated discussion has sprung up in the columns of the “Red Mountain Banner” in regard to the direction of the famous lead,—a discussion assisted by correspondents who have assumed all the letters of the alphabet in their anonymous arguments, and have formed the opposing “angle” and “dip” factions of Smith’s Pocket. But whatever be the direction of the lead, the progress of the settlement has been steadily onward, with an impetus gained by the late disaster. That classical but much abused bird, the Phoenix, has been invoked from its ashes in several editorials in the “Banner,” to sit as a type of resuscitated Smith’s Pocket, while in the homelier phrase of an honest miner “it seemed as if the fire kem to kinder clean out things for a fresh start.”
Four weeks have passed since Mrs. Smith arrived in the settlement—four weeks that felt like years in any place other than a California mining camp, considering the incredible changes in its physical landscape. Each stagecoach has brought in new adventurers; another hotel, which popped up where the National once stood, has a new owner and a fresh group of faces around its welcoming table, where the usual beans make their daily appearance as a simple vegetable or, in a less sincere form, as coffee. The sawmills have been busy for the past month, and big gaps can be seen in the rows of redwoods where fallen trees are transformed into a new existence in the moist, sap-filled structures that have sprung up in the burned area. The “great strike” at Smith’s Pocket has been advertised far and wide, and around the crumbling tunnel that bears that name, as other tunnels are being dug into the mountain, shafts are being sunk, and claims are being staked even up to the top of Red Mountain, all in the hopes of hitting the famous Smith lead. An energetic debate has already started in the “Red Mountain Banner” regarding the direction of that legendary lead—a discussion fueled by correspondents who have taken on every letter of the alphabet in their anonymous arguments and formed rival “angle” and “dip” factions of Smith’s Pocket. But regardless of where the lead actually points, the settlement has been steadily progressing, gaining momentum from the recent disaster. That classic yet often-maligned bird, the Phoenix, has been called upon from its ashes in several editorials in the “Banner” as a symbol of reborn Smith’s Pocket, while in the simpler words of a hardworking miner, “it seemed like the fire kind of cleared things out for a fresh start.”
Meanwhile the quasi-legal administration of the estate of Smith is drawing near a termination that seems to credit the prophetic assertion of Judge Plunkett. One fact has been evolved in the process of examination, viz., that Smith had discovered the new lead before he was murdered. It was a fair hypothesis that the man who assumed the benefit of his discovery was the murderer, but as this did not immediately involve the settlement of the estate it excited little comment or opposition. The probable murderer had escaped. Judicial investigations even in the hands of the people had been attended with disastrous public results, and there was no desire on the part of justice to open the case and deal with an abstract principle when there was no opportunity of making an individual example. The circumstances were being speedily forgotten in the new excitement; even the presence of Mrs. Smith lost its novelty. The “Banner,” when alluding to her husband, spoke of him as the “late J. Smith, Esq.,” attributing the present activity of business as the result of his lifelong example of untiring energy, and generally laid the foundation of a belief, which thereafter obtained, that he died comfortably in the bosom of his family, surrounded by disconsolate friends. The history of all pioneer settlements has this legendary basis, and M’liss may live to see the day when her father’s connection with the origin of the settlement shall become apocryphal, and contested like that of Romulus and Remus and their wolfish wet-nurse.
Meanwhile, the almost-legal management of Smith's estate is coming to an end in a way that seems to validate Judge Plunkett's prophecy. One fact has emerged during the investigation: Smith had discovered the new lead before he was killed. It was a reasonable assumption that the person who benefited from his discovery was the murderer, but since this didn't directly affect the estate settlement, it attracted little attention or opposition. The likely murderer had gotten away. Even public judicial inquiries had disastrous outcomes, and there was no desire to reopen the case and tackle an abstract principle when there was no chance of holding someone accountable. The circumstances were quickly fading from memory amid new excitement; even Mrs. Smith's presence lost its novelty. The “Banner,” when referring to her husband, called him the “late J. Smith, Esq.,” crediting current business activity to his lifelong example of hard work, and generally fostering a belief that he passed away peacefully surrounded by grieving friends. The history of all pioneer settlements has this legendary aspect, and M’liss may eventually see the day when her father’s role in the origins of the settlement becomes disputed, much like the tales of Romulus, Remus, and their wolfish wet-nurse.
It is to the everlasting credit and honor of Smith’s Pocket that the orphan and widow meet no opposition from the speculative community, and that the claim’s utmost boundaries are liberally rendered. How far this circumstance may be owing to the rare personal attractions of the charming widow or to M’liss’s personal popularity, I shall not pretend to say. It is enough that when the brief of Judge Plunkett’s case is ready there are clouds of willing witnesses to substantiate and corroborate doubtful points to an extent that is more creditable to their generosity than their veracity.
It's to the everlasting credit and honor of Smith’s Pocket that the orphan and widow face no resistance from the speculative community, and that the claim’s limits are generously defined. Whether this is due to the charming widow's rare personal appeal or M’liss’s popularity, I won't claim to know. It's sufficient to say that when Judge Plunkett’s case brief is ready, there are plenty of willing witnesses to back up and confirm questionable points to a degree that reflects more on their generosity than their honesty.
M’liss has seen her mother. Mr. Gray, with his knowledge of his pupil’s impulsiveness, has been surprised to notice that the new relationship seems to awaken none of those emotions in the child’s nature that he confidently looked for. On the occasion of their first meeting, to which Mr. Gray was admitted, M’liss maintained a guarded shyness totally different from her usual frank boldness,—a shyness that was the more remarkable from its contrast with the unrepressed and somewhat dramatic emotions of Mrs. Smith. Now, under her mother’s protection and care, he observes another radical change in M’liss’s appearance. She is dressed more tastefully and neatly—not entirely the result of a mother’s influence, but apparently the result of some natural instinct now for the first time indulged, and exhibited in a ribbon or a piece of jewelry, worn with a certain air of consciousness. There is a more strict attention to the conventionalities of life; her speech is more careful and guarded; her walk, literally, more womanly and graceful. Those things Mr. Gray naturally attributes to the influence of the new relation, though he cannot help recalling his meeting with M’liss in the woods, on the morning of the fire, and of dating many of these changes from thence.
M’liss has seen her mother. Mr. Gray, aware of his pupil’s impulsiveness, is surprised to notice that this new relationship doesn’t seem to stir any of the emotions in the child that he expected. During their first meeting, which Mr. Gray attended, M’liss showed a cautious shyness that was completely different from her usual straightforward boldness—a shyness that was even more striking considering its contrast with Mrs. Smith’s unrestrained and somewhat dramatic emotions. Now, under her mother’s protection and care, he sees another significant change in M’liss’s appearance. She is dressed more tastefully and neatly—not solely because of her mother’s influence, but seemingly due to some natural instinct that is being indulged for the first time, shown in a ribbon or a piece of jewelry worn with a certain awareness. There is a stricter adherence to the social norms; her speech is more careful and measured; her walk is noticeably more womanly and graceful. Mr. Gray attributes these changes to the impact of the new relationship, although he can’t help but recall his encounter with M’liss in the woods on the morning of the fire, considering that many of these changes began from that point.
It is a pleasant morning, and Mr. Gray is stirring early. He has been busied in preparation the night previous, for this is his last day in Smith’s Pocket. He lingers for some time about the schoolhouse, gathering up those little trifles which lie about his desk, which have each a separate history in his experience of Smith’s Pocket, and are a part of the incrustations of his life. Lastly, a file of the “Red Mountain Banner,” is taken from the same receptacle and packed away in his bag. He walks to the door and turns to look back. Has he forgotten anything? No, nothing. But still he lingers. He wonders who will take his place at the desk, and for the first time in his pedagogue experience, perhaps, feels something of an awful responsibility as he thinks of his past influence over the wretched little beings who used to tremble at his nod, and whose future, ill or good, he may have helped to fashion. At last he closes the door, almost tenderly, and walks thoughtfully down the road. He has to pass the cabin of an Irish miner, whose little boy is toddling in the ditch, with a pinafore, hands, and face in a chronic state of untidiness. Mr. Gray seizes him with an hilarious impulse, and after a number of rapid journeys to Banbury Cross, in search of an old woman who mounted a mythical white horse, he kisses the cleanest place on his broad expanse of cheek, presses some silver into his chubby fist, tells him to be a good boy, and deposits him in the ditch again. Having in this youthful way atoned for certain sins of omission a little further back, he proceeds, with a sense of perfect absolution, on his way to the settlement.
It’s a nice morning, and Mr. Gray is up early. He was busy preparing the night before because today is his last day in Smith’s Pocket. He hangs around the schoolhouse for a while, picking up the little bits and pieces scattered on his desk, each with its own story from his time in Smith’s Pocket, a part of his life’s journey. Finally, he takes a copy of the “Red Mountain Banner” from the same spot and packs it into his bag. He walks to the door and looks back. Did he forget anything? No, nothing. But he lingers a bit longer. He wonders who will take over his desk, and for the first time in his teaching career, he feels a heavy sense of responsibility as he thinks about the impact he had on the troubled little kids who used to flinch at his nod, and how their futures, good or bad, might have been shaped by him. Eventually, he closes the door gently and walks thoughtfully down the road. He passes by the cabin of an Irish miner, where the miner’s little boy is playing in the ditch, his pinafore, hands, and face a constant mess. Mr. Gray is filled with a playful urge, and after several quick adventures to Banbury Cross looking for a fictional old woman on a white horse, he kisses the cleanest spot on the child’s round cheek, slips some coins into his chubby hand, tells him to be a good boy, and sets him back down in the ditch. Having made up for some previous neglect in a youthful way, he continues on his journey to the settlement, feeling completely at peace.
A few hours lie between him and his departure, to be employed in friendly visits to Mrs. Morpher, Dr. Duchesne, M’liss, and her mother. The Mountain Ranch is nearest, and thither Mr. Gray goes first. Mrs. Morpher, over a kneading-trough, with her bare arm whitened with flour, is genuinely grieved at parting with the master, and, in spite of Mr. Gray’s earnest remonstrances, insists upon conducting him into the chill parlor, leaving him there until she shall have attired herself in a manner becoming to “company.” “I don’t want you to go at all—no more I don’t,” says Mrs. Morpher, with all sincerity, as she seats herself finally on the shining horsehair sofa. “The children will miss you. I don’t believe that any one will do for Risty, Kerg, and Clytie what you have done. But I suppose you know best what’s best. Young men like to see the world, and it ain’t expected one so young as you should settle down yet. That’s what I was telling Clytie this morning. That was just the way with my John afore he was married. I suppose you’ll see M’liss and her before you go. They say that she is going to San Francisco soon. Is it so?”
A few hours remain before he leaves, which he'll spend visiting Mrs. Morpher, Dr. Duchesne, M’liss, and her mom. The Mountain Ranch is the closest, so Mr. Gray heads there first. Mrs. Morpher, with her bare arm dusted with flour while working at a kneading table, is genuinely upset about saying goodbye. Despite Mr. Gray's earnest objections, she insists on taking him into the cold parlor, planning to leave him there until she dresses properly for “company.” “I don’t want you to go at all—honestly, I don’t,” says Mrs. Morpher, genuinely, as she finally takes a seat on the shiny horsehair sofa. “The kids will miss you. I don’t think anyone will care for Risty, Kerg, and Clytie the way you have. But I guess you know what’s best. Young men want to see the world, and it’s not expected that someone as young as you should settle down just yet. That’s what I told Clytie this morning. That was exactly how my John was before he got married. I guess you’ll see M’liss and her before you leave. They say she’s going to San Francisco soon. Is that true?”
Mr. Gray understands the personal pronoun to refer to Mrs. Smith, a title Mrs. Morpher has never granted M’liss’s mother, for whom she entertains an instinctive dislike. He answers in the affirmative, however, with the consciousness of uneasiness under the inquiry; and as the answer does not seem to please Mrs. Morpher, he is constrained to commend M’liss’s manifest improvement under her mother’s care.
Mr. Gray understands that the personal pronoun refers to Mrs. Smith, a title Mrs. Morpher has never given to M’liss's mother, whom she instinctively dislikes. He responds with a yes, even though he feels uneasy about the question; and since his answer doesn't seem to please Mrs. Morpher, he feels compelled to praise M’liss’s obvious improvement under her mother's care.
“Well” says Mrs. Morpher, with a significant sigh, “I hope it’s so; but bless us, where’s Clytie? You mustn’t go without saying ‘good-by’ to her” and Mrs. Morpher starts away in search of her daughter.
“Well,” says Mrs. Morpher with a deep sigh, “I hope that’s the case; but goodness, where’s Clytie? You can’t leave without saying ‘goodbye’ to her.” And Mrs. Morpher heads off to look for her daughter.
The dining-room door scarcely closes before the bedroom door opens, and Clytie crosses the parlor softly with something in her hands. “You are going now?” she says hurriedly.
The dining room door barely shuts before the bedroom door opens, and Clytie quietly walks through the parlor with something in her hands. “Are you leaving now?” she asks quickly.
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Will you take this?” putting a sealed package into his hand, “and keep it without opening it until”—
“Will you take this?” she asked, handing him a sealed package, “and keep it without opening it until—”
“Until when, Clytie?”
"Until when, Clytie?"
“Until you are married.”
"Until you're married."
Mr. Gray laughs.
Mr. Gray is laughing.
“Promise me,” repeats Clytie.
“Promise me,” Clytie repeats.
“But I may expire in the mean time, through sheer curiosity.”
“But I might pass away in the meantime, from pure curiosity.”
“Promise!” says Clytie gravely.
“Promise!” says Clytie seriously.
“I promise, then.”
"I promise that."
Mr. Gray receives the package. “Good-by,” says Clytie softly.
Mr. Gray gets the package. “Goodbye,” Clytie says quietly.
Clytie’s rosy cheek is very near Mr. Gray. There is nobody by. He is going away. It is the last time. He kisses her just before the door opens again to Mrs. Morpher.
Clytie’s rosy cheek is very close to Mr. Gray. There’s no one around. He is leaving. It’s the last time. He kisses her just before the door opens again to Mrs. Morpher.
Another shake of hands all around, and Mr. Gray passes out of the Mountain Ranch forever.
Another handshake all around, and Mr. Gray leaves the Mountain Ranch for good.
Dr. Duchesne’s office is near at hand; but for some reason, that Mr. Gray cannot entirely explain to himself, he prefers to go to Mrs. Smith’s first. The little cottage which they have taken temporarily is soon reached, and as the young man stands at the door he re-knots the bow of his cravat, and passes his fingers through his curls,—trifles that to Dr. Duchesne or any other critical, middle-aged person might look bad.
Dr. Duchesne’s office is nearby; but for some reason that Mr. Gray can't fully understand, he chooses to go to Mrs. Smith’s first. The small cottage they've temporarily rented is quickly reached, and as the young man stands at the door, he re-ties the bow of his tie and runs his fingers through his hair—details that might seem off to Dr. Duchesne or any other critical, middle-aged person.
M’liss and Mrs. Smith are both at home. They have been waiting for him so long. Was it that pretty daughter of Mrs. Morpher—the fair young lady with blond curls,—who caused the detention? Is not Mr. Gray a sly young fellow for all his seeming frankness? So he must go to-day? He cannot possibly wait a few days, and go with them? Thus Mrs. Smith, between her red lips and white teeth, and under her half-closed eyes; for M’liss stands quietly apart without speaking. Her reserve during the interview contrasts with the vivacity of her mother as though they had changed respective places in relationship. Mr. Gray is troubled by this, and as he rises to go, he takes M’liss’s hand in his.
M’liss and Mrs. Smith are both at home. They've been waiting for him for so long. Was it that pretty daughter of Mrs. Morpher—the lovely young lady with blonde curls—that caused the delay? Is Mr. Gray a sneaky young guy despite his seemingly honest demeanor? So he has to leave today? Can't he possibly wait a few days and go with them? Mrs. Smith says this, her red lips and white teeth visible, her eyes half-closed; meanwhile, M’liss stands quietly off to the side without saying a word. Her quietness during the conversation is the opposite of her mother’s liveliness, as if they've swapped roles. Mr. Gray feels uneasy about this, and as he gets up to leave, he takes M’liss’s hand in his.
“Have you nothing to say to me before I go?” he asks.
“Do you have anything to say to me before I leave?” he asks.
“Good-by,” answers M’liss.
"Goodbye," replies M’liss.
“Nothing more?”
“Anything else?”
“That’s enough,” rejoins the child simply.
"That's enough," the child replies plainly.
Mr. Gray bites his lips. “I may never see you again, you know, Melissa,” he continues.
Mr. Gray bites his lips. “I might never see you again, you know, Melissa,” he continues.
“You will see us again,” says M’liss quietly, raising her great dark eyes to his.
“You’ll see us again,” M’liss says softly, looking up at him with her big dark eyes.
The blood mounted to his cheek and crimsoned his forehead. He was conscious, too, that the mother’s face had taken fire at his own, as she walked away toward the window.
The blood rushed to his cheek, coloring his forehead red. He also realized that his mother’s face had flushed as she turned away toward the window.
“Good-by, then,” said Mr. Gray pettishly, as he stooped to kiss her.
“Goodbye, then,” Mr. Gray said irritably as he leaned down to kiss her.
M’liss accepted the salute stoically. Mr. Gray took Mrs. Smith’s hand; her face had resumed its colorless, satin-like sheen.
M’liss accepted the salute with a calm demeanor. Mr. Gray took Mrs. Smith’s hand; her face had returned to its pale, smooth appearance.
“M’liss knows the strength of your good will, and makes her calculations accordingly. I hope she may not be mistaken,” she said, with a languid tenderness of voice and eye. The young man bent over her outstretched hand, and withdrew as the Wingdam stage noisily rattled up before the National Hotel.
“M’liss understands the value of your kindness and shapes her expectations based on that. I hope she isn’t wrong,” she said, with a soft and gentle tone. The young man leaned over her outstretched hand and pulled back as the Wingdam stage rumbled up in front of the National Hotel.
There was but little time left to spend with Dr. Duchesne, so the physician walked with him to the stage office. There were a few of the old settlers lounging by the stage, who had discerned, just as the master was going away, how much they liked him. Mr. Gray had gone through the customary bibulous formula of leave-taking; with a hearty shake of the doctor’s hand, and a promise to write, he climbed to the box of the stage. “All aboard!” cried the driver, and with a preliminary bound, the stage rolled down Main Street.
There wasn't much time left to spend with Dr. Duchesne, so the doctor walked with him to the stage office. A few of the old settlers were hanging around the stage, and as the master was leaving, they realized how much they liked him. Mr. Gray went through the usual routine of saying goodbye; after a firm handshake with the doctor and a promise to write, he climbed up to the driver's seat of the stage. “All aboard!” shouted the driver, and with a quick jump, the stage rolled down Main Street.
Mr. Gray remained buried in thought as they rolled through the town, each object in passing recalling some incident of his past experience. The stage had reached the outskirts of the settlement when he detected a well-known little figure running down a by-trail to intersect the road before the stage had passed. He called the driver’s attention to it, and as they drew up at the crossing Aristides’s short legs and well-known features were plainly discernible through the dust. He was holding in his hand a letter.
Mr. Gray was lost in thought as they drove through the town, with every passing sight bringing back memories from his past. The bus had just reached the edge of the town when he spotted a familiar small figure running down a side path to meet the road before the bus went by. He pointed it out to the driver, and as they stopped at the intersection, Aristides's short legs and recognizable face were clearly visible through the dust. He was holding a letter in his hand.
“Well, my little man, what is it?” said the driver impatiently.
“Well, kid, what is it?” said the driver impatiently.
“A letter for the master,” gasped the exhausted child.
“A letter for the boss,” gasped the tired child.
“Give it here!—Any answer?”
“Hand it over!—Any response?”
“Wait a moment,” said Mr. Gray.
“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Gray.
“Look sharp, then, and get your billet duxis before you go next time.”
“Stay alert, and grab your ticket before you leave next time.”
Mr. Gray hurriedly broke the seal and read these words:
Mr. Gray quickly broke the seal and read these words:
“Any answer?” said the driver.
"Any response?" asked the driver.
“None.”
"None."
“Get up!”
"Wake up!"
And the stage rolled away from Smith’s Pocket, leaving the just Aristides standing in the dust of its triumphal wheels.
And the stage pulled away from Smith’s Pocket, leaving the well-deserving Aristides standing in the dust of its victorious wheels.
HIGH-WATER MARK
When the tide was out on the Dedlow Marsh, its extended dreariness was patent. Its spongy, low-lying surface, sluggish, inky pools, and tortuous sloughs, twisting their slimy way, eel-like, toward the open bay, were all hard facts. So were the few green tussocks, with their scant blades, their amphibious flavor, and unpleasant dampness. And if you chose to indulge your fancy,—although the flat monotony of the Dedlow Marsh was not inspiring,—the wavy line of scattered drift gave an unpleasant consciousness of the spent waters, and made the dead certainty of the returning tide a gloomy reflection, which no present sunshine could dissipate. The greener meadow-land seemed oppressed with this idea, and made no positive attempt at vegetation until the work of reclamation should be complete. In the bitter fruit of the low cranberry bushes one might fancy he detected a naturally sweet disposition curdled and soured by an injudicious course of too much regular cold water.
When the tide was out on the Dedlow Marsh, its long stretch of dullness was obvious. Its spongy, low-lying surface, sluggish, dark pools, and winding sloughs, slithering like eels towards the open bay, were all undeniable facts. So were the few green tussocks, with their thin blades, their marshy taste, and unpleasant dampness. And if you wanted to let your imagination wander—though the flat sameness of the Dedlow Marsh was not inspiring—the jumbled line of scattered driftwood brought an uncomfortable awareness of the receding waters, making the inevitable return of the tide a gloomy thought that no amount of sunshine could dispel. The greener meadowland seemed weighed down by this idea and made no real effort at growing until the reclamation work was finished. In the bitter fruit of the low cranberry bushes, you might imagine you saw a naturally sweet character turned sour by too much cold water.
The vocal expression of the Dedlow Marsh was also melancholy and depressing. The sepulchral boom of the bittern, the shriek of the curlew, the scream of passing brant, the wrangling of quarrelsome teal, the sharp querulous protest of the startled crane, and syllabled complaint of the “killdeer” plover were beyond the power of written expression. Nor was the aspect of these mournful fowls at all cheerful and inspiring. Certainly not the blue heron, standing midleg deep in the water, obviously catching cold in a reckless disregard of wet feet and consequences; nor the mournful curlew, the dejected plover, or the low-spirited snipe, who saw fit to join him in his suicidal contemplation; nor the impassive kingfisher—an ornithological Marius—reviewing the desolate expanse; nor the black raven that went to and fro over the face of the marsh continually, but evidently couldn’t make up his mind whether the waters had subsided, and felt low-spirited in the reflection that after all this trouble he wouldn’t be able to give a definite answer. On the contrary, it was evident at a glance that the dreary expanse of Dedlow Marsh told unpleasantly on the birds, and that the season of migration was looked forward to with a feeling of relief and satisfaction by the full grown, and of extravagant anticipation by the callow brood. But if Dedlow Marsh was cheerless at the slack of the low tide, you should have seen it when the tide was strong and full. When the damp air blew chilly over the cold glittering expanse, and came to the faces of those who looked seaward like another tide; when a steel-like glint marked the low hollows and the sinuous line of slough; when the great shell-incrusted trunks of fallen trees arose again, and went forth on their dreary purposeless wanderings, drifting hither and thither, but getting no farther toward any goal at the falling tide or the day’s decline than the cursed Hebrew in the legend; when the glossy ducks swung silently, making neither ripple nor furrow on the shimmering surface; when the fog came in with the tide and shut out the blue above, even as the green below had been obliterated; when boatmen, lost in that fog, paddling about in a hopeless way, started at what seemed the brushing of mermen’s fingers on the boat’s keel, or shrank from the tufts of grass spreading around like the floating hair of a corpse, and knew by these signs that they were lost upon Dedlow Marsh, and must make a night of it, and a gloomy one at that,—then you might know something of Dedlow Marsh at high water.
The sounds of Dedlow Marsh were really gloomy and heavy. The deep call of the bittern, the cry of the curlew, the loud honking of the brant, the squabbling of the feisty teal, the sharp, whiny protest of the startled crane, and the rhythmic complaint of the “killdeer” plover were impossible to capture in words. The sight of these somber birds was no more uplifting. Definitely not the blue heron, standing waist-deep in the water, seemingly unfazed by the cold and wet; nor the sorrowful curlew, the downcast plover, or the dejected snipe, who decided to join him in his gloomy thoughts; nor the indifferent kingfisher—an emotionless observer—looking over the bleak landscape; nor the black raven that flew back and forth across the marsh, clearly unable to decide if the waters had receded, feeling blue at the thought that after all this hassle, he still couldn't provide a clear answer. It was obvious that the dreary landscape of Dedlow Marsh was affecting the birds, and the migrating season was eagerly anticipated as a relief by the adults, and with wild excitement by the young ones. But if Dedlow Marsh felt bleak at low tide, you should have seen it when the tide was high and powerful. When the damp air blew cold over the shiny waters, hitting the faces of those looking out to sea like another tide; when a steely shimmer outlined the low dips and winding slough; when the great, shell-covered trunks of fallen trees floated up again, aimlessly drifting back and forth, but not getting any closer to a destination, much like the cursed Hebrew in the legend; when the sleek ducks glided silently, creating neither ripples nor trails on the glimmering surface; when the fog rolled in with the tide, blocking out the blue sky above, just as the green below had been erased; when boaters, lost in that fog and paddling aimlessly, flinched at what felt like mermen’s fingers grazing the boat’s bottom, or recoiled from the tufts of grass spreading around like the floating hair of a corpse, realizing by these signs that they were lost on Dedlow Marsh and would have to spend a gloomy night on it,—then you might begin to understand what Dedlow Marsh was like at high tide.
Let me recall a story connected with this latter view which never failed to recur to my mind in my long gunning excursions upon Dedlow Marsh. Although the event was briefly recorded in the county paper, I had the story, in all its eloquent detail, from the lips of the principal actor. I cannot hope to catch the varying emphasis and peculiar coloring of feminine delineation, for my narrator was a woman; but I’ll try to give at least its substance.
Let me share a story related to this perspective that I always thought about during my long hunting trips on Dedlow Marsh. Although the event was briefly covered in the local newspaper, I got the full story, rich in detail, directly from the person who experienced it. I can’t capture the different nuances and unique style of a woman's storytelling since my source was a woman, but I’ll do my best to convey its essence.
She lived midway of the great slough of Dedlow Marsh and a good-sized river, which debouched four miles beyond into an estuary formed by the Pacific Ocean, on the long sandy peninsula which constituted the southwestern boundary of a noble bay. The house in which she lived was a small frame cabin raised from the marsh a few feet by stout piles, and was three miles distant from the settlements upon the river. Her husband was a logger,—a profitable business in a county where the principal occupation was the manufacture of lumber.
She lived halfway between the large swamp of Dedlow Marsh and a decent-sized river, which flowed into an estuary formed by the Pacific Ocean four miles further on, along the long sandy peninsula that made up the southwest boundary of a beautiful bay. The house she lived in was a small wooden cabin elevated a few feet above the marsh on sturdy piles, and it was three miles away from the settlements by the river. Her husband was a logger—a lucrative job in a county where most people worked in lumber manufacturing.
It was the season of early spring, when her husband left on the ebb of a high tide with a raft of logs for the usual transportation to the lower end of the bay. As she stood by the door of the little cabin when the voyagers departed, she noticed a cold look in the southeastern sky, and she remembered hearing her husband say to his companions that they must endeavor to complete their voyage before the coming of the southwesterly gale which he saw brewing. And that night it began to storm and blow harder than she had ever before experienced, and some great trees fell in the forest by the river, and the house rocked like her baby’s cradle.
It was early spring when her husband left with a raft of logs, heading to the lower end of the bay as was usual. As she stood by the door of their little cabin while the voyagers set off, she noticed a cold look in the southeastern sky. She remembered her husband telling his friends that they needed to finish their journey before the southwesterly storm he saw coming. That night, the storm hit and the wind blew harder than she had ever felt before. Some large trees fell in the forest by the river, and the house rocked like her baby’s cradle.
But however the storm might roar about the little cabin, she knew that one she trusted had driven bolt and bar with his own strong hand, and that had he feared for her he would not have left her. This, and her domestic duties, and the care of her little sickly baby, helped to keep her mind from dwelling on the weather, except, of course, to hope that he was safely harbored with the logs at Utopia in the dreary distance. But she noticed that day, when she went out to feed the chickens and look after the cow, that the tide was up to the little fence of their garden patch, and the roar of the surf on the south beach, though miles away, she could hear distinctly. And she began to think that she would like to have some one to talk with about matters, and she believed that if it had not been so far and so stormy, and the trail so impassable, she would have taken the baby and have gone over to Ryekman’s, her nearest neighbor. But then, you see, he might have returned in the storm, all wet, with no one to see to him; and it was a long exposure for baby, who was croupy and ailing.
But no matter how the storm raged around the little cabin, she knew that the one she trusted had secured the doors with his own strong hands, and if he had been worried about her, he wouldn’t have left her. This, along with her household tasks and caring for her sickly little baby, helped keep her mind off the weather, except to hope that he was safely hidden away with the logs at Utopia in the gloomy distance. However, she noticed that day, when she went out to feed the chickens and tend to the cow, that the tide had risen to the little fence of their garden patch, and she could hear the crashing waves on the south beach, even though it was miles away. She started to think that she would like to talk to someone about things, and she believed that if it hadn’t been so far, so stormy, and the path so blocked, she would have taken the baby and gone over to Ryekman’s, her closest neighbor. But then again, he might have come back in the storm, all wet, with no one to take care of him; and it was too risky for the baby, who was already dealing with croup and wasn't feeling well.
But that night, she never could tell why, she didn’t feel like sleeping or even lying down. The storm had somewhat abated, but she still “sat and sat,” and even tried to read. I don’t know whether it was a Bible or some profane magazine that this poor woman read, but most probably the latter, for the words all ran together and made such sad nonsense that she was forced at last to put the book down and turn to that dearer volume which lay before her in the cradle, with its white initial leaf as yet unsoiled, and try to look forward to its mysterious future. And, rocking the cradle, she thought of everything and everybody, but still was wide awake as ever.
But that night, she couldn’t explain why, she just didn’t feel like sleeping or even lying down. The storm had eased a bit, but she still “sat and sat,” even trying to read. I don’t know if it was a Bible or some magazine that this poor woman read, but it was probably the latter, because the words all blurred together and created such sad nonsense that she eventually had to put the book down and focus on that more precious volume in the cradle, with its white first page still clean, and try to imagine its mysterious future. And while rocking the cradle, she thought about everything and everyone, but she was still wide awake.
It was nearly twelve o’clock when she at last lay down in her clothes. How long she slept she could not remember, but she awoke with a dreadful choking in her throat, and found herself standing, trembling all over, in the middle of the room, with her baby clasped to her breast, and she was “saying something.” The baby cried and sobbed, and she walked up and down trying to hush it, when she heard a scratching at the door. She opened it fearfully, and was glad to see it was only old Pete, their dog, who crawled, dripping with water, into the room. She would have liked to look out, not in the faint hope of her husband’s coming, but to see how things looked; but the wind shook the door so savagely that she could hardly hold it. Then she sat down a little while, and then walked up and down a little while, and then she lay down again a little while. Lying close by the wall of the little cabin, she thought she heard once or twice something scrape slowly against the clapboards, like the scraping of branches. Then there was a little gurgling sound, “like the baby made when it was swallowing;” then something went “click-click” and “cluck-cluck,” so that she sat up in bed. When she did so she was attracted by something else that seemed creeping from the back door toward the centre of the room. It wasn’t much wider than her little finger, but soon it swelled to the width of her hand, and began spreading all over the floor. It was water!
It was almost midnight when she finally lay down in her clothes. She couldn't remember how long she slept, but she woke up with a terrible choking feeling in her throat and found herself standing, trembling all over, in the middle of the room, holding her baby tightly. She was “saying something.” The baby cried and sobbed, and she walked back and forth trying to soothe it when she heard scratching at the door. She opened it cautiously and was relieved to see it was just old Pete, their dog, who came in, dripping wet. She wanted to look outside, not in the faint hope of her husband returning, but to see how things were. But the wind shook the door so violently that she could barely keep it closed. Then she sat for a little while, then walked back and forth for a bit, and then lay down again for a short time. Lying close to the wall of the small cabin, she thought she heard something scraping slowly against the boards, like branches dragging. Then there was a soft gurgling sound, “like the baby made when it was swallowing;” then something went “click-click” and “cluck-cluck,” causing her to sit up in bed. As she did so, she noticed something creeping from the back door toward the center of the room. It was no wider than her little finger at first, but soon it grew to the size of her hand and began spreading all over the floor. It was water!
She ran to the front door and threw it wide open, and saw nothing but water. She ran to the back door and threw it open, and saw nothing but water. She ran to the side window, and throwing that open, she saw nothing but water. Then she remembered hearing her husband once say that there was no danger in the tide, for that fell regularly, and people could calculate on it, and that he would rather live near the bay than the river, whose banks might overflow at any time. But was it the tide? So she ran again to the back door, and threw out a stick of wood. It drifted away towards the bay. She scooped up some of the water and put it eagerly to her lips. It was fresh and sweet. It was the river, and not the tide!
She sprinted to the front door and flung it open, only to see nothing but water. She dashed to the back door and swung it open, seeing nothing but water again. She ran to the side window, and as she opened it, she saw nothing but water. Then she recalled her husband once saying that the tide posed no danger because it receded regularly, and people could rely on it. He preferred living near the bay rather than the river, whose banks could flood at any moment. But could it be the tide? So she hurried back to the back door and tossed out a stick of wood. It floated away toward the bay. She scooped up some of the water and quickly brought it to her lips. It was fresh and sweet. It was the river, not the tide!
It was then—oh, God be praised for his goodness! she did neither faint nor fall; it was then—blessed be the Saviour, for it was his merciful hand that touched and strengthened her in this awful moment—that fear dropped from her like a garment, and her trembling ceased. It was then and thereafter that she never lost her self-command, through all the trials of that gloomy night.
It was then—oh, thank God for His goodness! She didn’t faint or fall; it was then—blessed be the Savior, for it was His merciful hand that touched and strengthened her in that terrible moment—that fear fell away from her like a heavy coat, and her shaking stopped. From that moment on, she never lost her composure, through all the challenges of that dark night.
She drew the bedstead toward the middle of the room, and placed a table upon it, and on that she put the cradle. The water on the floor was already over her ankles, and the house once or twice moved so perceptibly, and seemed to be racked so, that the closet doors all flew open. Then she heard the same rasping and thumping against the wall, and, looking out, saw that a large uprooted tree, which had lain near the road at the upper end of the pasture, had floated down to the house. Luckily its long roots dragged in the soil and kept it from moving as rapidly as the current, for had it struck the house in its full career, even the strong nails and bolts in the piles could not have withstood the shock. The hound had leaped upon its knotty surface, and crouched near the roots, shivering and whining. A ray of hope flashed across her mind. She drew a heavy blanket from the bed, and, wrapping it about the babe, waded in the deepening waters to the door. As the tree swung again, broadside on, making the little cabin creak and tremble, she leaped on to its trunk. By God’s mercy she succeeded in obtaining a footing on its slippery surface, and, twining an arm about its roots, she held in the other her moaning child. Then something cracked near the front porch, and the whole front of the house she had just quitted fell forward,—just as cattle fall on their knees before they lie down,—and at the same moment the great redwood tree swung round and drifted away with its living cargo into the black night.
She pulled the bed frame to the center of the room and set a table on it, placing the cradle on top. The water on the floor was already up to her ankles, and the house shifted slightly, rattling enough that the closet doors swung open. Then she heard a scraping and banging against the wall, and when she looked out, she saw a large uprooted tree that had floated from the pasture near the road. Fortunately, its long roots dragged in the mud, preventing it from moving as quickly as the current. If it had hit the house full force, even the strong nails and bolts in the foundation wouldn't have held up. The dog had jumped onto its gnarled surface, trembling and whining near the roots. A spark of hope flashed through her mind. She grabbed a heavy blanket from the bed, wrapped it around the baby, and waded through the rising water to the door. As the tree swung around, broadside, making the little cabin creak and shake, she jumped onto its trunk. By some miracle, she managed to find her balance on its slick surface, wrapping one arm around its roots while holding her crying child in the other. Then something cracked near the front porch, and the entire front of the house she had just left collapsed forward—just like cattle fall to their knees before lying down—and at that moment, the massive redwood tree swung around and drifted away with its living cargo into the dark night.
For all the excitement and danger, for all her soothing of her crying babe, for all the whistling of the wind, for all the uncertainty of her situation, she still turned to look at the deserted and water-swept cabin. She remembered even then, and she wondered how foolish she was to think of it at that time, that she wished she had put on another dress and the baby’s best clothes; and she kept praying that the house would be spared so that he, when he returned, would have something to come to, and it wouldn’t be quite so desolate, and—how could he ever know what had become of her and baby? And at the thought she grew sick and faint. But she had something else to do besides worrying, for whenever the long roots of her ark struck an obstacle the whole trunk made half a revolution, and twice dipped her in the black water. The hound, who kept distracting her by running up and down the tree and howling, at last fell off at one of these collisions. He swam for some time beside her, and she tried to get the poor beast upon the tree, but he “acted silly” and wild, and at last she lost sight of him forever. Then she and her baby were left alone. The light which had burned for a few minutes in the deserted cabin was quenched suddenly. She could not then tell whither she was drifting. The outline of the white dunes on the peninsula showed dimly ahead, and she judged the tree was moving in a line with the river. It must be about slack water, and she had probably reached the eddy formed by the confluence of the tide and the overflowing waters of the river. Unless the tide fell soon, there was present danger of her drifting to its channel, and being carried out to sea or crushed in the floating drift. That peril averted, if she were carried out on the ebb toward the bay, she might hope to strike one of the wooded promontories of the peninsula, and rest till daylight. Sometimes she thought she heard voices and shouts from the river, and the bellowing of cattle and bleating of sheep. Then again it was only the ringing in her ears and throbbing of her heart. She found at about this time that she was so chilled and stiffened in her cramped position that she could scarcely move, and the baby cried so when she put it to her breast that she noticed the milk refused to flow; and she was so frightened at that that she put her head under her shawl, and for the first time cried bitterly.
For all the excitement and danger, for all her soothing of her crying baby, for all the whistling of the wind, for all the uncertainty of her situation, she still turned to look at the deserted and water-soaked cabin. She remembered even then, and she wondered how foolish she was to think of it at that moment, that she wished she had put on a different dress and the baby’s best clothes; and she kept praying that the house would be spared so that when he returned, he would have something to come back to, and it wouldn’t be so desolate, and—how could he ever know what had happened to her and the baby? At that thought, she felt sick and faint. But she had more to do than worry because whenever the long roots of her makeshift raft hit an obstacle, the whole trunk rotated halfway, dipping them both into the black water. The dog, who kept distracting her by running up and down the tree and howling, finally fell off during one of these crashes. He swam beside her for a while, and she tried to get the poor animal back onto the tree, but he freaked out and, in the end, she lost sight of him forever. Then she and her baby were left alone. The light that had burned for a few minutes in the deserted cabin suddenly went out. She couldn’t tell where she was drifting. The outline of the white dunes on the peninsula appeared dimly ahead, and she guessed the tree was moving along with the river. It must be slack water, and she had probably reached the eddy formed by the tide mixing with the overflowing river. Unless the tide went down soon, there was a clear danger of her drifting into its channel and being taken out to sea or crushed in the floating debris. If that danger was avoided and she was carried out on the ebb toward the bay, she might hope to reach one of the wooded points of the peninsula and rest until daylight. Sometimes she thought she heard voices and shouts from the river, along with the bellowing of cattle and bleating of sheep. Then again it was just the ringing in her ears and the pounding of her heart. She soon realized that she was so cold and stiff in her cramped position that she could barely move, and the baby cried so much when she tried to nurse him that she noticed the milk wouldn’t come; and she was so frightened by that that she put her head under her shawl and for the first time cried bitterly.
When she raised her head again the boom of the surf was behind her, and she knew that her ark had again swung round. She dipped up the water to cool her parched throat, and found that it was salt as her tears. There was a relief, though, for by this sign she knew that she was drifting with the tide. It was then the wind went down, and the great and awful silence oppressed her. There was scarcely a ripple against the furrowed sides of the great trunk on which she rested, and around her all was black gloom and quiet. She spoke to the baby just to hear herself speak, and to know that she had not lost her voice. She thought then—it was queer, but she could not help thinking it—how awful must have been the night when the great ship swung over the Asiatic peak, and the sounds of creation were blotted out from the world. She thought, too, of mariners clinging to spars, and of poor women who were lashed to rafts and beaten to death by the cruel sea. She tried to thank God that she was thus spared, and lifted her eyes from the baby who had fallen into a fretful sleep. Suddenly, away to the southward, a great light lifted itself out of the gloom, and flashed and flickered, and flickered and flashed again. Her heart fluttered quickly against the baby’s cold cheek. It was the lighthouse at the entrance of the bay. As she was yet wondering the tree suddenly rolled a little, dragged a little, and then seemed to lie quiet and still. She put out her hand and the current gurgled against it. The tree was aground, and, by the position of the light and the noise of the surf, aground upon the Dedlow Marsh.
When she lifted her head again, the sound of the waves was behind her, and she realized that her makeshift raft had turned around once more. She scooped up some water to soothe her dry throat and discovered it was as salty as her tears. But at least this meant she knew she was drifting with the tide. Then the wind died down, and the eerie silence pressed down on her. There was hardly a ripple against the rough sides of the massive trunk she was resting on, and everything around her was a dark stillness. She spoke to the baby just to hear her own voice and to reassure herself that she hadn’t lost it. Then she thought—it was strange, but she couldn’t help it—about how terrifying the night must have been when the huge ship toppled over the Asian peak, silencing all the sounds of creation. She also thought of sailors clinging to masts, and of poor women tied to rafts and beaten to death by the merciless sea. She tried to thank God for sparing her, lifting her gaze from the baby who had fallen into a restless sleep. Suddenly, far to the south, a bright light appeared in the darkness, flashing and flickering repeatedly. Her heart raced against the baby’s cold cheek. It was the lighthouse at the mouth of the bay. While she was still processing this, the tree suddenly shifted slightly, moved a bit, and then seemed to lie still. She reached out her hand, and the current splashed against it. The tree was stuck, and based on the position of the light and the sound of the waves, it was grounded on the Dedlow Marsh.
Had it not been for her baby, who was ailing and croupy, had it not been for the sudden drying up of that sensitive fountain, she would have felt safe and relieved. Perhaps it was this which tended to make all her impressions mournful and gloomy. As the tide rapidly fell, a great flock of black brant fluttered by her, screaming and crying. Then the plover flew up and piped mournfully as they wheeled around the trunk, and at last fearlessly lit upon it like a gray cloud. Then the heron flew over and around her, shrieking and protesting, and at last dropped its gaunt legs only a few yards from her. But, strangest of all, a pretty white bird, larger than a dove,—like a pelican, but not a pelican,—circled around and around her. At last it lit upon a rootlet of the tree quite over her shoulder. She put out her hand and stroked its beautiful white neck, and it never appeared to move. It stayed there so long that she thought she would lift up the baby to see it and try to attract her attention. But when she did so, the child was so chilled and cold, and had such a blue look under the little lashes, which it didn’t raise at all, that she screamed aloud, and the bird flew away, and she fainted.
If it weren't for her sick baby, who had a bad cough, and if that sensitive source of worry hadn’t suddenly dried up, she would have felt safe and relieved. Maybe this is what made all her feelings sad and gloomy. As the tide quickly receded, a large group of black brant flew by her, screaming and crying. Then the plover took off and called mournfully as they circled around the trunk, and finally landed on it fearlessly like a gray cloud. Then the heron flew over and around her, shrieking and protesting, eventually dropping its long legs just a few yards away. But the strangest thing was a pretty white bird, larger than a dove—like a pelican, but definitely not a pelican—circling around her. Finally, it landed on a small root of the tree right over her shoulder. She reached out her hand and stroked its beautiful white neck, and it didn’t seem to move. It stayed there so long that she thought about lifting up the baby to show it and try to get its attention. But when she did, the child felt so cold and had such a blue look beneath the tiny lashes, which didn’t open at all, that she screamed out loud, and the bird flew away, and she fainted.
