Chapter XX: Dennis (2)

"I think," said the doctor, gravely, "that if this man comes at once the child may pull through."

"By Heaven! he shall come," said George Leadham to me. The doctor had hurried away.

"He won't come," said Ajax.

"If he don't," said the father, fiercely, "the turkey-buzzards'll hev a meal, for I'll shoot him in his tracks."

Ajax looked at me reflectively.

"George," said he, "shooting Pap wouldn't help little Sissy, would it? You and I can't handle this job. My brother will go. But--but, my poor old George, don't make ropes out of sand."

So I went.

When I started, the south-east wind, the rain-wind, had begun to blow, and it sounds incredible, but I was not aware of it. The pestilence had paralysed one's normal faculties. But riding due south-east I became, sooner or later, sensible of the change in the atmosphere. And then I remembered a chance remark of the doctor's. "We shall have this diphtheria with us till the rain washes it away," and one of the squatters had replied, bitterly, "Paradise'll be a cemetery an' nothin' else before the rain comes."

Passing through some pine woods I heard the soughing of the tree-tops. They were entreating the rain to come--to come quickly. How well I knew that soft, sibilant invocation! Higher up the few tufts of bunch grass that remained rustled in anticipation. On the top of the mountain, in ordinary years a sure sign of a coming storm, floated a veil of opaline sea mist ...

I found Pap and a greaser skinning a dead heifer. Pap nodded sulkily, thinking of his hay and his beans and bacon.

"What's up?" he growled.

"It's going to rain," said I.

"Ye ain't ridden from Paradise to tell me that. An' rain's not a- comin', either. 'Twould be a miracle if it did. How's folks? I heard as things couldn't be worse."

"They are bad," said I. "Eubank's sister-in-law and two children are dead. Judge Spragg has lost four. In all about sixteen children have gone and five adults. That's Paradise alone; in the foothills----"

"What brings you here?"

It seemed hopeless to soften this hardened old man. I had thought of a dozen phrases wherewith to soap the ways, so to speak, down which might be launched my petition. I forgot them all, confronted by those malicious, sneering eyes, by the derisive, snarling grin.

"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."

"What d'you say?"

"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."

For my life I could not determine whether the news moved him or not.

"Wal?"

"And she's asking for you."

"Askin'--fer me?"

At last I had gripped his attention and interest.

"Why?"

"She wants to give you her money."

"Then it wa'n't a plant? 'Twa'n't fixed up atween you boys an' her?"

"It was her own idea--an idea so strong that it has taken possession of her poor wandering wits altogether."

"Is that so?" He moistened his lips. "And you--ye've come up here to ask me to go down there, into that p'isonous Paradise, because a little girl who ain't nothin' to me wants to give me three dollars and a half?"

"If you get there in time it may save her life."

"An' s'pose I lose mine--hey?"

I shrugged my shoulders. He stared at me as if I were a strange animal, clicking his teeth and twisting his fingers.

"Look ye here," he burst out, angrily, with a curious note of surprise and petulance in his voice, "you an' that brother o' yours know me, old Pap Spooner, purty doggoned well. Hev ye heard anyone ever speak a good word fer me?"

"No one except--the schoolmarm."

"An' what did she say?"

"She reckoned you must have thought the world of your own little girl."

He paid no attention. Suddenly he said, irrelevantly--

"That dime little Sissy give me is the first gift I've had made me in thirty-five year. Wal, young man, ye must ha' known--didn't ye now?-- that you was takin' big chances in comin' after ole Pap Spooner. I'll bet the hull crowd down in Paradise laughed at the idee o' fetchin' me--hey?"

"Nobody laughs in Paradise now, and nobody except my brother, the doctor, and Sissy's father knows that I've come after you."

"Ye'll ride back and say the old man was skeered--hey?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"Yes; I've enough sense to know when I am skeered. I'm skeered plum to death, but all the same I'm a-goin' back with you, because Sissy give me that dime. There's a sack o' crushed barley behind that shed. Give yer plug a half feed, an' by then I'll be ready."

We rode into Paradise as night was closing in. The south-east wind was still blowing, and the thin veil of mist upon the mountain had grown into a cloud. In front of George Leadham's house were a couple of eucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Pap and I passed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the small porch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shone in the window. The shadow moved; it was the doctor. He hurried forward.

"Glad to make your acquaintance," said he to Pap, whom he had never seen before.

"Air ye? You wa'n't expectin' me, surely?"

"Certainly," replied the doctor, impatiently. "What man wouldn't come under such circumstances?"

"Is there much danger?" said Pap, anxiously.

"The child is as ill as she can be."

"I meant fer--me."

"Great Scot! If you feel like that you'd better not go in." His tone was dully contemptuous.

"Wal--I do feel like that, on'y more so; an' I'm goin' in all the same. Reckon I'm braver'n you, 'cause you ain't skeered."

We entered the room. George Leadham was sitting by the bed. When he saw us he bent over the flushed face on the pillow, and said, slowly and distinctly: "Here's Mr. Spooner, my pretty; he's come. Do you hear?"

She heard perfectly. In a thick, choked voice she said: "Is that you, Pap?"

"It's me," he replied; "it's me, sure enough."

"Why, so'tis. Popsy, where's my money?"

"Here, Sissy, right here."

She extended a thin, wasted hand.

"I want you to have it, Pap," she said, speaking very slowly, but in a clearer tone. "You see, it's like this. I've got the diptheery, an' I'm a-goin' to die. I don't need the money--see! And you do, you pore old Pap, so you must take it."

Pap took the money in silence. George Leadham had turned aside, unable to speak. I stood behind the door, out of sight. Sissy stared anxiously at Pap.

"Popsy said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would," she sighed. "Good-bye, you pore old Pap." She closed her eyes, but she held Pap's hand. The young doctor came forward with his finger upon his lips. Quietly, he signed to Pap to leave the room; the old man shook his head. The doctor beckoned the father and me out on to the porch.

"Miracles sometimes happen," said he, gravely. "The child has fallen into a natural sleep."

But not for three hours did her grip relax of Pap's hand, and he sat beside her patiently, refusing to budge. Who shall say what was passing in his mind, so long absorbed in itself, and now, if one could judge by his face, absorbed at last in this child?

When he came out of the room he spoke to the doctor in a new voice.

"If she wants anything--anything, you understan'--you get it--see?"

"Certainly."

"And look ye here; I shall be stayin' at my old _adobe_, but if the others want fer anything, you understan', get it--see?"

"Certainly, Mr. Spooner. I shall not fail to call on you, sir, because we want many things."

"That's all right; but," his tone grew hard and sharp, "if--if she-- dies, this contrack is broke. The rest kin die too; the sooner the better."

"But she won't die, Mr. Spooner," said the young doctor, cheerfully. "I feel in my bones, sir, that Sissy Leadham won't die."

And it may be added here that she didn't.

* * * * *

At the ranch-house that night Ajax and I sat up, watching, waiting, praying for the rain that would wash the diphtheria from Paradise and despair from our hearts. The south-east wind sang louder and louder in the cotton woods by the creek; the parched live oaks crackled with fear that the gathering clouds should roll by, the willows shivered and bowed themselves low in supplication. From the parched earth and every living thing thereon went up the passionate cry for water.

One by one we saw the stars fade out of the sky. The Dipper disappeared; then the Pole Star was extinguished. Orion veiled his triple splendours. The Milky Way ceased to be....

"It's coming," whispered Ajax.

Suddenly the wind died down; the trees became mute; only the frogs croaked a final Hallelujah Chorus, because they alone knew. And then, out of the heaven which had seemed to have forsaken us, coming slowly at first, as if with the timid, halting step of a stranger; coming quickly and gladly afterwards, as an old friend comes back to the place where he is sure of a welcome; and lastly, with a sound of ten thousand pattering feet, with a whirring of innumerable wings, with a roar of triumph and ecstasy, Prosperity poured down upon Paradise.

IV

GLORIANA

For three weeks we had advertised for a cook--in vain! And ranch life, in consequence, began to lose colour and coherence. Even the animals suffered: the dogs, the chickens, and in particular the tame piglet, who hung disconsolate about the kitchen door watching, and perchance praying, for the hired girl that was not.

"This," said Ajax, "spells demoralisation."

He alluded to the plates which lay face downward upon the dining-room table. We had agreed to wash up every other meal, saving time at the expense of decency. One plate did double duty, for we used the top for breakfast and the bottom for dinner. Before supper we scrubbed it thoroughly and began again.