Well, that was the worst of it, and perhaps it was not so much, after all, to any but herself. For when she recovered her senses it was bright sunlight and dead low water. There was a confused noise of guttural voices about her, and an old squaw, singing an Indian “hushaby,” and rocking herself from side to side before a fire built on the marsh, before which she, the recovered wife and mother, lay weak and weary. Her first thought was for her baby, and she was about to speak when a young squaw, who must have been a mother herself, fathomed her thought and brought her the “mowitch,” pale but living, in such a queer little willow cradle, all bound up, just like the squaw’s own young one, that she laughed and cried together, and the young squaw and the old squaw showed their big white teeth and glinted their black eyes, and said, “Plenty get well, skeena mowitch,” “Wagee man come plenty soon,” and she could have kissed their brown faces in her joy. And then she found that they had been gathering berries on the marsh in their queer comical baskets, and saw the skirt of her gown fluttering on the tree from afar, and the old squaw couldn’t resist the temptation of procuring a new garment, and came down and discovered the “wagee” woman and child. And of course she gave the garment to the old squaw, as you may imagine, and when he came at last and rushed up to her, looking about ten years older in his anxiety, she felt so faint again that they had to carry her to the canoe. For, you see, he knew nothing about the flood until he met the Indians at Utopia, and knew by the signs that the poor woman was his wife. And at the next high tide he towed the tree away back home, although it wasn’t worth the trouble, and built another house, using the old tree for the foundation and props, and called it after her, “Mary’s Ark!” But you may guess the next house was built above high-water mark. And that’s all.
Well, that was the worst of it, and maybe it wasn’t that bad after all, at least not for anyone but her. When she regained her senses, it was bright daylight and the tide was low. There was a jumble of deep voices around her, and an old woman, singing an Indian lullaby and rocking back and forth in front of a fire on the marsh, while she, the revived wife and mother, lay weak and exhausted. Her first thought was for her baby, and she was about to speak when a young woman, who must have been a mother herself, understood her thought and brought her the “mowitch,” pale but alive, in a funny little willow cradle, all bundled up, just like the young woman's own baby. She laughed and cried at the same time, and the young woman and the old woman showed their big white teeth and sparkled their dark eyes, saying, “Plenty get well, skeena mowitch,” “Wagee man come plenty soon,” and in her joy, she could have kissed their brown faces. Then she noticed that they had been picking berries in their funny little baskets and saw her gown fluttering in a tree from a distance. The old woman couldn’t resist the urge to get a new piece of clothing, so she came down and found the “wagee” woman and child. Of course, she gave the clothing to the old woman, as you can imagine, and when he finally arrived and rushed up to her, looking about ten years older from worry, she felt so faint again that they had to carry her to the canoe. You see, he knew nothing about the flood until he encountered the Indians at Utopia, and he figured out from their signs that the poor woman was his wife. At the next high tide, he towed the tree back home, even though it wasn’t really worth it, and built another house, using the old tree for the foundation and supports, naming it after her, “Mary’s Ark!” But you can bet the next house was built above the high-water mark. And that’s all.
Not much, perhaps, considering the malevolent capacity of the Dedlow Marsh. But you must tramp over it at low water, or paddle over it at high tide, or get lost upon it once or twice in the fog, as I have, to understand properly Mary’s adventure, or to appreciate duly the blessings of living beyond high-water mark.
Not much, maybe, given the dark nature of Dedlow Marsh. But you have to walk across it when the water is low, or paddle through it when the tide is high, or get lost in it a couple of times in the fog, like I have, to truly grasp Mary's adventure or to really appreciate the benefits of living above high-water mark.
A LONELY RIDE
As I stepped into the Slumgullion stage I saw that it was a dark night, a lonely road, and that I was the only passenger. Let me assure the reader that I have no ulterior design in making this assertion. A long course of light reading has forewarned me what every experienced intelligence must confidently look for from such a statement. The story-teller who willfully tempts fate by such obvious beginnings, who is to the expectant reader in danger of being robbed or half-murdered, or frightened by an escaped lunatic, or introduced to his lady-love for the first time, deserves to be detected. I am relieved to say that none of these things occurred to me. The road from Wingdam to Slumgullion knew no other banditti than the regularly licensed hotel-keepers; lunatics had not yet reached such depth of imbecility as to ride of their own free will in Californian stages; and my Laura, amiable and long-suffering as she always is, could not, I fear, have borne up against these depressing circumstances long enough to have made the slightest impression on me.
As I stepped into the Slumgullion stage, I noticed it was a dark night, a lonely road, and I was the only passenger. I want to assure you that there’s no hidden agenda behind this statement. A lot of light reading has warned me what any savvy reader might expect from such an introduction. The storyteller who intentionally plays with fate by using such obvious beginnings is at risk of having their readers encounter a robbery, a near-murder, a scare from an escaped lunatic, or meeting their love interest for the first time. They deserve to be called out for that. I’m relieved to say that none of that happened to me. The road from Wingdam to Slumgullion had no bandits other than the officially licensed hotel owners; lunatics hadn't reached such a level of madness that they would willingly ride in Californian stages; and my Laura, as kind and patient as she always is, probably wouldn't have been able to handle these grim circumstances long enough to leave any lasting impression on me.
I stood with my shawl and carpetbag in hand, gazing doubtingly on the vehicle. Even in the darkness the red dust of Wingdam was visible on its roof and sides, and the red slime of Slumgullion clung tenaciously to its wheels. I opened the door; the stage creaked uneasily, and in the gloomy abyss the swaying straps beckoned me, like ghostly hands, to come in now, and have my sufferings out at once.
I stood with my shawl and carpetbag in hand, looking uncertainly at the vehicle. Even in the dark, the red dust of Wingdam was visible on its roof and sides, and the red muck of Slumgullion clung stubbornly to its wheels. I opened the door; the stage creaked awkwardly, and in the dark void, the swaying straps seemed to invite me, like ghostly hands, to step in now and get my hardships over with at once.
I must not omit to mention the occurrence of a circumstance which struck me as appalling and mysterious. A lounger on the steps of the hotel, who I had reason to suppose was not in any way connected with the stage company, gravely descended, and, walking toward the conveyance, tried the handle of the door, opened it, expectorated in the carriage, and returned to the hotel with a serious demeanor. Hardly had he resumed his position, when another individual, equally disinterested, impassively walked down the steps, proceeded to the back of the stage, lifted it, expectorated carefully on the axle, and returned slowly and pensively to the hotel. A third spectator wearily disengaged himself from one of the Ionic columns of the portico and walked to the box, remained for a moment in serious and expectorative contemplation of the boot, and then returned to his column. There was something so weird in this baptism that I grew quite nervous.
I can’t forget to mention something that struck me as shocking and puzzling. A guy hanging out on the hotel steps, who I figured wasn’t connected to the theater company at all, walked down seriously, headed towards the vehicle, tried the door handle, opened it, spat inside the carriage, and then went back to the hotel looking serious. Hardly had he settled back in his spot when another person, just as uninterested, calmly walked down the steps, went to the back of the stage, carefully spat on the axle, and then slowly and thoughtfully returned to the hotel. A third onlooker tiredly peeled himself away from one of the Ionic columns of the portico, walked to the box, paused for a moment in serious contemplation while spitting at the boot, and then went back to lean against his column. There was something so strange about this ritual that I started to feel quite anxious.
Perhaps I was out of spirits. A number of infinitesimal annoyances, winding up with the resolute persistency of the clerk at the stage office to enter my name misspelt on the way-bill, had not predisposed me to cheerfulness. The inmates of the Eureka House, from a social view-point, were not attractive. There was the prevailing opinion—so common to many honest people—that a serious style of deportment and conduct toward a stranger indicates high gentility and elevated station. Obeying this principle, all hilarity ceased on my entrance to supper, and general remark merged into the safer and uncompromising chronicle of several bad cases of diphtheria, then epidemic at Wingdam. When I left the dining-room, with an odd feeling that I had been supping exclusively on mustard and tea leaves, I stopped a moment at the parlor door. A piano, harmoniously related to the dinner-bell, tinkled responsive to a diffident and uncertain touch. On the white wall the shadow of an old and sharp profile was bending over several symmetrical and shadowy curls. “I sez to Mariar, ‘Mariar’ sez I, ‘praise to the face is open disgrace’” I heard no more. Dreading some susceptibility to sincere expression on the subject of female loveliness, I walked away, checking the compliment that otherwise might have risen unbidden to my lips, and have brought shame and sorrow to the household.
Maybe I was in a bad mood. A bunch of tiny annoyances, topped off by the determined insistence of the clerk at the stage office to misspell my name on the way-bill, hadn’t put me in a cheerful frame of mind. The people at the Eureka House weren’t exactly appealing from a social standpoint. There was a common belief—shared by many decent folks—that a serious attitude and behavior towards a stranger signifies high class and elevated status. Following this principle, all laughter stopped when I entered the dining room for supper, and casual conversation turned into a safer, dull discussion about the bad cases of diphtheria that were going around in Wingdam. As I left the dining room, feeling as if I had just eaten nothing but mustard and tea leaves, I paused at the parlor door. A piano, harmonizing with the dinner bell, played softly in response to a hesitant touch. On the white wall, the shadow of a sharp old profile leaned over several symmetrical, shadowy curls. “I sez to Mariar, ‘Mariar’ sez I, ‘praise to the face is open disgrace’” I didn’t hear any more. Worried I might be sensitive about sincere comments regarding female beauty, I walked away, stifling the compliment that might have slipped out and caused embarrassment and sadness for the family.
It was with the memory of these experiences resting heavily upon me that I stood hesitatingly before the stage door. The driver, about to mount, was for a moment illuminated by the open door of the hotel. He had the wearied look which was the distinguishing expression of Wingdam. Satisfied that I was properly way-billed and receipted for, he took no further notice of me. I looked longingly at the box-seat, but he did not respond to the appeal. I flung my carpetbag into the chasm, dived recklessly after it, and—before I was fairly seated—with a great sigh, a creaking of unwilling springs, complaining bolts, and harshly expostulating axle, we moved away. Rather the hotel door slipped behind, the sound of the piano sank to rest, and the night and its shadows moved solemnly upon us.
It was with the memory of these experiences weighing heavily on me that I stood uncertainly in front of the stage door. The driver, about to climb up, was briefly illuminated by the open hotel door. He had the tired expression that was typical of Wingdam. Satisfied that my ticket and receipt were in order, he paid me no more attention. I gazed enviously at the box seat, but he didn’t acknowledge my longing. I tossed my carpet bag into the space, jumped in after it, and—before I was even settled—let out a big sigh as the springs creaked, bolts complained, and the axle groaned, and we took off. The hotel door faded behind us, the sound of the piano quieted down, and the night and its shadows moved solemnly around us.
To say it was dark expressed but faintly the pitchy obscurity that encompassed the vehicle. The roadside trees were scarcely distinguishable as deeper masses of shadow; I knew them only by the peculiar sodden odor that from time to time sluggishly flowed in at the open window as we rolled by. We proceeded slowly; so leisurely that, leaning from the carriage, I more than once detected the fragrant sigh of some astonished cow, whose ruminating repose upon the highway we had ruthlessly disturbed. But in the darkness our progress, more the guidance of some mysterious instinct than any apparent volition of our own, gave an indefinable charm of security to our journey, that a moment’s hesitation or indecision on the part of the driver would have destroyed.
To say it was dark barely captured the thick darkness surrounding the vehicle. The trees along the roadside were hardly visible, appearing as deeper shadows; I recognized them only by the musty scent that occasionally drifted in through the open window as we passed. We moved slowly; so slowly, in fact, that leaning out of the carriage, I often caught the sweet breath of some surprised cow, whose peaceful resting on the road we had carelessly interrupted. Yet in the darkness, our progress—more guided by some mysterious instinct than any clear intention of our own—added an indescribable sense of security to our journey that a moment's pause or uncertainty from the driver would have shattered.
I had indulged a hope that in the empty vehicle I might obtain that rest so often denied me in its crowded condition. It was a weak delusion. When I stretched out my limbs it was only to find that the ordinary conveniences for making several people distinctly uncomfortable were distributed throughout my individual frame. At last, resting my arms on the straps, by dint of much gymnastic effort I became sufficiently composed to be aware of a more refined species of torture. The springs of the stage, rising and falling regularly, produced a rhythmical beat, which began to painfully absorb my attention. Slowly this thumping merged into a senseless echo of the mysterious female of the hotel parlor, and shaped itself into this awful and benumbing axiom: “Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace. Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace.” Inequalities of the road only quickened its utterance or drawled it to an exasperating length.
I had hoped that in the empty vehicle, I might find the rest that the crowded conditions often denied me. It was a foolish hope. When I tried to stretch out, I realized that the usual discomforts that make many people uneasy were just as present in my own body. Finally, I rested my arms on the straps, and after a lot of effort, I managed to calm down enough to notice a more subtle kind of torture. The stagecoach's springs rose and fell in a regular rhythm, which began to painfully grab my attention. Gradually, this thumping turned into a meaningless echo of the mysterious woman from the hotel parlor, forming itself into this awful and numbing phrase: “Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace. Praise-to-the-face-is-open-disgrace.” The bumps in the road only made the saying come out faster or dragged it out endlessly.
It was of no use to seriously consider the statement. It was of no use to except to it indignantly. It was of no use to recall the many instances where praise to the face had redounded to the everlasting honor of praiser and bepraised; of no use to dwell sentimentally on modest genius and courage lifted up and strengthened by open commendation; of no use to except to the mysterious female,—to picture her as rearing a thin-blooded generation on selfish and mechanically repeated axioms,—all this failed to counteract the monotonous repetition of this sentence. There was nothing to do but to give in, and I was about to accept it weakly, as we too often treat other illusions of darkness and necessity, for the time being, when I became aware of some other annoyance that had been forcing itself upon me for the last few moments. How quiet the driver was!
It was pointless to take the statement seriously. It was pointless to react to it indignantly. It was pointless to remember the many times when giving someone compliments had brought lasting honor to both the giver and the receiver; pointless to sentimentalize about modest talent and the courage that was uplifted and strengthened by open praise; pointless to exclusively focus on the mysterious woman—imagining her raising a weak generation on selfishly and mechanically repeated sayings—none of this could change the dull repetition of that sentence. There was nothing to do but give in, and I was about to accept it weakly, like we often do with other illusions of darkness and necessity, for the moment, when I noticed another irritation that had been creeping up on me for the last few moments. How quiet the driver was!
Was there any driver? Had I any reason to suppose that he was not lying gagged and bound on the roadside, and the highwayman, with blackened face, who did the thing so quietly, driving me—whither? The thing is perfectly feasible. And what is this fancy now being jolted out of me? A story? It’s of no use to keep it back, particularly in this abysmal vehicle, and here it comes: I am a marquis—a French marquis; French, because the peerage is not so well known, and the country is better adapted to romantic incident—a marquis, because the democratic reader delights in the nobility. My name is something ligny. I am coming from Paris to my country-seat at St. Germain. It is a dark night, and I fall asleep and tell my honest coachman, Andre, not to disturb me, and dream of an angel. The carriage at last stops at the chateau. It is so dark that, when I alight, I do not recognize the face of the footman who holds the carriage-door. But what of that?—peste! I am heavy with sleep. The same obscurity also hides the old familiar indecencies of the statues on the terrace; but there is a door, and it opens and shuts behind me smartly. Then I find myself in a trap, in the presence of the brigand who has quietly gagged poor Andre and conducted the carriage thither. There is nothing for me to do, as a gallant French marquis, but to say, “Parbleu!” draw my rapier, and die valorously! I am found, a week or two after, outside a deserted cabaret near the barrier, with a hole through my ruffled linen, and my pockets stripped. No; on second thoughts, I am rescued,—rescued by the angel I have been dreaming of, who is the assumed daughter of the brigand, but the real daughter of an intimate friend.
Was there any driver? Did I have any reason to think he wasn't lying gagged and bound on the roadside, with the highwayman, his face covered, doing everything so quietly—driving me—where? It's completely plausible. And what is this idea suddenly coming to me? A story? There's no point in keeping it in, especially in this awful vehicle, so here it goes: I’m a marquis—a French marquis; French, because the nobility isn't as well known, and the country lends itself better to romantic tales—a marquis, because the democratic reader enjoys the nobility. My name is something like Ligny. I'm traveling from Paris to my country house in St. Germain. It's a dark night, and I fall asleep, telling my honest driver, Andre, not to wake me and I dream of an angel. Finally, the carriage stops at the chateau. It's so dark that when I get out, I can't recognize the face of the footman holding the carriage door. But who cares? I am heavy with sleep. The same darkness also conceals the familiar indecencies of the statues on the terrace; but there's a door that opens and closes smartly behind me. Then I find myself trapped, face to face with the bandit who has quietly gagged poor Andre and brought the carriage here. As a gallant French marquis, there’s nothing for me to do but say, “Parbleu!” draw my sword, and die bravely! I am discovered a week or two later, outside a deserted cabaret near the barrier, with a hole in my ruffled shirt, and my pockets emptied. No; on second thought, I am rescued—rescued by the angel I've been dreaming of, who is the supposed daughter of the bandit, but really the daughter of a close friend.
Looking from the window again, in the vain hope of distinguishing the driver, I found my eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness. I could see the distant horizon, defined by India-inky woods relieving a lighter sky. A few stars, widely spaced in this picture, glimmering sadly. I noticed again the infinite depth of patient sorrow in their serene faces; and I hope that the Vandal who first applied the flippant “twinkle” to them may not be driven melancholy mad by their reproachful eyes. I noticed again the mystic charm of space, that imparts a sense of individual solitude to each integer of the densest constellation, involving the smallest star with immeasurable loneliness. Something of this calm and solitude crept over me, and I dozed in my gloomy cavern. When I awoke the full moon was rising. Seen from my window, it had an indescribably unreal and theatrical effect. It was the full moon of Norma—that remarkable celestial phenomenon which rises so palpably to a hushed audience and a sublime andante chorus, until the Casta Diva is sung—the “inconstant moon” that then and thereafter remains fixed in the heavens as though it were a part of the solar system inaugurated by Joshua. Again the white-robed Druids filed past me, again I saw that improbable mistletoe cut from that impossible oak, and again cold chills ran down my back with the first strain of the recitative. The thumping springs essayed to beat time, and the private box-like obscurity of the vehicle lent a cheap enchantment to the view. But it was a vast improvement upon my past experience, and I hugged the fond delusion.
Looking out the window again, hoping to spot the driver, I realized my eyes were getting used to the dark. I could see the distant horizon, shaped by deep, dark woods against a lighter sky. A few stars, scattered in this scene, shimmered sadly. I noticed once more the endless depth of patient sorrow in their calm faces, and I hoped that the person who first called it a "twinkle" wouldn’t be driven mad by their reproachful eyes. I was reminded again of the mystical charm of space, which gives each point in the densest constellation a sense of individual solitude, wrapping even the smallest star in overwhelming loneliness. Some of that calm and solitude washed over me, and I dozed off in my gloomy space. When I woke up, the full moon was rising. From my window, it had an indescribably unreal and theatrical presence. It was the full moon of Norma—that extraordinary celestial event that rises dramatically to a hushed audience and a sublime, flowing chorus, until the Casta Diva is sung—the “inconstant moon” that stays fixed in the sky as if it were part of the solar system set in motion by Joshua. Once again, the white-robed Druids passed by me, once again I saw that improbable mistletoe cut from that impossible oak, and once again I felt chills run down my back with the first notes of the recitative. The creaky springs tried to keep tempo, and the dim box-like space of the carriage added a cheap magic to the view. But it was a huge improvement over my previous experiences, and I cherished that comforting illusion.
My fears for the driver were dissipated with the rising moon. A familiar sound had assured me of his presence in the full possession of at least one of his most important functions. Frequent and full expectoration convinced me that his lips were as yet not sealed by the gag of highwaymen, and soothed my anxious ear. With this load lifted from my mind, and assisted by the mild presence of Diana, who left, as when she visited Endymion, much of her splendor outside my cavern,—I looked around the empty vehicle. On the forward seat lay a woman’s hairpin. I picked it up with an interest that, however, soon abated. There was no scent of the roses to cling to it still, not even of hair-oil. No bent or twist in its rigid angles betrayed any trait of its wearer’s character. I tried to think that it might have been “Mariar’s.” I tried to imagine that, confining the symmetrical curls of that girl, it might have heard the soft compliments whispered in her ears which provoked the wrath of the aged female. But in vain. It was reticent and unswerving in its upright fidelity, and at last slipped listlessly through my fingers.
My concerns for the driver faded as the moon rose. A familiar sound reassured me that he was still able to perform at least one of his key duties. The frequent and loud clearing of his throat convinced me that he wasn’t silenced by the bandits, easing my anxious mind. With this worry lifted and the gentle presence of Diana, who, like when she visited Endymion, left much of her brilliance outside my cave—I looked around the empty vehicle. On the front seat lay a woman’s hairpin. I picked it up with interest, though that faded quickly. There was no fragrance of roses left on it, not even a hint of hair oil. No bends or twists in its rigid form revealed anything about its owner’s personality. I tried to think it might have belonged to “Mariar.” I imagined that it could have held back the neat curls of that girl and heard the soft compliments whispered in her ear that angered the older lady. But it was no use. It remained silent and steadfast in its shape, and eventually slipped through my fingers without any emotion.
I had dozed repeatedly,—waked on the threshold of oblivion by contact with some of the angles of the coach, and feeling that I was unconsciously assuming, in imitation of a humble insect of my childish recollection, that spherical shape which could best resist those impressions, when I perceived that the moon, riding high in the heavens, had begun to separate the formless masses of the shadowy landscape. Trees isolated, in clumps, and assemblages, changed places before my window. The sharp outlines of the distant hills came back as in daylight, but little softened in the dry, cold, dewless air of a California summer night. I was wondering how late it was, and thinking that if the horses of the night traveled as slowly as the team before us, Faustus might have been spared his agonizing prayer, when a sudden spasm of activity attacked my driver. A succession of whip-snappings, like a pack of Chinese crackers, broke from the box before me. The stage leaped forward, and when I could pick myself from under the seat, a long white building had in some mysterious way rolled before my window. It must be Slumgullion! As I descended from the stage I addressed the driver:—
I had drifted in and out of sleep, jolted back to awareness by hitting the edges of the coach, and I found myself unconsciously curling up like a small bug from my childhood memories, adopting that round shape which could better withstand those jolts. That’s when I noticed the moon, high in the sky, starting to unveil the shapeless masses of the shadowy landscape. Trees, standing alone or in groups, shifted in view from my window. The sharp outlines of the distant hills returned as if it were daytime, yet slightly softened by the dry, cold, dewless air of a California summer night. I wondered how late it was and thought that if the night’s horses traveled as slowly as our team, Faustus might have been spared his desperate prayer, when suddenly my driver sprang into action. A series of whip cracks, like a string of firecrackers, erupted from the box in front of me. The stage lunged forward, and when I managed to get myself out from under the seat, a long white building had mysteriously rolled into view outside my window. It must be Slumgullion! As I stepped down from the stage, I spoke to the driver:—
“I thought you changed horses on the road?”
“I thought you switched horses on the way?”
“So we did. Two hours ago.”
“So we did. Two hours ago.”
“That’s odd. I didn’t notice it.”
“That’s strange. I didn’t see it.”
“Must have been asleep, sir. Hope you had a pleasant nap. Bully place for a nice quiet snooze, empty stage, sir!”
“Must have been asleep, sir. Hope you had a nice nap. Great spot for a nice quiet snooze, empty stage, sir!”
THE MAN OF NO ACCOUNT
His name was Fagg,—David Fagg. He came to California in ’52 with us, in the Skyscraper. I don’t think he did it in an adventurous way. He probably had no other place to go to. When a knot of us young fellows would recite what splendid opportunities we resigned to go, and how sorry our friends were to have us leave, and show daguerreotypes and locks of hair, and talk of Mary and Susan, the man of no account used to sit by and listen with a pained, mortified expression on his plain face, and say nothing. I think he had nothing to say. He had no associates, except when we patronized him; and, in point of fact, he was a good deal of sport to us. He was always seasick whenever we had a capful of wind. He never got his sea-legs on either. And I never shall forget how we all laughed when Eattler took him the piece of pork on a string, and—But you know that time-honored joke. And then we had such a splendid lark with him. Miss Fanny Twinkler couldn’t bear the sight of him, and we used to make Fagg think that she had taken a fancy to him, and sent him little delicacies and books from the cabin. You ought to have witnessed the rich scene that took place when he came up, stammering and very sick, to thank her! Didn’t she flash up grandly, and beautifully, and scornfully? So like “Medora,” Rattler said,—Rattler knew Byron by heart,—and wasn’t Old Fagg awfully cut up? But he got over it, and when Rattler fell sick at Valparaiso, Old Fagg used to nurse him. You see he was a good sort of fellow, but he lacked manliness and spirit. He had absolutely no idea of poetry. I’ve seen him sit stolidly by, mending his old clothes, when Rattler delivered that stirring apostrophe of Byron’s to the ocean. He asked Rattler once, quite seriously, if he thought Byron was ever seasick. I don’t remember Rattler’s reply, but I know we all laughed very much, and I have no doubt it was something good, for Rattler was smart.
His name was Fagg—David Fagg. He came to California in ’52 with us, on the Skyscraper. I don’t think he did it out of a sense of adventure. He probably had nowhere else to go. When a group of us young guys would talk about the amazing opportunities we were leaving behind, how sad our friends were to see us go, and show daguerreotypes and locks of hair, and talk about Mary and Susan, he would just sit there with a pained, embarrassed look on his plain face and say nothing. I think he didn’t have anything to say. He had no friends, except when we decided to include him; honestly, he was quite a source of amusement for us. He always got seasick whenever the wind picked up. He never got his sea legs. I'll never forget how we all laughed when Eattler brought him a piece of pork on a string—and you know that classic joke. We had such a good time at his expense. Miss Fanny Twinkler couldn’t stand the sight of him, and we made Fagg believe that she had a crush on him and sent him little treats and books from the cabin. You should have seen the hilarious scene when he came up, stammering and looking really sick, to thank her! Didn’t she respond dramatically, beautifully, and condescendingly? Just like “Medora,” Rattler said—Rattler knew Byron by heart—and wasn’t Old Fagg completely crushed? But he got over it, and when Rattler got sick in Valparaiso, Old Fagg took care of him. You see, he was a decent guy, but he lacked confidence and spirit. He completely missed the idea of poetry. I’ve seen him sitting there, expressionless, mending his old clothes while Rattler delivered that stirring speech of Byron’s to the ocean. He once asked Rattler, quite seriously, if he thought Byron ever got seasick. I don’t remember Rattler’s response, but I know we all laughed a lot, and I’m sure it was something clever because Rattler was quick-witted.
When the Skyscraper arrived at San Francisco we had a grand “feed.” We agreed to meet every year and perpetuate the occasion. Of course we didn’t invite Fagg. Fagg was a steerage passenger, and it was necessary, you see, now we were ashore, to exercise a little discretion. But Old Fagg, as we called him,—he was only about twenty-five years old, by the way,—was the source of immense amusement to us that day. It appeared that he had conceived the idea that he could walk to Sacramento, and actually started off afoot. We had a good time, and shook hands with one another all around, and so parted. Ah, me! only eight years ago, and yet some of those hands, then clasped in amity, have been clenched at each other, or have dipped furtively in one another’s pockets. I know that we didn’t dine together the next year, because young Barker swore he wouldn’t put his feet under the same mahogany with such a very contemptible scoundrel as that Mixer; and Nibbles, who borrowed money at Valparaiso of young Stubbs, who was then a waiter in a restaurant, didn’t like to meet such people.
When the Skyscraper arrived in San Francisco, we had a big celebration. We decided to meet every year and continue the tradition. Of course, we didn’t invite Fagg. Fagg was a steerage passenger, and it was important, now that we were on land, to be a bit careful. But Old Fagg, as we called him—though he was only about twenty-five—was a huge source of laughter for us that day. It turned out he thought he could walk to Sacramento, and he actually set off on foot. We had a great time, shook hands with each other all around, and then went our separate ways. Ah, only eight years ago, and yet some of those hands that were joined in friendship have since been clenched at each other or have secretly dipped into one another’s pockets. I know we didn't have dinner together the following year because young Barker insisted he wouldn’t sit at the same table as such a contemptible scoundrel as that Mixer; and Nibbles, who borrowed money in Valparaiso from young Stubbs, who was then a waiter at a restaurant, didn’t want to be around people like that.
When I bought a number of shares in the Coyote Tunnel at Mugginsville, in ’54, I thought I’d take a run up there and see it. I stopped at the Empire Hotel, and after dinner I got a horse and rode round the town and out to the claim. One of those individuals whom newspaper correspondents call “our intelligent informant,” and to whom in all small communities the right of answering questions is tacitly yielded, was quietly pointed out to me. Habit had enabled him to work and talk at the same time, and he never pretermitted either. He gave me a history of the claim, and added: “You see, stranger (he addressed the bank before him), gold is sure to come outer that theer claim (he put in a comma with his pick), but the old pro-pri-e-tor (he wriggled out the word and the point of his pick) warn’t of much account (a long stroke of the pick for a period). He was green, and let the boys about here jump him,”—and the rest of his sentence was confided to his hat, which he had removed to wipe his manly brow with his red bandana.
When I bought some shares in the Coyote Tunnel at Mugginsville in '54, I figured I’d take a trip up there to check it out. I stayed at the Empire Hotel, and after dinner, I got a horse and rode around town and out to the claim. Someone who newspaper reporters call “our knowledgeable source,” and who in every small community is automatically considered the go-to for answers, was discreetly pointed out to me. He had gotten used to working and talking at the same time, and he never skipped either. He told me the history of the claim and added, “You see, stranger” (he addressed the bank in front of him), “gold is bound to come out of that claim” (he punctuated this with his pick), “but the old owner” (he carefully pronounced the word and the tip of his pick) “wasn’t worth much” (a long stroke of the pick signaled the end of his thought). He was naive, and he let the local guys take advantage of him,”—and the rest of what he had to say was directed toward his hat, which he took off to wipe his forehead with his red bandana.
I asked him who was the original proprietor.
I asked him who the original owner was.
“His name war Fagg.”
“His name was Fagg.”
I went to see him. He looked a little older and plainer. He had worked hard, he said, and was getting on “so-so.” I took quite a liking to him and patronized him to some extent. Whether I did so because I was beginning to have a distrust for such fellows as Rattler and Mixer is not necessary for me to state.
I went to see him. He looked a bit older and more average. He said he had been working hard and was doing “okay.” I really liked him and kind of put him on a pedestal. Whether I did this because I was starting to distrust guys like Rattler and Mixer isn’t something I need to get into.
You remember how the Coyote Tunnel went in, and how awfully we shareholders were done! Well, the next thing I heard was that Rattler, who was one of the heaviest shareholders, was up at Mugginsville keeping bar for the proprietor of the Mugginsville Hotel, and that Old Fagg had struck it rich, and didn’t know what to do with his money. All this was told me by Mixer, who had been there settling up matters, and likewise that Fagg was sweet upon the daughter of the proprietor of the aforesaid hotel. And so by hearsay and letter I eventually gathered that old Robins, the hotel man, was trying to get up a match between Nellie Robins and Fagg. Nellie was a pretty, plump, and foolish little thing, and would do just as her father wished. I thought it would be a good thing for—Fagg if he should marry and settle down; that as a married man he might be of some account. So I ran up to Mugginsville one day to look after things. It did me an immense deal of good to make Rattler mix my drinks for me,—Rattler! the gay, brilliant, and unconquerable Rattler, who had tried to snub me two years ago! I talked to him about Old Fagg and Nellie, particularly as I thought the subject was distasteful. He never liked Fagg, and he was sure, he said, that Nellie didn’t. Did Nellie like anybody else? He turned round to the mirror behind the bar and brushed up his hair. I understood the conceited wretch. I thought l’d put Fagg on his guard, and get him to hurry up matters. I had a long talk with him. You could see by the way the poor fellow acted that he was badly stuck. He sighed, and promised to pluck up courage to hurry matters to a crisis. Nellie was a good girl, and I think had a sort of quiet respect for Old Fagg’s unobtrusiveness. But her fancy was already taken captive by Rattler’s superficial qualities, which were obvious and pleasing. I don’t think Nellie was any worse than you or I. We are more apt to take acquaintances at their apparent value than their intrinsic worth. It’s less trouble, and except when we want to trust them, quite as convenient. The difficulty with women is that their feelings are apt to get interested sooner than ours, and then, you know, reasoning is out of the question. This is what Old Fagg would have known had he been of any account. But he wasn’t. So much the worse for him.
You remember how the Coyote Tunnel went down, and how badly we shareholders were treated! Well, the next thing I heard was that Rattler, who was one of the biggest shareholders, was up in Mugginsville tending bar for the owner of the Mugginsville Hotel, and that Old Fagg had struck it rich and didn’t know how to handle his money. Mixer, who had been there settling things, told me all this, along with the fact that Fagg was sweet on the daughter of the hotel owner. So through rumors and letters, I eventually learned that old Robins, the hotel owner, was trying to set up a match between Nellie Robins and Fagg. Nellie was a pretty, plump, and foolish little thing, and she would do whatever her father wanted. I thought it would be good for Fagg if he married and settled down; as a married man, he might actually amount to something. So I went up to Mugginsville one day to check things out. It did wonders for me to have Rattler mix my drinks—Rattler! the flashy, charming, and unbeatable Rattler, who had tried to put me in my place two years ago! I talked to him about Old Fagg and Nellie, especially since I thought it was a topic he wouldn’t enjoy. He never liked Fagg, and he was sure, he said, that Nellie didn’t either. Did Nellie like anyone else? He turned to the mirror behind the bar and fixed his hair. I understood the vain fool. I figured I’d give Fagg a heads-up and encourage him to move things along. I had a long talk with him. You could tell by the way the poor guy acted that he was in over his head. He sighed and promised to muster up the courage to push things along. Nellie was a good girl, and I think she had a sort of quiet respect for Old Fagg’s modesty. But her interest was already captured by Rattler’s superficial traits, which were obvious and charming. I don’t think Nellie was any worse than you or me. We’re more likely to judge acquaintances based on their surface appeal than their true value. It’s easier, and aside from when we want to trust them, it’s just as convenient. The problem with women is that their feelings can get engaged before ours do, and then, well, reasoning goes out the window. This is something Old Fagg would have understood if he had any sense. But he didn’t. So that’s too bad for him.
It was a few months afterward, and I was sitting in my office when in walked Old Fagg. I was surprised to see him down, but we talked over the current topics in that mechanical manner of people who know that they have something else to say, but are obliged to get at it in that formal way. After an interval, Fagg in his natural manner said,—
It was a few months later, and I was sitting in my office when Old Fagg walked in. I was surprised to see him here, but we chatted about the usual topics in that robotic way people do when they know they have something else to discuss but feel the need to stick to the formalities first. After a pause, Fagg, in his usual way, said,—
“I’m going home!”
"I'm heading home!"
“Going home?”
"Heading home?"
“Yes,—that is, I think I’ll take a trip to the Atlantic States. I came to see you, as you know I have some little property, and I have executed a power of attorney for you to manage my affairs. I have some papers I’d like to leave with you. Will you take charge of them?”
“Yes—I think I’ll take a trip to the Atlantic States. I came to see you because, as you know, I have some property, and I’ve given you power of attorney to manage my affairs. I have some papers I’d like to leave with you. Will you take care of them?”
“Yes,” I said. “But what of Nellie?”
“Yes,” I said. “But what about Nellie?”
His face fell. He tried to smile, and the combination resulted in one of the most startling and grotesque effects I ever beheld. At length he said,—
His expression changed. He attempted to smile, and the mix of emotions created one of the most shocking and bizarre sights I ever witnessed. Finally, he said,—
“I shall not marry Nellie,—that is,”—he seemed to apologize internally for the positive form of expression,—“I think that I had better not.”
“I’m not going to marry Nellie—that is,”—he seemed to apologize to himself for being so blunt,—“I think it’s best if I don’t.”
“David Fagg,” I said with sudden severity, “you’re of no account!”
“David Fagg,” I said suddenly, “you’re not important!”
To my astonishment, his face brightened.
To my surprise, his face lit up.
“Yes,” said he, “that’s it!—I’m of no account! But I always knew it. You see, I thought Rattler loved that girl as well as I did, and I knew she liked him better than she did me, and would be happier, I dare say, with him. But then I knew that old Robins would have preferred me to him, as I was better off,—and the girl would do as he said,—and, you see, I thought I was kinder in the way,—and so I left. But,” he continued, as I was about to interrupt him, “for fear the old man might object to Rattler, I’ve lent him enough to set him up in business for himself in Dogtown. A pushing, active, brilliant fellow, you know, like Rattler can get along, and will soon be in his old position again,—and you needn’t be hard on him, you know, if he doesn’t. Good-by.”
“Yeah,” he said, “that’s it!—I’m nobody! But I always knew that. You see, I thought Rattler loved that girl as much as I did, and I knew she liked him more than she liked me, and would probably be happier with him. But then I knew that old Robins would have preferred me to him, since I was better off,—and the girl would do what he said,—and, you see, I thought I was being nicer about it,—and so I stepped aside. But,” he continued, as I was about to interrupt him, “just in case the old man might object to Rattler, I’ve lent him enough money to start his own business in Dogtown. A driven, active, talented guy like Rattler will be just fine, and it won’t take long for him to get back to where he was,—and you shouldn’t be too hard on him if he doesn’t. Goodbye.”
I was too much disgusted with his treatment of that Rattler to be at all amiable, but as his business was profitable, I promised to attend to it, and he left. A few weeks passed. The return steamer arrived, and a terrible incident occupied the papers for days afterwards. People in all parts of the State conned eagerly the details of an awful shipwreck, and those who had friends aboard went away by themselves, and read the long list of the lost under their breath. I read of the gifted, the gallant, the noble, and loved ones who had perished, and among them I think I was the first to read the name of David Fagg. For the “man of no account” had “gone home!”
I was too disgusted with how he treated that Rattler to be in any good mood, but since his business was profitable, I promised to handle it, and he left. A few weeks went by. The returning steamer arrived, and a terrible incident filled the papers for days afterward. People all over the State eagerly poured over the details of a horrific shipwreck, and those with friends onboard went off by themselves to read the long list of the lost quietly. I saw the names of the talented, the brave, the noble, and those dearly loved who had died, and I think I was the first to notice the name David Fagg. For the “man of no account” had “gone home!”
NOTES BY FLOOD AND FIELD
PART I
It was near the close of an October day that I began to be disagreeably conscious of the Sacramento Valley. I had been riding since sunrise, and my course through the depressing monotony of the long level landscape affected me more like a dull, dyspeptic dream than a business journey, performed under that sincerest of natural phenomena,—a California sky. The recurring stretches of brown and baked fields, the gaping fissures in the dusty trail, the hard outline of the distant hills, and the herds of slowly moving cattle, seemed like features of some glittering stereoscopic picture that never changed. Active exercise might have removed this feeling, but my horse by some subtle instinct had long since given up all ambitious effort, and had lapsed into a dogged trot.
It was close to the end of an October day when I started to feel uncomfortably aware of the Sacramento Valley. I had been riding since sunrise, and my journey through the dull sameness of the flat landscape felt more like a boring, uncomfortable dream than a real trip, all under that most genuine natural phenomenon—a California sky. The endless stretches of dry, brown fields, the wide cracks in the dusty path, the sharp outline of the distant hills, and the herds of slowly moving cattle seemed like elements of a sparkling stereoscopic image that never changed. Some active exercise might have shaken this feeling off, but my horse, sensing something, had long since stopped making any effort and had settled into a stubborn trot.
It was autumn, but not the season suggested to the Atlantic reader under that title. The sharply defined boundaries of the wet and dry seasons were prefigured in the clear outlines of the distant hills. In the dry atmosphere the decay of vegetation was too rapid for the slow hectic which overtakes an Eastern landscape, or else Nature was too practical for such thin disguises. She merely turned the Hippocratic face to the spectator, with the old diagnosis of death in her sharp, contracted features.
It was autumn, but not the kind implied to the readers of the Atlantic under that title. The clear lines between the wet and dry seasons were hinted at in the distinct shapes of the distant hills. In the dry air, the deterioration of plants happened too quickly for the slow, intense decline typical of an Eastern landscape, or maybe Nature was just too realistic for such subtle pretenses. She simply showed her Hippocratic face to the observer, revealing the same old diagnosis of death in her sharp, tightened features.
In the contemplation of such a prospect there was little to excite any but a morbid fancy. There were no clouds in the flinty blue heavens, and the setting of the sun was accompanied with as little ostentation as was consistent with the dryly practical atmosphere. Darkness soon followed, with a rising wind, which increased as the shadows deepened on the plain. The fringe of alder by the watercourse began to loom up as I urged my horse forward. A half-hour’s active spurring brought me to a corral, and a little beyond a house, so low and broad, it seemed at first sight to be half buried in the earth.
Thinking about such a situation didn’t stir excitement in anyone except for those with a peculiar imagination. The sky was a hard, clear blue with no clouds, and the sunset was understated, fitting the dry, practical mood. Darkness quickly set in, accompanied by a rising wind that grew stronger as the shadows deepened on the plain. The edges of the alder trees by the water began to appear as I pushed my horse forward. A half-hour of steady spurring took me to a corral, and just past that was a house so low and wide it looked, at first glance, like it was half-buried in the ground.
My second impression was that it had grown out of the soil like some monstrous vegetable, its dreary proportions were so in keeping with the vast prospect. There were no recesses along its roughly boarded walls for vagrant and unprofitable shadows to lurk in the daily sunshine. No projection for the wind by night to grow musical over, to wail, whistle, or whisper to; only a long wooden shelf containing a chilly-looking tin basin and a bar of soap. Its uncurtained windows were red with the sinking sun, as though bloodshot and inflamed from a too long unlidded existence. The tracks of cattle led to its front door, firmly closed against the rattling wind.
My second impression was that it had sprouted from the ground like some giant vegetable, its gloomy size matching the wide landscape. There were no indentations along its roughly boarded walls for wandering shadows to hide in the bright sunlight. No ledges for the night wind to create music with, to moan, whistle, or murmur; just a long wooden shelf holding a cold-looking tin basin and a bar of soap. Its bare windows were tinted red by the setting sun, as if bloodshot and irritated from being open for too long. Cattle tracks led to its front door, which was firmly shut against the rattling wind.
To avoid being confounded with this familiar element, I walked to the rear of the house, which was connected with a smaller building by a slight platform. A grizzled, hard-faced old man was standing there, and met my salutation with a look of inquiry, and, without speaking, led the way to the principal room. As I entered, four young men who were reclining by the fire slightly altered their attitudes of perfect repose, but beyond that betrayed neither curiosity nor interest. A hound started from a dark corner with a growl, but was immediately kicked by the old man into obscurity and silenced again. I can’t tell why, but I instantly received the impression that for a long time the group by the fire had not uttered a word or moved a muscle. Taking a seat, I briefly stated my business. Was a United States surveyor. Had come on account of the Espiritu Santo rancho. Wanted to correct the exterior boundaries of township lines, so as to connect with the near exteriors of private grants. There had been some intervention to the old survey by a Mr. Tryan, who had preempted adjacent—“Settled land warrants,” interrupted the old man. “Ah, yes! land warrants,—and then this was Mr. Tryan?”
To avoid mixing this familiar element up, I walked to the back of the house, which was linked to a smaller building by a slight platform. A grizzled, tough-looking old man was standing there and responded to my greeting with a curious look. Without saying a word, he led me to the main room. As I entered, four young men lounging by the fire shifted slightly but didn't show any curiosity or interest. A hound jumped up from a dark corner with a growl, but the old man quickly kicked it back into the shadows to silence it. For some reason, I immediately got the feeling that the group by the fire hadn’t said anything or moved for a long time. I took a seat and briefly stated my purpose. I was a United States surveyor and had come regarding the Espiritu Santo rancho. I wanted to adjust the exterior boundaries of township lines to connect with the nearby edges of private grants. There had been some interference with the old survey by a Mr. Tryan, who had preempted nearby—“Settled land warrants,” the old man interrupted. “Ah, yes! Land warrants—and so this was Mr. Tryan?”