"And this bread of yours," I retorted warmly--the plate labour-saving scheme was a happy thought of my own--"spells dyspepsia."

"True," he admitted forlornly. "I can make, but not bake bread. In a domestic crisis like this many things must be left underdone. We must find a cook. I propose that we ride to the village, and rope some aged virgin."

We discussed the propriety of such a raid with spirit. I contended that we might have reason to regret, at the end of another rope, so high-handed a proceeding.

"You are right," said Ajax. "That is the worst of this confounded ranch. Here, we enjoy neither the amenities of civilisation nor the freedom of the desert. However, it's always darkest before dawn, and I've a feeling in my bones that the present state of affairs cannot last. Something will turn up."

That afternoon Gloriana turned up.

We were sitting upon the verandah oppressed with the weight of beans, bacon, and soggy biscuit. As we smoked in silence our eyes rested gloomily upon the landscape--our domain. Before us lay an amber- coloured, sun-scorched plain; beyond were the foot-hills, bristling with chaparral, scrub-oaks, pines and cedars; beyond these again rose the grey peaks of the Santa Lucia range, pricking the eastern horizon. Over all hung the palpitating skies, eternally and exasperatingly blue, a-quiver with light and heat.

"Somebody's coming," said Ajax.

The country road, white with alkaline dust, crossed the ranch at right angles. Far away, to the left, was a faint blur upon the pink hills.

"It's no wagon," said Ajax idly, "and a _vaquero_ would never ride in the dust. It must be a buggy."

Five minutes later we could distinguish a quaint figure sitting upright in an ancient buckboard whose wheels wobbled and creaked with almost human infirmity. A mule furnished the motive power.

"Is it a man or a woman?" said Ajax.

"Possibly," I replied, "a cook."

"She is about to pay us a visit. Yes, it's a woman, a bundle of bones, dust and alpaca crowned with a sombrero. A book-agent, I swear. Go and tell her we have never learned to read."

I demurred. Finally we spun a dollar to decide upon which of us lay the brutal duty of turning away the stranger within our gates. Fortune frowned on me, and I rose reluctantly from my chair.

"Air you the hired man?" said the woman in the buggy, as I looked askance into her face.

"I work here," I replied, "for my board--which is not of the best."

"Ye seem kinder thin. Say--air the lords to home?"

"The lords?"

"Yes, the lords. They tole me back ther," she jerked her head in the direction of the village, "that two English lords owned a big cattle- ranch right here; an' I thought, mebbee, that they'd like ter see-- me."

A pathetic accent of doubt quavered upon the personal pronoun.

"Ye kin tell 'em," she continued, "that I'm here. Yes, sir, I'm a book-agent, an' my book will interest them--sure."

Her eyes, soft blue eyes, bespoke hope; her lips quivered with tell- tale anxiety. Something inharmonious about the little woman, a queer lack of adjustment between voice and mouth, struck me as singular, but not unpleasing.

"It's called," she pleaded, in the tenderest tones, "_A Golden Word from Mother_. I sell it bound in cloth, sheep, or moroccy. It's perfectly lovely--in moroccy."

"One of the--er--lords," said I gravely, "is here. I'll call him. I think he can read."

This, according to our fraternal code, was rank treachery, yet I felt no traitor. Ajax obeyed my summons, and, sauntering across the sun- baked yard, lifted his hat to the visitor. She bowed politely, and blinked, with short-sighted eyes, at my brother's overalls and tattered canvas shirt. I have seen Ajax, in Piccadilly, glorious in a frock-coat and varnished boots. I have seen him, as Gloriana saw him for the first time, in rags that might provoke the scorn of Lazarus. With the thermometer at a hundred in the shade, custom curtseys to convenience. Ajax boasted with reason that the loosening of a single safety-pin left him in condition for a plunge into the pool at the foot of the corral.

"I hope you're well, lord," said the little woman; "an' if ye ain't, why--what I've got here'll do ye more good than a doctor. I reckon ye hev a mother, an' naterally she thinks the world of ye. Well, sir, I bring ye a golden word from her very lips. Jest listen to this. I ain't much on the elocute, but I'm goin' ter do my best."

We listened patiently as she declaimed half a page of wretched prose. Her voice rose and fell in a sing-song cadence, but certain modulations of tone lent charm to the absurd words. When she finished her eyes were full of tears.

"That is very nice indeed," said Ajax softly. "I should like to buy your book."

Her hands trembled.

"I sell it in cloth at--one dollar; in sheep at--one, six bits; in reel moroccy, with gold toolin' at--two an' a half."

"We must certainly secure a copy in gold and morocco."

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Two copies," I suggested rashly: "one for you, Ajax; one for me."

"Ye kin take yer copy in cloth," said the little woman, compassionately, "sein' as ye're only workin' for yer board."

"In gold and morocco," I replied firmly. "The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. A golden word from mother cannot be fittingly bound in fustian."

"Ye must hev had awful nice mothers, both of ye," she said simply. "Do I sell many books? No, sir. Farmer-folks in Californy ain't got the money ter spend in readin' matter. They're in big luck these times if they kin pay the interest on their mortgages. With wheat at eighty cents a cental, an' barley not wuth the haulin', it seems most an impertinence to ask grangers ter buy books."

"Do you make twenty dollars a month at the business?"

She shook her head sorrowfully.

"This is September," said Ajax, "and within six weeks the rains will begin. What will you do then?"

She regarded him wistfully, but made no reply.

"Your mule," continued Ajax, "is about played out--poor beast. Will you stay here this winter, and keep house for us? I daresay you cook very nicely; and next spring, if you feel like it, you can start out bookselling again."

"My cookin' is sech as white folks kin eat, but----"

"We will pay you twenty dollars a month."

"The wages air more'n enough, but----"

"And the work will be light."

"I ain't scar't o' work," she retorted valiantly, "but----"

"It's settled, then," said Ajax, in his masterful way. "If you'll get down, I'll unhitch the mule and put him in the barn. My brother will show you the house."

She descended, protesting, but we could not catch the words that fell from her lips.

"You must tell us your name," said Ajax

"It's Gloriana," she faltered.

"Gloriana? Gloriana--what?"

"Jes--Gloriana."

* * * * *

"She is a type," said Ajax, a few days later.

"A type of what?"

"Of the women who suffer and are not strong There are many such in this Western country. I'd like to hear her story. Is she married or single? old or young? crazy or sane?"

"Gloriana," I answered, "satisfies our appetites but not our curiosity."

As time passed, her reticence upon all personal matters became exasperating. At the end of the first month she demanded and received her salary. Moreover, refusing our escort, she tramped three dusty miles to the village post-office, and returned penniless but jubilant. At supper Ajax said--"It's more blessed to give than to receive--eh, Gloriana?"

She compressed her lips, but her eyes were sparkling. After supper Ajax commented upon her improved appearance in her presence. He confessed himself at a loss to account for this singular rejuvenescence.

Expecting company, Gloriana?"

"Mebbee-an' mebbee not."

"You brought home a large parcel," said Ajax. "A precious parcel. Why, you held it as a woman holds her first baby."

She smiled, and bade us good-night.

"I've no call ter stan' aroun' gassin'," she assured us. "I've work ter do--a plenty of it, too."

During the month of October she spent all her leisure hours locked up in her own room; and, waiting upon us at meals, quoted freely that famous book--_A Golden Word from Mother_. We often heard her singing softly to herself, keeping time to the click of her needle. When pay-day came she demanded leave of absence. The village, she told us, was sadly behind the times, and with our permission she proposed to drive her mule and buckboard to the county seat--San Lorenzo.

"I've business of importance," she said proudly, "ter transack."

She returned the following evening with a larger parcel than the first.

"I've bought a bonnet," she confessed shyly, "an' trimmins."

We prevailed upon her to show us these purchases: white satin ribbon, jet, and a feather that might have graced the hat of the Master of Ravenswood. The "locating" of this splendid plume was no easy task.

"Maxims," sighed Gloriana, "is mostly rubbish. Now, fine feathers--an' ther ain't a finer feather than this in San Lorenzy county--don't make fine birds. A sparrer is always a sparrer, an' can't look like an ostridge noway. But, good land! feathers is my weakness."

She burned much oil that night, and on the morrow the phoenix that sprang from the flames was proudly displayed.