I had spoken mechanically, for I was preoccupied in connecting other public lines with private surveys, as I looked in his face. It was certainly a hard face, and reminded me of the singular effect of that mining operation known as “ground sluicing;” the harder lines of underlying character were exposed, and what were once plastic curves and soft outlines were obliterated by some powerful agency.
I spoke automatically, as I was focused on linking other public lines with private surveys while looking at his face. It was definitely a tough face, reminding me of the strange effect of a mining technique called “ground sluicing;” the tougher features of the underlying character were revealed, and what used to be smooth curves and gentle outlines were erased by some strong force.
There was a dryness in his voice not unlike the prevailing atmosphere of the valley, as he launched into an ex parte statement of the contest, with a fluency which, like the wind without, showed frequent and unrestrained expression. He told me—what I had already learned—that the boundary line of the old Spanish grant was a creek, described in the loose phraseology of the deseno as beginning in the valda or skirt of the hill, its precise location long the subject of litigation. I listened and answered with little interest, for my mind was still distracted by the wind which swept violently by the house, as well as by his odd face, which was again reflected in the resemblance that the silent group by the fire bore toward him. He was still talking, and the wind was yet blowing, when my confused attention was aroused by a remark addressed to the recumbent figures.
There was a dryness in his voice similar to the atmosphere of the valley as he began to explain the contest, speaking so fluently that it was like the wind outside, constantly and freely expressing itself. He told me—something I already knew—that the boundary line of the old Spanish grant was a creek, described in the vague language of the deseno as starting at the edge of the hill, with its exact location being the subject of ongoing legal disputes. I listened and responded with little interest because my mind was still distracted by the wind violently blowing past the house, as well as by his strange face, which was also mirrored in the likeness of the quiet group by the fire. He kept talking, and the wind continued to blow, when my wandering focus was drawn back by a comment aimed at the reclining figures.
“Now, then, which on ye’ll see the stranger up the creek to Altascar’s to-morrow?”
“Now, then, which of you will see the stranger up the creek to Altascar’s tomorrow?”
There was a general movement of opposition in the group, but no decided answer.
There was a general sense of disagreement in the group, but no clear answer.
“Kin you go, Kerg?”
“Can you go, Kerg?”
“Who’s to look up stock in Strarberry per-ar-ie?”
“Who’s going to check the stock in Strawberry per-ar-ie?”
This seemed to imply a negative, and the old man turned to another hopeful, who was pulling the fur from a mangy bearskin on which he was lying, with an expression as though it were somebody’s hair.
This seemed to suggest something bad, and the old man turned to another hopeful, who was pulling the fur from a shabby bearskin he was lying on, with an expression as if it were someone's hair.
“Well, Tom, wot’s to hinder you from goin’?”
“Well, Tom, what’s stopping you from going?”
“Mam’s goin’ to Brown’s store at sun-up, and I s’pose I’ve got to pack her and the baby again.”
“Mama's going to Brown's store at sunrise, and I guess I have to pack her and the baby again.”
I think the expression of scorn this unfortunate youth exhibited for the filial duty into which he had been evidently beguiled was one of the finest things I had ever seen.
I think the look of disdain this unfortunate young man showed for the family obligation he had clearly been tricked into was one of the most remarkable things I had ever witnessed.
“Wise?”
"Smart?"
Wise deigned no verbal reply, but figuratively thrust a worn and patched boot into the discourse. The old man flushed quickly.
Wise didn’t respond verbally, but he metaphorically shoved a worn and patched boot into the conversation. The old man quickly turned red.
“I told ye to get Brown to give you a pair the last time you war down the river.”
“I told you to get Brown to give you a pair the last time you were down the river.”
“Said he wouldn’t without an order. Said it was like pulling gum-teeth to get the money from you even then.”
“Said he wouldn’t do it without an order. Said it was like pulling teeth to get the money from you even then.”
There was a grim smile at this local hit at the old man’s parsimony, and Wise, who was clearly the privileged wit of the family, sank back in honorable retirement.
There was a dark smile at this local jab at the old man’s stinginess, and Wise, who was obviously the family’s cleverest member, settled back into his respectable quietness.
“Well, Joe, ef your boots are new, and you aren’t pestered with wimmin and children, p’r’aps you’ll go,” said Tryan, with a nervous twitching, intended for a smile, about a mouth not remarkably mirthful.
“Well, Joe, if your boots are new, and you’re not being bothered by women and kids, maybe you’ll go,” said Tryan, with a nervous twitch that was meant to be a smile, though his mouth wasn’t particularly cheerful.
Tom lifted a pair of bushy eyebrows and said shortly,—
Tom raised his bushy eyebrows and said briefly,—
“Got no saddle.”
"No saddle."
“Wot’s gone of your saddle?”
"What's happened to your saddle?"
“Kerg, there!” indicating his brother with a look such as Cain might have worn at the sacrifice.
“Kerg, there!” he said, pointing at his brother with a look similar to what Cain might have had during the sacrifice.
“You lie!” returned Kerg cheerfully.
"You’re lying!" replied Kerg cheerfully.
Tryan sprang to his feet, seizing the chair, flourishing it around his head and gazing furiously in the hard young faces which fearlessly met his own. But it was only for a moment; his arm soon dropped by his side, and a look of hopeless fatality crossed his face. He allowed me to take the chair from his hand, and I was trying to pacify him by the assurance that I required no guide, when the irrepressible Wise again lifted his voice—
Tryan jumped up, grabbing the chair, swinging it around his head, and staring angrily at the tough young faces that boldly looked back at him. But it was only for a moment; his arm soon fell to his side, and a look of hopeless resignation took over his face. He let me take the chair from him, and while I was trying to calm him down by telling him I didn’t need a guide, the unstoppable Wise spoke up again—
“Theer’s George comin’! Why don’t ye ask him? He’ll go and introduce you to Don Fernandy’s darter, too, ef you ain’t pertickler.”
“Here comes George! Why don’t you ask him? He’ll go and introduce you to Don Fernandy’s daughter too, if you’re not picky.”
The laugh which followed this joke, which evidently had some domestic allusion (the general tendency of rural pleasantry), was followed by a light step on the platform, and the young man entered. Seeing a stranger present, he stopped and colored, made a shy salute and colored again, and then, drawing a box from the corner, sat down, his hands clasped tightly together and his very handsome bright blue eyes turned frankly on mine.
The laughter that came after this joke, which clearly had some local reference (a common trait of rural humor), was followed by a light step onto the platform, and the young man walked in. Noticing a stranger there, he paused, blushed, offered a shy greeting, and blushed again. Then, pulling a box from the corner, he sat down, his hands tightly clasped together and his striking bright blue eyes directly meeting mine.
Perhaps I was in a condition to receive the romantic impression he made upon me, and I took it upon myself to ask his company as guide, and he cheerfully assented. But some domestic duty called him presently away.
Maybe I was in a state to feel the romantic impression he made on me, so I decided to ask him to join me as a guide, and he happily agreed. But soon, some obligation at home pulled him away.
The fire gleamed brightly on the hearth, and, no longer resisting the prevailing influence, I silently watched the spirting flame, listening to the wind which continually shook the tenement. Besides the one chair, which had acquired a new importance in my eyes, I presently discovered a crazy table in one corner, with an inkbottle and pen, the latter in that greasy state of decomposition peculiar to country taverns and farmhouses. A goodly array of rifles and double-barreled guns stocked the corner; half a dozen saddles and blankets lay near, with a mild flavor of the horse about them. Some deer and bear skins completed the inventory. As I sat there, with the silent group around me, the shadowy gloom within and the dominant wind without, I found it difficult to believe I had ever known a different existence. My profession had often led me to wilder scenes, but rarely among those whose unrestrained habits and easy unconsciousness made me feel so lonely and uncomfortable. I shrank closer to myself, not without grave doubts—which I think occur naturally to people in like situations—that this was the general rule of humanity, and I was a solitary and somewhat gratuitous exception.
The fire flickered brightly in the fireplace, and, no longer fighting against the overwhelming atmosphere, I quietly watched the dancing flames while listening to the wind that constantly rattled the building. Besides the single chair, which had taken on new significance to me, I soon noticed a rickety table in one corner, complete with an ink bottle and a pen, the latter in that grimy condition typical of country inns and farmhouses. A nice collection of rifles and double-barreled shotguns filled the corner; half a dozen saddles and blankets were nearby, carrying a faint scent of horse. Some deer and bear skins rounded out the collection. As I sat there, surrounded by the silent group, with the dark gloom inside and the powerful wind outside, I found it hard to believe I had ever experienced any other way of life. My job had often taken me to wilder places, but rarely among those whose wild habits and carefree nature made me feel so isolated and uneasy. I huddled closer to myself, filled with serious doubts—which I think are natural for people in similar circumstances—that this was the norm for humanity, and I was a lonely and somewhat unnecessary exception.
It was a relief when a laconic announcement of supper by a weak-eyed girl caused a general movement in the family. We walked across the dark platform, which led to another low-ceiled room. Its entire length was occupied by a table, at the further end of which a weak-eyed woman was already taking her repast as she at the same time gave nourishment to a weak-eyed baby. As the formalities of introduction had been dispensed with, and as she took no notice of me, I was enabled to slip into a seat without discomposing or interrupting her. Tryan extemporized a grace, and the attention of the family became absorbed in bacon, potatoes, and dried apples.
It was a relief when a quiet announcement of dinner by a girl with weak eyesight prompted the family to move. We walked across the dark platform to another low-ceilinged room. A long table filled the room, and at the far end, a woman with weak eyesight was already eating while also feeding a weak-eyed baby. Since there had been no formal introductions and she didn’t acknowledge me, I was able to take a seat without disturbing her. Tryan offered a spontaneous prayer, and the family's attention quickly focused on the bacon, potatoes, and dried apples.
The meal was a sincere one. Gentle gurglings at the upper end of the table often betrayed the presence of the “wellspring of pleasure.” The conversation generally referred to the labors of the day, and comparing notes as to the whereabouts of missing stock. Yet the supper was such a vast improvement upon the previous intellectual feast, that when a chance allusion of mine to the business of my visit brought out the elder Tryan, the interest grew quite exciting. I remember he inveighed bitterly against the system of ranch-holding by the “Greasers,” as he was pleased to term the native Californians. As the same ideas have been sometimes advanced under more pretentious circumstances, they may be worthy of record.
The meal was genuinely pleasant. Soft murmurs from the top of the table often revealed the “source of enjoyment.” The conversation usually revolved around the day's work and sharing updates about lost livestock. Still, dinner was such a significant upgrade from the previous intellectual gathering that when I casually mentioned the purpose of my visit, the elder Tryan became quite animated. I remember he criticized the system of land ownership by the “Greasers,” as he referred to the local Californians. Since these ideas have occasionally been discussed in more formal situations, they might be worth noting.
“Look at ’em holdin’ the finest grazin’ land that ever lay outer doors? Whar’s the papers for it? Was it grants? Mighty fine grants,—most of ’em made arter the ’Merrikans got possession. More fools the ’Merrikans for lettin’ ’em hold ’em. Wat paid for ’em? ’Merrikan blood and money.
“Look at them holding the best grazing land that ever existed outside! Where are the papers for it? Was it grants? Really nice grants—most of them made after the Americans took possession. What fools the Americans are for letting them keep it. What paid for it? American blood and money.
“Didn’t they oughter have suthin’ out of their native country? Wot for? Did they ever improve? Got a lot of yaller-skinned diggers, not so sensible as niggers, to look arter stock, and they a-sittin’ home and smokin’. With their gold and silver candlesticks, and missions, and crucifixens, priests and graven idols, and sich? Them sort things wuren’t allowed in Mizzoori.”
“Shouldn’t they have something from their home country? Why not? Did they ever get better? They have a bunch of yellow-skinned workers, not as sensible as Black people, to take care of the livestock, while they sit at home smoking. With their gold and silver candlesticks, missions, crucifixes, priests, and carved idols, and stuff like that? Those kinds of things weren’t allowed in Missouri.”
At the mention of improvements I involuntarily lifted my eyes, and met the half-laughing, half-embarrassed look of George. The act did not escape detection, and I had at once the satisfaction of seeing that the rest of the family had formed an offensive alliance against us.
At the mention of improvements, I found myself instinctively looking up and catching the half-laughing, half-embarrassed expression on George's face. This didn't go unnoticed, and I quickly felt the satisfaction of realizing that the rest of the family had teamed up against us.
“It was agin nater and agin God,” added Tryan. “God never intended gold in the rocks to be made into heathen candlesticks and crucifixens. That’s why he sent ’Merrikans here. Nater never intended such a climate for lazy lopers. She never gi’n six months’ sunshine to be slept and smoked away.”
“It was against nature and against God,” added Tryan. “God never meant for gold in the rocks to be turned into pagan candlesticks and crucifixes. That’s why He brought Americans here. Nature never intended for such a climate to support lazy people. She never gave six months of sunshine just to be wasted sleeping and smoking.”
How long he continued, and with what further illustration, I could not say, for I took an early opportunity to escape to the sitting-room. I was soon followed by George, who called me to an open door leading to a smaller room, and pointed to a bed.
I can’t say how long he went on or what else he explained, because I found an early chance to slip away to the sitting room. George soon followed me, calling me to an open door that led to a smaller room and pointing to a bed.
“You’d better sleep there to-night,” he said; “you’ll be more comfortable, and I’ll call you early.”
“You should sleep there tonight,” he said; “you’ll be more comfortable, and I’ll wake you up early.”
I thanked him, and would have asked him several questions which were then troubling me, but he shyly slipped to the door and vanished.
I thanked him and wanted to ask him a few questions that were on my mind, but he shyly slipped out the door and disappeared.
A shadow seemed to fall on the room when he had gone. The “boys” returned, one by one, and shuffled to their old places. A larger log was thrown on the fire, and the huge chimney glowed like a furnace, but it did not seem to melt or subdue a single line of the hard faces that it lit. Half an hour later, the furs which had served as chairs by day undertook the nightly office of mattresses, and each received its owner’s full-length figure. Mr. Tryan had not returned, and I missed George. I sat there until, wakeful and nervous, I saw the fire fall and shadows mount the wall. There was no sound but the rushing of the wind and the snoring of the sleepers. At last, feeling the place insupportable, I seized my hat, and, opening the door, ran out briskly into the night.
A shadow seemed to settle over the room after he left. The “boys” came back, one by one, and shuffled to their usual spots. A bigger log was tossed onto the fire, and the large chimney glowed like a furnace, but it didn’t seem to soften or lessen the hard expressions of the faces it illuminated. Half an hour later, the furs that served as chairs during the day became makeshift beds, and each one cradled its owner’s body. Mr. Tryan hadn’t come back, and I missed George. I sat there, feeling restless and anxious, watching the fire fade and shadows creep up the wall. The only sounds were the howling wind and the snoring of those asleep. Finally, feeling unbearable tension in the room, I grabbed my hat, opened the door, and stepped out quickly into the night.
The acceleration of my torpid pulse in the keen fight with the wind, whose violence was almost equal to that of a tornado, and the familiar faces of the bright stars above me, I felt as a blessed relief. I ran, not knowing whither, and when I halted, the square outline of the house was lost in the alder-bushes. An uninterrupted plain stretched before me, like a vast sea beaten flat by the force of the gale. As I kept on I noticed a slight elevation toward the horizon, and presently my progress was impeded by the ascent of an Indian mound. It struck me forcibly as resembling an island in the sea. Its height gave me a better view of the expanding plain. But even here I found no rest. The ridiculous interpretation Tryan had given the climate was somehow sung in my ears and echoed in my throbbing pulse as, guided by the stars, I sought the house again.
The quickening of my slow heartbeat in the fierce wind, which was almost as strong as a tornado, and the familiar sight of the bright stars above me felt like a blessing. I ran, unsure of where I was going, and when I stopped, the square shape of the house had disappeared into the alder bushes. An endless plain lay before me, like a vast sea flattened by the power of the gale. As I continued, I noticed a slight rise toward the horizon, and soon my way was blocked by the ascent of an Indian mound. It struck me as resembling an island in the sea. Its height gave me a better view of the wide plain. But even here, I found no peace. The ridiculous explanation Tryan had given about the climate somehow played in my ears and echoed in my pounding heart as I, guided by the stars, searched for the house again.
But I felt fresher and more natural as I stepped upon the platform. The door of the lower building was open, and the old man was sitting beside the table, thumbing the leaves of a Bible with a look in his face as though he were hunting up prophecies against the “Greaser.” I turned to enter, but my attention was attracted by a blanketed figure lying beside the house on the platform. The broad chest heaving with healthy slumber, and the open, honest face were familiar. It was George, who had given up his bed to the stranger among his people. I was about to wake him, but he lay so peaceful and quiet, I felt awed and hushed. And I went to bed with a pleasant impression of his handsome face and tranquil figure soothing me to sleep.
But I felt more alive and at ease as I stepped onto the platform. The door of the lower building was open, and the old man was sitting at the table, flipping through the pages of a Bible with a look on his face as if he were searching for prophecies against the "Greaser." I was about to go inside when I noticed a figure wrapped in a blanket lying next to the house on the platform. The broad chest rising and falling with healthy sleep and the open, honest face looked familiar. It was George, who had given up his bed to the stranger among his people. I was about to wake him, but he looked so peaceful and quiet that I felt a sense of reverence. I went to bed with a pleasant memory of his handsome face and calm figure lulling me to sleep.
I was awakened the next morning from a sense of lulled repose and grateful silence by the cheery voice of George, who stood beside my bed ostentatiously twirling a riata, as if to recall the duties of the day to my sleep-bewildered eyes. I looked around me. The wind had been magically laid, and the sun shone warmly through the windows. A dash of cold water, with an extra chill on, from the tin basin, helped to brighten me. It was still early, but the family had already breakfasted and dispersed, and a wagon winding far in the distance showed that the unfortunate Tom had already “packed” his relatives away. I felt more cheerful,—there are few troubles Youth cannot distance with the start of a good night’s rest. After a substantial breakfast, prepared by George, in a few moments we were mounted and dashing down the plain.
I woke up the next morning from a state of relaxed sleep and quiet gratitude by George's cheerful voice, who stood by my bed playfully twirling a lasso, as if to bring the day's duties back to my sleepy mind. I looked around. The wind had calmed down, and the sun was shining warmly through the windows. A splash of cold water, with an extra chill from the metal basin, helped wake me up. It was still early, but the family had already had breakfast and scattered, and a wagon in the distance showed that unfortunate Tom had already taken his relatives away. I felt more upbeat—there are few problems that Youth can't shake off after a good night's sleep. After a hearty breakfast prepared by George, we were quickly mounted and speeding down the plain.
We followed the line of alder that defined the creek, now dry and baked with summer’s heat, but which in winter, George told me, overflowed its banks. I still retain a vivid impression of that morning’s ride; the far-off mountains, like silhouettes, against the steel-blue sky; the crisp, dry air, and the expanding track before me, animated often by the well-knit figure of George Tryan, musical with jingling spurs and picturesque with flying riata. He rode a powerful native roan, wild-eyed, untiring in stride, and unbroken in nature. Alas! the curves of beauty were concealed by the cumbrous machillas of the Spanish saddle, which levels all equine distinctions. The single rein lay loosely on the cruel bit that can gripe and, if need be, crush the jaw it controls.
We followed the line of alders that lined the creek, which was now dry and baked from the summer heat, but in winter, George told me, overflowed its banks. I still have a clear memory of that morning’s ride: the distant mountains, like silhouettes, against the steel-blue sky; the crisp, dry air, and the widening path ahead of me, often brought to life by the well-built figure of George Tryan, sounding with jingling spurs and looking striking with his flying lasso. He rode a strong native roan, with wild eyes, tireless in stride, and unbroken in spirit. Unfortunately, the curves of beauty were hidden by the heavy machillas of the Spanish saddle, which flattens all equine distinctions. The single rein lay loosely on the harsh bit that can grip and, if necessary, crush the jaw it controls.
Again the illimitable freedom of the valley rises before me as we again bear down into sunlit space. Can this be Chu-Chu, staid and respectable filly of American pedigree,—Chu-Chu, forgetful of plank-roads and cobble stones, wild with excitement, twinkling her small white feet beneath me? George laughs out of a cloud of dust, “Give her her head; don’t you see she likes it?” and Chu-Chu seems to like it, and, whether bitten by native tarantula into native barbarism or emulous of the roan, “blood” asserts itself, and in a moment the peaceful servitude of years is beaten out in the music of her clattering hoofs. The creek widens to a deep gully. We dive into it and up on the opposite side, carrying a moving cloud of impalpable powder with us. Cattle are scattered over the plain, grazing quietly or banded together in vast restless herds. George makes a wide, indefinite sweep with the riata, as if to include them all in his vaquero’s loop, and says, “Ours!”
Once again, the endless freedom of the valley fills my view as we head into the sunny open space. Is this really Chu-Chu, the serious and respectable filly with American roots—Chu-Chu, forgetting about wooden roads and cobblestones, full of excitement, prancing her little white feet under me? George laughs through a cloud of dust, “Let her have her head; can’t you see she loves it?” and Chu-Chu really does seem to enjoy it, and whether she's been bitten by a native tarantula into wildness or inspired by the roan, her "blood" kicks in, and soon the calm obedience of years is replaced by the rhythm of her clattering hooves. The creek widens into a deep gully. We plunge into it and then climb up the other side, bringing a swirling cloud of fine dust with us. Cattle are spread across the plain, grazing peacefully or gathered together in large, restless herds. George makes a wide, sweeping motion with the lasso, as if trying to catch them all in his cowboy loop, and says, “Ours!”
“About how many, George?”
“How many, George?”
“Don’t know.”
"Not sure."
“How many?”
“How many?”
“Well, p’r’aps three thousand head,” says George, reflecting. “We don’t know; takes five men to look ’em up and keep run.”
“Well, maybe three thousand heads,” says George, thinking it over. “We don’t really know; it takes five men to round them up and keep them in check.”
“What are they worth?”
"What are they worth now?"
“About thirty dollars a head.”
“About thirty bucks a person.”
I make a rapid calculation, and look my astonishment at the laughing George. Perhaps a recollection of the domestic economy of the Tryan household is expressed in that look, for George averts his eye and says apologetically,—
I quickly do the math and stare in shock at the laughing George. Maybe my expression reflects a memory of the Tryan family's way of managing things, because George looks away and says apologetically,—
“I’ve tried to get the old man to sell and build, but you know he says it ain’t no use to settle down just yet. We must keep movin’. In fact, he built the shanty for that purpose, lest titles should fall through, and we’d have to get up and move stakes farther down,” Suddenly his quick eye detects some unusual sight in a herd we are passing, and with an exclamation he puts his roan into the centre of the mass. I follow, or rather Chu-Chu darts after the roan, and in a few moments we are in the midst of apparently inextricable horns and hoofs. “Toro!” shouts George, with vaquero enthusiasm, and the band opens a way for the swinging riata. I can feel their steaming breaths, and their spume is cast on Chu-Chu’s quivering flank.
“I’ve tried to convince the old man to sell and build, but you know he says there’s no point in settling down just yet. We need to keep moving. In fact, he built the shanty for that reason, so that titles wouldn’t get messed up and we’d have to pick up and move further down,” Suddenly, his sharp eye spots something unusual in a herd we’re passing, and with a shout, he steers his roan into the middle of the group. I follow, or rather, Chu-Chu races after the roan, and in a few moments we find ourselves surrounded by what seems like an unorganized mass of horns and hooves. “Toro!” shouts George, with cowboy enthusiasm, and the herd parts to make way for the swinging lasso. I can feel their hot breaths, and their foam splatters on Chu-Chu’s trembling side.
Wild, devilish-looking beasts are they; not such shapes as Jove might have chosen to woo a goddess, nor such as peacefully range the downs of Devon, but lean and hungry Cassius-like bovines, economically got up to meet the exigencies of a six-months’ rainless climate, and accustomed to wrestle with the distracting wind and the blinding dust.
They’re wild, devilish-looking creatures; not the kind that Jove would pick to court a goddess, nor the ones that peacefully roam the hills of Devon, but lean and hungry cattle, built to handle a six-month dry spell, and used to battling the strong winds and the blinding dust.
“That’s not our brand,” says George; “they’re strange stock,” and he points to what my scientific eye recognizes as the astrological sign of Venus deeply seared in the brown flanks of the bull he is chasing. But the herd are closing round us with low mutterings, and George has again recourse to the authoritative “Toro,” and with swinging riata divides the “bossy bucklers” on either side. When we are free, and breathing somewhat more easily, I venture to ask George if they ever attack any one.
"That's not our brand," George says. "They're a weird breed." He points to what I recognize as the astrological sign of Venus deeply marked on the brown sides of the bull he's after. But the herd is closing in around us with low grumbles, and George once again uses the authoritative "Toro," swinging his lasso to separate the "bossy bucklers" on either side. Once we're free and able to breathe a bit easier, I decide to ask George if they ever attack anyone.
“Never horsemen,—sometimes footmen. Not through rage, you know, but curiosity. They think a man and his horse are one, and if they meet a chap afoot, they run him down and trample him under hoof, in the pursuit of knowledge. But,” adds George, “here’s the lower bench of the foothills, and here’s Altascar’s corral, and that white building you see yonder is the casa.”
“Never horsemen—sometimes footmen. Not out of anger, you know, but out of curiosity. They believe a man and his horse are the same, and if they come across someone on foot, they run him down and trample him in their quest for knowledge. But,” George adds, “here’s the lower bench of the foothills, and here’s Altascar’s corral, and that white building over there is the house.”
A whitewashed wall inclosed a court containing another adobe building, baked with the solar beams of many summers. Leaving our horses in the charge of a few peons in the courtyard, who were basking lazily in the sun, we entered a low doorway, where a deep shadow and an agreeable coolness fell upon us, as sudden and grateful as a plunge in cool water, from its contrast with the external glare and heat. In the centre of a low-ceiled apartment sat an old man with a black silk handkerchief tied about his head, the few gray hairs that escaped from its folds relieving his gamboge-colored face. The odor of cigarritos was as incense added to the cathedral gloom of the building.
A whitewashed wall enclosed a courtyard with another adobe building, baked by many summers of sunlight. We left our horses in the care of a few workers lounging in the sun in the courtyard and stepped through a low doorway, where we were immediately greeted by a deep shadow and a refreshing coolness, as sudden and pleasant as jumping into cool water, especially after the bright glare and heat outside. In the center of a room with a low ceiling sat an old man wearing a black silk handkerchief tied around his head, with a few gray hairs escaping from it, contrasting with his yellowish face. The smell of small cigars added a rich scent to the cathedral-like gloom of the building.
As Senor Altascar rose with well-bred gravity to receive us, George advanced with such a heightened color, and such a blending of tenderness and respect in his manner, that I was touched to the heart by so much devotion in the careless youth. In fact, my eyes were still dazzled by the effect of the outer sunshine, and at first I did not see the white teeth and black eyes of Pepita, who slipped into the corridor as we entered.
As Señor Altascar stood up with admirable seriousness to greet us, George moved forward with a flushed face and a mix of affection and respect in his demeanor, which deeply touched me with his unexpected devotion. Honestly, my eyes were still blinded by the bright sunlight outside, and at first, I didn't notice Pepita's white teeth and dark eyes as she slipped into the hallway when we walked in.
It was no pleasant matter to disclose particulars of business which would deprive the old senor of the greater part of that land we had just ridden over, and I did it with great embarrassment. But he listened calmly,—not a muscle of his dark face stirring,—and the smoke curling placidly from his lips showed his regular respiration. When I had finished, he offered quietly to accompany us to the line of demarcation. George had meanwhile disappeared, but a suspicious conversation in broken Spanish and English in the corridor betrayed his vicinity. When he returned again, a little absent-minded, the old man, by far the coolest and most self-possessed of the party, extinguished his black silk cap beneath that stiff, uncomely sombrero which all native Californians affect. A serapa thrown over his shoulders hinted that he was waiting. Horses are always ready saddled in Spanish ranchos, and in half an hour from the time of our arrival we were again loping in the staring sunlight. But not as cheerfully as before. George and myself were weighed down by restraint, and Altascar was gravely quiet. To break the silence, and by way of a consolatory essay, I hinted to him that there might be further intervention or appeal, but the proffered oil and wine were returned with a careless shrug of the shoulders and a sententious “Que bueno? Your courts are always just.”
It wasn’t easy to share details about the business that would take most of the land we had just ridden over away from the old man, and I felt really awkward doing it. But he listened calmly—not a muscle in his dark face moved—and the smoke curling softly from his lips showed he was breathing steadily. When I was done, he quietly offered to come with us to the boundary line. George had disappeared for a bit, but a suspicious conversation in broken Spanish and English in the corridor gave away his location. When he came back, looking a little distracted, the old man, the coolest and most composed one in the group, tucked his black silk cap beneath that stiff, ugly sombrero that all native Californians wear. A serape draped over his shoulders suggested he was ready. Horses are always saddled and waiting at Spanish ranchos, and within half an hour of our arrival, we were back out in the glaring sunlight. But it wasn’t as cheerful as before. George and I felt weighed down by tension, and Altascar was seriously quiet. To break the silence, and as a way to offer some comfort, I suggested to him that there might be more chances for intervention or appeal, but he shrugged it off with a nonchalant gesture and replied, “Que bueno? Your courts are always just.”
The Indian mound of the previous night’s discovery was a bearing monument of the new line, and there we halted. We were surprised to find the old man Tryan waiting us. For the first time during our interview the old Spaniard seemed moved, and the blood rose in his yellow cheek. I was anxious to close the scene, and pointed out the corner boundaries as clearly as my recollection served.
The Indian mound from the previous night’s discovery was a marker for the new boundary, and we stopped there. We were surprised to see the old man Tryan waiting for us. For the first time during our conversation, the old Spaniard seemed affected, and the blood rushed to his yellow cheek. I was eager to wrap things up, so I pointed out the corner boundaries as clearly as I could remember.
“The deputies will be here to-morrow to run the lines from this initial point, and there will be no further trouble, I believe, gentlemen.”
“The deputies will be here tomorrow to mark the boundaries from this starting point, and I think there won’t be any more issues, gentlemen.”
Senor Altascar had dismounted and was gathering a few tufts of dried grass in his hands. George and I exchanged glances. He presently arose from his stooping posture, and advancing to within a few paces of Joseph Tryan, said in a voice broken with passion,—
Senor Altascar had gotten off his horse and was collecting some clumps of dried grass in his hands. George and I looked at each other. He soon stood up from his bent position and walked a few steps closer to Joseph Tryan, speaking in a voice filled with emotion—
“And I, Fernando Jesus Maria Altascar, put you in possession of my land in the fashion of my country.”
“And I, Fernando Jesus Maria Altascar, hand you ownership of my land in the way of my country.”
He threw a sod to each of the cardinal points.
He threw a clump of dirt in each direction.
“I don’t know your courts, your judges, or your corregidores. Take the llano!—and take this with it. May the drought seize your cattle till their tongues hang down as long as those of your lying lawyers! May it be the curse and torment of your old age, as you and yours have made it of mine!”
“I don’t know your courts, your judges, or your local officials. Take the plains!—and take this with it. May the drought hit your cattle until their tongues hang out as long as those of your dishonest lawyers! May it be the curse and pain of your old age, just as you and yours have made it of mine!”
We stepped between the principal actors in this scene, which only the passion of Altascar made tragical, but Tryan, with a humility but ill concealing his triumph, interrupted,—
We stepped between the main characters in this scene, which was made tragic only by Altascar's passion, but Tryan, with a humility that barely hid his triumph, interrupted,—
“Let him curse on. He’ll find ’em coming home to him sooner than the cattle he has lost through his sloth and pride. The Lord is on the side of the just, as well as agin all slanderers and revilers.”
“Let him keep cursing. He’ll see them coming back to him faster than the cattle he lost because of his laziness and arrogance. The Lord supports the righteous and is against all slanderers and abusers.”
Altascar but half guessed the meaning of the Missourian, yet sufficiently to drive from his mind all but the extravagant power of his native invective.
Altascar only partially understood what the Missourian meant, but it was enough to push aside everything except the intense force of his native insults.
“Stealer of the sacrament! Open not!—open not, I say, your lying Judas lips to me! Ah! half-breed, with the soul of a coyote!—Car-r-r-ramba!” With his passion reverberating among the consonants like distant thunder, he laid his hand upon the mane of his horse as though it had been the gray locks of his adversary, swung himself into the saddle, and galloped away.
“Thief of the sacrament! Don’t open up!—don’t open up, I tell you, your deceitful Judas lips to me! Ah! half-breed, with the soul of a coyote!—Car-r-r-ramba!” With his anger echoing among the consonants like distant thunder, he laid his hand on the mane of his horse as if it were the gray hair of his enemy, swung himself into the saddle, and rode off at full speed.
George turned to me.
George looked at me.
“Will you go back with us to-night?”
“Will you come back with us tonight?”
I thought of the cheerless walls, the silent figures by the fire, and the roaring wind, and hesitated.
I thought about the gloomy walls, the quiet people by the fire, and the howling wind, and paused.
“Well, then, good-by.”
“Well, then, goodbye.”
“Good-by, George.”
"Goodbye, George."
Another wring of the hands, and we parted. I had not ridden far, when I turned and looked back. The wind had risen early that afternoon, and was already sweeping across the plain. A cloud of dust traveled before it, and a picturesque figure occasionally emerging therefrom was my last indistinct impression of George Tryan.
Another wring of the hands, and we parted. I hadn’t ridden far when I turned and looked back. The wind had picked up early that afternoon and was already sweeping across the plain. A cloud of dust was blowing ahead of it, and a striking figure occasionally emerged from it, which was my last vague image of George Tryan.
PART II
Three months after the survey of the Espiritu Santo rancho I was again in the valley of the Sacramento. But a general and terrible visitation had erased the memory of that event as completely as I supposed it had obliterated the boundary monuments I had planted. The great flood of 1861-62 was at its height when, obeying some indefinite yearning, I took my carpetbag and embarked for the inundated valley.
Three months after the survey of the Espiritu Santo ranch, I found myself back in the Sacramento Valley. But a widespread and devastating disaster had wiped out any memory of that moment just as thoroughly as I imagined it had erased the boundary markers I had set. The massive flood of 1861-62 was at its peak when, driven by some vague longing, I packed my bag and headed for the flooded valley.
There was nothing to be seen from the bright cabin windows of the Golden City but night deepening over the water. The only sound was the pattering rain, and that had grown monotonous for the past two weeks, and did not disturb the national gravity of my countrymen as they silently sat around the cabin stove. Some on errands of relief to friends and relatives wore anxious faces, and conversed soberly on the one absorbing topic. Others like myself, attracted by curiosity, listened eagerly to newer details. But, with that human disposition to seize upon any circumstance that might give chance event the exaggerated importance of instinct, I was half conscious of something more than curiosity as an impelling motive.
There was nothing to see from the bright cabin windows of the Golden City except for the night getting darker over the water. The only sound was the steady rain, which had become monotonous over the past two weeks and didn’t disturb the serious mood of my fellow countrymen as they quietly sat around the cabin stove. Some, on missions to help friends and family, had anxious expressions and discussed the one important topic. Others, like me, drawn by curiosity, listened intently to the latest updates. However, with that human tendency to focus on any situation that might give random events undue significance, I was somewhat aware that there was more than just curiosity driving me.
The dripping of rain, the low gurgle of water, and a leaden sky greeted us the next morning as we lay beside the half-submerged levee of Sacramento. Here, however, the novelty of boats to convey us to the hotels was an appeal that was irresistible. I resigned myself to a dripping rubber-cased mariner called Joe, and wrapping myself in a shining cloak of the like material, about as suggestive of warmth as court-plaster might have been, took my seat in the stern sheets of his boat. It was no slight inward struggle to part from the steamer, that to most of the passengers was the only visible connecting link between us and the dry and habitable earth, but we pulled away and entered the city, stemming a rapid current as we shot the levee.
The rain was falling, the water was softly bubbling, and a grey sky met us the next morning as we lay next to the partly submerged levee of Sacramento. However, the idea of taking boats to get to the hotels was too tempting to resist. I went along with a dripping, rubber-clad mariner named Joe, and after wrapping myself in a shiny cloak made of the same material, which was about as warm as a band-aid, I took my seat in the back of his boat. It wasn’t easy to leave the steamer behind, which for most passengers was the only visible link between us and dry, livable land, but we pushed off and made our way into the city, navigating a swift current as we glided past the levee.
We glided up the long level of K Street,—once a cheerful busy thoroughfare, now distressing in its silent desolation. The turbid water, which seemed to meet the horizon edge before us, flowed at right angles in sluggish rivers through the streets. Nature had revenged herself on the local taste by disarraying the regular rectangles by huddling houses on street corners, where they presented abrupt gables to the current, or by capsizing them in compact ruin. Crafts of all kinds were gliding in and out of low-arched doorways. The water was over the top of the fences surrounding well-kept gardens, in the first stories of hotels and private dwellings, trailing its slime on velvet carpets as well as roughly boarded floors. And a silence quite as suggestive as the visible desolation was in the voiceless streets that no longer echoed to carriage-wheel or footfall. The low ripple of water, the occasional splash of oars, or the warning cry of boatmen were the few signs of life and habitation.
We glided up the long stretch of K Street—once a lively, busy road, now painfully empty and desolate. The murky water, which seemed to stretch all the way to the horizon, flowed sluggishly through the streets like a series of twisting rivers. Nature had taken her revenge on the town's preferred style by upsetting the regular grid, cramming houses onto street corners where they faced the current with their sharp gables, or by leaving them in disarray. All kinds of boats were maneuvering in and out of low archways. The water had risen above the fences surrounding well-kept gardens, and it flooded the first floors of hotels and private homes, leaving its dirty residue on both plush carpets and rough wooden floors. An eerie silence, just as telling as the visible decay, hung over the streets that no longer echoed with the sounds of carriages or footsteps. The soft ripple of water, the occasional splash from oars, or the distant call of boatmen were the only signs of life and habitation.
With such scenes before my eyes and such sounds in my ears, as I lie lazily in the boat, is mingled the song of my gondolier, who sings to the music of his oars. It is not quite as romantic as his brother of the Lido might improvise, but my Yankee Giuseppe has the advantage of earnestness and energy, and gives a graphic description of the terrors of the past week and of noble deeds of self-sacrifice and devotion, occasionally pointing out a balcony from which some California Bianca or Laura had been snatched, half-clothed and famished. Giuseppe is otherwise peculiar, and refuses the proffered fare, for—am I not a citizen of San Francisco, which was first to respond to the suffering cry of Sacramento? and is not he, Giuseppe, a member of the Howard Society? No, Giuseppe is poor, but cannot take my money. Still, if I must spend it, there is the Howard Society, and the women and children without food and clothing at the Agricultural Hall. I thank the generous gondolier, and we go to the Hall,—a dismal, bleak place, ghastly with the memories of last year’s opulence and plenty,—and here Giuseppe’s fare is swelled by the stranger’s mite. But here Giuseppe tells me of the “Relief Boat” which leaves for the flooded district in the interior, and here, profiting by the lesson he has taught me, I make the resolve to turn my curiosity to the account of others, and am accepted of those who go forth to succor and help the afflicted. Giuseppe takes charge of my carpetbag, and does not part from me until I stand on the slippery deck of Relief Boat No. 3.
With scenes like these in front of me and sounds like these in my ears, as I lie comfortably in the boat, the song of my gondolier blends in with the rhythm of his oars. It’s not as romantic as what his brother on the Lido might create, but my American Giuseppe brings sincerity and energy, and he shares vivid tales of the terrifying events of the past week along with noble acts of selflessness and devotion, sometimes pointing out a balcony where some Californian Bianca or Laura was rescued, barely dressed and starving. Giuseppe is unique in other ways too; he refuses my offered payment, saying—am I not a citizen of San Francisco, the first to respond to Sacramento's cries for help? And isn't he, Giuseppe, a member of the Howard Society? No, Giuseppe may be poor, but he won't take my money. Still, if I have to spend it, I can give it to the Howard Society, to support the women and children who need food and clothing at the Agricultural Hall. I thank the kind gondolier, and we head to the Hall—a grim, dreary place, haunted by memories of last year’s wealth and abundance—and here Giuseppe’s earnings increase with help from strangers. Here, Giuseppe tells me about the “Relief Boat” that's heading to the flooded areas inland, and taking his lesson to heart, I decide to turn my curiosity into action and join those going out to assist the suffering. Giuseppe takes care of my carpetbag and stays with me until I’m standing on the slippery deck of Relief Boat No. 3.
An hour later I am in the pilot-house, looking down upon what was once the channel of a peaceful river. But its banks are only defined by tossing tufts of willow washed by the long swell that breaks over a vast inland sea. Stretches of tule land fertilized by its once regular channel, and dotted by nourishing ranchos, are now cleanly erased. The cultivated profile of the old landscape had faded. Dotted lines in symmetrical perspective mark orchards that are buried and chilled in the turbid flood. The roofs of a few farmhouses are visible, and here and there the smoke curling from chimneys of half-submerged tenements shows an undaunted life within. Cattle and sheep are gathered on Indian mounds, waiting the fate of their companions, whose carcases drift by us or swing in eddies with the wrecks of barns and outhouses. Wagons are stranded everywhere where the tide could carry them. As I wipe the moistened glass, I see nothing but water, pattering on the deck from the lowering clouds, dashing against the window, dripping from the willows, hissing by the wheels, everywhere washing, coiling, sapping, hurrying in rapids, or swelling at last into deeper and vaster lakes, awful in their suggestive quiet and concealment.
An hour later, I'm in the pilot house, looking down at what used to be the channel of a peaceful river. But its banks are now just defined by swaying clumps of willow, washed by the long swell that breaks over a vast inland sea. Areas of tule land that were nourished by its once regular flow and dotted with thriving ranches are now completely erased. The cultivated contours of the old landscape have faded. Dotted lines in a symmetrical perspective mark orchards that are buried and cold in the murky flood. The roofs of a few farmhouses are visible, and here and there the smoke curling from the chimneys of half-submerged homes shows that life continues undaunted. Cattle and sheep are gathered on Indian mounds, waiting for the fate of their companions, whose carcasses drift past or spin in eddies along with the remains of barns and outbuildings. Wagons are stranded everywhere the tide could carry them. As I wipe the moist glass, I see nothing but water, pattering on the deck from the lowering clouds, crashing against the window, dripping from the willows, hissing by the wheels, washing, coiling, sapping, rushing in rapids, or finally swelling into deeper and larger lakes, terrifying in their suggestive stillness and mystery.
As day fades into night the monotony of this strange prospect grows oppressive. I seek the engine-room, and in the company of some of the few half-drowned sufferers we have already picked up from temporary rafts, I forget the general aspect of desolation in their individual misery. Later we meet the San Francisco packet, and transfer a number of our passengers. From them we learn how inward-bound vessels report to having struck the well-defined channel of the Sacramento fifty miles beyond the bar. There is a voluntary contribution taken among the generous travelers for the use of our afflicted, and we part company with a hearty “God speed” on either side. But our signal lights are not far distant before a familiar sound comes back to us,—an indomitable Yankee cheer,—which scatters the gloom.
As day turns into night, the dullness of this odd situation becomes overwhelming. I make my way to the engine room, and alongside some of the few survivors we've rescued from makeshift rafts, I focus on their personal suffering, forgetting the overall feeling of despair. Later, we encounter the San Francisco packet and transfer several of our passengers to it. From them, we learn that ships heading inward have reported hitting the clear channel of the Sacramento fifty miles past the bar. The generous travelers take up a voluntary collection for our injured, and we part ways with a hearty “God speed” from both sides. But before our signal lights fade away, we hear a familiar sound—the indomitable cheer of a Yankee—that lifts the heaviness around us.
Our course is altered, and we are steaming over the obliterated banks far in the interior. Once or twice black objects loom up near us,—the wrecks of houses floating by. There is a slight rift in the sky towards the north, and a few bearing stars to guide us over the waste. As we penetrate into shallower water, it is deemed advisable to divide our party into smaller boats, and diverge over the submerged prairie. I borrow a pea-coat of one of the crew, and in that practical disguise am doubtfully permitted to pass into one of the boats. We give way northerly. It is quite dark yet, although the rift of cloud has widened.