"I bought more'n a bonnet yesterday," she said, with her head on one side, and a slyly complacent smile upon her lips. "Yes, sir, stuff ter make a dress--a party dress, the finest kind o' goods."

Ajax stared helplessly at me. The mystery that encompassed this woman was positively indecent.

"An' shoes," she concluded. "I bought me a pair, hand sewn, with French tips--very dressy."

Later, inspired by tobacco, we agreed that the problem was solved. Our head _vaquero_, Uncle Jake, gaunt as a coyote at Christmas, and quite as hungry, had fallen a victim to Gloriana's flesh-pots. He lived in an old _adobe_ near the big corral, boarded himself and a couple of Mexicans upon _tortillas_, _frijoles_ and bacon, and was famous throughout the countryside as a confirmed bachelor and woman hater. We entertained a high regard for this veteran, because he seldom got drunk, and always drove cattle _slowly_. To him the sly Gloriana served Anglo-Saxon viands: pies, "jell'" (compounded according to a famous Wisconsin recipe), and hot biscuit, light as the laughter of children! What misogynist can withstand such arts? I remembered that at the fall calf-branding Uncle Jake had expressed his approval of our _cordon bleu_ in no measured terms.

"You've noted," he said, "that a greaser jest naterally hates ter handle mares. He rides a horse, an' he's right. The best o' mares will kick. Now, Glory Anne can't help bein' a woman, but I swear she's bin mighty well broke. She works right up into the collar--quiet an' steady, an' keeps her tongue, whar it belongs, shet up in her mouth. I've seen a sight o' wimmen I thot less of than Glory Anne."

I repeated these words to Ajax. He admitted their significance, in connection with bonnets and furbelows, and we both went to bed with a sound of marriage-bells in our ears. We slept soundly, convinced that neither Gloriana nor Uncle Jake would leave our service, and at breakfast the next morning discoursed at length upon the subject of wedding presents.

"What would you suggest, Gloriana," said Ajax, "as suitable for a middle-aged bridegroom?"

She considered the question thoughtfully, a delightful smile upon her lips.

"Ther's nothin' more interestin' than marryin', excep' mebbee the courtin'," she replied softly, "an' a gift is, so ter speak, a message o' love an' tenderness from one human heart t' another. With poor folks, who ain't experts in the use o' words, a gift means more 'n tongue kin tell. I'm sot myself on makin' things. Every stitch I put into a piece o' fancy work fer--a friend makes me feel the happier. Sech sewin' is a reel labour o' love, an' I kinder hate ter hurry over it, because, as I was sayin', it means so much that I'd like ter say, but bein' ignorant don't know how. A present fer a middle-aged bridegroom? Well, now, if 'twas me, I'd make him a nice comfortable bed-spread, with the best an' prettiest o' stitchin."

We both laughed. Uncle Jake under a gorgeous counterpane would make a graven image smile. Gloriana laughed with us.

"It'd be most too dainty fer some," she said, with a surprising sense of humour, "but I was thinkin' ye wanted a gift fer one o' yer high- toned relations in the old country. No? Well, take yer time: a gift ain't lightly chosen."

"I shall tackle Uncle Jake," said Ajax, as he rode over the ranch. "Gloriana is too discreet, but she bought that bonnet for her own wedding."

Uncle Jake, however, was cunning of fence.

"I don't feel lonesome," he declared. "Ye see I'm a cattle man, an' I like the travelled trails. I ain't huntin' no quicksands. Many a feller has mired down tryin' a new crossin'. No, sir, I calkilate ter remain single."

"He's very foxy," commented Ajax, "but he means business. It really bothers me that they won't confide in us."

The November rains were unusually heavy that year, and confined us to the house. Gloriana had borrowed a sewing-machine from a neighbour, and worked harder than ever, inflaming her eyes and our curiosity. We speculated daily upon her past, present and future, having little else to distract us in a life that was duller than a Chinese comedy. We waxed fat in idleness, but the cook grew lean.

"You're are losing flesh, Gloriana," said I, noting her sunken cheeks and glittering eyes.