Our course has changed, and we’re moving over the submerged banks deep inland. A couple of times, dark shapes appear nearby—the ruins of houses drifting past. There’s a small break in the clouds to the north, with a few stars shining to guide us through the wasteland. As we enter shallower water, we decide it’s best to split our group into smaller boats and spread out over the flooded prairie. I borrow a pea coat from one of the crew, and wearing that disguise, I’m hesitantly allowed to board one of the boats. We head north. It’s still quite dark, even though the gap in the clouds has grown larger.
It must have been about three o’clock, and we were lying upon our oars in an eddy formed by a clump of cottonwood, and the light of the steamer is a solitary bright star in the distance, when the silence is broken by the “bow oar”:—
It must have been around three o'clock, and we were resting on our oars in a swirl created by a group of cottonwood trees, with the light of the steamer shining like a single bright star in the distance, when the silence was interrupted by the "bow oar":—
“Light ahead.”
"Bright light ahead."
All eyes are turned in that direction. In a few seconds a twinkling light appears, shines steadily, and again disappears, as if by the shifting position of some black object apparently drifting close upon us.
All attention is focused in that direction. Within a few seconds, a twinkling light appears, shines steadily, and then disappears again, as if by the movement of some dark object seemingly floating nearby.
“Stern, all!—a steamer!”
“Steady, everyone!—a steamer!”
“Hold hard, there! Steamer be d——d!” is the reply of the coxswain. “It’s a house, and a big one too.”
“Hold on there! The steamer can go to hell!” is the coxswain's reply. “It’s a house, and it’s a big one too.”
It is a big one, looming in the starlight like a huge fragment of the darkness. The light comes from a single candle which shines through a window as the great shape swings by. Some recollection is drifting back to me with it, as I listen with beating heart.
It’s massive, standing in the starlight like a giant piece of the darkness. The light comes from a single candle shining through a window as the huge figure moves past. Some memories are coming back to me with it, as I listen with my heart racing.
“There’s some one in it, by heavens! Give way, boys,—lay her alongside. Handsomely, now! The door’s fastened; try the window; no! here’s another!”
“There’s someone in there, for sure! Move aside, guys—bring her alongside. Easy now! The door’s locked; try the window; no! Here’s another one!”
In another moment we are trampling in the water, which washes the floor to the depth of several inches. It is a large room, at the farther end of which an old man is sitting, wrapped in a blanket, holding a candle in one hand, and apparently absorbed in the book he holds with the other. I spring toward him with an exclamation:—
In a moment, we're splashing around in the water that's several inches deep on the floor. It's a big room, and at the far end, there's an old man sitting wrapped in a blanket, holding a candle in one hand and seemingly engrossed in the book he’s holding with the other. I rush toward him with an exclamation:—
“Joseph Tryan!”
"Joseph Tryan!"
He does not move. We gather closer to him, and I lay my hand gently on his shoulder, and say,—
He doesn’t move. We move in closer to him, and I place my hand gently on his shoulder and say,—
“Look up, old man, look up! Your wife and children, where are they? The boys,—George! Are they here? are they safe?”
“Look up, old man, look up! Where are your wife and kids? The boys—George! Are they here? Are they safe?”
He raises his head slowly, and turns his eyes to mine, and we involuntarily recoil before his look. It is a calm and quiet glance, free from fear, anger, or pain; but it somehow sends the blood curdling through our veins. He bowed his head over his book again, taking no further notice of us. The men look at me compassionately and hold their peace. I make one more effort:—
He lifts his head slowly and meets my gaze, and we can’t help but flinch at his stare. It’s a calm and serene look, devoid of fear, anger, or pain; yet somehow it makes our blood run cold. He lowers his head back to his book, showing no further interest in us. The men look at me with sympathy and stay silent. I make one more attempt:—
“Joseph Tryan, don’t you know me—the surveyor who surveyed your ranch,—the Espiritu Santo? Look up, old man!”
“Joseph Tryan, don’t you recognize me—the surveyor who measured your ranch—the Espiritu Santo? Look up, old man!”
He shuddered and wrapped himself closer in his blanket. Presently he repeated to himself, “The surveyor who surveyed your ranch, Espiritu Santo,” over and over again, as though it were a lesson he was trying to fix in his memory.
He shuddered and pulled his blanket tighter around himself. He kept repeating to himself, “The surveyor who surveyed your ranch, Espiritu Santo,” again and again, as if it were something he was trying to memorize.
I was turning sadly to the boatmen, when he suddenly caught me fearfully by the hand, and said:—
I was turning sadly to the boatmen when he suddenly grabbed my hand in a panic and said:—
“Hush!”
"Shh!"
We were silent.
We were quiet.
“Listen!” He puts his arm around my neck, and whispers in my ear, “I’m a-moving off!”
“Listen!” He puts his arm around my neck and whispers in my ear, “I’m a-moving off!”
“Moving off?”
"Heading out?"
“Hush! Don’t speak so loud. Moving off! Ah! wot’s that? Don’t you hear?—there!—listen!”
“Hush! Don’t talk so loudly. Let’s move! Ah! What’s that? Don’t you hear?—there!—listen!”
We listen, and hear the water gurgle and click beneath the floor.
We listen and hear the water gurgling and clicking beneath the floor.
“It’s them wot he sent I—old Altascar sent. They’ve been here all night. I heard ’em first in the creek, when they came to tell the old man to move farther off. They came nearer and nearer. They whispered under the door, and I saw their eyes on the step,—their cruel, hard eyes. Ah! why don’t they quit?”
“It’s them he sent—I mean old Altascar sent them. They’ve been here all night. I first heard them at the creek when they came to tell the old man to move further away. They got closer and closer. They whispered under the door, and I saw their eyes on the step—those cruel, hard eyes. Ah! Why don’t they just leave?”
I tell the men to search the room and see if they can find any farther traces of the family, while Tryan resumes his old attitude. It is so much like the figure I remember on the breezy night, that a superstitious feeling is fast overcoming me. When they have returned, I tell them briefly what I know of him, and the old man murmurs again,—
I tell the guys to search the room and see if they can find any more signs of the family, while Tryan goes back to his usual demeanor. It resembles the figure I remember from that breezy night so closely that a superstitious feeling is quickly washing over me. When they come back, I briefly share what I know about him, and the old man murmurs again,—
“Why don’t they quit, then? They have the stock,—all gone—gone,—gone for the hides and hoofs,” and he groans bitterly.
“Why don’t they just quit, then? They have the stock—all gone—gone—gone for the hides and hooves,” he groans bitterly.
“There are other boats below us. The shanty cannot have drifted far, and perhaps the family are safe by this time,” says the coxswain hopefully.
“There are other boats below us. The shanty can’t have drifted far, and maybe the family is safe by now,” the coxswain says, sounding hopeful.
We lift the old man up, for he is quite helpless, and carry him to the boat. He is still grasping the Bible in his right hand, though its strengthening grace is blank to his vacant eye, and he cowers in the stern as we pull slowly to the steamer, while a pale gleam in the sky shows the coming day.
We pick the old man up because he’s really helpless and carry him to the boat. He’s still holding the Bible in his right hand, even though its comforting power isn’t reaching his vacant gaze, and he shrinks back in the stern as we gradually move toward the steamer, while a pale light in the sky signals the approaching dawn.
I was weary with excitement, and when we reached the steamer, and I had seen Joseph Tryan comfortably bestowed, I wrapped myself in a blanket near the boiler and presently fell asleep. But even then the figure of the old man often started before me, and a sense of uneasiness about George made a strong undercurrent to my drifting dreams. I was awakened at about eight o’clock in the morning by the engineer, who told me one of the old man’s sons had been picked up and was now on board.
I was exhausted from excitement, and once we got to the steamer and I saw Joseph Tryan settled in comfortably, I wrapped myself in a blanket near the boiler and soon fell asleep. But even then, the image of the old man frequently popped into my mind, and a feeling of unease about George created a strong undercurrent in my drifting dreams. I was woken up around eight in the morning by the engineer, who told me one of the old man’s sons had been picked up and was now on board.
“Is it George Tryan?” I ask quickly.
“Is it George Tryan?” I ask hurriedly.
“Don’t know; but he’s a sweet one, whoever he is,” adds the engineer, with a smile at some luscious remembrance. “You’ll find him for’ard.”
“Not sure; but he’s a nice guy, whoever he is,” the engineer says, smiling at a fond memory. “You’ll find him up front.”
I hurry to the bow of the boat, and find not George, but the irrepressible Wise, sitting on a coil of rope, a little dirtier and rather more dilapidated than I can remember having seen him.
I rush to the front of the boat and find not George, but the unstoppable Wise, sitting on a coil of rope, a bit dirtier and more worn down than I remember him being.
He is examining, with apparent admiration, some rough, dry clothes that have been put out for his disposal. I cannot help thinking that circumstances have somewhat exalted his usual cheerfulness. He puts me at ease by at once addressing me:—
He is looking at some rough, dry clothes that have been set out for him, and it seems like he admires them. I can’t help but think that the situation has lifted his usual cheerfulness a bit. He makes me feel comfortable by immediately speaking to me:—
“These are high old times, ain’t they? I say, what do you reckon’s become o’ them thar bound’ry moniments you stuck? Ah!”
“These are some great times, aren’t they? I mean, what do you think happened to those boundary markers you set up? Ah!”
The pause which succeeds this outburst is the effect of a spasm of admiration at a pair of high boots, which, by great exertion, he has at last pulled on his feet.
The pause after this outburst comes from a moment of admiration for a pair of high boots that he has finally managed to pull on his feet with great effort.
“So you’ve picked up the ole man in the shanty, clean crazy? He must have been soft to have stuck there instead o’ leavin’ with the old woman. Didn’t know me from Adam; took me for George!”
“So you picked up the old man in the shack, completely crazy? He must have been out of his mind to stay there instead of leaving with the old woman. Didn’t know me from anyone; thought I was George!”
At this affecting instance of paternal forgetfulness, Wise was evidently divided between amusement and chagrin. I took advantage of the contending emotions to ask about George.
At this touching moment of a father's forgetfulness, Wise clearly felt a mix of amusement and disappointment. I seized the opportunity created by these conflicting emotions to ask about George.
“Don’t know whar he is! If he’d tended stock instead of running about the prairie, packin’ off wimmin and children, he might have saved suthin’. He lost every hoof and hide, I’ll bet a cooky! Say, you,” to a passing boatman, “when are you goin’ to give us some grub? I’m hungry ’nough to skin and eat a hoss. Reckon I’ll turn butcher when things is dried up, and save hides, horns, and taller.”
“Don’t know where he is! If he had taken care of the cattle instead of wandering around the prairie, dragging off women and kids, he might have saved something. I bet he lost every hoof and hide! Hey, you,” to a passing boatman, “when are you going to give us some food? I’m hungry enough to skin and eat a horse. I guess I’ll become a butcher when things dry up and save the hides, horns, and tall.”
I could not but admire this indomitable energy, which under softer climatic influences might have borne such goodly fruit.
I couldn't help but admire this unstoppable energy, which under gentler climate conditions might have produced such great results.
“Have you any idea what you’ll do, Wise?” I ask.
“Do you have any idea what you’re going to do, Wise?” I ask.
“Thar ain’t much to do now,” says the practical young man. “I’ll have to lay over a spell, I reckon, till things comes straight. The land ain’t worth much now, and won’t be, I dessay, for some time. Wonder whar the ole man’ll drive stakes next.”
“There's not much to do now,” says the practical young man. “I guess I’ll have to wait a bit until things get sorted out. The land isn’t worth much right now, and I doubt it will be for a while. I wonder where the old man will set up next.”
“I meant as to your father and George, Wise.”
“I meant regarding your father and George, Wise.”
“Oh, the ole man and I’ll go on to Miles’s, whar Tom packed the old woman and babies last week. George’ll turn up somewhar atween this and Altascar’s, ef he ain’t thar now.”
“Oh, the old man and I will head over to Miles’s, where Tom brought the old woman and babies last week. George will show up somewhere between here and Altascar’s, if he’s not there already.”
I ask how the Altascars have suffered.
I ask how the Altascars have been affected.
“Well, I reckon he ain’t lost much in stock. I shouldn’t wonder if George helped him drive ’em up the foothills. And his casa’s built too high. Oh, thar ain’t any water thar, you bet. Ah!” says Wise, with reflective admiration, “those Greasers ain’t the darned fools people thinks ’em. I’ll bet thar ain’t one swamped out in all ’er Californy.” But the appearance of “grub” cut this rhapsody short.
“Well, I guess he hasn't lost much in stock. I wouldn't be surprised if George helped him drive them up the foothills. And his house is built too high. Oh, there isn't any water there, you can bet on that. Ah!” says Wise, with thoughtful admiration, “those Mexicans aren't the idiots people think they are. I’ll bet there isn’t one drowned out in all of California.” But the sight of “food” cut this reflection short.
“I shall keep on a little farther,” I say, “and try to find George.”
“I'll go a bit further,” I say, “and see if I can find George.”
Wise stared a moment at this eccentricity until a new light dawned upon him.
Wise stared for a moment at this oddity until a new realization hit him.
“I don’t think you’ll save much. What’s the percentage,—workin’ on shares, eh?”
“I don’t think you’ll save much. What’s the percentage—working on shares, right?”
I answer that I am only curious, which I feel lessens his opinion of me, and with a sadder feeling than his assurance of George’s safety might warrant, I walked away.
I respond that I'm just curious, which I think makes him think less of me, and feeling sadder than his reassurance about George’s safety would suggest, I walked away.
From others whom we picked up from time to time we heard of George’s self-sacrificing devotion, with the praises of the many he had helped and rescued. But I did not feel disposed to return until I had seen him, and soon prepared myself to take a boat to the lower valda of the foothills, and visit Altascar. I soon perfected my arrangements, bade farewell to Wise, and took a last look at the old man, who was sitting by the furnace fires quite passive and composed. Then our boat-head swung round, pulled by sturdy and willing hands.
From others we occasionally met, we heard about George’s selfless dedication, along with praise from the many people he had helped and saved. But I didn’t feel ready to go back until I had seen him, so I quickly got ready to take a boat to the lower vale of the foothills and visit Altascar. I soon finalized my plans, said goodbye to Wise, and took one last look at the old man, who was sitting quietly by the furnace fires, calm and composed. Then our boat turned around, propelled by strong and eager hands.
It was again raining, and a disagreeable wind had risen. Our course lay nearly west, and we soon knew by the strong current that we were in the creek of the Espiritu Santo. From time to time the wrecks of barns were seen, and we passed many half-submerged willows hung with farming implements.
It was raining again, and an unpleasant wind had picked up. We were headed almost west, and we quickly realized from the strong current that we were in the creek of Espiritu Santo. Occasionally, we saw the remains of barns, and we passed several half-submerged willows draped with farming tools.
We emerge at last into a broad silent sea. It is the llano de Espiritu Santo. As the wind whistles by me, piling the shallower fresh water into mimic waves, I go back, in fancy, to the long ride of October over that boundless plain, and recall the sharp outlines of the distant hills which are now lost in the lowering clouds. The men are rowing silently, and I find my mind, released from its tension, growing benumbed and depressed as then. The water, too, is getting more shallow as we leave the banks of the creek, and with my hand dipped listlessly over the thwarts, I detect the tops of chimisal, which shows the tide to have somewhat fallen. There is a black mound, bearing to the north of the line of alder, making an adverse current, which, as we sweep to the right to avoid it, I recognize. We pull close alongside, and I call to the men to stop.
We finally emerge into a wide, quiet sea. It's the llano de Espiritu Santo. As the wind whistles past me, creating small waves in the shallow fresh water, I drift back in thought to that long ride in October across the endless plain, recalling the sharp outlines of the distant hills now hidden in the thick clouds. The men are rowing quietly, and I feel my mind, free from its tension, growing numb and downcast like back then. The water is getting shallower as we move away from the creek banks, and with my hand dangling over the edge, I notice the tops of chimisal, indicating that the tide has fallen a bit. There’s a dark mound to the north of the alder line, creating a contrary current, which I recognize as we steer to the right to avoid it. We pull up close, and I shout to the men to stop.
There was a stake driven near its summit with the initials, “L. E. S. I.” Tied halfway down was a curiously worked riata. It was George’s. It had been cut with some sharp instrument, and the loose gravelly soil of the mound was deeply dented with horse’s hoofs. The stake was covered with horsehairs. It was a record, but no clue.
There was a stake driven near its top with the initials, “L. E. S. I.” Tied halfway down was a uniquely crafted lasso. It belonged to George. It had been cut with a sharp tool, and the loose, gravelly soil of the mound was deeply marked with horse hooves. The stake was covered in horsehair. It was a record, but no clue.
The wind had grown more violent, as we still fought our way forward, resting and rowing by turns, and oftener “poling” the shallower surface, but the old valda, or bench, is still distant. My recollection of the old survey enables me to guess the relative position of the meanderings of the creek, and an occasional simple professional experiment to determine the distance gives my crew the fullest faith in my ability. Night overtakes us in our impeded progress. Our condition looks more dangerous than it really is, but I urge the men, many of whom are still new in this mode of navigation, to greater exertion by assurance of perfect safety and speedy relief ahead. We go on in this way until about eight o’clock, and ground by the willows. We have a muddy walk for a few hundred yards before we strike a dry trail, and simultaneously the white walls of Altascar’s appear like a snow-bank before us. Lights are moving in the courtyard; but otherwise the old tomb-like repose characterizes the building.
The wind had picked up significantly as we continued to push forward, taking turns to rest and row, and often using poles in the shallower areas, but the old bench is still far away. My memory of the old survey helps me estimate the twists and turns of the creek, and occasionally conducting a simple professional test to measure distance boosts my crew’s confidence in my skills. Night falls on us as our progress is slowed. Our situation seems more perilous than it truly is, but I encourage the guys, many of whom are still inexperienced with this type of navigation, to put in more effort by assuring them of complete safety and quick relief ahead. We keep going like this until around eight o’clock, and then we make land by the willows. We have a muddy walk for a few hundred yards before we find a dry path, and at the same time, the white walls of Altascar’s emerge like a snowbank in front of us. Lights are flickering in the courtyard; otherwise, the building still carries the old, tomb-like stillness.
One of the peons recognized me as I entered the court, and Altascar met me on the corridor.
One of the workers recognized me as I walked into the court, and Altascar greeted me in the hallway.
I was too weak to do more than beg his hospitality for the men who had dragged wearily with me. He looked at my hand, which still unconsciously held the broken riata. I began, wearily, to tell him about George and my fears, but with a gentler courtesy than was even his wont, he gravely laid his hand on my shoulder.
I was too weak to do more than ask for his kindness for the men who had tiredly come along with me. He glanced at my hand, which still instinctively held the broken rope. I started, tiredly, to tell him about George and my worries, but with an unusually gentle courtesy, he seriously placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Poco a poco, senor,—not now. You are tired, you have hunger, you have cold. Necessary it is you should have peace.”
“Little by little, sir—not right now. You’re tired, you’re hungry, you’re cold. It’s important for you to have some peace.”
He took us into a small room and poured out some French cognac, which he gave to the men that had accompanied me. They drank, and threw themselves before the fire in the larger room. The repose of the building was intensified that night, and I even fancied that the footsteps on the corridor were lighter and softer. The old Spaniard’s habitual gravity was deeper; we might have been shut out from the world as well as the whistling storm, behind those ancient walls with their time-worn inheritor.
He led us into a small room and poured some French cognac, which he handed to the men who had come with me. They drank and flopped down in front of the fire in the larger room. The calmness of the building felt stronger that night, and I even imagined that the footsteps in the hallway were lighter and softer. The old Spaniard’s usual seriousness seemed deeper; we could have been completely cut off from the world as well as the howling storm outside, behind those ancient walls with their time-worn keeper.
Before I could repeat my inquiry he retired. In a few minutes two smoking dishes of chupa with coffee were placed before us, and my men ate ravenously. I drank the coffee, but my excitement and weariness kept down the instincts of hunger.
Before I could ask my question again, he left. In a few minutes, two steaming plates of chupa with coffee were set in front of us, and my guys ate hungrily. I drank the coffee, but my excitement and exhaustion kept my hunger at bay.
I was sitting sadly by the fire when he reentered.
I was sitting sadly by the fire when he came back in.
“You have eat?”
"Did you eat?"
I said, “Yes,” to please him.
I said, "Yeah," to make him happy.
“Bueno, eat when you can,—food and appetite are not always.”
“Okay, eat when you can—food and appetite don't always match up.”
He said this with that Sancho-like simplicity with which most of his countrymen utter a proverb, as though it were an experience rather than a legend, and, taking the riata from the floor, held it almost tenderly before him.
He said this with the straightforwardness typical of his countrymen when they express a proverb, as if it were a personal experience rather than a story, and, picking up the rope from the floor, he held it almost gently in front of him.
“It was made by me, senor.”
“It was made by me, sir.”
“I kept it as a clue to him, Don Altascar,” I said. “If I could find him”—
“I kept it as a clue for him, Don Altascar,” I said. “If I could find him”—
“He is here.”
“He's here.”
“Here! and”—but I could not say, “well!” I understood the gravity of the old man’s face, the hushed footfalls, the tomb-like repose of the building, in an electric flash of consciousness: I held the clue to the broken riata at last. Altascar took my hand, and we crossed the corridor to a sombre apartment. A few tall candles were burning in sconces before the window.
“Here! and”—but I couldn't say, “well!” I understood the seriousness of the old man’s expression, the quiet footsteps, and the heavy stillness of the building in a sudden moment of realization: I finally had the answer to the broken riata. Altascar took my hand, and we walked across the hallway to a dark room. A few tall candles were lit in holders by the window.
In an alcove there was a deep bed with its counterpane, pillows, and sheets heavily edged with lace, in all that splendid luxury which the humblest of these strange people lavish upon this single item of their household. I stepped beside it and saw George lying, as I had seen him one before, peacefully at rest. But a greater sacrifice than that he had known was here, and his generous heart was stilled forever.
In a small nook, there was a big bed with its coverlet, pillows, and sheets lavishly trimmed with lace, showcasing the extravagant luxury even the least wealthy of these unusual people afford for this one aspect of their home. I moved closer and saw George lying there, just as I had seen him once before, peacefully resting. But the greater sacrifice he had experienced was present here, and his kind heart was forever quieted.
“He was honest and brave,” said the old man, and turned away.
“He was honest and brave,” said the old man, and he turned away.
There was another figure in the room; a heavy shawl drawn over her graceful outline, and her long black hair hiding the hands that buried her downcast face. I did not seem to notice her, and, retiring presently, left the loving and loved together.
There was another person in the room; a thick shawl draped over her elegant shape, and her long black hair covered the hands that were hiding her sad face. I didn't really notice her, and eventually, I stepped away, leaving the ones who cared for each other alone.
When we were again beside the crackling fire, in the shifting shadows of the great chamber, Altascar told me how he had that morning met the horse of George Tryan swimming on the prairie; how that, farther on, he found him lying, quite cold and dead, with no marks or bruises on his person; that he had probably become exhausted in fording the creek, and that he had as probably reached the mound only to die for want of that help he had so freely given to others; that, as a last act, he had freed his horse. These incidents were corroborated by many who collected in the great chamber that evening,—women and children,—most of them succored through the devoted energies of him who lay cold and lifeless above.
When we were back by the crackling fire in the shifting shadows of the large room, Altascar told me how he had encountered George Tryan's horse swimming on the prairie that morning. He explained that later on, he found the horse lying cold and dead, with no signs of injury on it. He guessed that the horse had likely exhausted itself trying to cross the creek and had probably made it to the mound only to die without the help it had so willingly given to others. As a final act, it had freed its horse. Many people gathered in the large room that evening—women and children—most of whom had been helped through the dedicated efforts of the man who lay cold and lifeless above.
He was buried in the Indian mound,—the single spot of strange perennial greenness, which the poor aborigines had raised above the dusty plain. A little slab of sandstone with the initials “G. T.” is his monument, and one of the bearings of the initial corner of the new survey of the Espiritu Santo rancho.
He was buried in the Indian mound—the one spot of unusual, lasting green that the indigenous people had built up above the dusty plain. A small slab of sandstone with the initials “G. T.” marks his grave, and it also serves as one of the reference points for the initial corner of the new survey of the Espiritu Santo ranch.
WAITING FOR THE SHIP
About an hour’s ride from the Plaza there is a high bluff with the ocean breaking uninterruptedly along its rocky beach. There are several cottages on the sands, which look as if they had recently been cast up by a heavy sea. The cultivated patch behind each tenement is fenced in by bamboos, broken spars, and driftwood. With its few green cabbages and turnip-tops, each garden looks something like an aquarium with the water turned off. In fact you would not be surprised to meet a merman digging among the potatoes, or a mermaid milking a sea-cow hard by.
About an hour's drive from the Plaza, there's a high cliff where the ocean crashes continuously against the rocky beach. Several cottages sit on the sand, as if they had just been washed ashore by a strong wave. The small garden behind each cottage is surrounded by bamboo, broken boards, and driftwood. With a few green cabbages and turnip greens, each garden resembles an aquarium with the water drained. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised to see a merman digging among the potatoes or a mermaid milking a sea cow nearby.
Near this place formerly arose a great semaphoric telegraph, with its gaunt arms tossed up against the horizon. It has been replaced by an observatory, connected with an electric nerve to the heart of the great commercial city. From this point the incoming ships are signaled, and again checked off at the City Exchange. And while we are here, looking for the expected steamer, let me tell you a story.
Near this spot used to stand a large semaphore telegraph, its long arms reaching up towards the horizon. It has been replaced by an observatory, linked by an electric line to the heart of the bustling city. From here, incoming ships are signaled and then noted at the City Exchange. And while we’re waiting for the anticipated steamer, let me share a story.
Not long ago, a simple, hard-working mechanic had amassed sufficient by diligent labor in the mines to send home for his wife and two children. He arrived in San Francisco a month before the time the ship was due, for he was a Western man, and had made the overland journey, and knew little of ships or seas or gales. He procured work in the city, but as the time approached he would go to the shipping office regularly every day. The month passed, but the ship came not; then a month and a week, two weeks, three weeks, two months, and then a year. The rough, patient face, with soft lines overlying its hard features, which had become a daily apparition at the shipping-agent’s, then disappeared. It turned up one afternoon at the observatory as the setting sun relieved the operator from his duties. There was something so childlike and simple in the few questions asked by this stranger, touching his business, that the operator spent some time to explain. When the mystery of signals and telegraphs was unfolded, the stranger had one more question to ask. “How long might a vessel be absent before they would give up expecting her?” The operator couldn’t tell; it would depend on circumstances. Would it be a year? Yes, it might be a year, and vessels had been given up for lost after two years and had come home. The stranger put his rough hand on the operator’s, and thanked him for his “troubil,” and went away.
Not long ago, a hardworking mechanic had saved enough from his labor in the mines to send for his wife and two kids. He got to San Francisco a month before the ship was expected because he was a Western man who made the overland journey and didn’t know much about ships, seas, or storms. He found work in the city, but as the time approached, he would go to the shipping office every day. The month went by, but the ship didn’t arrive; then a month and a week, two weeks, three weeks, two months, and finally a year. The rugged, patient face, with soft lines over its tough features, which had become a familiar sight at the shipping agent’s, then vanished. It showed up one afternoon at the observatory just as the setting sun finished the operator’s shift. There was something so innocent and straightforward in the few questions this stranger asked about his business that the operator took some time to explain. When the mystery of signals and telegraphs was cleared up, the stranger had one more question. “How long can a ship be gone before they stop expecting her?” The operator couldn’t say; it would depend on the situation. Could it be a year? Yes, it could be a year, and ships had been declared lost after two years and still returned home. The stranger placed his rough hand on the operator’s and thanked him for his “troubil,” then walked away.
Still the ship came not. Stately clippers swept into the Gate, and merchantmen went by with colors flying, and the welcoming gun of the steamer often reverberated among the hills. Then the patient face, with the old resigned expression, but a brighter, wistful look in the eye, was regularly met on the crowded decks of the steamer as she disembarked her living freight. He may have had a dimly defined hope that the missing ones might yet come this way, as only another road over that strange unknown expanse. But he talked with ship captains and sailors, and even this last hope seemed to fail. When the careworn face and bright eyes were presented again at the observatory, the operator, busily engaged, could not spare time to answer foolish interrogatories, so he went away. But as night fell, he was seen sitting on the rocks with his face turned seaward, and was seated there all that night. When he became hopelessly insane, for that was what the physicians said made his eyes so bright and wistful, he was cared for by a fellow craftsman who had known his troubles. He was allowed to indulge his fancy of going out to watch for the ship, in which she “and the children” were, at night, when no one else was watching. He had made up his mind that the ship would come in at night. This, and the idea that he would relieve the operator, who would be tired with watching all day, seemed to please him. So he went out and relieved the operator every night!
Still, the ship didn’t arrive. Elegant clippers sailed into the harbor, and merchant ships passed by with their flags flying while the welcoming gun of the steamer often echoed among the hills. Then, the familiar face, wearing that old resigned look but with brighter, more hopeful eyes, could be seen regularly on the crowded decks of the steamer as it unloaded its passengers. He might have held a vague hope that those who were missing would come this way, as if it were just another route across that strange, unknown expanse. But he spoke with ship captains and sailors, and even that last hope seemed to fade. When his weary face and bright eyes appeared again at the observatory, the operator, preoccupied with his work, couldn’t take the time to answer pointless questions, so he left. As night fell, he was seen sitting on the rocks with his gaze fixed on the sea, staying there the entire night. When he became hopelessly insane—at least, that’s what the doctors said made his eyes so bright and wistful—he was looked after by a fellow craftsman who understood his struggles. He was allowed to indulge his belief that he could watch for the ship that carried “her and the children” at night when no one else was keeping watch. He had convinced himself that the ship would arrive at night. This, along with the thought that he would be relieving the operator, who would be tired from watching all day, seemed to make him happy. So he went out and took over for the operator every night!
For two years the ships came and went. He was there to see the outward-bound clipper, and greet her on her return. He was known only by a few who frequented the place. When he was missed at last from his accustomed spot, a day or two elapsed before any alarm was felt. One Sunday, a party of pleasure-seekers clambering over the rocks were attracted by the barking of a dog that had run on before them. When they came up they found a plainly dressed man lying there dead. There were a few papers in his pocket,—chiefly slips cut from different journals of old marine memoranda,—and his face was turned towards the distant sea.
For two years, the ships came and went. He was there to see the departing clipper and to greet her on her return. Only a few people who visited the area knew him. When he was finally missed from his usual spot, a day or two passed before anyone felt concerned. One Sunday, a group of people exploring the rocks were drawn by the barking of a dog that had run ahead of them. When they arrived, they found a plainly dressed man lying there, dead. He had a few papers in his pocket—mostly scraps cut from various old marine journals—and his face was turned towards the distant sea.
A NIGHT AT WINGDAM
I had been stage-ridden and bewildered all day, and when we swept down with the darkness into the Arcadian hamlet of Wingdam I resolved to go no farther, and rolled out in a gloomy and dyspeptic state. The effects of a mysterious pie, and some sweetened carbonic acid known to the proprietor of the Half-way House as “lemming sody,” still oppressed me. Even the facetia of the gallant expressman, who knew everybody’s Christian name along the route, who rained letters, newspapers, and bundles from the top of the stage, whose legs frequently appeared in frightful proximity to the wheels, who got on and off while we were going at full speed, whose gallantry, energy, and superior knowledge of travel crushed all us other passengers to envious silence, and who just then was talking with several persons and manifestly doing something else at the same time,—even this had failed to interest me. So I stood gloomily, clutching my shawl and carpetbag, and watched the stage roll away, taking a parting look at the gallant expressman as he hung on the top rail with one leg, and lit his cigar from the pipe of a running footman. I then turned toward the Wingdam Temperance Hotel.
I had been exhausted and confused all day, and when we finally arrived in the quaint village of Wingdam as night fell, I decided I wouldn't go any further and got off feeling moody and irritable. The effects of a strange pie and some sugary soda known as “lemming sody” from the Half-way House still weighed on me. Even the jokes of the enthusiastic expressman, who seemed to know everyone's first name along the route, who tossed letters, newspapers, and packages from the top of the stage, whose legs often came dangerously close to the wheels, who managed to hop on and off while we were still moving fast, and whose charm, energy, and travel know-how left all of us passengers in envious silence, couldn’t grab my attention. So, I just stood there in a gloomy mood, clutching my shawl and carpetbag, watching the stage leave, casting a last glance at the bold expressman as he swung on the top rail with one leg while lighting his cigar with a footman's pipe. I then turned toward the Wingdam Temperance Hotel.
It may have been the weather, or it may have been the pie, but I was not impressed favorably with the house. Perhaps it was the name extending the whole length of the building, with a letter under each window, making the people who looked out dreadfully conspicuous. Perhaps it was that “Temperance” always suggested to my mind rusks and weak tea. It was uninviting. It might have been called the “Total Abstinence” Hotel, from the lack of anything to intoxicate or inthrall the senses. It was designed with an eye to artistic dreariness. It was so much too large for the settlement that it appeared to be a very slight improvement on outdoors. It was unpleasantly new. There was the forest flavor of dampness about it, and a slight spicing of pine. Nature outraged, but not entirely subdued, sometimes broke out afresh in little round, sticky, resinous tears on the doors and windows. It seemed to me that boarding there must seem like a perpetual picnic. As I entered the door, a number of the regular boarders rushed out of a long room, and set about trying to get the taste of something out of their mouths, by the application of tobacco in various forms. A few immediately ranged themselves around the fireplace, with their legs over each other’s chairs, and in that position silently resigned themselves to indigestion. Remembering the pie, I waived the invitation of the landlord to supper, but suffered myself to be conducted into the sitting-room. “Mine host” was a magnificent-looking, heavily bearded specimen of the animal man. He reminded me of somebody or something connected with the drama. I was sitting beside the fire, mutely wondering what it could be, and trying to follow the particular chord of memory thus touched into the intricate past, when a little delicate-looking woman appeared at the door, and, leaning heavily against the casing, said in an exhausted tone, “Husband!” As the landlord turned toward her, that particular remembrance flashed before me in a single line of blank verse. It was this: “Two souls with but one single thought, two hearts that beat as one.”
It might have been the weather, or it might have been the pie, but I wasn’t impressed with the house at all. Maybe it was the name that stretched the entire length of the building, with a letter under each window, making anyone looking out stand out terribly. Maybe it was that “Temperance” always made me think of dry biscuits and weak tea. It was uninviting. It could have easily been called the “Total Abstinence” Hotel, given the absence of anything that would excite or enthrall the senses. It was designed to exude artistic dreariness. It was far too big for the area, making it seem like only a slight improvement over being outside. It felt uncomfortably new. It carried a damp, forest-like smell, with a hint of pine. Nature seemed offended, but not completely defeated, sometimes showing up again in little round, sticky, resinous drops on the doors and windows. It struck me that staying there must feel like an endless picnic. As I walked in, several regular guests rushed out of a long room and tried to get the taste of something out of their mouths by smoking tobacco in various forms. A few immediately settled around the fireplace, with their legs draped over each other's chairs, silently resigning themselves to indigestion. Remembering the pie, I declined the landlord's offer of supper but let myself be shown into the sitting room. “Mine host” was a striking-looking man, heavily bearded, and he reminded me of someone or something from a play. I sat beside the fire, quietly wondering who or what it was and trying to trace the specific memory this brought up from the tangled past when a delicate-looking woman appeared at the door, leaning heavily against the frame, and said in a weary voice, “Husband!” As the landlord turned toward her, a particular memory flashed before me in a single line of blank verse. It was this: “Two souls with but one single thought, two hearts that beat as one.”
It was Ingomar and Parthenia his wife. I imagined a different denouement from the play. Ingomar had taken Parthenia back to the mountains, and kept a hotel for the benefit of the Alemanni, who resorted there in large numbers. Poor Parthenia was pretty well fagged out, and did all the work without “help.” She had two “young barbarians,” a boy and a girl. She was faded, but still good-looking.
It was Ingomar and his wife Parthenia. I pictured a different ending than the play. Ingomar had taken Parthenia back to the mountains and ran a hotel to serve the Alemanni, who visited in large numbers. Poor Parthenia was pretty worn out, doing all the work without any “help.” She had two “young barbarians,” a boy and a girl. She had lost some of her freshness, but she was still attractive.
I sat and talked with Ingomar, who seemed perfectly at home, and told me several stories of the Alemanni, all bearing a strong flavor of the wilderness, and being perfectly in keeping with the house. How he, Ingomar, had killed a certain dreadful “b’ar,” whose skin was just up “yar,” over his bed. How he, Ingomar, had killed several “bucks,” whose skins had been prettily fringed and embroidered by Parthenia, and even now clothed him. How he, Ingomar, had killed several “Injins,” and was once nearly scalped himself. All this with that ingenious candor which is perfectly justifiable in a barbarian, but which a Greek might feel inclined to look upon as “blowing.” Thinking of the wearied Parthenia, I began to consider for the first time that perhaps she had better married the old Greek. Then she would at least have always looked neat. Then she would not have worn a woolen dress flavored with all the dinners of the past year. Then she would not have been obliged to wait on the table with her hair half down. Then the two children would not have hung about her skirts with dirty fingers, palpably dragging her down day by day. I suppose it was the pie which put such heartless and improper ideas in my head, and so I rose up and told Ingomar I believed I’d go to bed. Preceded by that redoubtable barbarian and a flaring tallow candle, I followed him upstairs to my room. It was the only single room he had, he told me; he had built it for the convenience of married parties who might stop here, but, that event not happening yet, he had left it half furnished. It had cloth on one side, and large cracks on the other. The wind, which always swept over Wingdam at night-time, puffed through the apartment from different apertures. The window was too small for the hole in the side of the house where it hung, and rattled noisily. Everything looked cheerless and dispiriting. Before Ingomar left me, he brought that “b’arskin,” and throwing it over the solemn bier which stood in one corner, told me he reckoned that would keep me warm, and then bade me good-night. I undressed myself, the light blowing out in the middle of that ceremony, crawled under the “b’arskin,” and tried to compose myself to sleep.
I sat and chatted with Ingomar, who seemed completely at ease, and he shared several stories about the Alemanni, all giving off a strong sense of the wilderness and fitting perfectly with the house. He told me how he had killed a scary bear, whose skin was hung right above his bed. He mentioned killing several bucks, their skins beautifully fringed and embroidered by Parthenia, which he still wore. He even spoke about killing a few Native Americans and how he once almost got scalped himself. He shared all this with a naive honesty that might seem acceptable from a barbarian, but a Greek might see it as boasting. Thinking of the exhausted Parthenia, I started to think for the first time that maybe she would have been better off marrying the old Greek. At least then, she would always look put together. She wouldn’t have had to wear a woolen dress that carried the scent of all the dinners from the past year. She wouldn’t have had to serve at the table with her hair half down. The two kids wouldn’t be tugging at her skirts with dirty hands, clearly dragging her down day by day. I guess it was the pie that put such unkind and inappropriate thoughts in my mind, so I stood up and told Ingomar I thought I’d head to bed. Following that formidable barbarian and a flickering tallow candle, I went upstairs to my room. It was the only single room he had, he said; he built it for the convenience of married guests who might stay, but since that hadn’t happened yet, he left it half-furnished. One side had cloth, while the other had large cracks. The wind, which always swept over Wingdam at night, whistled through the room from various gaps. The window was too small for the opening in the wall where it hung, making it rattle loudly. Everything felt bleak and depressing. Before leaving, Ingomar brought in that bearskin, threw it over the solemn bier in the corner, and said he figured that would keep me warm, then wished me goodnight. I undressed, the light blowing out in the middle of the process, crawled under the bearskin, and tried to settle down to sleep.
But I was staringly wide awake. I heard the wind sweep down the mountain-side, and toss the branches of the melancholy pine, and then enter the house, and try all the doors along the passage. Sometimes strong currents of air blew my hair all over the pillow, as with strange whispering breaths. The green timber along the walls seemed to be sprouting, and sent a dampness even through the “b’arskin.” I felt like Robinson Crusoe in his tree, with the ladder pulled up,—or like the rocked baby of the nursery song. After lying awake half an hour, I regretted having stopped at Wingdam; at the end of the third quarter, I wished I had not gone to bed; and when a restless hour passed, I got up and dressed myself. There had been a fire down in the big room. Perhaps it was still burning. I opened the door and groped my way along the passage, vocal with the snores of the Alemanni and the whistling of the night wind; I partly fell downstairs, and at last entering the big room, saw the fire still burning. I drew a chair toward it, poked it with my foot, and was astonished to see, by the upspringing flash, that Parthenia was sitting there also, holding a faded-looking baby.
But I was wide awake. I heard the wind sweep down the mountain, tossing the branches of the sad pine, and then coming into the house, trying all the doors along the hallway. Occasionally, strong gusts of air ruffled my hair all over the pillow, like strange whispering breaths. The green timber along the walls seemed to be sprouting, sending a dampness even through the “b’arskin.” I felt like Robinson Crusoe in his tree, with the ladder pulled up—or like the rocking baby in the nursery rhyme. After lying awake for half an hour, I regretted stopping at Wingdam; by the end of the third quarter, I wished I hadn’t gone to bed; and when an anxious hour passed, I got up and dressed. There had been a fire in the big room. Maybe it was still burning. I opened the door and made my way down the hallway, filled with the snoring of the Alemanni and the whistling of the night wind; I almost fell downstairs, and finally entering the big room, I saw the fire still burning. I pulled a chair closer to it, poked it with my foot, and was surprised to see, with the sudden flash, that Parthenia was sitting there too, holding a faded-looking baby.
I asked her why she was sitting up.
I asked her why she was sitting up.
“She did not go to bed on Wednesday night before the mail arrived, and then she awoke her husband, and there were passengers to ’tend to.”
“She didn't go to bed on Wednesday night before the mail arrived, and then she woke up her husband, and there were passengers to tend to.”
“Did she not get tired sometimes?”
“Didn’t she ever get tired sometimes?”
“A little, but Abner” (the barbarian’s Christian name) “had promised to get her more help next spring, if business was good.”
“A little, but Abner” (the barbarian’s Christian name) “had promised to get her more help next spring, if business was good.”
“How many boarders had she?”
“How many boarders did she have?”
“She believed about forty came to regular meals, and there was transient custom, which was as much as she and her husband could ’tend to. But he did a great deal of work.”
“She believed around forty people came for regular meals, and there was a steady flow of visitors, which was about all she and her husband could manage. But he did a lot of work.”
“What work?”
"What job?"
“Oh, bringing in the wood, and looking after the traders’ things.”
“Oh, gathering the firewood and taking care of the traders’ belongings.”
“How long had she been married?”
“How long had she been married?”
“About nine years. She had lost a little girl and boy. Three children living. He was from Illinois. She from Boston. Had an education (Boston Female High School,—Geometry, Algebra, a little Latin and Greek). Mother and father died. Came to Illinois alone, to teach school. Saw him—yes—a love match.” (“Two souls,” etc., etc.) “Married and emigrated to Kansas. Thence across the Plains to California. Always on the outskirts of civilization. He liked it.
“About nine years. She had lost a little girl and boy. Three kids still living. He was from Illinois. She was from Boston. She had an education (Boston Female High School—Geometry, Algebra, a bit of Latin and Greek). Her mother and father passed away. She came to Illinois alone to teach school. She met him—yes—a love match.” (“Two souls,” etc., etc.) “They got married and moved to Kansas. Then they crossed the Plains to California. Always on the edges of civilization. He liked it.”
“She might sometimes have wished to go home. Would like to on account of her children. Would like to give them an education. Had taught them a little herself, but couldn’t do much on account of other work. Hoped that the boy would be like his father, strong and hearty. Was fearful the girl would be more like her. Had often thought she was not fit for a pioneer’s wife.”
“She sometimes wished she could go home. She wanted to for her kids. She wanted to give them an education. She had taught them a little herself, but couldn’t do much because of other work. She hoped the boy would be like his father, strong and healthy. She was afraid the girl would be more like her. She often thought she wasn’t cut out to be a pioneer’s wife.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Oh, she was not strong enough, and had seen some of his friends’ wives in Kansas who could do more work. But he never complained,—he was so kind.” (“Two souls,” etc.)
“Oh, she wasn’t strong enough, and she had seen some of his friends’ wives in Kansas who could do more work. But he never complained—he was so kind.” (“Two souls,” etc.)