"In a good cause," she replied fervently. "Anyways, ther ain't a happier woman than me in the state of Californy! Well, I'm most thro' with my sewing, an' I'd like ter show ye both what I've done, but----"

"We've have been waiting for this, Gloriana," said Ajax, tartly. "As a member of the family you have not treated my brother and myself fairly. This mysterious work of yours is not only wearing you to skin and bone, it is consuming us with curiosity."

"Ye're jokin', Mr. Ajax."

"This is no joking matter, Gloriana."

She blushed, and glanced indecisively at two solemn faces.

"Ye've bin more 'n good ter me," she said slowly, "but a secret is a secret till it's told. I hate ter tell my secret, an'--an' yer both young unmarried men. It's really embarrassin'."

"Your secret is no secret," said my brutal brother. "Somebody, Gloriana, is about to get married--eh?"

"Good land! How did ye come ter guess that?"

"Uncle Jake has not said a word."

"Well--why should he?"

"He's as close as a clam--the old sinner. So we can congratulate you, Gloriana?"

"Ye kin indeed."

We shook hands, and she led the way to her own room. There, spread upon her bed, lay some dainty garments, exquisitely fashioned,--a regular trousseau! Even to our inexperienced eyes the beauty of the workmanship was amazing.

"A woman," she murmured, "likes ter look at sech things. An' I do think these air good enough."

"Good enough!" we repeated. "They're fit for a queen."

"An' a queen is goin' ter wear 'em," said Gloriana proudly--"a queen o' beauty."

We stared blankly at each other. Had Cupid robbed his victim of her wits?

"They air fer Miss Miriam Standish, who was queen o' beauty at the San Lorenzy carnival. Miss Standish is the granddaughter of Doctor Standish. Ye've heard o' him--of course?"

She glanced keenly at Ajax, who rose to the occasion with an alacrity that I trust the recording angel appreciated.

"Of course," he said hastily. "Doctor Standish is a man of mark; as a physician, he----"

"He ain't a physician," said Gloriana. "He's a doctor o' divinity--a learned, godly man."

"And his granddaughter is about to marry----"

"Mr. Hubert Leadbetter. I should say _Professor_ Leadbetter, who keeps the biggest drug-store in town."

We had bought drugs from the Professor, and were happily able to testify to his personal charms. Gloriana beamed.

"Ther ain't a finer young man in the land, Mr. Ajax: he's jest as good as his own sarsaparilla."

"You are going to attend the wedding?" said I, thinking of the wonderful bonnet.

"If you please," said Gloriana. "I jest couldn't stay away. Why, I've made things fer Miriam Standish ever since she was born. That is how I learned ter sew as few women kin sew."

Ajax touched one of the garments lightly, as became a bachelor.

"This work will bring you many shekels, Gloriana. I had no idea you were such a needlewoman."

"What!" she cried, her face crimson. "Do you think I'd take money from Miriam Standish? Why----"

She stopped short in confusion, and covered her poor face with trembling hands.

"I beg your pardon," said Ajax gravely, "I wouldn't hurt your feelings, Gloriana, for the world."

She looked up, irresolutely.

"I reckon I've said too much or too little," she said slowly. "Ye're both gen'lemen, an' ye've bin awful kind ter me. I kin trust ye with my secret, an' I'm goin' ter do it. The Standishes, are New England folk--high-toned an' mighty particler. It's as easy fer them ter be virtuous as ter eat punkin pie fer breakfast. I come from Wisconsin, where we think more of our bodies than our souls; an' 'twas in Wisconsin that I first met Dr. Standish. He had a call to the town, wher I lived with--with my sister. She, my sister, was a real pretty girl then, but of a prettiness that soon fades. An' she hired out as cook ter the Doctor. He was a good man, an' a kind one, but she paid back his kindness by runnin' off with his only son."

"Surely," said Ajax gently, "the son was also to blame?"

"No, sir, my sister was ter blame, an' she knew it. We was common folk, Mr. Ajax, what they would call in the South--white trash, an' the Standishes was real quality. My sister knew that, an' refused to marry the young man, tho' he asked her on his bended knees. Then he died, an'--an' my sister died, an' nothin' was left but the sorrow an' the shame, an'--Miriam."

The name fell softly on a silence that we respected. Presently she continued--

"Doctor Standish offered to take the child, an' I dared not keep her. His terms were awful hard, but just: the scandal'd broke up his home, an' his heart. He tole me he'd take Miriam ter Californy, an' that she must never know the story of her mother's sin. That was right, Mr. Ajax--eh?"