Sitting there with her head leaning pensively on one hand, holding the poor, wearied, and limp-looking baby wearily on the other arm, dirty, drabbled, and forlorn, with the firelight playing upon her features no longer fresh or young, but still refined and delicate, and even in her grotesque slovenliness still bearing a faint reminiscence of birth and breeding, it was not to be wondered that I did not fall into excessive raptures over the barbarian’s kindness. Emboldened by my sympathy, she told me how she had given up, little by little, what she imagined to be the weakness of her early education, until she found that she acquired but little strength in her new experience. How, translated to a backwoods society, she was hated by the women, and called proud and “fine,” and how her dear husband lost popularity on that account with his fellows. How, led partly by his roving instincts, and partly from other circumstances, he started with her to California. An account of that tedious journey. How it was a dreary, dreary waste in her memory, only a blank plain marked by a little cairn of stones,—a child’s grave. How she had noticed that little Willie failed. How she had called Abner’s attention to it, but, man-like, he knew nothing about children, and pooh-poohed it, and was worried by the stock. How it happened that after they had passed Sweetwater she was walking beside the wagon one night, and looking at the western sky, and she heard a little voice say “Mother.” How she looked into the wagon and saw that little Willie was sleeping comfortably and did not wish to wake him. How that in a few moments more she heard the same voice saying “Mother.” How she came back to the wagon and leaned down over him, and felt his breath upon her face, and again covered him up tenderly, and once more resumed her weary journey beside him, praying to God for his recovery. How with her face turned to the sky she heard the same voice saying “Mother,” and directly a great bright star shot away from its brethren and expired. And how she knew what had happened, and ran to the wagon again only to pillow a little pinched and cold white face upon her weary bosom. The thin red hands went up to her eyes here, and for a few moments she sat still. The wind tore round the house and made a frantic rush at the front door, and from his couch of skins in the inner room Ingomar, the barbarian, snored peacefully.
Sitting there with her head resting thoughtfully on one hand, holding the tired, limp-looking baby wearily in her other arm—dirty, disheveled, and forlorn—with the firelight highlighting her features, no longer fresh or young but still refined and delicate, even in her messy appearance she still showed a faint reminder of her background. It wasn't surprising that I didn't get overly excited about the barbarian’s kindness. Feeling sympathetic, she shared how she had gradually let go of what she thought was the weakness of her early upbringing, only to discover that she gained little strength in her new reality. She described how, in this remote community, the women disliked her and called her proud and “fine,” which caused her husband to lose popularity among his peers. She explained how, driven partly by his wanderlust and partly by other reasons, he took her to California. She recounted that exhausting journey, describing it as a dull, bleak memory—a blank landscape marked by a small pile of stones—a child’s grave. She pointed out how little Willie was failing. She brought it up to Abner, but like many men, he didn’t understand children, brushed it off, and was more concerned about their livestock. After they passed Sweetwater one night, while she was walking beside the wagon looking at the western sky, she heard a small voice call out “Mother.” She peered into the wagon and saw little Willie sleeping comfortably and didn’t want to wake him. Moments later, she heard the same voice say “Mother.” She returned to the wagon, leaned down over him, felt his breath on her face, tucked him in tenderly, and once again continued her weary journey beside him, praying to God for his recovery. With her face towards the sky, she heard the same voice saying “Mother,” and suddenly a bright star shot away from the others and faded. She knew what had happened and rushed back to the wagon, only to cradle a little, cold, pinched white face against her weary chest. The thin red hands went up to her eyes, and for a few moments, she sat still. The wind whipped around the house and slammed against the front door, while in his hide-covered couch in the inner room, Ingomar, the barbarian, snored peacefully.
“Of course she always found a protector from insult and outrage in the great courage and strength of her husband?”
“Of course she always found someone to stand up for her against insults and outrage in the great courage and strength of her husband.”
“Oh, yes; when Ingomar was with her she feared nothing. But she was nervous and had been frightened once!”
“Oh, yes; when Ingomar was with her, she feared nothing. But she was nervous and had been scared once!”
“How?”
“How?”
“They had just arrived in California. They kept house then, and had to sell liquor to traders. Ingomar was hospitable, and drank with everybody, for the sake of popularity and business, and Ingomar got to like liquor, and was easily affected by it. And how one night there was a boisterous crowd in the bar-room; she went in and tried to get him away, but only succeeded in awakening the coarse gallantry of the half-crazed revelers. And how, when she had at last got him in the room with her frightened children, he sank down on the bed in a stupor, which made her think the liquor was drugged. And how she sat beside him all night, and near morning heard a step in the passage, and, looking toward the door, saw the latch slowly moving up and down, as if somebody were trying it. And how she shook her husband, and tried to waken him, but without effect. And how at last the door yielded slowly at the top (it was bolted below), as if by a gradual pressure without; and how a hand protruded through the opening. And how as quick as lightning she nailed that hand to the wall with her scissors (her only weapon), but the point broke, and somebody got away with a fearful oath. How she never told her husband of it, for fear he would kill that somebody; but how on one day a stranger called here, and as she was handing him his coffee, she saw a queer triangular scar on the back of his hand.” She was still talking, and the wind was still blowing, and Ingomar was still snoring from his couch of skins, when there was a shout high up the straggling street, and a clattering of hoofs and rattling of wheels. The mail had arrived. Parthenia ran with the faded baby to awaken Ingomar, and almost simultaneously the gallant expressman stood again before me, addressing me by my Christian name, and invited me to drink out of a mysterious black bottle. The horses were speedily watered, and the business of the gallant expressman concluded, and, bidding Parthenia good by, I got on the stage, and immediately fell asleep, and dreamt of calling on Parthenia and Ingomar, and being treated with pie to an unlimited extent, until I woke up the next morning in Sacramento. I have some doubts as to whether all this was not a dyspeptic dream, but I never witness the drama, and hear that noble sentiment concerning “Two souls,” etc., without thinking of Wingdam and poor Parthenia.
“They had just arrived in California. They were running a household and had to sell liquor to traders. Ingomar was friendly and drank with everyone to gain popularity and business, and he came to enjoy alcohol, becoming easily affected by it. One night, there was a loud crowd in the bar; she went in and tried to get him to leave, but only managed to provoke the crude antics of the half-crazed partygoers. When she finally got him into the room with her scared children, he collapsed on the bed in a stupor, making her think the liquor was spiked. She stayed beside him all night and near morning, she heard a noise in the hallway. Looking toward the door, she saw the latch moving up and down, as if someone were trying to get in. She shook her husband, attempting to wake him, but it didn’t work. Eventually, the door slowly opened at the top (it was bolted at the bottom), as if someone was pushing against it from outside, and a hand reached through the opening. In a flash, she pinned that hand to the wall with her scissors (her only weapon), but the point broke, and someone escaped, cursing loudly. She never told her husband about it, fearing he would go after that person; but one day a stranger came by, and as she served him coffee, she noticed a strange triangular scar on the back of his hand.” She was still talking, the wind was still blowing, and Ingomar was still snoring on his pile of skins when a shout echoed up the winding street, accompanied by the clattering of hooves and rattling of wheels. The mail had arrived. Parthenia ran with the sleepy baby to wake Ingomar, and almost at the same moment, the charming expressman appeared again, addressing me by my first name, and invited me to drink from a mysterious black bottle. The horses were quickly watered, and the business of the charming expressman wrapped up, and after bidding Parthenia goodbye, I climbed onto the stage and fell asleep immediately, dreaming of visiting Parthenia and Ingomar, being endlessly treated to pie until I woke up the next morning in Sacramento. I have some doubts about whether all of this was just a bad dream, but I never see the drama or hear that noble sentiment about “Two souls,” etc., without thinking of Wingdam and poor Parthenia.
THE LEGEND OF MONTE DEL DIABLO
The cautious reader will detect a lack of authenticity in the following pages. I am not a cautious reader myself, yet I confess with some concern to the absence of much documentary evidence in support of the singular incident I am about to relate. Disjointed memoranda, the proceedings of ayuntamientos and early departmental juntas, with other records of a primitive and superstitious people, have been my inadequate authorities. It is but just to state, however, that though this particular story lacks corroboration, in ransacking the Spanish archives of Upper California I have met with many more surprising and incredible stories, attested and supported to a degree that would have placed this legend beyond a cavil or doubt. I have, also, never lost faith in the legend myself, and in so doing have profited much from the examples of divers grant-claimants, who have often jostled me in their more practical researches, and who have my sincere sympathy at the skepticism of a modern hard-headed and practical world.
The careful reader will notice a lack of authenticity in the following pages. I’m not exactly a cautious reader myself, but I admit I’m somewhat worried about the lack of documentary evidence supporting the unique incident I'm about to share. My sources consist of scattered notes, the proceedings of local governments, early departmental meetings, and other records from a primitive and superstitious people, which are not very reliable. However, it’s important to mention that even though this particular story lacks verification, while searching through the Spanish archives of Upper California, I’ve come across many more surprising and unbelievable stories, documented and supported to a level that would put this legend beyond dispute. I also have never lost faith in this legend myself, and in that process, I’ve learned a lot from the various claimants seeking grants, who have often pushed me to dig deeper in their more practical investigations, and I genuinely sympathize with their struggles against the skepticism of a modern, pragmatic world.
For many years after Father Junipero Serro first rang his bell in the wilderness of Upper California, the spirit which animated that adventurous priest did not wane. The conversion of the heathen went on rapidly in the establishment of missions throughout the land. So sedulously did the good Fathers set about their work, that around their isolated chapels there presently arose adobe huts, whose mud-plastered and savage tenants partook regularly of the provisions, and occasionally of the Sacrament, of their pious hosts. Nay, so great was their progress, that one zealous Padre is reported to have administered the Lord’s Supper one Sabbath morning to “over three hundred heathen salvages.” It was not to be wondered that the Enemy of Souls, being greatly incensed thereat, and alarmed at his decreasing popularity, should have grievously tempted and embarrassed these holy Fathers, as we shall presently see.
For many years after Father Junipero Serra first rang his bell in the wilderness of Upper California, the spirit that drove that adventurous priest didn’t fade. The conversion of the non-believers progressed quickly with the establishment of missions throughout the land. The good Fathers worked so diligently that around their isolated chapels, adobe huts soon sprang up, and their mud-plastered, native inhabitants regularly shared in the provisions and occasionally the Sacrament from their devout hosts. In fact, one enthusiastic Padre is said to have given the Lord’s Supper one Sunday morning to “over three hundred non-believing natives.” It’s no surprise that the Enemy of Souls, feeling quite threatened by this, and worried about his dwindling popularity, would severely tempt and trouble these holy Fathers, as we will soon see.
Yet they were happy, peaceful days for California. The vagrant keels of prying Commerce had not as yet ruffled the lordly gravity of her bays. No torn and ragged gulch betrayed the suspicion of golden treasure. The wild oats drooped idly in the morning heat or wrestled with the afternoon breezes. Deer and antelope dotted the plain. The watercourses brawled in their familiar channels, nor dreamed of ever shifting their regular tide. The wonders of the Yosemite and Calaveras were as yet unrecorded. The holy Fathers noted little of the landscape beyond the barbaric prodigality with which the quick soil repaid the sowing. A new conversion, the advent of a saint’s day, or the baptism of an Indian baby, was at once the chronicle and marvel of their day.
Yet they were happy, peaceful days for California. The wandering ships of eager Commerce had not yet disturbed the majestic stillness of her bays. No torn and ragged canyon revealed any hint of golden treasure. The wild oats hung lazily in the morning heat or danced with the afternoon breezes. Deer and antelope grazed on the plain. The watercourses flowed smoothly in their familiar paths, never considering changing their steady current. The wonders of Yosemite and Calaveras were still unrecorded. The holy Fathers noticed little of the landscape beyond the wild abundance with which the fertile soil rewarded the planting. A new conversion, the arrival of a saint’s day, or the baptism of an Indian baby was both the news and the wonder of their day.
At this blissful epoch there lived at the Mission of San Pablo Father Jose Antonio Haro, a worthy brother of the Society of Jesus. He was of tall and cadaverous aspect. A somewhat romantic history had given a poetic interest to his lugubrious visage. While a youth, pursuing his studies at famous Salamanca, he had become enamored of the charms of Dona Carmen de Torrencevara, as that lady passed to her matutinal devotions. Untoward circumstances, hastened, perhaps, by a wealthier suitor, brought this amour to a disastrous issue, and Father Jose entered a monastery, taking upon himself the vows of celibacy. It was here that his natural fervor and poetic enthusiasm conceived expression as a missionary. A longing to convert the uncivilized heathen succeeded his frivolous earthly passion, and a desire to explore and develop unknown fastnesses continually possessed him. In his flashing eye and sombre exterior was detected a singular commingling of the discreet Las Casas and the impetuous Balboa.
At this happy time, Father Jose Antonio Haro, a dedicated member of the Society of Jesus, was living at the Mission of San Pablo. He was tall and had a gaunt appearance. His gloomy face held a certain poetic allure due to a somewhat romantic past. As a young man studying at the prestigious Salamanca, he had fallen for the charms of Dona Carmen de Torrencevara as she went to her morning prayers. Unfortunate circumstances, possibly influenced by a wealthier rival, led to the failure of this romance, and Father Jose chose to enter a monastery, taking vows of celibacy. It was there that his natural passion and poetic spirit found their voice as a missionary. A desire to convert the uncivilized local populations replaced his fleeting earthly desires, and he was driven by a wish to explore and develop unknown territories. In his bright eyes and serious demeanor, one could see a unique blend of the cautious Las Casas and the fiery Balboa.
Fired by this pious zeal, Father Jose went forward in the van of Christian pioneers. On reaching Mexico he obtained authority to establish the Mission of San Pablo. Like the good Junipero, accompanied only by an acolyte and muleteer, he unsaddled his mules in a dusky canon, and rang his bell in the wilderness. The savages—a peaceful, inoffensive, and inferior race—presently flocked around him. The nearest military post was far away, which contributed much to the security of these pious pilgrims, who found their open trustfulness and amiability better fitted to repress hostility than the presence of an armed, suspicious, and brawling soldiery. So the good Father Jose said matins and prime, mass and vespers, in the heart of sin and heathenism, taking no heed to himself, but looking only to the welfare of the Holy Church. Conversions soon followed, and on the 7th of July, 1760, the first Indian baby was baptized,—an event which, as Father Jose piously records, “exceeds the richnesse of gold or precious jewels or the chancing upon the Ophir of Solomon.” I quote this incident as best suited to show the ingenious blending of poetry and piety which distinguished Father Jose’s record.
Driven by his devout passion, Father Jose led the way for Christian pioneers. Upon arriving in Mexico, he received permission to establish the Mission of San Pablo. Like the good Junipero, accompanied only by an acolyte and a muleteer, he unsaddled his mules in a dim canyon and rang his bell in the wilderness. The locals—a peaceful, harmless, and less advanced group—quickly gathered around him. The nearest military post was far away, which greatly enhanced the safety of these devoted pilgrims, who found that their open trust and friendly nature were more effective at preventing hostility than the presence of armed, suspicious, and rowdy soldiers. So the good Father Jose said matins and prime, mass and vespers, in the midst of sin and paganism, focusing solely on the well-being of the Holy Church. Conversions soon followed, and on July 7, 1760, the first Indian baby was baptized—an event that, as Father Jose devoutly noted, “surpasses the riches of gold or precious jewels or finding the Ophir of Solomon.” I mention this incident as it best illustrates the creative blend of poetry and devotion that characterized Father Jose’s writings.
The Mission of San Pablo progressed and prospered, until the pious founder thereof, like the infidel Alexander, might have wept that there were no more heathen worlds to conquer. But his ardent and enthusiastic spirit could not long brook an idleness that seemed begotten of sin; and one pleasant August morning in the year of grace 1770 Father Jose issued from the outer court of the mission building, equipped to explore the field for new missionary labors.
The Mission of San Pablo grew and thrived, until the devout founder, like the unfaithful Alexander, might have regretted that there were no more non-believing lands to conquer. But his passionate and eager spirit couldn’t tolerate a laziness that felt like a sin for long; so, one pleasant August morning in 1770, Father Jose stepped out of the outer courtyard of the mission building, ready to seek out new opportunities for missionary work.
Nothing could exceed the quiet gravity and unpretentiousness of the little cavalcade. First rode a stout muleteer, leading a pack-mule laden with the provisions of the party, together with a few cheap crucifixes and hawks’ bells. After him came the devout Padre Jose, bearing his breviary and cross, with a black serapa thrown around his shoulders; while on either side trotted a dusky convert, anxious to show a proper sense of his regeneration by acting as guide into the wilds of his heathen brethren. Their new condition was agreeably shown by the absence of the usual mud-plaster, which in their unconverted state they assumed to keep away vermin and cold. The morning was bright and propitious. Before their departure, mass had been said in the chapel, and the protection of St. Ignatius invoked against all contingent evils, but especially against bears, which, like the fiery dragons of old, seemed to cherish unconquerable hostility to the Holy Church.
Nothing could surpass the quiet seriousness and simplicity of the little procession. First, a stout muleteer rode, leading a pack mule loaded with the group's supplies, along with a few cheap crucifixes and hawk bells. Following him was the devout Padre Jose, holding his breviary and cross, with a black serape draped over his shoulders; on either side trotted a dark-skinned convert, eager to show his appreciation for his new faith by acting as a guide into the wilds of his fellow believers. Their new status was nicely highlighted by the absence of the usual mud plaster, which they had used in their unconverted days to keep away pests and the cold. The morning was bright and favorable. Before they left, mass had been held in the chapel, and they had invoked the protection of St. Ignatius against any potential dangers, particularly against bears, which, like the fiery dragons of old, seemed to harbor an unyielding hostility toward the Holy Church.
As they wound through the canon, charming birds disported upon boughs and sprays, and sober quails piped from the alders; the willowy watercourses gave a musical utterance, and the long grass whispered on the hillside. On entering the deeper defiles, above them towered dark green masses of pine, and occasionally the madrono shook its bright scarlet berries. As they toiled up many a steep ascent, Father Jose sometimes picked up fragments of scoria, which spake to his imagination of direful volcanoes and impending earthquakes. To the less scientific mind of the muleteer Ignacio they had even a more terrifying significance; and he once or twice snuffed the air suspiciously, and declared that it smelt of sulphur. So the first day of their journey wore away, and at night they encamped without having met a single heathen face. It was on this night that the Enemy of Souls appeared to Ignacio in an appalling form. He had retired to a secluded part of the camp and had sunk upon his knees in prayerful meditation, when he looked up and perceived the Arch-Fiend in the likeness of a monstrous bear. The Evil One was seated on his hind legs immediately before him, with his fore paws joined together just below his black muzzle. Wisely conceiving this remarkable attitude to be in mockery and derision of his devotions, the worthy muleteer was transported with fury. Seizing an arquebus, he instantly closed his eyes and fired. When he had recovered from the effects of the terrific discharge, the apparition had disappeared. Father Jose, awakened by the report, reached the spot only in time to chide the muleteer for wasting powder and ball in a contest with one whom a single ave would, have been sufficient to utterly discomfit. What further reliance he placed on Ignacio’s story is not known; but, in commemoration of a worthy Californian custom, the place was called “La Canada de la Tentacion del Pio Muletero,” or “The Glen of the Temptation of the Pious Muleteer,” a name which it retains to this day.
As they made their way through the canyon, charming birds flitted among the branches and quails called out from the alders; the meandering watercourses produced a musical sound, and the tall grass rustled on the hillside. Upon entering the deeper ravines, dark green masses of pine towered above them, and occasionally the madrono shook its bright red berries. As they trudged up steep inclines, Father Jose sometimes picked up pieces of scoria, which stirred his imagination with thoughts of terrible volcanoes and looming earthquakes. For the less scientifically-minded muleteer Ignacio, they held an even more frightening meaning; he sniffed the air suspiciously more than once and declared it smelled like sulfur. Thus, the first day of their journey passed, and they camped at night without encountering a single heathen. That night, the Enemy of Souls appeared to Ignacio in a terrifying form. He had gone to a quiet corner of the camp and had knelt down in prayerful meditation when he looked up and saw the Arch-Fiend taking the shape of a monstrous bear. The Evil One was sitting on its hind legs right before him, with its front paws together just below its black muzzle. Thinking this strange posture was a mockery of his prayers, the worthy muleteer was filled with rage. Grabbing an arquebus, he closed his eyes and fired. When he recovered from the deafening shot, the apparition was gone. Father Jose, awakened by the noise, arrived just in time to scold the muleteer for wasting gunpowder and shot on a foe that a simple prayer could have easily overcome. How much faith he had in Ignacio’s tale remains unknown; however, in keeping with a well-known Californian tradition, the site was named “La Canada de la Tentacion del Pio Muletero,” or “The Glen of the Temptation of the Pious Muleteer,” a name that it still holds today.
The next morning the party, issuing from a narrow gorge, came upon a long valley, sear and burnt with the shadeless heat. Its lower extremity was lost in a fading line of low hills, which, gathering might and volume toward the upper end of the valley, upheaved a stupendous bulwark against the breezy north. The peak of this awful spur was just touched by a fleecy cloud that shifted to and fro like a banneret. Father Jose gazed at it with mingled awe and admiration. By a singular coincidence, the muleteer Ignacio uttered the simple ejaculation “Diablo!”
The next morning, the group emerged from a narrow gorge and encountered a long valley, dry and scorched by the relentless heat. The lower end faded into a line of low hills which, gaining strength and size toward the top of the valley, formed a massive barrier against the cool northern breeze. A fluffy cloud brushed the peak of this imposing ridge, moving back and forth like a little banner. Father Jose looked at it with a mix of awe and admiration. In an odd coincidence, the muleteer Ignacio exclaimed, “Devil!”
As they penetrated the valley, they soon began to miss the agreeable life and companionable echoes of the canon they had quitted. Huge fissures in the parched soil seemed to gape as with thirsty mouths. A few squirrels darted from the earth and disappeared as mysteriously before the jingly mules. A gray wolf trotted leisurely along just ahead. But whichever way Father Jose turned, the mountain always asserted itself and arrested his wandering eye. Out of the dry and arid valley it seemed to spring into cooler and bracing life. Deep cavernous shadows dwelt along its base; rocky fastnesses appeared midway of its elevation; and on either side huge black hills diverged like massy roots from a central trunk. His lively fancy pictured these hills peopled with a majestic and intelligent race of savages; and looking into futurity, he already saw a monstrous cross crowning the dome-like summit. Far different were the sensations of the muleteer, who saw in those awful solitudes only fiery dragons, colossal bears, and breakneck trails. The converts, Concepcion and Incarnacion, trotting modestly beside the Padre, recognized, perhaps, some manifestation of their former weird mythology.
As they entered the valley, they quickly started to miss the pleasant life and friendly sounds of the canyon they had left behind. Huge cracks in the dry ground seemed to open like thirsty mouths. A few squirrels darted out from the earth and vanished mysteriously before the jangling mules. A gray wolf walked leisurely just ahead. But no matter which way Father Jose looked, the mountain always made itself known and caught his wandering gaze. It seemed to rise from the dry and parched valley into cooler, refreshing life. Deep, shadowy caves lingered along its base; rocky cliffs appeared halfway up; and on either side, massive black hills spread out like thick roots from a central trunk. His vivid imagination populated these hills with a grand and intelligent race of savages, and looking into the future, he could already see a huge cross on the dome-like summit. The muleteer felt completely differently, seeing only fiery dragons, giant bears, and dangerous trails in those eerie wildernesses. The converts, Concepcion and Incarnacion, trotting quietly beside the Padre, perhaps recognized some elements of their former strange mythology.
At nightfall they reached the base of the mountain. Here Father Jose unpacked his mules, said vespers, and, formally ringing his bell, called upon the Gentiles within hearing to come and accept the holy faith. The echoes of the black frowning hills around him caught up the pious invitation and repeated it at intervals; but no Gentiles appeared that night. Nor were the devotions of the muleteer again disturbed, although he afterward asserted that, when the Father’s exhortation was ended, a mocking peal of laughter came from the mountain. Nothing daunted by these intimations of the near hostility of the Evil One, Father Jose declared his intention to ascend the mountain at early dawn, and before the sun rose the next morning he was leading the way.
At nightfall, they reached the base of the mountain. Here, Father Jose unpacked his mules, said evening prayers, and formally rang his bell, inviting the Gentiles within earshot to come and embrace the holy faith. The echoes of the dark, imposing hills around him picked up the pious invitation and repeated it at intervals, but no Gentiles showed up that night. The muleteer's prayers were not disturbed again, though he later claimed that when the Father finished speaking, a mocking laugh came from the mountain. Undeterred by these signs of the Evil One's hostility, Father Jose announced his plan to climb the mountain at dawn, and before the sun rose the next morning, he was leading the way.
The ascent was in many places difficult and dangerous. Huge fragments of rock often lay across the trail, and after a few hours’ climbing they were forced to leave their mules in a little gully and continue the ascent afoot. Unaccustomed to such exertion, Father Jose often stopped to wipe the perspiration from his thin cheeks. As the day wore on a strange silence oppressed them. Except the occasional pattering of a squirrel, or a rustling in the chimisal bushes, there were no signs of life. The half-human print of a bear’s foot sometimes appeared before them, at which Ignacio always crossed himself piously. The eye was sometimes cheated by a dripping from the rocks, which on closer inspection proved to be a resinous oily liquid with an abominable sulphurous smell. When they were within a short distance of the summit, the discreet Ignacio, selecting a sheltered nook for the camp, slipped aside and busied himself in preparations for the evening, leaving the holy Father to continue the ascent alone. Never was there a more thoughtless act of prudence, never a more imprudent piece of caution. Without noticing the desertion, buried in pious reflection, Father Jose pushed mechanically on, and, reaching the summit, cast himself down and gazed upon the prospect.
The climb was tough and risky in many spots. Big chunks of rock often blocked the path, and after a few hours of climbing, they had to leave their mules in a little gully and keep going on foot. Not used to this kind of effort, Father Jose frequently stopped to wipe the sweat from his thin cheeks. As the day went on, an odd silence weighed on them. Apart from the occasional scurrying of a squirrel or the rustling of bushes, there were no signs of life. The half-human print of a bear’s paw would sometimes show up in front of them, making Ignacio cross himself piously every time. The eye was often tricked by what looked like a drip from the rocks, which upon closer inspection turned out to be a sticky, oily liquid with a terrible sulfur smell. When they were close to the summit, the careful Ignacio, choosing a sheltered spot for their camp, quietly stepped aside to start preparing for the evening, leaving the holy Father to continue the climb alone. Never was there a more careless act of caution, nor a more foolish act of prudence. Without realizing he had been left behind, lost in his pious thoughts, Father Jose continued on automatically, and upon reaching the top, collapsed and looked out at the view.
Below him lay a succession of valleys opening into each other like gentle lakes, until they were lost to the southward. Westerly the distant range hid the bosky canada which sheltered the Mission of San Pablo. In the farther distance the Pacific Ocean stretched away, bearing a cloud of fog upon its bosom, which crept through the entrance of the bay, and rolled thickly between him and the northeastward; the same fog hid the base of the mountain and the view beyond. Still from time to time the fleecy veil parted, and timidly disclosed charming glimpses of mighty rivers, mountain defiles, and rolling plains, sear with ripened oats and bathed in the glow of the setting sun. As father Jose gazed, he was penetrated with a pious longing. Already his imagination, filled with enthusiastic conceptions, beheld all that vast expanse gathered under the mild sway of the holy faith and peopled with zealous converts. Each little knoll in fancy became crowned with a chapel; from each dark canon gleamed the white walls of a mission building. Growing bolder in his enthusiasm and looking farther into futurity, he beheld a new Spain rising on these savage shores. He already saw the spires of stately cathedrals, the domes of palaces, vineyards, gardens, and groves. Convents, half hid among the hills, peeping from plantations of branching limes, and long processions of chanting nuns wound through the denies. So completely was the good Father’s conception of the future confounded with the past, that even in their choral strain the well-remembered accents of Carmen struck his ear. He was busied in these fanciful imaginings, when suddenly over that extended prospect the faint distant tolling of a bell rang sadly out and died. It was the Angelus. Father Jose listened with superstitious exaltation. The Mission of San Pablo was far away, and the sound must have been some miraculous omen. But never before, to his enthusiastic sense, did the sweet seriousness of this angelic symbol come with such strange significance. With the last faint peal his glowing fancy seemed to cool; the fog closed in below him, and the good Father remembered he had not had his supper. He had risen and was wrapping his serapa around him, when he perceived for the first time that he was not alone.
Below him lay a series of valleys flowing into each other like gentle lakes, until they disappeared to the south. To the west, a distant mountain range concealed the wooded area that sheltered the Mission of San Pablo. Farther away, the Pacific Ocean stretched out, carrying a cloud of fog that drifted into the bay, thickening between him and the northeast; this fog also obscured the base of the mountain and the view beyond. Still, every now and then, the fluffy veil parted, revealing lovely glimpses of powerful rivers, mountain passes, and rolling plains, golden with ripe oats and bathed in the glow of the setting sun. As Father Jose looked on, he was filled with a deep, spiritual longing. His imagination, bursting with passionate ideas, envisioned that vast expanse united under the gentle guidance of the holy faith and populated with devoted converts. In his mind, each little hill was topped with a chapel; from each dark canyon, the white walls of a mission building shone. Growing more confident in his enthusiasm and peering further into the future, he envisioned a new Spain rising on these wild shores. He could already see the spires of grand cathedrals, the domes of palaces, vineyards, gardens, and groves. Convents, partially hidden among the hills, peeked out from lime tree plantations, and long processions of singing nuns wove through the valleys. Father Jose’s vision of the future was so intertwined with the past that he could even hear the familiar tones of Carmen in their choral music. He was engrossed in these fanciful thoughts when suddenly, over that vast expanse, the faint distant tolling of a bell rang out softly and faded away. It was the Angelus. Father Jose listened, filled with superstitious excitement. The Mission of San Pablo was far away, and the sound must have been some miraculous sign. But never before had the sweet seriousness of this angelic symbol struck him with such strange significance. With the last faint chime, his vibrant imagination seemed to cool; the fog closed in around him, and the good Father remembered he hadn’t had dinner. He had just risen and was wrapping his serape around him when he suddenly realized for the first time that he was not alone.
Nearly opposite, and where should have been the faithless Ignacio, a grave and decorous figure was seated. His appearance was that of an elderly hidalgo, dressed in mourning, with mustaches of iron-gray carefully waxed and twisted round a pair of lantern-jaws. The monstrous hat and prodigious feather, the enormous ruff and exaggerated trunk-hose, contrasted with a frame shriveled and wizened, all belonged to a century previous. Yet Father Jose was not astonished. His adventurous life and poetic imagination, continually on the look-out for the marvelous, gave him a certain advantage over the practical and material-minded. He instantly detected the diabolical quality of his visitant, and was prepared. With equal coolness and courtesy he met the cavalier’s obeisance.
Nearly opposite, where the untrustworthy Ignacio should have been, a serious and dignified figure was seated. He looked like an elderly nobleman, dressed in mourning, with carefully waxed and twisted iron-gray mustaches framing a pair of gaunt cheeks. The enormous hat with its huge feather, the extravagant ruff, and the overly large trousers contrasted sharply with a thin and bent frame that seemed from a century ago. Yet Father Jose was not surprised. His adventurous life and poetic imagination, always on the lookout for the extraordinary, gave him an edge over those who were practical and materialistic. He quickly recognized the sinister nature of his visitor and was ready for it. With equal composure and politeness, he acknowledged the cavalier’s salute.
“I ask your pardon, Sir Priest,” said the stranger, “for disturbing your meditations. Pleasant they must have been, and right fanciful, I imagine, when occasioned by so fair a prospect.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt your thoughts, Sir Priest,” said the stranger, “but it must have been a lovely and imaginative experience, especially with such a beautiful view.”
“Worldly, perhaps, Sir Devil,—for such I take you to be,” said the holy Father, as the stranger bowed his black plumes to the ground; “worldly, perhaps; for it hath pleased Heaven to retain even in our regenerated state much that pertaineth to the flesh, yet still, I trust, not without some speculation for the welfare of the Holy Church. In dwelling upon yon fair expanse, mine eyes have been graciously opened with prophetic inspiration, and the promise of the heathen as an inheritance hath marvelously recurred to me. For there can be none lack such diligence in the true faith but may see that even the conversion of these pitiful salvages hath a meaning. As the blessed St. Ignatius discreetly observes,” continued Father Jose, clearing his throat and slightly elevating his voice, “‘the heathen is given to the warriors of Christ, even as the pearls of rare discovery which gladden the hearts of shipmen.’ Nay, I might say”—
“Maybe you’re worldly, Sir Devil, as I suspect,” the holy Father said as the stranger bowed his black feathers to the ground. “Perhaps worldly; because Heaven has chosen to keep much of our earthly nature even in our renewed state, but still, I hope, not without some thought for the welfare of the Holy Church. As I’ve gazed upon that beautiful expanse, my eyes have been graciously opened with prophetic insight, and the promise of the heathen as an inheritance has wonderfully come to mind. For anyone who is diligent in the true faith can see that even the conversion of these unfortunate savages has significance. As the blessed St. Ignatius wisely points out,” continued Father Jose, clearing his throat and raising his voice slightly, “‘the heathen is given to the warriors of Christ, just like the rare pearls that bring joy to those at sea.’ No, I could even say”—
But here the stranger, who had been wrinkling his brows and twisting his mustaches with well-bred patience, took advantage of an oratorical pause.
But at that moment, the stranger, who had been furrowing his brow and twisting his mustache with polite patience, seized the opportunity during the speaker's pause.
“It grieves me, Sir Priest, to interrupt the current of your eloquence as discourteously as I have already broken your meditations; but the day already waneth to night. I have a matter of serious import to make with you, could I entreat your cautious consideration a few moments.”
“It saddens me, Sir Priest, to interrupt your speech as rudely as I have already disturbed your thoughts; however, the day is already turning to night. I have an important matter to discuss with you, if I could ask for your careful attention for a few moments.”
Father Jose hesitated. The temptation was great, and the prospect of acquiring some knowledge of the Great Enemy’s plans not the least trifling object. And, if the truth must be told, there was a certain decorum about the stranger that interested the Padre. Though well aware of the Protean shapes the Arch-Fiend could assume, and though free from the weaknesses of the flesh, Father Jose was not above the temptations of the spirit. Had the Devil appeared, as in the case of the pious St. Anthony, in the likeness of a comely damsel, the good Father, with his certain experience of the deceitful sex, would have whisked her away in the saying of a paternoster. But there was, added to the security of age, a grave sadness about the stranger,—a thoughtful consciousness, as of being at a great moral disadvantage, which at once decided him on a magnanimous course of conduct.
Father Jose hesitated. The temptation was strong, and the chance to gain some insight into the Great Enemy’s plans was certainly not insignificant. To be honest, there was something about the stranger’s composure that intrigued the Padre. Although he knew well the many forms the Arch-Fiend could take and was free from the physical weaknesses of the flesh, Father Jose was not immune to the temptations of the spirit. If the Devil had appeared, like in the case of the devout St. Anthony, as a beautiful young woman, the good Father, with his experience of the deceptive nature of women, would have dismissed her right away with a quick prayer. But alongside the wisdom that comes with age, there was a deep sadness about the stranger—an awareness that spoke of being at a significant moral disadvantage—which led him to choose a noble course of action.
The stranger then proceeded to inform him that he had been diligently observing the holy Father’s triumphs in the valley. That, far from being greatly exercised thereat, he had been only grieved to see so enthusiastic and chivalrous an antagonist wasting his zeal in a hopeless work. For, he observed, the issue of the great battle of Good and Evil had been otherwise settled, as he would presently show him. “It wants but a few moments of night,” he continued, “and over this interval of twilight, as you know, I have been given complete control. Look to the west.”
The stranger then went on to tell him that he had been closely watching the holy Father’s victories in the valley. Rather than being upset about it, he felt sad to see such an enthusiastic and noble opponent wasting his energy on a futile cause. He pointed out that the outcome of the great battle between Good and Evil had already been decided, as he would soon demonstrate. “There are just a few moments left until night,” he continued, “and during this twilight period, as you know, I have been given full control. Look to the west.”
As the Padre turned, the stranger took his enormous hat from his head and waved it three times before him. At each sweep of the prodigious feather the fog grew thinner, until it melted impalpably away, and the former landscape returned, yet warm with the glowing sun. As Father Jose gazed a strain of martial music arose from the valley, and issuing from a deep canon the good Father beheld a long cavalcade of gallant cavaliers, habited like his companion. As they swept down the plain, they were joined by like processions, that slowly defiled from every ravine and canon of the mysterious mountain. From time to time the peal of a trumpet swelled fitfully upon the breeze; the cross of Santiago glittered, and the royal banners of Castile and Aragon waved over the moving column. So they moved on solemnly toward the sea, where, in the distance, Father Jose saw stately caravels, bearing the same familiar banner, awaiting them. The good Padre gazed with conflicting emotions, and the serious voice of the stranger broke the silence.
As the Padre turned, the stranger took off his huge hat and waved it three times in front of him. With each sweep of the massive feather, the fog became lighter until it completely vanished, revealing the landscape once again, now bathed in warm sunlight. As Father Jose looked on, a lively melody began to rise from the valley, and emerging from a deep canyon, he saw a long procession of brave knights, dressed like his companion. They descended the plain, joining similar processions that slowly emerged from every ravine and canyon of the mysterious mountain. Occasionally, the sound of a trumpet echoed softly in the breeze; the cross of Santiago sparkled, and the royal flags of Castile and Aragon waved over the moving group. They solemnly advanced toward the sea, where, in the distance, Father Jose spotted majestic ships with the same familiar banner waiting for them. The good Padre watched with mixed emotions, and the stranger's serious voice broke the silence.
“Thou hast beheld, Sir Priest, the fading footprints of adventurous Castile. Thou hast seen the declining glory of old Spain,—declining as yonder brilliant sun. The sceptre she hath wrested from the heathen is fast dropping from her decrepit and fleshless grasp. The children she hath fostered shall know her no longer. The soil she hath acquired shall be lost to her as irrevocably as she herself hath thrust the Moor from her own Granada.”
“You have seen, Sir Priest, the fading footprints of adventurous Castile. You have witnessed the declining glory of old Spain—declining like that brilliant sun over there. The scepter she has taken from the heathen is quickly slipping from her frail and lifeless grasp. The children she has raised will no longer recognize her. The land she has gained will be lost to her as irretrievably as she herself has driven the Moor from her own Granada.”
The stranger paused, and his voice seemed broken by emotion; at the same time, Father Jose, whose sympathizing heart yearned toward the departing banners, cried in poignant accents,—
The stranger stopped, and his voice sounded choked with emotion; at the same time, Father Jose, with a compassionate heart that ached for the departing banners, cried out in a heartrending tone,—
“Farewell, ye gallant cavaliers and Christian soldiers! Farewell, thou, Juries de Balboa! thou, Alonzo de Ojeda! and thou, most venerable Las Casas! farewell, and may Heaven prosper still the seed ye left behind!”
“Goodbye, brave knights and Christian soldiers! Goodbye to you, Juries de Balboa! You, Alonzo de Ojeda! And you, the esteemed Las Casas! Goodbye, and may Heaven continue to bless the legacy you left behind!”
Then turning to the stranger, Father Jose beheld him gravely draw his pocket-handkerchief from the basket-hilt of his rapier and apply it decorously to his eyes. “Pardon this weakness, Sir Priest,” said the cavalier apologetically; “but these worthy gentlemen were ancient friends of mine, and have done me many a delicate service,—much more, perchance, than these poor sables may signify,” he added, with a grim gesture toward the mourning suit he wore.
Then turning to the stranger, Father Jose watched him seriously take out his handkerchief from the basket-hilt of his sword and use it respectfully on his eyes. “Forgive this weakness, Sir Priest,” the cavalier said apologetically; “but these good gentlemen were old friends of mine and have done me many favors—perhaps even more than these humble clothes might suggest,” he added, with a grim gesture toward the mourning outfit he wore.
Father Jose was too much preoccupied in reflection to notice the equivocal nature of this tribute, and, after a few moments’ silence, said, as if continuing his thought,—
Father Jose was too caught up in his thoughts to notice the ambiguous nature of this tribute, and, after a moment of silence, said, as if he were continuing his thought,—
“But the seed they have planted shall thrive and prosper on this fruitful soil.”
“But the seed they've planted will thrive and prosper in this fertile soil.”
As if answering the interrogatory, the stranger turned to the opposite direction, and, again waving his hat, said, in the same serious tone, “Look to the east!”
As if responding to the question, the stranger turned to the other direction and, once again waving his hat, said in the same serious tone, “Look to the east!”
The Father turned, and, as the fog broke away before the waving plume, he saw that the sun was rising. Issuing with its bright beams through the passes of the snowy mountains beyond appeared a strange and motley crew. Instead of the dark and romantic visages of his last phantom train, the Father beheld with strange concern the blue eyes and flaxen hair of a Saxon race. In place of martial airs and musical utterance, there rose upon the ear a strange din of harsh gutturals and singular sibilation. Instead of the decorous tread and stately mien of the cavaliers of the former vision, they came pushing, bustling, panting, and swaggering. And as they passed, the good Father noticed that giant trees were prostrated as with the breath of a tornado, and the bowels of the earth were torn and rent as with a convulsion. And Father Jose looked in vain for holy cross or Christian symbol; there was but one that seemed an ensign, and he crossed himself with holy horror as he perceived it bore the effigy of a bear.
The Father turned, and as the fog lifted in front of the waving plume, he saw the sun rising. Its bright rays shone through the gaps in the snowy mountains ahead, revealing a strange and colorful group. Instead of the dark and mysterious faces of his last ghostly train, the Father noticed with odd concern the blue eyes and blonde hair of a Saxon people. Instead of martial attitudes and musical voices, a cacophony of harsh sounds and strange hissing filled the air. Rather than the dignified step and impressive presence of the noblemen from his previous vision, they came pushing, bustling, panting, and swaggering. As they passed, the good Father saw that massive trees lay flattened as if by a tornado, and the ground was torn apart as if by a great upheaval. Father Jose searched in vain for a holy cross or Christian symbol; there was only one that looked like a banner, and he crossed himself in horror as he realized it featured the image of a bear.
“Who are these swaggering Ishmaelites?” he asked, with something of asperity in his tone.
“Who are these arrogant Ishmaelites?” he asked, with a hint of harshness in his tone.
The stranger was gravely silent.
The stranger was seriously quiet.
“What do they here, with neither cross nor holy symbol?” he again demanded.
“What are they doing here, without a cross or holy symbol?” he asked again.
“Have you the courage to see, Sir Priest?” responded the stranger quietly.
“Do you have the courage to see, Sir Priest?” the stranger replied softly.
Father Jose felt his crucifix, as a lonely traveler might his rapier, and assented.
Father Jose touched his crucifix, like a solitary traveler might feel his sword, and nodded in agreement.
“Step under the shadow of my plume,” said the stranger.
“Step into the shadow of my feather,” said the stranger.
Father Jose stepped beside him and they instantly sank through the earth.
Father Jose stepped beside him, and they instantly sank into the ground.
When he opened his eyes, which had remained closed in prayerful meditation during his rapid descent, he found himself in a vast vault, bespangled overhead with luminous points like the starred firmament. It was also lighted by a yellow glow that seemed to proceed from a mighty sea or lake that occupied the centre of the chamber. Around this subterranean sea dusky figures flitted, bearing ladles filled with the yellow fluid, which they had replenished from its depths. From this lake diverging streams of the same mysterious flood penetrated like mighty rivers the cavernous distance. As they walked by the banks of this glittering Styx, Father Jose perceived how the liquid stream at certain places became solid. The ground was strewn with glittering flakes. One of these the Padre picked up and curiously examined. It was virgin gold.
When he opened his eyes, which had stayed closed in prayer during his rapid descent, he found himself in a vast chamber, decorated overhead with glowing points like a starry sky. It was also illuminated by a yellow glow that seemed to come from a large sea or lake in the center of the room. Around this underground sea, shadowy figures moved about, carrying ladles filled with the yellow liquid that they had drawn from its depths. From this lake, branching streams of the same mysterious liquid flowed like great rivers into the dark distance. As they walked along the banks of this glimmering Styx, Father Jose noticed how the liquid at certain spots turned solid. The ground was covered with sparkling flakes. One of these the Padre picked up and examined curiously. It was pure gold.
An expression of discomfiture overcast the good Father’s face at this discovery; but there was trace neither of malice nor satisfaction in the stranger’s air, which was still of serious and fateful contemplation. When Father Jose recovered his equanimity, he said bitterly,—
An expression of discomfort clouded the good Father’s face at this discovery; but there was no hint of malice or satisfaction in the stranger’s demeanor, which remained serious and deeply contemplative. When Father Jose regained his composure, he said bitterly,—
“This, then, Sir Devil, is your work! This is your deceitful lure for the weak souls of sinful nations! So would you replace the Christian grace of Holy Spain!”
“This, then, Sir Devil, is your work! This is your deceptive trap for the weak souls of sinful nations! So you would replace the Christian grace of Holy Spain!”
“This is what must be,” returned the stranger gloomily. “But listen, Sir Priest. It lies with you to avert the issue for a time. Leave me here in peace. Go back to Castile, and take with you your bells, your images, and your missions. Continue here, and you only precipitate results. Stay! promise me you will do this, and you shall not lack that which will render your old age an ornament and a blessing;” and the stranger motioned significantly to the lake.
“This is how it has to be,” the stranger replied grimly. “But listen, Sir Priest. It’s up to you to delay what’s coming. Leave me here in peace. Go back to Castile, and take your bells, your images, and your missions with you. If you stay here, you’ll only make things worse. Promise me you’ll do this, and you won't miss out on what will make your old age beautiful and fulfilling;” and the stranger gestured meaningfully toward the lake.
It was here, the legend discreetly relates, that the Devil showed—as he always shows sooner or later—his cloven hoof. The worthy Padre, sorely perplexed by this threefold vision, and, if the truth must be told, a little nettled at this wresting away of the glory of holy Spanish discovery, had shown some hesitation. But the unlucky bribe of the Enemy of Souls touched his Castilian spirit. Starting hack in deep disgust, he brandished his crucifix in the face of the unmasked Fiend, and in a voice that made the dusky vault resound cried,—
It was here, the legend quietly tells, that the Devil revealed—like he always does eventually—his true nature. The good Padre, really confused by this threefold vision, and honestly a bit annoyed at having the credit for holy Spanish discovery taken away, hesitated. But the cursed temptation from the Enemy of Souls stirred his Castilian pride. Stepping back in deep disgust, he raised his crucifix in front of the unmasked Fiend and yelled in a voice that echoed through the dark space,—
“Avaunt thee, Sathanas! Diaholus, I defy thee! What! wouldst thou bribe me,—me, a brother of the Sacred Society of the Holy Jesus, Licentiate of Cordova and Inquisitor of Guadalaxara? Thinkest thou to buy me with thy sordid treasure? Avaunt!”
“Away with you, Sathanas! Devil, I defy you! What! Are you trying to bribe me—me, a member of the Sacred Society of the Holy Jesus, Licentiate of Cordova and Inquisitor of Guadalaxara? Do you think you can buy me with your filthy riches? Get lost!”
What might have been the issue of this rupture, and how complete might have been the triumph of the holy Father over the Arch-Fiend, who was recoiling aghast at these sacred titles and the nourishing symbol, we can never know, for at that moment the crucifix slipped through his fingers.
What might have caused this break, and how entirely could the holy Father have triumphed over the Arch-Fiend, who was recoiling in horror at these sacred titles and the life-giving symbol, we can never know, because at that moment the crucifix slipped from his grasp.
Scarcely had it touched the ground before Devil and holy Father simultaneously cast themselves toward it. In the struggle they clinched, and the pious Jose, who was as much the superior of his antagonist in bodily as in spiritual strength, was about to treat the Great Adversary to a back somersault, when he suddenly felt the long nails of the stranger piercing his flesh. A new fear seized his heart, a numbing chillness crept through his body, and he struggled to free himself, but in vain. A strange roaring was in his ears; the lake and cavern danced before his eyes and vanished, and with a loud cry he sank senseless to the ground.
Scarcely had it hit the ground before the Devil and the holy Father both lunged for it at the same time. In the fight, they grappled, and the devout Jose, who was superior in both physical and spiritual strength, was about to flip the Great Adversary over backward when he suddenly felt the stranger's long nails digging into his flesh. A new fear gripped his heart, a chilling numbness spread through his body, and he struggled to free himself, but it was no use. A strange roaring filled his ears; the lake and cave swirled before his eyes and disappeared, and with a loud cry, he collapsed unconscious to the ground.
When he recovered his consciousness, he was aware of a gentle swaying motion of his body. He opened his eyes, and saw it was high noon, and that he was being carried in a litter through the valley. He felt stiff, and looking down, perceived that his arm was tightly bandaged to his side.
When he came to, he felt a gentle swaying motion of his body. He opened his eyes and saw it was high noon, and he was being carried in a litter through the valley. He felt stiff, and looking down, he noticed that his arm was tightly bandaged to his side.
He closed his eyes, and, after a few words of thankful prayer, thought how miraculously he had been preserved, and made a vow of candlesticks to the blessed Saint Jose. He then called in a faint voice, and presently the penitent Ignacio stood beside him.
He closed his eyes and, after a brief prayer of gratitude, reflected on how miraculously he had been saved, making a vow of candlesticks to the blessed Saint Jose. He then called out in a weak voice, and soon the penitent Ignacio stood beside him.
The joy the poor fellow felt at his patron’s returning consciousness for some time choked his utterance. He could only ejaculate, “A miracle! Blessed Saint Jose, he lives!” and kiss the Padre’s bandaged hand. Father Jose, more intent on his last night’s experience, waited for his emotion to subside, and asked where he had been found.
The joy the poor guy felt at his patron’s awareness coming back for a while made him speechless. He could only exclaim, “A miracle! Thank you, Saint Jose, he lives!” and kiss the Padre’s bandaged hand. Father Jose, more focused on what he experienced last night, waited for his emotions to settle down and asked where he had been found.
“On the mountain, your Reverence, but a few varas from where he attacked you.”
“On the mountain, your Reverence, just a few yards from where he attacked you.”
“How?—you saw him then?” asked the Padre in unfeigned astonishment.
“How?—you saw him then?” the Padre asked in genuine surprise.
“Saw him, your Reverence! Mother of God! I should think I did! And your Reverence shall see him too, if he ever comes again within range of Ignacio’s arquebus.”
“Saw him, your Honor! Mother of God! I definitely did! And your Honor will see him too, if he ever comes within range of Ignacio’s gun again.”
“What mean you, Ignacio?” said the Padre, sitting bolt-upright in his litter.
“What do you mean, Ignacio?” said the Padre, sitting straight up in his litter.
“Why, the bear, your Reverence,—the bear, holy Father, who attacked your worshipful person while you were meditating on the top of yonder mountain.”
“Why, the bear, your Reverence—the bear, holy Father, who attacked you while you were thinking on top of that mountain.”
“Ah!” said the holy Father, lying down again. “Chut, child! I would be at peace.”
“Ah!” said the holy Father, lying down again. “Hush, child! I just want some peace.”
When he reached the mission he was tenderly cared for, and in a few weeks was enabled to resume those duties from which, as will be seen, not even the machinations of the Evil One could divert him. The news of his physical disaster spread over the country, and a letter to the Bishop of Guadalaxara contained a confidential and detailed account of the good Father’s spiritual temptation. But in some way the story leaked out; and long after Jose was gathered to his fathers, his mysterious encounter formed the theme of thrilling and whispered narrative. The mountain was generally shunned. It is true that Senor Joaquin Pedrillo afterward located a grant near the base of the mountain; but as Senora Pedrillo was known to be a termagant half-breed, the senor was not supposed to be over-fastidious.
When he got to the mission, he was cared for with great kindness, and after a few weeks, he was able to return to the duties that, as you will see, even the schemes of the Evil One couldn’t distract him from. The news of his physical troubles spread across the country, and a letter to the Bishop of Guadalaxara included a confidential and detailed account of the good Father’s spiritual struggles. Somehow, the story got out; and long after Jose passed away, his mysterious encounter became a subject of thrilling and hushed conversations. The mountain was mostly avoided. It’s true that Senor Joaquin Pedrillo later settled on a grant near the base of the mountain; but since Senora Pedrillo was known to be a fierce half-breed, it was assumed the senor wasn’t very particular.
Such is the legend of Monte del Diablo. As I said before, it may seem to lack essential corroboration. The discrepancy between the Father’s narrative and the actual climax has given rise to some skepticism on the part of ingenious quibblers. All such I would simply refer to that part of the report of Senor Julio Serro, Sub-Prefect of San Pablo, before whom attest of the above was made. Touching this matter, the worthy Prefect observes, “That although the body of Father Jose doth show evidence of grievous conflict in the flesh, yet that is no proof that the Enemy of Souls, who could assume the figure of a decorous elderly caballero, could not at the same time transform himself into a bear for his own vile purposes.”
This is the legend of Monte del Diablo. As I mentioned earlier, it might seem to lack crucial evidence. The difference between the Father’s account and the actual events has led to some doubt from clever skeptics. To all of them, I’d simply refer to a statement from Senor Julio Serro, Sub-Prefect of San Pablo, before whom the above was sworn. Regarding this matter, the respected Prefect says, “Even though Father Jose's body shows signs of a serious struggle, that doesn’t prove that the Enemy of Souls, who could take on the appearance of a respectable older gentleman, couldn’t also turn into a bear for his own evil plans.”
THE RIGHT EYE OF THE COMMANDER
The year of grace 1797 passed away on the coast of California in a southwesterly gale. The little bay of San Carlos, albeit sheltered by the headlands of the Blessed Trinity, was rough and turbulent; its foam clung quivering to the seaward wall of the mission garden; the air was filled with flying sand and spume, and as the Senor Comandante, Hermenegildo Salvatierra, looked from the deep embrasured window of the presidio guardroom, he felt the salt breath of the distant sea buffet a color into his smoke-dried cheeks.
The year 1797 came to an end on the coast of California during a strong southwesterly wind. The small bay of San Carlos, even though it was protected by the headlands of the Blessed Trinity, was rough and choppy; its foam clung shakily to the seaward wall of the mission garden. The air was filled with blowing sand and spray, and as Señor Comandante Hermenegildo Salvatierra looked out from the deep-set window of the presidio guardroom, he felt the salty breeze from the distant sea flush some color into his smoke-dried cheeks.
The commander, I have said, was gazing thoughtfully from the window of the guardroom. He may have been reviewing the events of the year now about to pass away. But, like the garrison at the Presidio, there was little to review. The year, like its predecessors, had been uneventful,—the days had slipped by in a delicious monotony of simple duties, unbroken by incident or interruption. The regularly recurring feasts and saints’ days, the half-yearly courier from San Diego, the rare transport-ship and rarer foreign vessel, were the mere details of his patriarchal life. If there was no achievement, there was certainly no failure. Abundant harvests and patient industry amply supplied the wants of presidio and mission. Isolated from the family of nations, the wars which shook the world concerned them not so much as the last earthquake; the struggle that emancipated their sister colonies on the other side of the continent to them had no suggestiveness. In short, it was that glorious Indian summer of Californian history around which so much poetical haze still lingers,—that bland, indolent autumn of Spanish rule, so soon to be followed by the wintry storms of Mexican independence and the reviving spring of American conquest.
The commander was staring thoughtfully out the window of the guardroom. He might have been reflecting on the events of the past year. But, like the garrison at the Presidio, there wasn't much to think about. The year, like the ones before it, had been uneventful—the days had passed in a pleasant routine of simple tasks, without any incidents or interruptions. The regularly scheduled feasts and saints’ days, the semi-annual courier from San Diego, the occasional transport ship, and even rarer foreign vessels were just small details of his traditional life. There were no significant achievements, but there were no failures either. Plenty of harvests and hard work easily met the needs of both the presidio and mission. Isolated from the rest of the world, the wars that shook nations mattered little to them, just like the last earthquake did; the struggle that freed their sister colonies across the continent seemed irrelevant. In short, it was that glorious Indian summer of California's history, surrounded by so much poetic nostalgia— that mild, lazy autumn of Spanish rule, soon to be replaced by the harsh storms of Mexican independence and the renewing spring of American conquest.
The commander turned from the window and walked toward the fire that burned brightly on the deep oven-like hearth. A pile of copy-books, the work of the presidio school, lay on the table. As he turned over the leaves with a paternal interest, and surveyed the fair round Scripture text,—the first pious pothooks of the pupils of San Carlos, an audible commentary fell from his lips: “‘Abimelech took her from Abraham’—ah, little one, excellent!—‘Jacob sent to see his brother’—body of Christ! that upstroke of thine, Paquita, is marvelous; the governor shall see it!” A film of honest pride dimmed the commander’s left eye,—the right, alas! twenty years before had been sealed by an Indian arrow. He rubbed it softly with the sleeve of his leather jacket, and continued: “‘The Ishmaelites having arrived’”—
The commander turned away from the window and walked over to the fire that was blazing on the deep, oven-like hearth. A stack of notebooks from the presidio school was sitting on the table. As he flipped through the pages with a fatherly interest and looked at the neat handwritten Scripture text—the first pious efforts of the students at San Carlos—he couldn’t help but comment aloud: “‘Abimelech took her from Abraham’—ah, little one, excellent!—‘Jacob sent to see his brother’—my goodness! that upstroke of yours, Paquita, is amazing; the governor will have to see this!” A glimmer of genuine pride filled the commander’s left eye, while the right one, sadly, had been blinded by an Indian arrow twenty years earlier. He gently rubbed it with the sleeve of his leather jacket and continued: “‘The Ishmaelites having arrived’”—
He stopped, for there was a step in the courtyard, a foot upon the threshold, and a stranger entered. With the instinct of an old soldier, the commander, after one glance at the intruder, turned quickly toward the wall, where his trusty Toledo hung, or should have been hanging. But it was not there, and as he recalled that the last time he had seen that weapon it was being ridden up and down the gallery by Pepito, the infant son of Bautista, the tortilio-maker, he blushed, and then contented himself with frowning upon the intruder.
He stopped, hearing steps in the courtyard and a foot on the threshold as a stranger walked in. Like a seasoned soldier, the commander shot a quick glance at the newcomer before turning toward the wall where his reliable Toledo should have been hanging. But it wasn’t there, and as he remembered the last time he had seen that weapon being played with by Pepito, the young son of Bautista, the tortilla maker, he felt embarrassed and instead settled for giving the intruder a disapproving glare.
But the stranger’s air, though irreverent, was decidedly peaceful. He was unarmed, and wore the ordinary cape of tarpaulin and sea-boots of a mariner. Except a villainous smell of codfish, there was little about him that was peculiar.
But the stranger’s demeanor, although disrespectful, was definitely calm. He was unarmed and wore the typical tarpaulin cape and sea boots of a sailor. Aside from a suspicious smell of codfish, there was nothing particularly unusual about him.
His name, as he informed the commander in Spanish that was more fluent than elegant or precise,—his name was Peleg Scudder. He was master of the schooner General Court, of the port of Salem, in Massachusetts, on a trading voyage to the South Seas, but now driven by stress of weather into the bay of San Carlos. He begged permission to ride out the gale under the headlands of the Blessed Trinity, and no more. Water he did not need, having taken in a supply at Bodega. He knew the strict surveillance of the Spanish port regulations in regard to foreign vessels, and would do nothing against the severe discipline and good order of the settlement. There was a slight tinge of sarcasm in his tone as he glanced toward the desolate parade ground of the presidio and the open unguarded gate. The fact was that the sentry, Felipe Gomez, had discreetly retired to shelter at the beginning of the storm, and was then sound asleep in the corridor.
His name, as he told the commander in Spanish that was more fluent than elegant or precise, was Peleg Scudder. He was the captain of the schooner General Court, from the port of Salem, Massachusetts, on a trading trip to the South Seas, but had now been forced by bad weather into the bay of San Carlos. He asked for permission to wait out the storm under the cliffs of the Blessed Trinity, and that was all. He didn’t need any water, having taken in a supply at Bodega. He was aware of the strict rules of the Spanish port regulations regarding foreign ships and would adhere to the discipline and order of the settlement. There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice as he looked at the empty parade ground of the presidio and the open unguarded gate. The truth was that the sentry, Felipe Gomez, had quietly retreated to shelter at the start of the storm and was now sound asleep in the corridor.
The commander hesitated. The port regulations were severe, but he was accustomed to exercise individual authority, and beyond an old order issued ten years before, regarding the American ship Columbia, there was no precedent to guide him. The storm was severe, and a sentiment of humanity urged him to grant the stranger’s request. It is but just to the commander to say that his inability to enforce a refusal did not weigh with his decision. He would have denied with equal disregard of consequences that right to a seventy-four-gun ship which he now yielded so gracefully to this Yankee trading schooner. He stipulated only that there should be no communication between the ship and shore. “For yourself, Senor Captain,” he continued, “accept my hospitality. The fort is yours as long as you shall grace it with your distinguished presence,” and with old-fashioned courtesy he made the semblance of withdrawing from the guardroom.
The commander hesitated. The port regulations were strict, but he was used to exercising individual authority, and aside from an old order from ten years ago regarding the American ship Columbia, there was no precedent to guide him. The storm was severe, and a sense of humanity pushed him to grant the stranger’s request. It's only fair to say that his inability to enforce a refusal didn’t influence his decision. He would have denied that right to a seventy-four-gun ship just as easily as he now granted it to this Yankee trading schooner. He only added that there should be no communication between the ship and the shore. “As for you, Senor Captain,” he continued, “accept my hospitality. The fort is yours as long as you choose to honor it with your distinguished presence,” and with old-fashioned courtesy, he made a gesture as if to withdraw from the guardroom.
Master Peleg Scudder smiled as he thought of the half-dismantled fort, the two mouldy brass cannon, cast in Manila a century previous, and the shiftless garrison. A wild thought of accepting the commander’s offer literally, conceived in the reckless spirit of a man who never let slip an offer for trade, for a moment filled his brain, but a timely reflection of the commercial unimportance of the transaction checked him. He only took a capacious quid of tobacco, as the commander gravely drew a settle before the fire, and in honor of his guest untied the black silk handkerchief that bound his grizzled brows.
Master Peleg Scudder smiled as he thought about the half-ruined fort, the two moldy brass cannons, cast in Manila a century ago, and the lazy garrison. A wild idea of accepting the commander’s offer literally, sparked by the impulsive nature of someone who never turned down a trade opportunity, briefly crossed his mind, but a quick realization of the commercial unimportance of the deal held him back. Instead, he took a big chew of tobacco while the commander seriously pulled up a chair in front of the fire and, in honor of his guest, untied the black silk handkerchief that held back his grizzled hair.
What passed between Salvatierra and his guest that night it becomes me not, as a grave chronicler of the salient points of history, to relate. I have said that Master Peleg Scudder was a fluent talker, and under the influence of divers strong waters, furnished by his host, he became still more loquacious. And think of a man with a twenty years’ budget of gossip! The commander learned, for the first time, how Great Britain lost her colonies; of the French Revolution; of the great Napoleon, whose achievements, perhaps, Peleg colored more highly than the commander’s superiors would have liked. And when Peleg turned questioner, the commander was at his mercy. He gradually made himself master of the gossip of the mission and presidio, the “small beer” chronicles of that pastoral age, the conversion of the heathen, the presidio schools, and even asked the commander how he had lost his eye. It is said that at this point of the conversation Master Peleg produced from about his person divers small trinkets, kickshaws and new-fangled trifles, and even forced some of them upon his host. It is further alleged that under the malign influence of Peleg and several glasses of aguardiente the commander lost somewhat of his decorum, and behaved in a manner unseemly for one in his position, reciting high-flown Spanish poetry, and even piping in a thin high voice divers madrigals and heathen canzonets of an amorous complexion, chiefly in regard to a “little one” who was his, the commander’s, “soul.” These allegations, perhaps unworthy the notice of a serious chronicler, should be received with great caution, and are introduced here as simple hearsay. That the commander, however, took a handkerchief and attempted to show his guest the mysteries of the sembi cuacua, capering in an agile but indecorous manner about the apartment, has been denied. Enough for the purposes of this narrative, that at midnight Peleg assisted his host to bed with many protestations of undying friendship, and then, as the gale had abated, took his leave of the presidio, and hurried aboard the General Court. When the day broke the ship was gone.
What happened between Salvatierra and his guest that night isn’t for me to recount, as a serious chronicler of history. I’ve mentioned that Master Peleg Scudder was a smooth talker, and after a few drinks provided by his host, he became even more talkative. Imagine a man with twenty years’ worth of gossip! For the first time, the commander learned how Great Britain lost its colonies, about the French Revolution, and about the great Napoleon, whose achievements Peleg might have described in a way that his superiors wouldn’t have approved. And when Peleg started asking questions, the commander was completely at his mercy. He gradually learned all the gossip about the mission and presidio, the “small beer” stories of that pastoral time, the conversion of the heathens, the presidio schools, and even asked the commander how he lost his eye. It’s said that at this point in the conversation, Master Peleg pulled out various small trinkets, fancy little objects, and even forced some of them on his host. It’s further claimed that under the influence of Peleg and several glasses of aguardiente, the commander lost some of his decorum and acted inappropriately for someone in his position, reciting lofty Spanish poetry and even singing sweetly various love songs, mostly about a “little one” who was his, the commander’s, “soul.” These claims, perhaps not worthy of a serious chronicler's attention, should be taken with a grain of salt and are included here as mere rumor. However, it has been denied that the commander took a handkerchief and tried to show his guest the mysteries of the sembi cuacua, dancing around the room in an agile but improper way. For the purposes of this story, it’s sufficient to say that at midnight Peleg helped his host to bed with lots of promises of everlasting friendship, and then, as the storm calmed down, he said goodbye to the presidio and hurried aboard the General Court. By dawn, the ship was gone.
I know not if Peleg kept his word with his host. It is said that the holy Fathers at the mission that night heard a loud chanting in the plaza, as of the heathens singing psalms through their noses; that for many days after an odor of salt codfish prevailed in the settlement; that a dozen hard nutmegs, which were unfit for spice or seed, were found in the possession of the wife of the baker, and that several bushels of shoe-pegs, which bore a pleasing resemblance to oats, but were quite inadequate to the purposes of provender, were discovered in the stable of the blacksmith.
I don't know if Peleg kept his promise to his host. It's said that the holy Fathers at the mission that night heard loud chanting in the plaza, like the locals singing psalms through their noses; that for many days afterward, there was a lingering smell of salt codfish in the settlement; that a dozen hard nutmegs, which were useless for seasoning or planting, were found with the baker's wife, and that several bushels of shoe pegs, which looked a lot like oats but were completely useless for feeding animals, were discovered in the blacksmith's stable.
But when the reader reflects upon the sacredness of a Yankee trader’s word, the stringent discipline of the Spanish port regulations, and the proverbial indisposition of my countrymen to impose upon the confidence of a simple people, he will at once reject this part of the story.
But when the reader thinks about how sacred a Yankee trader’s word is, the strict rules of the Spanish port regulations, and the well-known reluctance of my countrymen to take advantage of the trust of a simple people, he will immediately dismiss this part of the story.
A roll of drums, ushering in the year 1798, awoke the commander. The sun was shining brightly, and the storm had ceased. He sat up in bed, and through the force of habit rubbed his left eye. As the remembrance of the previous night came back to him, he jumped from his couch and ran to the window. There was no ship in the bay. A sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he rubbed both of his eyes. Not content with this, he consulted the metallic mirror which hung beside his crucifix. There was no mistake; the commander had a visible second eye,—a right one,—as good, save for the purposes of vision, as the left.
A roll of drums, announcing the year 1798, woke the commander. The sun was shining brightly, and the storm had stopped. He sat up in bed and automatically rubbed his left eye. As he recalled the events of the previous night, he jumped out of bed and ran to the window. There was no ship in the bay. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he rubbed both of his eyes. Not satisfied with that, he checked the shiny mirror that hung next to his crucifix. There was no doubt; the commander had a visible second eye—a right one—just as good, except for seeing, as the left.
Whatever might have been the true secret of this transformation, but one opinion prevailed at San Carlos. It was one of those rare miracles vouchsafed a pious Catholic community as an evidence to the heathen, through the intercession of the blessed San Carlos himself. That their beloved commander, the temporal defender of the Faith, should be the recipient of this miraculous manifestation was most fit and seemly. The commander himself was reticent; he could not tell a falsehood,—he dared not tell the truth. After all, if the good folk of San Carlos believed that the powers of his right eye were actually restored, was it wise and discreet for him to undeceive them? For the first time in his life the commander thought of policy,—for the first time he quoted that text which has been the lure of so many well-meaning but easy Christians, of being “all things to all men.” Infeliz Hermenegildo Salvatierra!
Whatever the true secret of this change was, one opinion dominated in San Carlos. It was one of those rare miracles granted to a devout Catholic community as a sign to the non-believers, through the intercession of the blessed San Carlos himself. It was entirely fitting that their beloved commander, the earthly defender of the Faith, should be the recipient of this miraculous event. The commander himself was quiet; he couldn’t lie—he didn’t dare speak the truth. After all, if the good people of San Carlos believed that the powers of his right eye had truly been restored, was it smart or thoughtful for him to correct them? For the first time in his life, the commander considered strategy—he even quoted that phrase that has tempted many well-meaning but naive Christians, about being “all things to all men.” Infeliz Hermenegildo Salvatierra!
For by degrees an ominous whisper crept through the little settlement. The right eye of the commander, although miraculous, seemed to exercise a baleful effect upon the beholder. No one could look at it without winking. It was cold, hard, relentless, and unflinching. More than that, it seemed to be endowed with a dreadful prescience,—a faculty of seeing through and into the inarticulate thoughts of those it looked upon. The soldiers of the garrison obeyed the eye rather than the voice of their commander, and answered his glance rather than his lips in questioning. The servants could not evade the ever-watchful but cold attention that seemed to pursue them. The children of the presidio school smirched their copy-books under the awful supervision, and poor Paquita, the prize pupil, failed utterly in that marvelous up-stroke when her patron stood beside her. Gradually distrust, suspicion, self-accusation, and timidity took the place of trust, confidence, and security throughout San Carlos. Wherever the right eye of the commander fell, a shadow fell with it.
Slowly, a creepy whisper spread through the small settlement. The commander's right eye, though seemingly miraculous, had a menacing effect on anyone who looked at it. No one could meet its gaze without blinking. It was cold, hard, unyielding, and unwavering. Even more disturbing, it appeared to have a terrifying ability to see into the unspoken thoughts of those it fixed upon. The garrison soldiers followed the eye’s command rather than their leader’s voice, responding more to its look than to his words. The servants couldn’t escape the cold, watchful gaze that seemed to follow them everywhere. The schoolchildren at the presidio marred their copy-books under its dreadful watch, and poor Paquita, the star student, completely botched that impressive up-stroke while her patron stood next to her. Gradually, feelings of distrust, suspicion, self-blame, and fear replaced trust, confidence, and safety throughout San Carlos. Wherever the commander’s right eye landed, a shadow followed close behind.
Not was Salvatierra entirely free from the baleful influence of his miraculous acquisition. Unconscious of its effect upon others, he only saw in their actions evidence of certain things that the crafty Peleg had hinted on that eventful New Year’s eve. His most trusty retainers stammered, blushed, and faltered before him. Self-accusations, confessions of minor faults and delinquencies, or extravagant excuses and apologies met his mildest inquiries. The very children that he loved—his pet pupil, Paquita—seemed to be conscious of some hidden sin. The result of this constant irritation showed itself more plainly. For the first half-year the commander’s voice and eye were at variance. He was still kind, tender, and thoughtful in speech. Gradually, however, his voice took upon itself the hardness of his glance and its skeptical, impassive quality, and as the year again neared its close it was plain that the commander had fitted himself to the eye, and not the eye to the commander.
Salvatierra wasn’t completely free from the negative impact of his miraculous gain. Unaware of how it affected others, he only interpreted their behaviors as signs of certain things the cunning Peleg had suggested on that fateful New Year’s Eve. His most loyal followers stammered, blushed, and hesitated around him. When he asked the simplest questions, they offered self-reproach, confessions of small mistakes, or over-the-top excuses and apologies. Even the children he adored—especially his favorite student, Paquita—seemed aware of some unspoken wrongdoing. This constant tension became increasingly evident. For the first half of the year, the commander’s voice and gaze didn’t match. He remained kind, gentle, and considerate in his words. However, over time, his voice began to reflect the hardness of his stare and its skeptical, detached nature, and as the year came to a close, it was clear that the commander had adjusted to the gaze, not the other way around.
It may be surmised that these changes did not escape the watchful solicitude of the Fathers. Indeed, the few who were first to ascribe the right eye of Salvatierra to miraculous origin and the special grace of the blessed San Carlos, now talked openly of witchcraft and the agency of Luzbel, the evil one. It would have fared ill with Hermenegildo Salvatierra had he been aught but commander or amenable to local authority. But the reverend Father, Friar Manuel de Cortes, had no power over the political executive, and all attempts at spiritual advice failed signally. He retired baffled and confused from his first interview with the commander, who seemed now to take a grim satisfaction in the fateful power of his glance. The holy Father contradicted himself, exposed the fallacies of his own arguments, and even, it is asserted, committed himself to several undoubted heresies. When the commander stood up at mass, if the officiating priest caught that skeptical and searching eye, the service was inevitably ruined. Even the power of the Holy Church seemed to be lost, and the last hold upon the affections of the people and the good order of the settlement departed from San Carlos.
It can be assumed that these changes did not go unnoticed by the concerned Fathers. In fact, the few who initially attributed the miraculous right eye of Salvatierra to divine intervention and the special grace of the blessed San Carlos began to openly discuss witchcraft and the influence of Luzbel, the evil one. Hermenegildo Salvatierra would have been in serious trouble had he not been the commander or amenable to local authority. However, the reverend Father, Friar Manuel de Cortes, had no control over the political leaders, and all his efforts for spiritual guidance were completely unsuccessful. He left his first meeting with the commander feeling frustrated and bewildered, as the commander now seemed to take grim pleasure in the ominous power of his gaze. The holy Father contradicted himself, revealed the flaws in his own reasoning, and it’s even said he fell into several undeniable heresies. When the commander stood up during mass, if the officiating priest caught that skeptical and penetrating stare, the service was doomed to fail. Even the power of the Holy Church appeared to diminish, and the last connection with the people's affections and the good order of the settlement was lost from San Carlos.
As the long dry summer passed, the low hills that surrounded the white walls of the presidio grew more and more to resemble in hue the leathern jacket of the commander, and Nature herself seemed to have borrowed his dry, hard glare. The earth was cracked and seamed with drought; a blight had fallen upon the orchards and vineyards, and the rain, long delayed and ardently prayed for, came not. The sky was as tearless as the right eye of the commander. Murmurs of discontent, insubordination, and plotting among the Indians reached his ear; he only set his teeth the more firmly, tightened the knot of his black silk handkerchief, and looked up his Toledo.
As the long, dry summer dragged on, the low hills surrounding the white walls of the fort started to look more like the commander's leather jacket, and even Nature seemed to have taken on his dry, harsh glare. The ground was cracked and marked by drought; a blight had hit the orchards and vineyards, and the rain that was long overdue and desperately hoped for never arrived. The sky was as dry as the commander's right eye. He heard whispers of discontent, rebellion, and scheming among the Indians; he just gritted his teeth harder, tightened his black silk handkerchief, and reached for his Toledo.
The last day of the year 1798 found the commander sitting, at the hour of evening prayers, alone in the guardroom. He no longer attended the services of the Holy Church, but crept away at such times to some solitary spot, where he spent the interval in silent meditation. The firelight played upon the low beams and rafters, but left the bowed figure of Salvatierra in darkness. Sitting thus, he felt a small hand touch his arm, and, looking down, saw the figure of Paquita, his little Indian pupil, at his knee. “Ah! littlest of all,” said the commander, with something of his old tenderness, lingering over the endearing diminutives of his native speech,—“sweet one, what doest thou here? Art thou not afraid of him whom every one shuns and fears?”
The last day of 1798 found the commander sitting alone in the guardroom during evening prayers. He no longer attended the services of the Holy Church but instead slipped away to a quiet spot where he spent the time in silent reflection. The firelight flickered on the low beams and rafters but left Salvatierra's hunched figure in shadow. While sitting there, he felt a small hand touch his arm and, looking down, saw Paquita, his little Indian pupil, at his knee. “Ah! littlest one,” the commander said, with a hint of his old tenderness, lingering over the affectionate terms of his native language—“sweet one, what are you doing here? Aren't you afraid of the one whom everyone avoids and fears?”
“No,” said the little Indian readily, “not in the dark. I hear your voice,—the old voice; I feel your touch,—the old touch; but I see not your eye, Senor Comandante. That only I fear,—and that, O senor, O my father,” said the child, lifting her little arms towards his,—“that I know is not thine own!”
“No,” the little girl replied quickly, “not in the dark. I hear your voice—the familiar voice; I feel your touch—the familiar touch; but I can’t see your eye, Señor Comandante. That’s what I fear—and that, oh sir, oh my father,” said the child, raising her little arms towards him—“that I know isn’t yours!”
The commander shuddered and turned away. Then, recovering himself, he kissed Paquita gravely on the forehead and bade her retire. A few hours later, when silence had fallen upon the presidio, he sought his own couch and slept peacefully.
The commander shuddered and turned away. Then, regaining his composure, he kissed Paquita earnestly on the forehead and told her to go to bed. A few hours later, when silence settled over the presidio, he went to his own bed and slept soundly.
At about the middle watch of the night a dusky figure crept through the low embrasure of the commander’s apartment. Other figures were flitting through the parade-ground, which the commander might have seen had he not slept so quietly. The intruder stepped noiselessly to the couch and listened to the sleeper’s deep-drawn respiration. Something glittered in the firelight as the savage lifted his arm; another moment and the sore perplexities of Hermenegildo Salvatierra would have been over, when suddenly the savage started and fell back in a paroxysm of terror. The commander slept peacefully, but his right eye, widely opened, fixed and unaltered, glared coldly on the would-be assassin. The man fell to the earth in a fit, and the noise awoke the sleeper.
At around midnight, a shadowy figure crept through the low opening of the commander’s room. Other figures were moving around the parade ground, which the commander might have seen if he weren’t sleeping so soundly. The intruder quietly approached the couch and listened to the deep breaths of the sleeper. Something sparkled in the firelight as the attacker lifted his arm; in another moment, the troubled thoughts of Hermenegildo Salvatierra would have ended, but suddenly the attacker jumped back in a fit of terror. The commander slept peacefully, but his right eye, wide open, fixed and unchanging, stare coldly at the would-be murderer. The man collapsed to the ground in a panic, and the noise startled the sleeper awake.
To rise to his feet, grasp his sword, and deal blows thick and fast upon the mutinous savages who now thronged the room, was the work of a moment. Help opportunely arrived, and the undisciplined Indians were speedily driven beyond the walls; but in the scuffle the commander received a blow upon his right eye, and, lifting his hand to that mysterious organ, it was gone. Never again was it found, and never again, for bale or bliss, did it adorn the right orbit of the commander.
To get up, grab his sword, and strike hard and fast at the rebellious savages crowding the room took no time at all. Help arrived just in time, and the unruly Indians were quickly pushed out of the walls; however, during the struggle, the commander got hit in his right eye, and when he lifted his hand to that mysterious spot, it was gone. It was never found again, and never again, for better or worse, did it grace the right side of the commander’s face.
With it passed away the spell that had fallen upon San Carlos. The rain returned to invigorate the languid soil, harmony was restored between priest and soldier, the green grass presently waved over the sere hillsides, the children flocked again to the side of their martial preceptor, a Te Deum was sung in the mission church, and pastoral content once more smiled upon the gentle valleys of San Carlos. And far southward crept the General Court with its master. Peleg Scudder, trafficking in heads and peltries with the Indians, and offering glass eyes, wooden legs, and other Boston notions to the chiefs.
With it, the spell that had fallen over San Carlos vanished. The rain returned to refresh the tired soil, peace was restored between the priest and the soldier, the green grass began to sway over the dry hillsides, children gathered around their military instructor again, a Te Deum was sung in the mission church, and pastoral happiness once more radiated through the gentle valleys of San Carlos. And far to the south, the General Court and its leader, Peleg Scudder, crept along, trading in heads and furs with the Indians, and offering glass eyes, wooden legs, and other Boston curiosities to the chiefs.
THE LEGEND OF DEVIL’S POINT
On the northerly shore of San Francisco Bay, at a point where the Golden Gate broadens into the Pacific, stands a bluff promontory. It affords shelter from the prevailing winds to a semicircular bay on the east. Around this bay the hillside is bleak and barren, but there are traces of former habitation in a weather-beaten cabin and deserted corral. It is said that these were originally built by an enterprising squatter, who for some unaccountable reason abandoned them shortly after. The “jumper” who succeeded him disappeared one day quite as mysteriously. The third tenant, who seemed to be a man of sanguine, hopeful temperament, divided the property into building lots, staked off the hillside, and projected the map of a new metropolis. Failing, however, to convince the citizens of San Francisco that they had mistaken the site of their city, he presently fell into dissipation and despondency. He was frequently observed haunting the narrow strip of beach at low tide or perched upon the cliff at high water. In the latter position a sheep-tender one day found him, cold and pulseless, with a map of his property in his hand, and his face turned toward the distant sea.
On the northern shore of San Francisco Bay, where the Golden Gate opens into the Pacific Ocean, there's a rocky overlook. It provides shelter from the strong winds to a crescent-shaped bay on the east. The hillside around this bay is bleak and empty, but there are signs of past habitation in a rundown cabin and an abandoned corral. It’s said these were originally built by a resourceful squatter, who left them for some unknown reason shortly after. The “jumper” who came after him vanished just as mysteriously. The third resident, who appeared to be an optimistic person, divided the land into lots, outlined the hillside, and planned a new city. However, unable to persuade the people of San Francisco that they were wrong about the location of their city, he eventually fell into a life of excess and despair. He was often seen wandering the narrow beach at low tide or sitting on the cliff when the tide was high. One day, a sheep herder found him in that latter spot, cold and lifeless, with a map of his land in his hand and his face facing the wide sea.
Perhaps these circumstances gave the locality its infelicitous reputation. Vague rumors were bruited of a supernatural influence that had been exercised on the tenants. Strange stories were circulated of the origin of the diabolical title by which the promontory was known. By some it was believed to be haunted by the spirit of one of Sir Francis Drake’s sailors, who had deserted his ship in consequence of stories told by the Indians of gold discoveries, but who had perished by starvation on the rocks. A vaquero who had once passed a night in the ruined cabin related how a strangely dressed and emaciated figure had knocked at the door at midnight and demanded food. Other story-tellers, of more historical accuracy, roundly asserted that Sir Francis himself had been little better than a pirate, and had chosen this spot to conceal quantities of ill-gotten booty taken from neutral bottoms, and had protected his hiding-place by the orthodox means of hellish incantation and diabolic agencies. On moonlight nights a shadowy ship was sometimes seen standing off and on, or when fogs encompassed sea and shore, the noise of oars rising and falling in their rowlocks could be heard muffled and indistinctly during the night. Whatever foundation there might have been for these stories, it was certain that a more weird and desolate-looking spot could not have been selected for their theatre. High hills, verdureless and enfiladed with dark canadas, cast their gaunt shadows on the tide. During a greater portion of the day the wind, which blew furiously and incessantly, seemed possessed with a spirit of fierce disquiet and unrest. Toward nightfall the sea-fog crept with soft step through the portals of the Golden Gate, or stole in noiseless marches down the hillside, tenderly soothing the wind-buffeted face of the cliff, until sea and sky were hid together. At such times the populous city beyond and the nearer settlement seemed removed to an infinite distance. An immeasurable loneliness settled upon the cliff. The creaking of a windlass, or the monotonous chant of sailors on some unseen, outlying ship, came faint and far, and full of mystic suggestion.
Maybe these circumstances gave the area its unfortunate reputation. Vague rumors circulated about a supernatural influence affecting the residents. Strange stories circulated about the origin of the sinister name by which the promontory was known. Some believed it was haunted by the spirit of one of Sir Francis Drake’s sailors, who had deserted his ship after hearing the Indians' tales of gold discoveries, but had perished from starvation on the rocks. A cowhand who once spent a night in the ruined cabin recounted how a strangely dressed and emaciated figure knocked at the door at midnight, asking for food. Other storytellers, with a bit more historical accuracy, claimed that Sir Francis himself was little better than a pirate, choosing this spot to hide a stash of ill-gotten treasure taken from neutral ships, protected by the usual means of dark spells and sinister forces. On moonlit nights, a shadowy ship was sometimes seen drifting in and out, and when fog enveloped the sea and shore, the sound of oars rising and falling in their rowlocks could be heard faintly and indistinctly during the night. Whatever truth there might have been to these stories, it was clear that a more eerie and desolate-looking location could not have been chosen for their setting. High hills, barren and lined with dark trees, cast their gaunt shadows on the tide. Most of the day, the wind blew fiercely and continuously, feeling restless and unsettled. As evening approached, the sea fog crept softly through the Golden Gate or quietly moved down the hillside, gently soothing the wind-battered face of the cliff until sea and sky blended together. During these times, the bustling city beyond and the nearby settlement seemed miles away. A profound loneliness settled on the cliff. The creaking of a windlass or the monotonous singing of sailors on some unseen, distant ship came faintly from afar, full of mystic suggestion.
About a year ago a well-to-do middle-aged broker of San Francisco found himself at nightfall the sole occupant of a plunger, encompassed in a dense fog, and drifting toward the Golden Gate. This unexpected termination of an afternoon’s sail was partly attributable to his want of nautical skill, and partly to the effect of his usually sanguine nature. Having given up the guidance of his boat to the wind and tide, he had trusted too implicitly for that reaction which his business experience assured him was certain to occur in all affairs, aquatic as well as terrestrial. “The tide will turn soon,” said the broker confidently, “or something will happen.” He had scarcely settled himself back again in the stern-sheets, before the bow of the plunger, obeying some mysterious impulse, veered slowly around and a dark object loomed up before him. A gentle eddy carried the boat farther in shore, until at last it was completely embayed under the lee of a rocky point now faintly discernible through the fog. He looked around him in the vain hope of recognizing some familiar headland. The tops of the high hills which rose on either side were hidden in the fog. As the boat swung around, he succeeded in fastening a line to the rocks, and sat down again with a feeling of renewed confidence and security.
About a year ago, a wealthy middle-aged broker from San Francisco found himself alone in a small boat as night fell, surrounded by thick fog, and drifting toward the Golden Gate. This unexpected end to his afternoon sail was partly due to his lack of sailing skills and partly because of his usually optimistic demeanor. Having given up control of his boat to the wind and tide, he had trusted too much that the outcome he was experienced in business would inevitably happen, whether in water or on land. “The tide will turn soon,” the broker said confidently, “or something will come up.” He had barely settled back in his seat when the front of the boat, following some strange instinct, slowly turned around and a dark shape appeared before him. A gentle current pulled the boat further inland, until it was completely sheltered behind a rocky point that was now vaguely visible through the fog. He looked around, hoping to recognize some familiar landmark. The tops of the tall hills on either side were obscured by fog. As the boat turned, he managed to tie a line to the rocks and sat down again, feeling a renewed sense of confidence and safety.
It was very cold. The insidious fog penetrated his tightly buttoned coat, and set his teeth to chattering in spite of the aid he sometimes drew from a pocket-flask. His clothes were wet, and the stern-sheets were covered with spray. The comforts of fire and shelter continually rose before his fancy as he gazed wistfully on the rocks. In sheer despair he finally drew the boat toward the most accessible part of the cliff and essayed to ascend. This was less difficult than it appeared, and in a few moments he had gained the hill above. A dark object at a little distance attracted his attention, and on approaching it proved to be a deserted cabin. The story goes on to say that, having built a roaring fire of stakes pulled from the adjoining corral, with the aid of a flask of excellent brandy, he managed to pass the early part of the evening with comparative comfort. There was no door in the cabin, and the windows were simply square openings, which freely admitted the searching fog. But in spite of these discomforts,—being a man of cheerful, sanguine temperament,—he amused himself by poking the fire and watching the ruddy glow which the flames threw on the fog from the open door. In this innocent occupation a great weariness overcame him, and he fell asleep.
It was really cold. The sneaky fog seeped through his tightly buttoned coat, making his teeth chatter despite the occasional warmth he got from a pocket flask. His clothes were damp, and the back of the boat was splattered with spray. The comforts of fire and shelter kept flashing through his mind as he stared longingly at the rocks. In a moment of desperation, he finally pulled the boat toward the easiest spot on the cliff and tried to climb up. It was easier than it looked, and within moments, he was at the top of the hill. A dark shape in the distance caught his eye, and when he got closer, it turned out to be an abandoned cabin. The story goes on to say that after building a roaring fire using stakes pulled from the nearby corral, and with a flask of good brandy on hand, he managed to get through the early part of the evening fairly comfortably. There was no door to the cabin, and the windows were just square openings that let the fog in easily. But despite these discomforts—being a cheerful and optimistic guy—he kept himself entertained by poking the fire and watching the warm glow of the flames light up the fog from the open door. In this simple activity, a great tiredness washed over him, and he fell asleep.
He was awakened at midnight by a loud “halloo,” which seemed to proceed directly from the sea. Thinking it might be the cry of some boatman lost in the fog, he walked to the edge of the cliff, but the thick veil that covered sea and land rendered all objects at the distance of a few feet indistinguishable. He heard, however, the regular strokes of oars rising and falling on the water. The halloo was repeated. He was clearing his throat to reply, when to his surprise an answer came apparently from the very cabin he had quitted. Hastily retracing his steps, he was the more amazed, on reaching the open door, to find a stranger warming himself by the fire. Stepping back far enough to conceal his own person, he took a good look at the intruder.
He was woken up at midnight by a loud “halloo,” which seemed to come directly from the sea. Thinking it might be the cry of a boatman lost in the fog, he walked to the edge of the cliff, but the thick mist covering the sea and land made everything just a few feet away impossible to see. He could, however, hear the regular sounds of oars moving in the water. The halloo was repeated. He was about to clear his throat to reply when, to his surprise, an answer came seemingly from the very cabin he had just left. Rushing back, he was even more amazed, when he reached the open door, to find a stranger warming himself by the fire. He stepped back far enough to hide himself and took a good look at the intruder.
He was a man of about forty, with a cadaverous face. But the oddity of his dress attracted the broker’s attention more than his lugubrious physiognomy. His legs were hid in enormously wide trousers descending to his knee, where they met long boots of sealskin. A pea-jacket with exaggerated cuffs, almost as large as the breeches, covered his chest, and around his waist a monstrous belt, with a buckle like a dentist’s sign, supported two trumpet-mouthed pistols and a curved hanger. He wore a long queue, which depended halfway down his back. As the firelight fell on his ingenuous countenance the broker observed with some concern that this queue was formed entirely of a kind of tobacco known as pigtail or twist. Its effect, the broker remarked, was much heightened when in a moment of thoughtful abstraction the apparition bit off a portion of it and rolled it as a quid into the cavernous recesses of his jaws.
He was a man around forty, with a gaunt face. But the strangeness of his outfit caught the broker’s attention more than his gloomy appearance. His legs were hidden in extremely baggy trousers that reached his knees, where they met long sealskin boots. A pea coat with oversized cuffs, almost as large as the pants, covered his chest, and around his waist, a huge belt with a buckle that looked like a dentist’s sign held two pistols with trumpet-shaped mouths and a curved sword. He had a long ponytail that hung halfway down his back. As the firelight illuminated his innocent face, the broker noticed with some concern that this ponytail was made entirely of a type of tobacco known as pigtail or twist. Its impact, the broker noted, was intensified when, in a moment of deep thought, the strange figure bit off a piece of it and rolled it into a plug in the large space of his mouth.
Meanwhile the nearer splash of oars indicated the approach of the unseen boat. The broker had barely time to conceal himself behind the cabin before a number of uncouth-looking figures clambered up the hill toward the ruined rendezvous. They were dressed like the previous comer, who, as they passed through the open door, exchanged greetings with each in antique phraseology, bestowing at the same time some familiar nickname. Flash-in-the-Pan, Spitter-of-Frogs, Malmsey Butt, Latheyard Will, and Mark-the-Pinker, were the few sobriquets the broker remembered. Whether these titles were given to express some peculiarity of their owner he could not tell, for a silence followed as they slowly ranged themselves upon the floor of the cabin in a semicircle around their cadaverous host.
Meanwhile, the closer sound of oars signaled the approaching boat. The broker barely had time to hide behind the cabin before a group of rough-looking figures climbed up the hill toward the dilapidated meeting spot. They were dressed like the previous visitor, who, as they walked through the open door, greeted each of them with old-fashioned phrases, also giving out some familiar nicknames. Flash-in-the-Pan, Spitter-of-Frogs, Malmsey Butt, Latheyard Will, and Mark-the-Pinker were a few of the names the broker remembered. He couldn’t tell if these names were given to highlight some feature of the person, because a silence fell as they slowly formed a semicircle around their gaunt host on the cabin floor.
At length Malmsey Butt, a spherical-bodied man-of-war’s-man, with a rubicund nose, got on his legs somewhat unsteadily, and addressed himself to the company. They had met that evening, said the speaker, in accordance with a time-honored custom. This was simply to relieve that one of their number who for fifty years had kept watch and ward over the locality where certain treasures had been buried. At this point the broker pricked up his ears. “If so be, camarados and brothers all,” he continued, “ye are ready to receive the report of our excellent and well-beloved brother, Master Slit-the-Weazand, touching his search for this treasure, why, marry, to ’t and begin.”
At last, Malmsey Butt, a round-bodied sailor, unsteadily stood up and spoke to the group. He said they had gathered that evening, following a long-standing tradition. This was simply to support the member who had spent fifty years guarding the place where certain treasures were buried. At this point, the broker perked up. “If all of you, comrades and brothers, are ready to hear the report from our beloved brother, Master Slit-the-Weazand, about his search for this treasure, then let’s get to it and start.”
A murmur of assent went around the circle as the speaker resumed his seat. Master Slit-the-Weazand slowly opened his lantern jaws and began. He had spent much of his time in determining the exact location of the treasure. He believed—nay, he could state positively—that its position was now settled. It was true he had done some trifling little business outside. Modesty forbade his mentioning the particulars, but he would simply state that of the three tenants who had occupied the cabin during the past ten years, none were now alive. [Applause, and cries of “Go to! thou wast always a tall fellow!” and the like.]
A low agreement spread through the circle as the speaker took his seat again. Master Slit-the-Weazand gradually opened his wide mouth and began. He had spent a lot of time figuring out the exact location of the treasure. He was sure—no, he could confidently say—that its position was now settled. It was true he had done some minor business on the side. He felt too modest to share the details, but he would simply say that of the three tenants who had lived in the cabin over the past ten years, none were alive now. [Applause, and shouts of “Come on! You’ve always been quite the character!” and the like.]
Mark-the-Pinker next arose. Before proceeding to business he had a duty to perform in the sacred name of friendship. It ill became him to pass a eulogy upon the qualities of the speaker who had preceded him, for he had known him from “boyhood’s hour.” Side by side they had wrought together in the Spanish war. For a neat hand with a Toledo he challenged his equal, while how nobly and beautifully he had won his present title of Slit-the-Weazand all could testify. The speaker, with some show of emotion, asked to be pardoned if he dwelt too freely on passages of their early companionship; he then detailed, with a fine touch of humor, his comrade’s peculiar manner of slitting the ears and lips of a refractory Jew who had been captured in one of their previous voyages. He would not weary the patience of his hearers, but would briefly propose that the report of Slit-the-Weazand be accepted, and that the thanks of the company be tendered him.
Mark-the-Pinker stood up next. Before getting into the main business, he had something to do in the spirit of friendship. It wouldn’t be right for him to sing the praises of the speaker who had just gone before him, since he had known him since “boyhood’s hour.” They had fought together in the Spanish war. He boasted that he had never met anyone who could match his skill with a Toledo knife, and everyone could attest to how nobly and beautifully he had earned the title of Slit-the-Weazand. The speaker, showing some emotion, asked for forgiveness if he focused too much on their early friendship; he then humorously recounted his comrade’s unusual method of dealing with a difficult captured enemy during one of their earlier missions. He didn’t want to take up too much of his listeners' time, so he would simply suggest that they accept the report of Slit-the-Weazand and that the group extend their thanks to him.
A breaker of strong spirits was then rolled into the hut, and cans of grog were circulated freely from hand to hand. The health of Slit-the-Weazand was proposed in a neat speech by Mark-the-Pinker, and responded to by the former gentleman in a manner that drew tears to the eyes of all present. To the broker, in his concealment, this momentary diversion from the real business of the meeting occasioned much anxiety. As yet nothing had been said to indicate the exact locality of the treasure to which they had mysteriously alluded. Fear restrained him from open inquiry, and curiosity kept him from making good his escape during the orgy which followed. But his situation was beginning to become critical. Flash-in-the-Pan, who seemed to have been a man of choleric humor, taking fire during some hotly contested argument, discharged both his pistols at the breast of his opponent. The balls passed through on each side immediately below his armpits, making a clean hole, through which the horrified broker could see the firelight behind him. The wounded man, without betraying any concern, excited the laughter of the company by jocosely putting his arms akimbo, and inserting his thumbs into the orifices of the wounds as if they had been armholes. This having in a measure restored good humor, the party joined hands and formed a circle preparatory to dancing. The dance was commenced by some monotonous stanzas hummed in a very high key by one of the party, the rest joining in the following chorus, which seemed to present a familiar sound to the broker’s ear:—
A strong drink was then brought into the hut, and cans of grog were passed around freely from hand to hand. The health of Slit-the-Weazand was cheerfully proposed in a short speech by Mark-the-Pinker, and Slit-the-Weazand responded in a way that brought tears to everyone’s eyes. For the broker, hiding in the shadows, this brief distraction from the real business of the meeting caused a lot of anxiety. So far, nothing had been said to reveal the exact location of the treasure they had mysteriously referred to. Fear held him back from asking directly, and curiosity kept him from making a run for it during the wild celebration that followed. But his situation was starting to get serious. Flash-in-the-Pan, who seemed to have a fiery temper, flared up during a heated argument and fired both his pistols at his opponent’s chest. The bullets went through on each side just below his armpits, making a clean hole, through which the horrified broker could see the firelight behind him. The wounded man, without showing any concern, made everyone laugh by striking a pose with his hands on his hips and sticking his thumbs into the holes as if they were armholes. This lightened the mood somewhat, and the group joined hands to form a circle in preparation for dancing. The dance started with some monotonous stanzas hummed in a very high pitch by one of the group, with the others joining in the following chorus, which sounded familiar to the broker:—
At the regular recurrence of the last line, the party discharged their loaded pistols in all directions, rendering the position of the unhappy broker one of extreme peril and perplexity.
At the regular occurrence of the last line, the group fired their loaded guns in all directions, putting the unfortunate broker in a situation of great danger and confusion.
When the tumult had partially subsided, Flash-in-the-Pan called the meeting to order, and most of the revelers returned to their places, Malmsey Butt, however, insisting upon another chorus, and singing at the top of his voice:—
When the chaos had calmed down a bit, Flash-in-the-Pan called the meeting to order, and most of the partygoers went back to their spots, but Malmsey Butt insisted on another chorus and started singing at the top of his lungs:—
Flash-in-the-Pan drew a pistol from his belt, and bidding some one gag Malmsey Butt with the stock of it, proceeded to read from a portentous roll of parchment that he held in his hand. It was a semi-legal document, clothed in the quaint phraseology of a bygone period. After a long preamble, asserting their loyalty as lieges of her most bountiful Majesty and Sovereign Lady the Queen, the document declared that they then and there took possession of the promontory, and all the treasure-trove therein contained, formerly buried by Her Majesty’s most faithful and devoted Admiral Sir Francis Drake, with the right to search, discover, and appropriate the same; and for the purpose thereof they did then and there form a guild or corporation to so discover, search for, and disclose said treasures, and by virtue thereof they solemnly subscribed their names. But at this moment the reading of the parchment was arrested by an exclamation from the assembly, and the broker was seen frantically struggling at the door in the strong arms of Mark-the-Pinker.
Flash-in-the-Pan pulled a gun from his belt and told someone to gag Malmsey Butt with it, then began to read from an impressive-looking scroll of parchment he was holding. It was a semi-legal document, written in the old-fashioned style of a different time. After a long introduction, asserting their loyalty as subjects of Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, the document stated that they were claiming the promontory and all the treasures buried there, once hidden by Her Majesty’s loyal and dedicated Admiral Sir Francis Drake, giving them the right to search for and take those treasures. To that end, they officially formed a guild or corporation to search for, uncover, and reveal those treasures, and they solemnly signed their names to it. But just then, the reading was interrupted by an outcry from the crowd, and the broker was seen desperately struggling at the door in the strong grip of Mark-the-Pinker.
“Let me go!” he cried, as he made a desperate attempt to reach the side of Master Flash-in-the-Pan. “Let me go! I tell you, gentlemen, that document is not worth the parchment it is written on. The laws of the State, the customs of the country, the mining ordinances, are all against it. Don’t, by all that’s sacred, throw away such a capital investment through ignorance and informality. Let me go! I assure you, gentlemen, professionally, that you have a big thing,—a remarkably big thing, and even if I ain’t in it, I’m not going to see it fall through. Don’t, for God’s sake, gentlemen, I implore you, put your names to such a ridiculous paper. There isn’t a notary”—
“Let me go!” he shouted, desperately trying to reach Master Flash-in-the-Pan’s side. “Let me go! I’m telling you, gentlemen, that document isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. The state laws, the country’s customs, the mining regulations, they’re all against it. Please, don’t throw away such a valuable investment due to ignorance and carelessness. Let me go! I promise you, gentlemen, professionally, that you have something significant—a truly valuable thing, and even if I’m not part of it, I’m not going to let it fall apart. Don’t, for God’s sake, gentlemen, I beg you, sign your names to such a foolish document. There isn’t a notary”—
He ceased. The figures around him, which were beginning to grow fainter and more indistinct as he went on, swam before his eyes, flickered, reappeared again, and finally went out. He rubbed his eyes and gazed around him. The cabin was deserted. On the hearth the red embers of his fire were fading away in the bright beams of the morning sun, that looked aslant through the open window. He ran out to the cliff. The sturdy sea-breeze fanned his feverish cheeks and tossed the white caps of waves that beat in pleasant music on the beach below. A stately merchantman with snowy canvas was entering the Gate. The voices of sailors came cheerfully from a bark at anchor below the point. The muskets of the sentries gleamed brightly on Alcatraz, and the rolling of drums swelled on the breeze. Farther on, the hills of San Francisco, cottage-crowned and bordered with wharves and warehouses, met his longing eye.
He stopped speaking. The shapes around him, which were starting to fade and blur as he continued, swirled in front of his eyes, flickered, reappeared, and eventually vanished. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. The cabin was empty. On the fireplace, the red embers of his fire were dimming in the bright morning sunlight that streamed through the open window. He rushed out to the cliff. The strong sea breeze cooled his flushed cheeks and stirred the whitecaps of the waves that crashed rhythmically on the beach below. A grand merchant ship with white sails was coming through the Gate. Cheerful voices of sailors floated up from a ship anchored near the point. The muskets of the guards shone brightly on Alcatraz, and the sound of drums rolled on the wind. In the distance, the hills of San Francisco, dotted with cottages and lined with wharves and warehouses, caught his eager gaze.
Such is the legend of Devil’s Point. Any objections to its reliability may be met with the statement that the broker who tells the story has since incorporated a company under the title of “Flash-in-the-Pan Gold and Silver Treasure Mining Company,” and that its shares are already held at a stiff figure. A copy of the original document is said to be on record in the office of the company, and on any clear day the locality of the claim may be distinctly seen from the hills of San Francisco.
Such is the legend of Devil’s Point. Any doubts about its truth can be countered by mentioning that the broker who shares the tale has since founded a company called “Flash-in-the-Pan Gold and Silver Treasure Mining Company,” and its shares are already valued quite highly. A copy of the original document is said to be filed in the company's office, and on a clear day, the location of the claim can be clearly seen from the hills of San Francisco.
THE ADVENTURE OF PADRE VICENTIO
One pleasant New Year’s eve, about forty years ago, Padre Vicentio was slowly picking his way across the sand-hills from the Mission Dolores. As he climbed the crest of the ridge beside Mission Creek, his broad, shining face might have been easily mistaken for the beneficent image of the rising moon, so bland was its smile and so indefinite its features. For the Padre was a man of notable reputation and character; his ministration at the Mission of San Jose had been marked with cordiality and unction; he was adored by the simple-minded savages, and had succeeded in impressing his individuality so strongly upon them, that the very children were said to have miraculously resembled him in feature.
One lovely New Year’s Eve, about forty years ago, Padre Vicentio was making his way slowly across the sand hills from Mission Dolores. As he reached the top of the ridge next to Mission Creek, his broad, glowing face could easily be mistaken for the kind image of the rising moon, so gentle was his smile and so vague his features. Padre Vicentio was a man of great reputation and character; his service at the Mission of San Jose had been filled with warmth and sincerity; he was adored by the simple-minded locals, and he had made such a strong impression on them that even the children were said to miraculously resemble him in their features.
As the holy man reached the loneliest portion of the road, he naturally put spurs to his mule as if to quicken that decorous pace which the obedient animal had acquired through long experience of its master’s habits. The locality had an unfavorable reputation. Sailors—deserters from whale-ships—had been seen lurking about the outskirts of the town, and low scrub oaks which everywhere beset the trail might have easily concealed some desperate runaway. Besides these material obstructions, the Devil, whose hostility to the Church was well known, was said to sometimes haunt the vicinity in the likeness of a spectral whaler, who had met his death in a drunken bout from a harpoon in the hands of a companion. The ghost of this unfortunate mariner was frequently observed sitting on the hill toward the dusk of evening, armed with his favorite weapon and a tub containing a coil of line, looking out for some belated traveler on whom to exercise his professional skill. It is related that the good Father Jose Maria of the Mission Dolores had been twice attacked by this phantom sportsman; that once, on returning from San Francisco, and panting with exertion from climbing the hill, he was startled by a stentorian cry of “There she blows!” quickly followed by a hurtling harpoon, which buried itself in the sand beside him; that on another occasion he narrowly escaped destruction, his serapa having been transfixed by the diabolical harpoon and dragged away in triumph. Popular opinion seems to have been divided as to the reason for the Devil’s particular attention to Father Jose, some asserting that the extreme piety of the Padre excited the Evil One’s animosity, and others that his adipose tendency simply rendered him, from a professional view-point, a profitable capture.
As the holy man reached the most isolated part of the road, he instinctively urged his mule to quicken its steady pace, which the obedient animal had learned from its master's habits over time. The area had a bad reputation. Sailors—deserters from whaling ships—had been seen lurking around the town's edges, and the low scrub oaks lining the trail could easily hide some desperate fugitive. Besides these physical threats, it was said that the Devil, known for his opposition to the Church, sometimes haunted the area in the form of a ghostly whaler who had died in a drunken fight, struck by a harpoon thrown by a companion. The ghost of this unfortunate sailor was often spotted sitting on a hill at dusk, armed with his favorite weapon and a tub containing a coil of line, waiting for some late traveler on whom to unleash his skills. It is said that the good Father Jose Maria of the Mission Dolores had been attacked twice by this spectral fisherman; once, while returning from San Francisco and panting from climbing the hill, he was startled by a loud cry of “There she blows!” quickly followed by a flying harpoon that landed in the sand next to him; on another occasion, he barely escaped disaster when his serape was pierced by the devilish harpoon and dragged away triumphantly. Public opinion seemed split on why the Devil was particularly interested in Father Jose, with some claiming that the Padre's extreme piety provoked the Evil One's wrath and others stating that his heavyset figure simply made him a tempting target.
Had Father Vicentio been inclined to scoff at this apparition as a heretical innovation, there was still the story of Concepcion, the Demon Vaquero, whose terrible riata was fully as potent as the whaler’s harpoon. Concepcion, when in the flesh, had been a celebrated herder of cattle and wild horses, and was reported to have chased the Devil in the shape of a fleet pinto colt all the way from San Luis Obispo to San Francisco, vowing not to give up the chase until he had overtaken the disguised Arch-Enemy. This the Devil prevented by resuming his own shape, but kept the unfortunate vaquero to the fulfillment of his rash vow; and Concepcion still scoured the coast on a phantom steed, beguiling the monotony of his eternal pursuit by lassoing travelers, dragging them at the heels of his unbroken mustang until they were eventually picked up, half strangled, by the roadside. The Padre listened attentively for the tramp of this terrible rider. But no footfall broke the stillness of the night; even the hoofs of his own mule sank noiselessly in the shifting sand. Now and then a rabbit bounded lightly by him, or a quail ran into the bushes. The melancholy call of plover from the adjoining marshes of Mission Creek came to him so faintly and fitfully that it seemed almost a recollection of the past rather than a reality of the present.
Had Father Vicentio been inclined to dismiss this vision as a heretical trick, there was still the tale of Concepcion, the Demon Vaquero, whose fearsome riata was just as powerful as a whaler’s harpoon. Concepcion, when alive, had been a famous cattle herder and wild horse wrangler, rumored to have chased the Devil, disguised as a fast pinto colt, all the way from San Luis Obispo to San Francisco, swearing not to stop until he captured the Arch-Enemy in disguise. The Devil thwarted him by changing back to his original form, but kept the unfortunate vaquero bound to fulfill his reckless vow; and Concepcion continued to scour the coast on a ghostly horse, breaking the monotony of his endless chase by lassoing travelers and dragging them behind his wild mustang until they were eventually found, half-strangled, by the roadside. The Padre listened closely for the approach of this fearsome rider. But no footsteps disturbed the quiet of the night; even the hooves of his own mule were silent on the shifting sand. Occasionally, a rabbit would hop by, or a quail would dash into the bushes. The sad call of plover from the nearby marshes of Mission Creek reached him so faintly and intermittently that it felt more like a memory of the past than a reality of the present.
To add to his discomposure, one of those heavy sea-fogs peculiar to the locality began to drift across the hills and presently encompassed him. While endeavoring to evade its cold embraces, Padre Vicentio incautiously drove his heavy spurs into the flanks of his mule as that puzzled animal was hesitating on the brink of a steep declivity. Whether the poor beast was indignant at this novel outrage, or had been for some time reflecting on the evils of being priest-ridden, has not transpired; enough that he suddenly threw up his heels, pitching the reverend man over his head, and, having accomplished this feat, coolly dropped on his knees and tumbled after his rider.
To add to his unease, one of those thick sea fogs typical of the area started to roll over the hills and soon surrounded him. In his effort to avoid its chilly grip, Padre Vicentio carelessly jabbed his heavy spurs into the sides of his mule while the confused animal hesitated at the edge of a steep drop. Whether the poor creature was outraged by this unexpected treatment or had been contemplating the drawbacks of being burdened by a priest is unclear; what is certain is that it suddenly kicked up its heels, throwing the priest over its head, and after completing this little stunt, calmly dropped to its knees and tumbled after its rider.
Over and over went the Padre, closely followed by his faithless mule. Luckily the little hollow which received the pair was of sand, that yielded to the superincumbent weight, half burying them without further injury. For some moments the poor man lay motionless, vainly endeavoring to collect his scattered senses. A hand irreverently laid upon his collar and a rough shake assisted to recall his consciousness. As the Padre staggered to his feet he found himself confronted by a stranger.
Over and over went the Padre, closely followed by his unfaithful mule. Luckily, the little hollow where they landed was filled with sand, which gave way to their weight, partly burying them without causing any further injury. For a few moments, the poor man lay still, trying in vain to gather his scattered thoughts. A hand carelessly placed on his collar and a rough shake helped bring him back to reality. As the Padre got to his feet, he found himself facing a stranger.
Seen dimly through the fog, and under circumstances that to say the least were not prepossessing, the new-comer had an inexpressibly mysterious and brigand-like aspect. A long boat-cloak concealed his figure, and a slouched hat hid his features, permitting only his eyes to glisten in the depths. With a deep groan the Padre slipped from the stranger’s grasp and subsided into the soft sand again.
Seen faintly through the mist, and in circumstances that were far from inviting, the newcomer had an incredibly mysterious and outlaw-like appearance. A long cloak covered his body, and a slouched hat obscured his face, allowing only his eyes to shine out from the shadows. With a deep groan, the Padre slipped from the stranger’s grip and sank back down into the soft sand.
“Gad’s life!” said the stranger, pettishly, “hast no more bones in thy fat carcass than a jellyfish? Lend a hand, here! Yo, heave ho!” and he dragged the Padre into an upright position. “Now, then, who and what art thou?”
“Gad’s life!” said the stranger, irritated, “don’t you have more bones in your fat body than a jellyfish? Give me a hand, here! Come on, let’s go!” and he pulled the Padre into an upright position. “Now, who are you and what are you?”
The Padre could not help thinking that the question might have more properly been asked by himself; but with an odd mixture of dignity and trepidation he began enumerating his different titles, which were by no means brief, and would have been alone sufficient to strike awe in the bosom of an ordinary adversary. The stranger irreverently broke in upon his formal phrases, and assuring him that a priest was the very person he was looking for, coolly replaced the old man’s hat, which had tumbled off, and bade him accompany him at once on an errand of spiritual counsel to one who was even then lying in extremity. “To think,” said the stranger, “that I should stumble upon the very man I was seeking! Body of Bacchus! but this is lucky! Follow me quickly, for there is no time to lose.”
The Padre couldn't shake the thought that he should've been the one asking the question. But with a strange mix of dignity and nervousness, he started listing his various titles, which were definitely long enough to impress any ordinary opponent. The stranger casually interrupted his formal speech, confidently stating that a priest was exactly who he needed, then nonchalantly picked up the old man's hat that had fallen off and urged him to come along right away for a spiritual consultation with someone who was on the verge of death. “Can you believe,” said the stranger, “that I ran into the exact person I was looking for! Body of Bacchus! This is lucky! Hurry up, we don't have time to waste.”
Like most easy natures, the positive assertion of the stranger, and withal a certain authoritative air of command, overcame what slight objections the Padre might have feebly nurtured during this remarkable interview. The spiritual invitation was one, also, that he dared not refuse; not only that, but it tended somewhat to remove the superstitious dread with which he had begun to regard the mysterious stranger. But, following at a respectful distance, the Padre could not help observing with a thrill of horror that the stranger’s footsteps made no impression on the sand, and his figure seemed at times to blend and incorporate itself with the fog, until the holy man was obliged to wait for its reappearance. In one of these intervals of embarrassment he heard the ringing of the far-off mission bell proclaiming the hour of midnight. Scarcely had the last stroke died away before the announcement was taken up and repeated by a multitude of bells of all sizes, and the air was filled with the sound of striking clocks and the pealing of steeple chimes. The old man uttered a cry of alarm. The stranger sharply demanded the cause. “The bells! did you not hear them?” gasped Padre Vicentio. “Tush! tush!” answered the stranger, “thy fall hath set triple bob-majors ringing in thine ears. Come on!”
Like most easygoing people, the stranger's confident assertion and a certain authoritative presence dispelled any minor objections that Padre might have hesitantly considered during this strange encounter. The spiritual invitation was one he couldn't refuse; not only that, but it also helped ease the superstitious fear he had started to feel about the mysterious stranger. However, following at a respectful distance, the Padre couldn't help but feel a jolt of horror when he noticed that the stranger's footsteps left no mark on the sand, and at times, his figure seemed to blend seamlessly with the fog, forcing the holy man to pause until he reappeared. In one of these awkward moments, he heard the distant mission bell announcing midnight. Just as the last toll faded, it was taken up and echoed by countless bells of all sizes, filling the air with the sound of ringing clocks and steeple chimes. The old man let out a cry of alarm. The stranger sharply asked what was wrong. “The bells! Didn’t you hear them?” gasped Padre Vicentio. “Nonsense!” replied the stranger, “Your fall has left triple bob-majors ringing in your ears. Come on!”
The Padre was only too glad to accept the explanation conveyed in this discourteous answer. But he was destined for another singular experience. When they had reached the summit of the eminence now known as Russian Hill, an exclamation again burst from the Padre. The stranger turned to his companion with an impatient gesture, but the Padre heeded him not. The view that burst upon his sight was such as might well have engrossed the attention of a more enthusiastic temperament. The fog had not yet reached the hill, and the long valleys and hillsides of the embarcadero below were glittering with the light of a populous city. “Look!” said the Padre, stretching his hand over the spreading landscape. “Look! dost thou not see the stately squares and brilliantly lighted avenues of a mighty metropolis? Dost thou not see, as it were, another firmament below?”
The Padre happily accepted the explanation in this rude response. But he was in for another unique experience. When they reached the top of the hill now known as Russian Hill, the Padre couldn’t help but exclaim again. The stranger turned to his companion with an impatient gesture, but the Padre paid him no mind. The view that unfolded before him was captivating enough to grab the attention of someone more enthusiastic. The fog hadn’t yet reached the hill, and the long valleys and hillsides of the waterfront below sparkled with the light of a bustling city. “Look!” said the Padre, pointing out over the vast landscape. “Look! Can’t you see the grand squares and brightly lit streets of a great metropolis? Can’t you see, in a way, another sky down below?”
“Avast heaving, reverend man, and quit this folly,” said the stranger, dragging the bewildered Padre after him. “Behold rather the stars knocked out of thy hollow noddle by the fall thou hast had. Prithee, get over thy visions and rhapsodies, for the time is wearing apace.”
“Stop this nonsense, wise man, and let it go,” said the stranger, pulling the confused Padre along. “Look at the stars knocked out of your empty head from the fall you've taken. Please, get past your illusions and fancy thoughts, because time is running out.”
The Padre humbly followed without another word. Descending the hill toward the north, the stranger leading the way, in a few moments the Padre detected the wash of waves, and presently his feet struck the firmer sand of the beach. Here the stranger paused, and the Padre perceived a boat lying in readiness hard by. As he stepped into the stern-sheets’, in obedience to the command of his companion, he noticed that the rowers seemed to partake of the misty incorporeal texture of his companion, a similarity that became the more distressing when he perceived also that their oars in pulling together made no noise. The stranger, assuming the helm, guided the boat on quietly, while the fog, settling over the face of the water and closing around them, seemed to interpose a muffled wall between themselves and the rude jarring of the outer world. As they pushed further into this penetralia, the Padre listened anxiously for the sound of creaking blocks and the rattling of cordage, but no vibration broke the veiled stillness or disturbed the warm breath of the fleecy fog. Only one incident occurred to break the monotony of their mysterious journey. A one-eyed rower, who sat in front of the Padre, catching the devout Father’s eye, immediately grinned such a ghastly smile, and winked his remaining eye with such diabolical intensity of meaning, that the Padre was constrained to utter a pious ejaculation, which had the disastrous effect of causing the marine Cocles to “catch a crab,” throwing his heels in the air and his head into the bottom of the boat. But even this accident did not disturb the gravity of the rest of the ghastly boat’s crew.
The Padre quietly followed without saying anything more. As they went down the hill toward the north, with the stranger leading the way, the Padre soon heard the sound of waves, and then his feet hit the firmer sand of the beach. The stranger stopped here, and the Padre saw a boat ready nearby. As he stepped into the back of the boat at his companion's request, he noticed that the rowers seemed to share the same misty, ghostly quality as the stranger, a resemblance that became even more unsettling when he realized that their oars made no noise as they pulled together. The stranger took the helm and guided the boat quietly, while the fog settled over the water and surrounded them, creating a muffled barrier between them and the harsh reality of the outside world. As they moved deeper into this hidden place, the Padre listened anxiously for the sounds of creaking blocks and rattling ropes, but no vibrations interrupted the quiet stillness or disturbed the warm breath of the thick fog. Only one incident broke the monotony of their mysterious journey. A one-eyed rower sitting in front of the Padre caught the devout Father's gaze and immediately grinned a ghastly smile, winking his remaining eye with such devilish intent that the Padre involuntarily uttered a pious exclamation, causing the marine Cocles to "catch a crab," flipping his heels in the air and his head into the bottom of the boat. But even this accident didn’t shake the composure of the rest of the eerie crew.
When, as it seemed to the Padre, ten minutes had elapsed, the outline of a large ship loomed up directly across their bow. Before he could utter the cry of warning that rose to his lips, or brace himself against the expected shock, the boat passed gently and noiselessly through the sides of the vessel, and the holy man found himself standing on the berth-deck of what seemed to be an ancient caravel. The boat and boat’s crew had vanished. Only his mysterious friend, the stranger, remained. By the light of a swinging-lamp the Padre beheld him standing beside a hammock, whereon, apparently, lay the dying man to whom he had been so mysteriously summoned. As the Padre, in obedience to a sign from his companion, stepped to the side of the sufferer, he feebly opened his eyes and thus addressed him:—
When, as it seemed to the Padre, ten minutes had passed, the shape of a large ship appeared right in front of them. Before he could shout a warning or brace himself for the expected impact, the boat glided silently and smoothly through the sides of the vessel, and the holy man found himself on the berth-deck of what looked like an old caravel. The boat and its crew had disappeared. Only his mysterious companion, the stranger, remained. By the light of a swinging lamp, the Padre saw him standing next to a hammock, where a dying man, to whom he had been so mysteriously summoned, apparently lay. As the Padre stepped to the side of the sufferer in response to a sign from his companion, the man weakly opened his eyes and addressed him:—
“Thou seest before thee, reverend Father, a helpless mortal, struggling not only with the last agonies of the flesh, but beaten down and tossed with sore anguish of the spirit. It matters little when or how I became what thou now seest me. Enough that my life has been ungodly and sinful, and that my only hope of absolution lies in my imparting to thee a secret which is of vast importance to the Holy Church, and affects greatly her power, wealth, and dominion on these shores. But the terms of this secret and the conditions of my absolution are peculiar. I have but five minutes to live. In that time I must receive the extreme unction of the Church.”
"You see before you, dear Father, a helpless person, struggling not only with the final pains of the body, but also overwhelmed and tossed by deep anguish of the spirit. It doesn’t matter when or how I became what you see now. What matters is that my life has been unrighteous and sinful, and my only hope for forgiveness lies in sharing a secret with you that is crucial for the Holy Church and greatly impacts its power, wealth, and influence in this region. However, the terms of this secret and the conditions for my forgiveness are unusual. I have only five minutes left to live. In that time, I must receive the final blessing of the Church."
“And thy secret?” said the holy Father.
“And your secret?” said the holy Father.
“Shall be told afterwards,” answered the dying man. “Come, my time is short. Shrive me quickly.”
“Will be told later,” replied the dying man. “Come on, my time is short. Confess me quickly.”
The Padre hesitated. “Couldst thou not tell this secret first?”
The Padre hesitated. “Couldn’t you tell this secret first?”
“Impossible!” said the dying man, with what seemed to the Padre a momentary gleam of triumph. Then, as his breath grew feebler, he called impatiently, “Shrive me! shrive me!”
“Impossible!” said the dying man, with what seemed to the Padre a momentary glimmer of triumph. Then, as his breath became weaker, he called impatiently, “Forgive me! forgive me!”
“Let me know at least what this secret concerns?” suggested the Padre insinuatingly.
“Can you at least tell me what this secret is about?” suggested the Padre, with a hint of intrigue.
“Shrive me first,” said the dying man.
“Forgive me first,” said the dying man.
But the priest still hesitated, parleying with the sufferer until the ship’s bell struck, when, with a triumphant mocking laugh from the stranger, the vessel suddenly fell to pieces, amid the rushing of waters which at once involved the dying man, the priest, and the mysterious stranger.
But the priest still hesitated, talking to the sufferer until the ship’s bell rang. Then, with a triumphant mocking laugh from the stranger, the ship suddenly fell apart, and the rushing waters engulfed the dying man, the priest, and the mysterious stranger.
The Padre did not recover his consciousness until high noon the next day, when he found himself lying in a little hollow between the Mission Hills, and his faithful mule a few paces from him, cropping the sparse herbage. The Padre made the best of his way home, but wisely abstained from narrating the facts mentioned above until after the discovery of gold, when the whole of this veracious incident was related, with the assertion of the Padre that the secret which was thus mysteriously snatched from his possession was nothing more than the discovery of gold, years since, by the runaway sailors from the expedition of Sir Francis Drake.
The Padre didn’t regain consciousness until noon the next day, when he found himself lying in a small hollow between the Mission Hills, with his loyal mule a few steps away, munching on the sparse grass. The Padre made his way home as best he could but wisely chose not to share the details of what had happened until after the discovery of gold. When he finally did tell the story, he insisted that the secret he had been mysteriously robbed of was nothing more than the discovery of gold, years earlier, by the runaway sailors from Sir Francis Drake's expedition.
THE DEVIL AND THE BROKER
The church clocks in San Francisco were striking ten. The Devil, who had been flying over the city that evening, just then alighted on the roof of a church near the corner of Bush and Montgomery streets. It will be perceived that the popular belief that the Devil avoids holy edifices, and vanishes at the sound of a credo or paternoster, is long since exploded. Indeed, modern skepticism asserts that he is not averse to these orthodox discourses, which particularly bear reference to himself, and in a measure recognize his power and importance.
The church clocks in San Francisco were ringing ten. The Devil, who had been flying over the city that evening, just landed on the roof of a church near the corner of Bush and Montgomery streets. It’s clear that the common belief that the Devil stays away from holy places and disappears at the mention of a credo or paternoster is long outdated. In fact, modern skepticism suggests that he doesn’t mind these traditional prayers, which specifically relate to him and, in a way, acknowledge his power and significance.
I am inclined to think, however, that his choice of a resting-place was a good deal influenced by its contiguity to a populous thoroughfare. When he was comfortably seated, he began pulling out the joints of a small rod which he held in his hand, and which presently proved to be an extraordinary fishing-pole, with a telescopic adjustment that permitted its protraction to a marvelous extent. Affixing a line thereto, he selected a fly of a particular pattern from a small box which he carried with him, and, making a skillful cast, threw his line into the very centre of that living stream which ebbed and flowed through Montgomery Street.
I think, though, that his choice of where to relax was heavily influenced by its proximity to a busy street. Once he was comfortably seated, he started pulling apart the sections of a small rod he had in his hand, which turned out to be an amazing fishing pole with a telescopic feature that allowed it to extend impressively. After attaching a line to it, he picked a specific fly from a small box he carried with him and, with a skillful cast, tossed his line right into the heart of the bustling flow that moved through Montgomery Street.
Either the people were very virtuous that evening, or the bait was not a taking one. In vain the Devil whipped the stream at an eddy in front of the Occidental, or trolled his line into the shadows of the Cosmopolitan; five minutes passed without even a nibble. “Dear me!” quoth the Devil, “that’s very singular; one of my most popular flies, too! Why, they’d have risen by shoals in Broadway or Beacon Street for that. Well, here goes another.” And fitting a new fly from his well-filled box, he gracefully recast his line.
Either people were really well-behaved that evening, or the bait just wasn't appealing. The Devil tried to lure fish at a current in front of the Occidental, or cast his line into the shadows of the Cosmopolitan; five minutes went by without even a bite. "Well, that's unusual," the Devil said, "that's one of my most popular lures! They would have been jumping for that in Broadway or Beacon Street. Alright, let's try another." And after choosing a new lure from his full box, he skillfully cast his line again.
For a few moments there was every prospect of sport. The line was continually bobbing and the nibbles were distinct and gratifying. Once or twice the bait was apparently gorged and carried off to the upper stories of the hotels, to be digested at leisure. At such times the professional manner in which the Devil played out his line would have thrilled the heart of Izaak Walton. But his efforts were unsuccessful; the bait was invariably carried off without hooking the victim, and the Devil finally lost his temper. “I’ve heard of these San Franciscans before,” he muttered. “Wait till I get hold of one, that’s all!” he added malevolently, as he rebaited his hook. A sharp tug and a wriggle followed his next trial, and finally, with considerable effort, he landed a portly two-hundred-pound broker upon the church roof.
For a few moments, there was a good chance of some action. The line kept bobbing, and the bites were clear and satisfying. Once or twice, the bait was seemingly swallowed and taken off to the upper floors of the hotels to be enjoyed at leisure. During those moments, the way the Devil worked his line would have impressed Izaak Walton. But he wasn't successful; the bait was always taken without catching anything, and the Devil eventually lost his cool. “I’ve heard about these San Franciscans before,” he muttered. “Just you wait until I catch one!” he added spitefully as he rebaited his hook. A sharp tug and a wriggle followed his next attempt, and finally, with a lot of effort, he landed a hefty two-hundred-pound broker on the church roof.
As the victim lay there gasping, it was evident that the Devil was in no hurry to remove the hook from his gills; nor did he exhibit in this delicate operation that courtesy of manner and graceful manipulation which usually distinguished him.
As the victim lay there gasping, it was clear that the Devil wasn’t in any rush to take the hook out of his gills; nor did he show the usual courtesy and graceful touch that typically set him apart in this delicate operation.
“Come,” he said gruffly, as he grasped the broker by the waistband, “quit that whining and grunting. Don’t flatter yourself that you’re a prize, either. I was certain to have had you. It was only a question of time.”
“Come on,” he said roughly, as he grabbed the broker by the waistband, “stop that whining and grunting. Don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re some kind of catch, either. I was definitely going to get you. It was just a matter of time.”
“It is not that, my lord, which troubles me,” whined the unfortunate wretch, as he painfully wriggled his head, “but that I should have been fooled by such a paltry bait. What will they say of me down there? To have let ‘bigger things’ go by, and to be taken in by this cheap trick,” he added, as he groaned and glanced at the fly which the Devil was carefully rearranging, “is what,—pardon me, my lord,—is what gets me!”
“It’s not that, my lord, that bothers me,” whined the unfortunate guy, as he painfully shifted his head, “but that I fell for such a pathetic bait. What will they say about me down there? To have let ‘bigger things’ slip away and to be fooled by this cheap trick,” he added, groaning and looking at the fly that the Devil was carefully adjusting, “is what,—excuse me, my lord,—is what really gets to me!”
“Yes,” said the Devil philosophically, “I never caught anybody yet who didn’t say that; but tell me, ain’t you getting somewhat fastidious down there? Here is one of my most popular flies, the greenback,” he continued, exhibiting an emerald-looking insect, which he drew from his box. “This, so generally considered excellent in election season, has not even been nibbled at. Perhaps your sagacity, which, in spite of this unfortunate contretemps, no one can doubt,” added the Devil, with a graceful return to his usual courtesy, “may explain the reason or suggest a substitute.”
“Yes,” said the Devil thoughtfully, “I've never met anyone who didn’t say that; but tell me, aren’t you getting a bit picky down there? Here’s one of my most popular lures, the greenback,” he continued, showing off a shiny green insect that he took from his box. “This, which is usually seen as fantastic during election season, hasn’t even been touched. Perhaps your insight, which, despite this unfortunate mishap, no one can question,” added the Devil, smoothly returning to his usual politeness, “might explain why or suggest a better option.”
The broker glanced at the contents of the box with a supercilious smile. “Too old-fashioned, my lord,—long ago played out. Yet,” he added, with a gleam of interest, “for a consideration I might offer something—ahem!—that would make a taking substitute for these trifles. Give me,” he continued, in a brisk, business-like way, “a slight percentage and a bonus down, and I’m your man.”
The broker looked at the contents of the box with a condescending smile. “This is too old-fashioned, my lord—it's long past its time. Yet,” he added, with a spark of interest, “for a price, I could offer something—ahem!—that would be a great substitute for these items. Just give me,” he continued, in a quick, professional manner, “a small percentage and a bonus upfront, and I’m your guy.”
“Name your terms,” said the Devil earnestly.
“Name your terms,” said the Devil seriously.
“My liberty and a percentage on all you take, and the thing’s done.”
"My freedom and a cut of everything you take, and it's all set."
The Devil caressed his tail thoughtfully for a few moments. He was certain of the broker anyway, and the risk was slight. “Done!” he said.
The Devil stroked his tail thoughtfully for a few moments. He was confident about the broker, and the risk was minimal. “Done!” he said.
“Stay a moment,” said the artful broker. “There are certain contingencies. Give me your fishing-rod and let me apply the bait myself. It requires a skillful hand, my lord: even your well-known experience might fail. Leave me alone for half an hour, and if you have reason to complain of my success I will forfeit my deposit,—I mean my liberty.”
“Wait a minute,” said the clever broker. “There are a few conditions. Give me your fishing rod and let me put on the bait myself. It takes a skillful hand, my lord: even your well-known experience might not cut it. Just leave me alone for half an hour, and if you have any reason to be unhappy with my results, I’ll give up my stake—I mean my freedom.”
The Devil acceded to his request, bowed, and withdrew. Alighting gracefully in Montgomery Street, he dropped into Meade & Co.’s clothing store, where, having completely equipped himself a la mode, he sallied forth intent on his personal enjoyment. Determining to sink his professional character, he mingled with the current of human life, and enjoyed, with that immense capacity for excitement peculiar to his nature, the whirl, hustle, and feverishness of the people, as a purely aesthetic gratification unalloyed by the cares of business. What he did that evening does not belong to our story. We return to the broker, whom we left on the roof.
The Devil agreed to his request, bowed, and left. He gracefully landed on Montgomery Street and stepped into Meade & Co.’s clothing store, where he completely outfitted himself in style. He then set out to enjoy himself. Choosing to put aside his professional persona, he blended in with the hustle and bustle of everyday life and relished, with his innate capacity for excitement, the whirlwind, activity, and intensity of the crowd, experiencing it all as pure aesthetic pleasure without the worries of work. What he did that evening isn’t part of our story. We return to the broker, whom we left on the roof.
When he made sure that the Devil had retired, he carefully drew from his pocketbook a slip of paper and affixed it on the hook. The line had scarcely reached the current before he felt a bite. The hook was swallowed. To bring up his victim rapidly, disengage him from the hook, and reset his line, was the work of a moment. Another bite and the same result. Another, and another. In a very few minutes the roof was covered with his panting spoil. The broker could himself distinguish that many of them were personal friends; nay, some of them were familiar frequenters of the building on which they were now miserably stranded. That the broker felt a certain satisfaction in being instrumental in thus misleading his fellow-brokers no one acquainted with human nature will for a moment doubt. But a stronger pull on his line caused him to put forth all his strength and skill. The magic pole bent like a coach-whip. The broker held firm, assisted by the battlements of the church. Again and again it was almost wrested from his hand, and again and again he slowly reeled in a portion of the tightening line. At last, with one mighty effort, he lifted to the level of the roof a struggling object. A howl like Pandemonium rang through the air as the broker successfully landed at his feet—the Devil himself!
When he made sure the Devil had left, he carefully pulled out a piece of paper from his wallet and attached it to the hook. The line barely hit the water before he felt a bite. The hook was swallowed. Bringing up his catch quickly, getting it off the hook, and resetting his line took no time at all. Another bite, and the same thing happened. Another one, and another. Within a few minutes, the roof was covered with his panting catch. The broker could even recognize that many of them were personal acquaintances; in fact, some of them were regular visitors to the building where they were now sadly stuck. Anyone familiar with human nature would have no doubt that the broker felt a certain satisfaction in misleading his fellow brokers. But a stronger tug on his line made him exert all his strength and skill. The pole bent like a whip. The broker held on tight, aided by the church's walls. Time and again, it nearly slipped from his grip, but each time he slowly reeled in some of the tightening line. Finally, with one huge effort, he lifted a struggling object to the level of the roof. A howl like the chaos of hell rang through the air as the broker successfully landed at his feet—the Devil himself!
The two glared fiercely at each other. The broker, perhaps mindful of his former treatment, evinced no haste to remove the hook from his antagonist’s jaw. When it was finally accomplished, he asked quietly if the Devil was satisfied. That gentleman seemed absorbed in the contemplation of the bait which he had just taken from his mouth. “I am,” he said finally, “and forgive you; but what do you call this?”
The two stared each other down intensely. The broker, maybe remembering how he was treated before, showed no rush to take the hook out of his opponent’s jaw. When it was finally done, he quietly asked if the Devil was satisfied. That fellow seemed lost in thought about the bait he had just taken out of his mouth. “I am,” he finally replied, “and I forgive you; but what do you call this?”
“Bend low,” replied the broker, as he buttoned up his coat ready to depart. The Devil inclined his ear. “I call it WILD CAT!”
“Bend down,” said the broker, as he buttoned up his coat getting ready to leave. The Devil leaned in closer. “I call it WILD CAT!”
THE OGRESS OF SILVER LAND
THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF PRINCE BADFELLAH AND PRINCE BULLEBOYE
THE ENTERTAINING STORY OF PRINCE BADFELLAH AND PRINCE BULLEBOYE
In the second year of the reign of the renowned Caliph Lo there dwelt in Silver Land, adjoining his territory, a certain terrible Ogress. She lived in the bowels of a dismal mountain, where she was in the habit of confining such unfortunate travelers as ventured within her domain. The country for miles around was sterile and barren. In some places it was covered with a white powder, which was called in the language of the country Al Ka Li, and was supposed to be the pulverized bones of those who had perished miserably in her service.
In the second year of the rule of the famous Caliph Lo, there was a terrible Ogress living in Silver Land, which was next to his territory. She resided deep within a gloomy mountain and often captured unfortunate travelers who dared to enter her domain. The land for miles around was lifeless and desolate. In some areas, it was blanketed with a white powder known in the local language as Al Ka Li, thought to be the crushed remains of those who had tragically died at her hands.
In spite of this, every year great numbers of young men devoted themselves to the service of the Ogress, hoping to become her godsons, and to enjoy the good fortune which belonged to that privileged class. For these godsons had no work to perform, neither at the mountain nor elsewhere, but roamed about the world with credentials of their relationship in their pockets, which they called stokh, which was stamped with the stamp and sealed with the seal of the Ogress, and which enabled them at the end of each moon to draw large quantities of gold and silver from her treasury. And the wisest and most favored of those godsons were the Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye. They knew all the secrets of the Ogress, and how to wheedle and coax her. They were also the favorites of Soopah Intendent, who was her Lord High Chamberlain and Prime Minister, and who dwelt in Silver Land.
Despite this, every year, many young men dedicated themselves to serving the Ogress, hoping to become her godsons and enjoy the good fortune that came with that privileged status. These godsons didn’t have to work, whether in the mountains or anywhere else, but wandered the world with proof of their relationship tucked in their pockets, known as stokh. This документ was stamped and sealed by the Ogress, allowing them to withdraw large amounts of gold and silver from her treasury at the end of each month. The wisest and most favored of these godsons were Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye. They were privy to all the Ogress’s secrets and knew how to charm and flatter her. They were also favorites of Soopah Intendent, her Lord High Chamberlain and Prime Minister, who lived in Silver Land.
One day, Soopah Intendent said to his servants, “Whan is that which travels the most surely, the most secretly, and the most swiftly?”
One day, Soopah Intendent said to his servants, “What travels the most surely, the most secretly, and the most swiftly?”
And they all answered as one man, “Lightning, my lord, travels the most surely, the most swiftly, and the most secretly!”
And they all replied in unison, “Lightning, my lord, moves the quickest, most reliably, and most stealthily!”
Then said Soopah Intendent, “Let Lightning carry this message secretly, swiftly, and surely to my beloved friends the Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye, and tell them that their godmother is dying, and bid them seek some other godmother or sell their stokh ere it becomes badjee,—worthless.”
Then said Soopah Intendent, “Let Lightning carry this message secretly, swiftly, and surely to my dear friends, the Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye, and tell them that their godmother is dying, and ask them to find another godmother or sell their stokh before it becomes badjee—worthless.”
“Bekhesm! On our heads be it!” answered the servants; and they ran to Lightning with the message, who flew with it to the City by the Sea, and delivered it, even at that moment, into the hands of the Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye.
“Bekhesm! It's on us!” replied the servants, and they hurried to Lightning with the message, who swiftly carried it to the City by the Sea and delivered it right then into the hands of the Princes Badfellah and Bulleboye.
Now the Prince Badfellah was a wicked young man; and when he had received this message he tore his beard and rent his garment and reviled his godmother and his friend Soopah Intendent. But presently he arose, and dressed himself in his finest stuffs, and went forth into the bazaars and among the merchants, capering and dancing as he walked, and crying in a loud voice, “Oh, happy day! Oh, day worthy to be marked with a white stone!”
Now, Prince Badfellah was a terrible young man; and when he got this message, he ripped out his beard and tore his clothes, cursing his godmother and his friend Soopah Intendent. But soon he got up, put on his best clothes, and went out into the markets and among the merchants, prancing and dancing as he walked, shouting loudly, “Oh, what a happy day! Oh, a day worth celebrating!”
This he said cunningly, thinking the merchants and men of the bazaars would gather about him, which they presently did, and began to question him: “What news, Then O most worthy and serene Highness? Tell us that we may make merry too!”
This he said slyly, believing that the merchants and people from the markets would come around him, and they soon did, starting to ask him: “What’s the news, O most esteemed and calm Highness? Share with us so we can enjoy it too!”
Then replied the cunning prince, “Good news, O my brothers, for I have heard this day that my godmother in Silver Land is well” The merchants, who were not aware of the substance of the real message, envied him greatly, and said one to another, “Surely our brother the Prince Badfellah is favored by Allah above all men;” and they were about to retire, when the prince checked them, saying, “Tarry for a moment. Here are my credentials or stokh. The same I will sell you for fifty thousand sequins, for I have to give a feast to-day, and need much gold. Who will give fifty thousand?” And he again fell to capering and dancing. But this time the merchants drew a little apart, and some of the oldest and wisest said, “What dirt is this which the prince would have us swallow? If his godmother were well, why should he sell his stokh? Bismillah! The olives are old and the jar is broken!” When Prince Badfellah perceived them whispering, his countenance fell, and his knees smote against each other through fear,—but, dissembling again, he said, “Well, so be it! Lo! I have much more than shall abide with me, for my days are many and my wants are few. Say forty thousand sequins for my stokh and let me depart, in Allah’s name. Who will give forty thousand sequins to become the godson of such a healthy mother?” And he again fell to capering and dancing, but not as gayly as before, for his heart was troubled. The merchants, however, only moved farther away. “Thirty thousand sequins,” cried Prince Badfellah; but even as he spoke they fled before his face, crying, “His godmother is dead. Lo! the jackals are defiling her grave. Mashallah! he has no godmother.” And they sought out Panik, the swift-footed messenger, and bade him shout through the bazaars that the godmother of Prince Badfellah was dead. When he heard this, the prince fell upon his face, and rent his garments, and covered himself with the dust of the marketplace. As he was sitting thus, a porter passed him with jars of wine on his shoulders, and the prince begged him to give him a jar, for he was exceeding thirsty and faint.
Then the clever prince replied, “Good news, my brothers, for I’ve heard today that my godmother in Silver Land is well.” The merchants, who didn’t know the real meaning behind his words, were very envious of him and said to each other, “Surely our brother Prince Badfellah is favored by Allah more than any man.” They were about to leave when the prince stopped them, saying, “Wait a moment. Here are my credentials, or stokh. I will sell them to you for fifty thousand sequins, as I need to host a feast today and require a lot of gold. Who will give fifty thousand?” He then started dancing around. But this time the merchants moved a little further away, and some of the older and wiser ones said, “What nonsense is this that the prince wants us to accept? If his godmother were truly well, why would he sell his stokh? Bismillah! The olives are old, and the jar is broken!” When Prince Badfellah saw them whispering, his expression changed, and his knees shook with fear—but he quickly pretended to be calm and said, “Alright then! I have plenty more to keep with me, for my days are long and my needs are few. How about forty thousand sequins for my stokh, and let me go in Allah’s name? Who will give forty thousand sequins to be the godson of such a healthy mother?” He began dancing again, but not as joyfully as before, for his heart was heavy. The merchants, however, only moved farther away. “Thirty thousand sequins,” called Prince Badfellah; but as he spoke, they ran from him, shouting, “His godmother is dead. Look! The jackals are defiling her grave. Mashallah! He has no godmother.” They sought out Panik, the quick-footed messenger, and told him to announce through the bazaars that Prince Badfellah's godmother had died. Upon hearing this, the prince fell to the ground, tore his clothes, and covered himself with the dust of the marketplace. While he was sitting there, a porter passed by with jars of wine on his shoulders, and the prince asked him for a jar, as he was extremely thirsty and faint.
But the porter said, “What will my lord give me first?” And the prince, in very bitterness of spirit, said, “Take this,” and handed him his stokh, and so exchanged it for a jar of wine.
But the porter said, “What will my lord give me first?” And the prince, feeling very upset, said, “Take this,” and handed him his stokh, and in return, he got a jar of wine.
Now the Prince Bulleboye was of a different disposition. When he received the message of Soopah Intendent he bowed his head, and said, “It is the will of God.” Then he rose, and without speaking a word entered the gates of his palace. But his wife, the peerless Maree Jahann, perceiving the gravity of his countenance, said, “Why is my lord cast down and silent? Why are those rare and priceless pearls, his words, shut up so tightly between those gorgeous oyster-shells, his lips?” But to this he made no reply. Thinking further to divert him, she brought her lute into the chamber and stood before him, and sang the song and danced the dance of Ben Kotton, which is called Ibrahim’s Daughter, but she could not lift the veil of sadness from his brow.
Now, Prince Bulleboye had a different temperament. When he got the message from Soopah Intendent, he bowed his head and said, “It’s the will of God.” Then he stood up and, without uttering a word, entered the gates of his palace. His wife, the incomparable Maree Jahann, noticing the seriousness on his face, asked, “Why is my lord so downcast and silent? Why are those rare and precious pearls, his words, locked away so tightly between those beautiful oyster-shells, his lips?” But he didn’t respond to her. Trying to cheer him up, she brought her lute into the room, stood before him, and sang the song and danced the dance of Ben Kotton, known as Ibrahim’s Daughter, but she couldn’t lift the sadness from his brow.
When she had ceased, the Prince Bulleboye arose and said, “Allah is great, and what am I, his servant, but the dust of the earth! Lo! this day has my godmother sickened unto death, and my stokh become as a withered palm-leaf. Call hither my servants and camel drivers, and the merchants that have furnished me with stuffs, and the beggars who have feasted at my table, and bid them take all that is here, for it is mine no longer!” With these words he buried his face in his mantle and wept aloud.
When she finished, Prince Bulleboye stood up and said, “God is great, and what am I, His servant, but dust from the earth! Today, my godmother is gravely ill, and my spirit feels as dry as a withered palm leaf. Bring my servants and camel drivers, and the merchants who supplied me with goods, and the beggars who have dined at my table, and tell them to take everything here, because it’s no longer mine!” With that, he buried his face in his cloak and cried out loud.
But Maree Jahann, his wife, plucked him by the sleeve. “Prithee, my lord,” said she, “bethink thee of the Brokah or scrivener who besought thee but yesterday to share thy stokh with him and gave thee his bond for fifty thousand sequins.” But the noble Prince Bulleboye, raising his head, said, “Shall I sell to him for fifty thousand sequins that which I know is not worth a Soo Markee? For is not all the Brokah’s wealth, even his wife and children, pledged on that bond? Shall I ruin him to save myself? Allah forbid! Bather let me eat the salt fish of honest penury than the kabobs of dishonorable affluence; rather let me wallow in the mire of virtuous oblivion than repose on the divan of luxurious wickedness!”
But Maree Jahann, his wife, tugged at his sleeve. “Please, my lord,” she said, “remember the broker or scribe who asked you yesterday to share your wealth with him and gave you his promise for fifty thousand sequins.” But the noble Prince Bulleboye, lifting his head, replied, “Should I sell to him for fifty thousand sequins something I know isn't worth a dime? Isn't all the broker’s wealth, even his wife and kids, tied to that promise? Should I ruin him to save myself? God forbid! I'd rather eat the salt fish of honest poverty than the kebabs of dishonorable wealth; I'd rather wallow in the mud of virtuous obscurity than lounge on the couch of luxurious wrongdoing!”
When the prince had given utterance to this beautiful and edifying sentiment, a strain of gentle music was heard, and the rear wall of the apartment, which had been ingeniously constructed like a flat, opened and discovered the Ogress of Silver Land in the glare of blue fire, seated on a triumphal car attached to two ropes which were connected with the flies, in the very act of blessing the unconscious prince. When the walls closed again without attracting his attention, Prince Bulleboye arose, dressed himself in his coarsest and cheapest stuffs, and sprinkled ashes on his head, and in this guise, having embraced his wife, went forth into the bazaars. In this it will be perceived how differently the good Prince Bulleboye acted from the wicked Prince Badfellah, who put on his gayest garments, to simulate and deceive.
When the prince expressed this beautiful and meaningful thought, soft music played, and the back wall of the room, cleverly designed like a flat, opened to reveal the Ogress of Silver Land in the bright blue light, sitting on a triumphal chariot attached to two ropes connected to the flies, in the act of blessing the unaware prince. When the walls closed again without catching his attention, Prince Bulleboye got up, dressed himself in his coarsest and cheapest clothes, and sprinkled ashes on his head. In this state, after embracing his wife, he went out into the markets. This shows how differently good Prince Bulleboye acted compared to wicked Prince Badfellah, who put on his most festive clothes to pretend and deceive.
Now when Prince Bulleboye entered the chief bazaar, where the merchants of the city were gathered in council, he stood up in his accustomed place, and all that were there held their breath, for the noble Prince Bulleboye was much respected. “Let the Brokah whose bond I hold for fifty thousand sequins stand forth!” said the prince. And the Brokah stood forth from among the merchants. Then said the prince, “Here is thy bond for fifty thousand sequins, for which I was to deliver unto thee one half of my stokh. Know, then, O my brother,—and thou, too, O Aga of the Brokahs,—that this my stokh which I pledged to thee is worthless. For my godmother, the Ogress of silver Land, is dying. Thus do I release thee from thy bond, and from the poverty which might overtake thee, as it has even me, thy brother, the Prince Bulleboye.” And with that the noble Prince Bulleboye tore the bond of the Brokah into pieces and scattered it to the four winds.
Now when Prince Bulleboye entered the main market where the city’s merchants were gathered, he took his usual spot, and everyone there held their breath because the noble Prince Bulleboye was highly respected. “Let the Brokah whose bond I hold for fifty thousand sequins step forward!” said the prince. And the Brokah stepped out from among the merchants. Then the prince said, “Here is your bond for fifty thousand sequins, for which I was supposed to give you half of my stokh. Know this, my brother—and you too, O Aga of the Brokahs—that this stokh I committed to you is worthless. My godmother, the Ogress of Silver Land, is dying. Therefore, I release you from your bond and from the poverty that might befall you, as it has even affected me, your brother, Prince Bulleboye.” With that, the noble Prince Bulleboye ripped the Brokah's bond into pieces and scattered it to the four winds.
Now when the Prince tore up the bond there was a great commotion, and some said, “Surely the Prince Bulleboye is drunken with wine;” and others, “He is possessed of an evil spirit;” and his friends expostulated with him, saying, “What thou hast done is not the custom of the bazaars,—behold, it is not Biz!” But to all the prince answered gravely, “It is right; on my own head be it!”
Now when the Prince ripped up the bond, there was a huge uproar, and some said, “Surely Prince Bulleboye is drunk;” and others said, “He must be possessed by an evil spirit;” and his friends pleaded with him, saying, “What you’ve done isn’t how things are done in the markets—look, this isn’t Biz!” But the prince replied seriously to them all, “This is right; let the responsibility be mine!”
But the oldest and wisest of the merchants, they who had talked with Prince Badfellah the same morning, whispered together, and gathered round the Brokah whose bond the Prince Bulleboye had torn up. “Hark ye,” said they, “our brother the Prince Bulleboye is cunning as a jackal. What bosh is this about ruining himself to save thee? Such a thing was never heard before in the bazaars. It is a trick, O thou mooncalf of a Brokah! Dost thou not see that he has heard good news from his godmother, the same that was even now told us by the Prince Badfellah, his confederate, and that he would destroy thy bond for fifty thousand sequins because his stokh is worth a hundred thousand! Be not deceived, O too credulous Brokah! for this that our brother the prince doeth is not in the name of Allah, but of Biz, the only god known in the bazaars of the city.”
But the oldest and wisest of the merchants, who had spoken with Prince Badfellah that same morning, whispered to each other and gathered around the Brokah whose bond Prince Bulleboye had torn up. “Listen,” they said, “our brother Prince Bulleboye is as clever as a jackal. What nonsense is this about ruining himself to save you? No one has ever heard of such a thing in the markets. It’s a trick, you gullible Brokah! Don’t you see that he has received good news from his godmother, the same news that Prince Badfellah, his accomplice, just shared with us, and that he would cancel your bond for fifty thousand sequins because his own stock is worth a hundred thousand! Don’t be fooled, you overly trusting Brokah! What our brother the prince is doing is not in the name of Allah, but for Biz, the only god known in the markets of the city.”
When the foolish Brokah heard these things he cried, “Justice, Aga of the Brokahs,—justice and the fulfillment of my bond! Let the prince deliver unto me the stokh. Here are my fifty thousand sequins.” But the prince said, “Have I not told thee that my godmother is dying, and that my stokh is valueless?” At this the Brokah only clamored the more for justice and the fulfillment of his bond. Then the Aga of the Brokahs said, “Since the bond is destroyed, behold thou hast no claim. Go thy ways!” But the Brokah again cried, “Justice, my lord Aga! Behold, I offer the prince seventy thousand sequins for his stokh!” But the prince said, “It is not worth one sequin!” Then the Aga said, “Bismillah! I cannot understand this. Whether thy godmother be dead, or dying, or immortal, does not seem to signify. Therefore, O prince, by the laws of Biz and Allah, though art released. Give the Brokah thy stokh for seventy thousand sequins, and bid him depart in peace. On his own head be it!” When the prince heard this command, he handed the stokh to the Brokah, who counted out to him seventy thousand sequins. But the heart of the virtuous prince did not rejoice, nor did the Brokah when he found his stokh was valueless; but the merchants lifted their hands in wonder at the sagacity and wisdom of the famous Prince Bulleboye. For none would believe that it was the law of Allah that the prince followed, and not the rules of Biz.
When the foolish Brokah heard this, he shouted, “Justice, Aga of the Brokahs—justice and the enforcement of my bond! Let the prince give me the stokh. Here are my fifty thousand sequins.” But the prince replied, “Did I not tell you that my godmother is dying and that my stokh is worthless?” At this, the Brokah only shouted louder for justice and the enforcement of his bond. Then the Aga of the Brokahs said, “Since the bond is void, you have no claim. Go away!” But the Brokah cried again, “Justice, my lord Aga! Look, I offer the prince seventy thousand sequins for his stokh!” But the prince said, “It’s not worth even one sequin!” Then the Aga said, “Bismillah! I can’t understand this. Whether your godmother is dead, dying, or immortal doesn't seem to matter. Therefore, O prince, according to the laws of Biz and Allah, you are free. Give the Brokah your stokh for seventy thousand sequins and let him go in peace. It’s his problem now!” When the prince heard this command, he gave the stokh to the Brokah, who counted out seventy thousand sequins. But the virtuous prince didn’t feel happy, nor did the Brokah when he discovered the stokh was worthless; yet the merchants marveled at the insight and wisdom of the famous Prince Bulleboye. For no one would believe that it was the law of Allah that the prince followed, not the rules of Biz.
THE CHRISTMAS GIFT THAT CAME TO RUPERT
It was the Christmas season in California,—a season of falling rain and springing grasses. There were intervals when, through driving clouds and flying scud, the sun visited the haggard hills with a miracle, and death and resurrection were as one, and out of the very throes of decay a joyous life struggled outward and upward. Even the storms that swept down the dead leaves nurtured the tender buds that took their places. There were no episodes of snowy silence; over the quickening fields the farmer’s ploughshare hard followed the furrows left by the latest rains. Perhaps it was for this reason that the Christmas evergreens which decorated the drawing-room took upon themselves a foreign aspect, and offered a weird contrast to the roses, seen dimly through the windows, as the southwest wind beat their soft faces against the panes.
It was Christmas time in California—a time of rain and new grass. There were moments when, through the heavy clouds and swift winds, the sun would shine on the tired hills like a miracle, where death and rebirth felt like one, and from the very depths of decay, new life pushed its way out. Even the storms that blew down the dead leaves nourished the tender buds that took their place. There weren’t any bouts of snowy silence; over the awakening fields, the farmer’s plow kept moving through the furrows left by the recent rains. Maybe that’s why the Christmas evergreens decorating the living room looked out of place and created a strange contrast with the roses, seen faintly through the windows, as the southwest wind pressed their soft petals against the glass.
“Now,” said the doctor, drawing his chair closer to the fire, and looking mildly but firmly at the semicircle of flaxen heads around him, “I want it distinctly understood before I begin my story, that I am not to be interrupted by any ridiculous questions. At the first one I shall stop. At the second, I shall feel it my duty to administer a dose of castor-oil all round. The boy that moves his legs or arms will be understood to invite amputation. I have brought my instruments with me, and never allow pleasure to interfere with my business. Do you promise?”
“Now,” said the doctor, pulling his chair closer to the fire and looking gently but firmly at the semicircle of blonde heads around him, “I want it to be clear before I start my story that I shouldn’t be interrupted by any silly questions. At the first one, I’ll stop. At the second, I’ll feel it’s my duty to give everyone a dose of castor oil. Any boy who moves his legs or arms will be understood to be asking for amputation. I brought my tools with me, and I never let enjoyment get in the way of my work. Do you promise?”
“Yes, sir,” said six small voices simultaneously. The volley was, however, followed by half a dozen dropping questions.
“Yes, sir,” six small voices replied at the same time. However, this was followed by a half dozen unanswered questions.
“Silence! Bob, put your feet down, and stop rattling that sword. Flora shall sit by my side, like a little lady, and be an example to the rest. Fung Tang shall stay, too, if he likes. Now, turn down the gas a little; there, that will do—just enough to make the fire look brighter, and to show off the Christmas candles. Silence, everybody! The boy who cracks an almond, or breathes too loud over his raisins, will be put out of the room.”
“Quiet! Bob, put your feet down and stop clanging that sword. Flora can sit next to me, like a proper little lady, and set a good example for everyone else. Fung Tang can stay, too, if he wants. Now, turn down the gas a bit; there, that's good—just enough to make the fire shine brighter and to highlight the Christmas candles. Everyone, be quiet! The kid who cracks an almond or breathes too loudly over his raisins will be sent out of the room.”
There was a profound silence. Bob laid his sword tenderly aside and nursed his leg thoughtfully. Flora, after coquettishly adjusting the pockets of her little apron, put her arm upon the doctor’s shoulder, and permitted herself to be drawn beside him. Fung Tang, the little heathen page, who was permitted, on this rare occasion, to share the Christmas revels in the drawing-room, surveyed the group with a smile that was at once sweet and philosophical. The light ticking of a French clock on the mantel, supported by a young shepherdess of bronze complexion and great symmetry of limb, was the only sound that disturbed the Christmas-like peace of the apartment,—a peace which held the odors of evergreens, new toys, cedar boxes, glue, and varnish in a harmonious combination that passed all understanding.
There was a deep silence. Bob carefully set his sword aside and thoughtfully tended to his leg. Flora, playfully adjusting the pockets of her little apron, placed her arm on the doctor’s shoulder and allowed herself to be drawn next to him. Fung Tang, the young page, who was allowed this rare opportunity to join the Christmas festivities in the living room, looked at the group with a smile that was both sweet and reflective. The gentle ticking of a French clock on the mantel, held up by a young shepherdess with a bronze complexion and well-proportioned limbs, was the only sound that broke the Christmas-like calm of the room—a calm filled with the scents of evergreens, new toys, cedar boxes, glue, and varnish, blended together in a way that was beyond comprehension.
“About four years ago at this time,” began the doctor, “I attended a course of lectures in a certain city. One of the professors, who was a sociable, kindly man—though somewhat practical and hard-headed—invited me to his house on Christmas night. I was very glad to go, as I was anxious to see one of his sons, who, though only twelve years old, was said to be very clever. I dare not tell you how many Latin verses this little fellow could recite, or how many English ones he had composed. In the first place, you’d want me to repeat them; secondly, I’m not a judge of poetry—Latin or English. But there were judges who said they were wonderful for a boy, and everybody predicted a splendid future for him. Everybody but his father. He shook his head doubtingly whenever it was mentioned, for, as I have told you, he was a practical, matter-of-fact man.
“About four years ago around this time,” started the doctor, “I attended a series of lectures in a certain city. One of the professors, who was a friendly, kind guy—though a bit practical and tough-minded—invited me to his house on Christmas night. I was really happy to go, as I was eager to meet one of his sons, who, even though he was only twelve, was said to be very bright. I wouldn’t dare tell you how many Latin verses this little guy could recite, or how many English ones he had written. First, you’d want me to repeat them; second, I’m not a judge of poetry—Latin or English. But there were people who said they were amazing for a boy, and everyone predicted a great future for him. Everyone but his dad. He shook his head doubtfully whenever it came up, because, as I mentioned, he was a practical, no-nonsense kind of guy.”
“There was a pleasant party at the professor’s that night. All the children of the neighborhood were there, and among them the professor’s clever son, Rupert, as they called him—a thin little chap, about as tall as Bobby there, and fair and delicate as Flora by my side. His health was feeble, his father said; he seldom ran about and played with other boys—preferring to stay at home and brood over his books, and compose what he called his verses.
“There was a nice party at the professor’s that night. All the neighborhood kids were there, including the professor’s smart son, Rupert, as everyone called him—a skinny little guy, about as tall as Bobby over there, and fair and delicate like Flora next to me. His health was weak, his dad said; he rarely ran around and played with the other boys—he preferred staying at home to ponder over his books and write what he referred to as his verses.”
“Well, we had a Christmas-tree just like this, and we had been laughing and talking, calling the names of the children who had presents on the tree, and everybody was very happy and joyous, when one of the children suddenly uttered a cry of mingled surprise and hilarity, and said, ‘Here’s something for Rupert—and what do you think it is?’
“Well, we had a Christmas tree just like this, and we had been laughing and talking, naming the kids who had presents on the tree, and everyone was really happy and joyful, when one of the kids suddenly exclaimed with a mix of surprise and laughter, ‘Here’s something for Rupert—and guess what it is?’”
“We all guessed. ‘A desk;’ ‘A copy of Milton;’ ‘A gold pen;’ ‘A rhyming dictionary.’ ‘No? what then?’
“We all took our guesses. ‘A desk;’ ‘A copy of Milton;’ ‘A gold pen;’ ‘A rhyming dictionary.’ ‘No? Then what is it?’”
“‘A drum!’
“‘A drum!’”
“‘A what?’ asked everybody.
“‘A what?’ everyone asked.”
“‘A drum! with Rupert’s name on it.’
“‘A drum! with Rupert’s name on it.’”
“Sure enough, there it was. A good-sized, bright, new, brass-bound drum, with a slip of paper on it, with the inscription, ‘For RUPERT.’
“Sure enough, there it was. A well-sized, shiny, new drum with brass fittings, and a slip of paper on it that read, ‘For RUPERT.’”
“Of course we all laughed, and thought it a good joke. ‘You see you’re to make a noise in the world, Rupert!’ said one. ‘Here’s parchment for the poet,’ said another. ‘Rupert’s last work in sheepskin covers,’ said a third. ‘Give us a classical tune, Rupert,’ said a fourth, and so on. But Rupert seemed too mortified to speak; he changed color, bit his lips, and finally burst into a passionate fit of crying and left the room. Then those who had joked him felt ashamed, and everybody began to ask who had put the drum there. But no one knew, or, if they did, the unexpected sympathy awakened for the sensitive boy kept them silent. Even the servants were called up and questioned, but no one could give any idea where it came from. And what was still more singular, everybody declared that up to the moment it was produced, no one had seen it hanging on the tree. What do I think? Well, I have my own opinion. But no questions! Enough for you to know that Rupert did not come downstairs again that night, and the party soon after broke up.
“Of course we all laughed and thought it was a good joke. ‘Looks like you’re meant to make some noise in the world, Rupert!’ said one. ‘Here’s parchment for the poet,’ said another. ‘Rupert’s latest work in sheepskin covers,’ joked a third. ‘Give us a classic tune, Rupert,’ added a fourth, and so on. But Rupert seemed too embarrassed to respond; he changed color, bit his lips, and finally burst into tears and left the room. Then those who had teased him felt ashamed, and everyone started asking who had put the drum there. But no one knew, or if they did, the surprising sympathy for the sensitive boy kept them quiet. Even the servants were called in and questioned, but no one could say where it came from. Even more strangely, everyone insisted that until it was shown, no one had seen it hanging on the tree. What do I think? Well, I have my own opinion. But no questions! Just know that Rupert didn’t come downstairs again that night, and the party broke up soon after."
“I had almost forgotten those things, for the war of the Rebellion broke out the next spring, and I was appointed surgeon in one of the new regiments, and was on my way to the seat of war. But I had to pass through the city where the professor lived, and there I met him. My first question was about Rupert. The professor shook his head sadly. ‘He’s not so well’ he said; ‘he has been declining since last Christmas, when you saw him. A very strange case,’ he added, giving it a long Latin name, ‘a very singular case. But go and see him yourself’ he urged; ‘it may distract his mind and do him good.’
“I had almost forgotten those things because the Civil War started the next spring, and I was appointed as a surgeon in one of the new regiments, heading to the battlefield. But I had to pass through the city where the professor lived, and that’s where I ran into him. My first question was about Rupert. The professor shook his head sadly. ‘He’s not doing so well,’ he said; ‘he has been getting worse since last Christmas when you saw him. A very unusual case,’ he added, giving it a long Latin name, ‘a very unique case. But go and see him yourself,’ he urged; ‘it might take his mind off things and do him some good.’
“I went accordingly to the professor’s house, and found Rupert lying on a sofa propped up with pillows. Around him were scattered his books, and, what seemed in singular contrast, that drum I told you about was hanging on a nail just above his head. His face was thin and wasted; there was a red spot on either cheek, and his eyes were very bright and widely opened. He was glad to see me, and when I told him where I was going, he asked a thousand questions about the war. I thought I had thoroughly diverted his mind from its sick and languid fancies, when he suddenly grasped my hand and drew me towards him.
I went to the professor’s house and found Rupert lying on a sofa, propped up with pillows. His books were scattered around him, and, in a strange contrast, the drum I mentioned was hanging on a nail right above his head. His face looked thin and worn; there were red spots on both cheeks, and his eyes were very bright and wide open. He was happy to see me, and when I told him where I was headed, he bombarded me with questions about the war. I thought I had completely distracted him from his sick and fatigued thoughts when he suddenly took my hand and pulled me closer.
“‘Doctor,’ said he, in a low whisper, ‘you won’t laugh at me if I tell you something?’
“‘Doctor,’ he said in a quiet whisper, ‘you won’t laugh at me if I tell you something?’”
“‘No, certainly not,’ I said.
"‘No, definitely not,’ I said."
“‘You remember that drum?’ he said, pointing to the glittering toy that hung against the wall. ‘You know, too, how it came to me. A few weeks after Christmas I was lying half asleep here, and the drum was hanging on the wall, when suddenly I heard it beaten; at first low and slowly, then faster and louder, until its rolling filled the house. In the middle of the night I heard it again. I did not dare to tell anybody about it, but I have heard it every night ever since.’
“‘You remember that drum?’ he said, pointing to the shiny toy that hung on the wall. ‘You also know how it came to me. A few weeks after Christmas, I was lying here, half asleep, and the drum was hanging on the wall when suddenly I heard it being played; at first softly and slowly, then faster and louder, until its sound filled the house. In the middle of the night, I heard it again. I didn’t dare to tell anyone about it, but I’ve heard it every night since.’”
“He paused and looked anxiously in my face. ‘Sometimes,’ he continued, ‘it is played softly, sometimes loudly, but always quickening to a long roll, so loud and alarming that I have looked to see people coming into my room to ask what was the matter. But I think, doctor—I think,’ he repeated slowly, looking up with painful interest into my face, ‘that no one hears it but myself.’
He paused and anxiously looked at my face. "Sometimes," he continued, "it’s played softly, sometimes loudly, but always building up to a loud and alarming roll, so intense that I’ve looked to see if anyone is entering my room to ask what’s going on. But I think, doctor—I think," he repeated slowly, gazing up with painful concern into my face, "that no one hears it but me."
“I thought so, too, but I asked him if he had heard it at any other time.
“I thought so too, but I asked him if he had ever heard it before.”
“‘Once or twice in the daytime,’ he replied, ‘when I have been reading or writing; then very loudly, as though it were angry, and tried in that way to attract my attention away from my books.’
“‘Once or twice during the day,’ he replied, ‘when I’ve been reading or writing; then very loudly, as if it were angry, and tried to grab my attention away from my books.’”
“I looked into his face and placed my hand upon his pulse. His eyes were very bright and his pulse a little flurried and quick. I then tried to explain to him that he was very weak, and that his senses were very acute, as most weak people’s are; and how that when he read, or grew interested and excited, or when he was tired at night, the throbbing of a big artery made the beating sound he heard. He listened to me with a sad smile of unbelief, but thanked me, and in a little while I went away. But as I was going downstairs I met the professor. I gave him my opinion of the case—well, no matter what it was.
“I looked into his face and placed my hand on his pulse. His eyes were very bright, and his pulse was a bit flustered and fast. I then tried to explain to him that he was very weak and that his senses were heightened, as tends to happen with weak people; and how when he read, or became interested and excited, or when he was tired at night, the pulsing of a large artery created the beating sound he heard. He listened to me with a sad smile, not fully believing, but thanked me, and soon after I left. As I was going downstairs, I ran into the professor. I shared my thoughts on the situation—well, it doesn’t really matter what they were.”
“‘He wants fresh air and exercise’ said the professor, ‘and some practical experience of life, sir.’ The professor was not a bad man, but he was a little worried and impatient, and thought—as clever people are apt to think—that things which he didn’t understand were either silly or improper.
“‘He wants fresh air and exercise,’ said the professor, ‘and some real-life experience, sir.’ The professor wasn’t a bad guy, but he was a bit worried and impatient, and thought—as smart people often do—that things he didn’t understand were either foolish or inappropriate.”
“I left the city that very day, and in the excitement of battlefields and hospitals I forgot all about little Rupert, nor did I hear of him again, until one day, meeting an old classmate in the army, who had known the professor, he told me that Rupert had become quite insane, and that in one of his paroxysms he had escaped from the house, and as he had never been found, it was feared that he had fallen into the river and was drowned. I was terribly shocked for the moment, as you may imagine; but, dear me, I was living just then among scenes as terrible and shocking, and I had little time to spare to mourn over poor Rupert.
“I left the city that same day, and in the chaos of battlefields and hospitals, I completely forgot about little Rupert. I didn't hear anything about him until one day I ran into an old classmate in the army who had known the professor. He told me that Rupert had gone quite insane, and during one of his episodes, he had escaped from the house. Since he was never found, people feared he had fallen into the river and drowned. I was really shocked for a moment, as you can imagine, but honestly, I was surrounded by such horrific scenes at the time that I had little opportunity to mourn for poor Rupert.”
“It was not long after receiving this intelligence that we had a terrible battle, in which a portion of our army was slaughtered. I was detached from my brigade to ride over to the battlefield and assist the surgeons of the beaten division, who had more on their hands than they could attend to. When I reached the barn that served for a temporary hospital, I went at once to work. Ah! Bob,” said the doctor thoughtfully, taking the bright sword from the hands of the half-frightened Bob, and holding it gravely before him, “these pretty playthings are symbols of cruel, ugly realities.”
“It wasn’t long after we received this news that we had a terrible battle, where part of our army was wiped out. I was assigned from my brigade to ride over to the battlefield and help the surgeons of the defeated division, who had more than they could handle. When I got to the barn that was being used as a makeshift hospital, I got right to work. Ah! Bob,” the doctor said thoughtfully, taking the shiny sword from the hands of the somewhat scared Bob and holding it seriously in front of him, “these nice-looking toys are symbols of harsh, ugly realities.”
“I turned to a tall, stout Vermonter,” he continued, very slowly, tracing a pattern on the rug with the point of the scabbard, “who was badly wounded in both thighs, but he held up his hands and begged me to help others first who needed it more than he. I did not at first heed his request, for this kind of unselfishness was very common in the army; but he went on, ‘For God’s sake, doctor, leave me here; there is a drummer boy of our regiment—a mere child—dying, if he isn’t dead now. Go and see him first. He lies over there. He saved more than one life. He was at his post in the panic of this morning, and saved the honor of the regiment.’ I was so much more impressed by the man’s manner than by the substance of his speech, which was, however, corroborated by the other poor fellows stretched around me, that I passed over to where the drummer lay, with his drum beside him. I gave one glance at his face—and—yes, Bob—yes, my children—it was Rupert.
“I turned to a tall, sturdy guy from Vermont,” he continued slowly, tracing a pattern on the rug with the tip of the scabbard, “who was seriously injured in both thighs, but he raised his hands and asked me to help others first who needed it more than he did. At first, I didn’t pay much attention to his request, since this kind of selflessness was pretty common in the army; but he insisted, ‘For God’s sake, doctor, leave me here; there’s a drummer boy from our regiment—a mere child—dying, if he isn’t dead already. Go see him first. He’s over there. He saved more than one life. He was at his post during the chaos this morning and saved the regiment’s honor.’ I was more moved by the man’s demeanor than by what he said, which was confirmed by the other poor souls scattered around me, so I made my way to where the drummer lay, with his drum beside him. I took one look at his face—and—yes, Bob—yes, my children—it was Rupert.
“Well! well! it needed not the chalked cross which my brother surgeons had left upon the rough board whereon he lay to show how urgent was the relief he sought; it needed not the prophetic words of the Vermonter, nor the damp that mingled with the brown curls that clung to his pale forehead, to show how hopeless it was now. I called him by name. He opened his eyes—larger, I thought, in the new vision that was beginning to dawn upon him—and recognized me. He whispered, ‘I’m glad you are come, but I don’t think you can do me any good.’
“Well! Well! it didn’t need the chalked cross that my brother surgeons had left on the rough board where he lay to show how urgent his need for relief was; it didn’t need the prophetic words of the Vermonter, nor the dampness mixing with the brown curls that clung to his pale forehead, to show how hopeless things were now. I called him by name. He opened his eyes—larger, I thought, as the new awareness began to dawn on him—and recognized me. He whispered, ‘I’m glad you’re here, but I don’t think you can help me.’”
“I could not tell him a lie. I could not say anything. I only pressed his hand in mine as he went on.
“I couldn't tell him a lie. I couldn't say anything. I just squeezed his hand in mine as he continued.”
“‘But you will see father, and ask him to forgive me. Nobody is to blame but myself. It was a long time before I understood why the drum came to me that Christmas night, and why it kept calling to me every night, and what it said. I know it now. The work is done, and I am content. Tell father it is better as it is. I should have lived only to worry and perplex him, and something in me tells me this is right.’
“‘But you will see Dad and ask him to forgive me. No one is to blame but me. It took me a long time to understand why the drum came to me that Christmas night, why it kept calling to me every night, and what it meant. I know now. The work is done, and I’m at peace. Tell Dad it’s better this way. I would have only lived to worry and confuse him, and something inside me tells me this is right.’”
“He lay still for a moment, and then grasping my hand, said,—
“He stayed quiet for a moment, and then grabbing my hand, said,—
“‘Hark!’
"Hey!"
“I listened, but heard nothing but the suppressed moans of the wounded men around me. ‘The drum’ he said faintly; ‘don’t you hear it?—the drum is calling me.’
“I listened, but heard nothing but the muffled moans of the injured men around me. ‘The drum,’ he said softly; ‘can’t you hear it?—the drum is calling me.’”
“He reached out his arm to where it lay, as though he would embrace it.
"He stretched out his arm to where it lay, as if he wanted to hug it."
“‘Listen’—he went on—‘it’s the reveille. There are the ranks drawn up in review. Don’t you see the sunlight flash down the long line of bayonets? Their faces are shining—they present arms—there comes the General—but his face I cannot look at for the glory round his head. He sees me; he smiles, it is’—and with a name upon his lips that he had learned long ago, he stretched himself wearily upon the planks and lay quite still.
“‘Listen,’ he continued, ‘it’s the morning call. The troops are lined up for inspection. Can’t you see the sunlight glinting off the long row of bayonets? Their faces are gleaming—they’re saluting—here comes the General—but I can’t look at his face because of the glory around his head. He sees me; he smiles, it is’—and with a name on his lips that he had learned long ago, he stretched out tiredly on the planks and lay completely still.
“That’s all.
"That's it."
“No questions now—never mind what became of the drum.
“No questions now—forget about what happened to the drum."
“Who’s that sniveling?
"Who’s that crying?"
“Bless my soul! where’s my pill-box?”
“Wow! Where's my pill organizer?”
THE END
THE END
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