"I don't know, Gloriana. Go on."

"I promised him never ter speak to the child, an' I've kept my word; but he let me make her things. That was kind of him--very kind."

"Very kind, indeed," said Ajax.

"I followed 'em ter Californy, an' worked out, an' sold books an' peddled fruit, but I've kep' track o' little Miriam."

"You have never spoken to her, you say?"

"Never. Doctor Standish kin trust me. He's posted me, too. He tole me o' the wedding. I got word the night I first went ter the village, an' that's why--" she smiled through her tears--"that's why I wore my teeth. They cost me twenty dollars, an' I keep 'em fer high days an' holidays."

Ajax began to pace up and down the room. I heard him swearing to himself, and his fists were clenched. I felt certain that he was about to interfere in matters that did not concern us.

"Miss Standish should be told the truth," said he at last.

"No, no," she exclaimed. "I'm a wicked woman to wish ter kiss her. I done wrong in telling the secret, but yer sympathy jest twisted it outer me. Promise me, Mr. Ajax, that ye'll never give me away."

We pledged our word, and left her.

* * * * *

"Gloriana's dun days must soon come to an end," said Ajax to me upon the eve of the wedding.

"Why shouldn't she marry Uncle Jake? The old chap wants her. He informed me this afternoon that a double team travelled farther than a single horse. And he hangs about the kitchen door all the time, and divides Gloriana's favours with the pig."

"Tell him to propose."

"I'll have to do it for him," replied my brother. "Uncle Jake has not the gift of tongues."

We accompanied Gloriana to San Lorenzo; as we feared to trust our friend--for so we had come to regard her--with the mule, a mischievous beast, spoiled by prosperity. Ajax drove a skittish pair of colts. Gloriana and I occupied the back seat of our big spring wagon.

"My brother is not Uncle Jake," said Ajax, as soon as the colts had settled down to business, "but he'll tell you all the pretty things the old man says about you."

"Uncle Jake is puffectly rediclous," replied Gloriana gaily. "His love is cupboard love."

"He has mired down at last."

"Nonsense! Mr. Ajax."

"He is set on matrimony. You are the one woman in the world for him. Take him, Gloriana; and then we'll all live together for ever and ever."

"Mr. Ajax, you'd sooner joke than eat."

"I'm not joking now. Uncle Jake is an honest man, with money laid by. He would make you comfortable for life, and such a marriage might pave the way to--to a better understanding with Doctor Standish."

Her face flushed at these last words, and fire flooded her eyes. Looking at her, I realised that long ago this worn woman must have been a beautiful girl.

"No," she answered steadily. "I wouldn't say Yes to the Angel Gabriel. Uncle Jake and I would make a baulky team. He's obstinate as my old mule, an' so am I. An' there's another thing: I'm most petered out, an' need a rest. Mattermony ain't rest."

My brother had tact enough to change the subject.

Descending the San Lorenzo grade, a sharp incline, Gloriana called our attention to a view panoramic and matchless beneath the glamour of sunset. Below us lay the mission town, its crude buildings aglow with rosy light; to the left was the cañon, a frowning wilderness of manzanita, cactus and chaparral; to the right towered the triune peak of the Bishop, purple against an amber sky; in the distance were the shimmering waters of the Pacific. Upon the face of the landscape brooded infinite peace, and the soft shadows of evening.

"In Californy," said our passenger, "the glorious works o' the Lord air revealed. There's the Bishop: he looks fine to-night. Ye kin see the peak, but the sea fog's crawlin' in, an' shets off the main body o' the mountain. That's wher the fogs air always thickest. An' that's wher I lost my way, Mr. Ajax. Yes, sir, my feet stumbled on the dark mountain, as the prophet says, but I clumb the stony places, an' now, on the top, its clear."

"Gloriana," said Ajax, after a pause, "will you allow my brother, who is a grave and learned signor, to plead your cause with Doctor Standish? I know what lies nearest your heart."

In this impudent fashion he laid a grievous burden on me; for I have no stomach for other folk's pastry, yet the hope that glistened upon Gloriana's face whetted a strange appetite.

"I'll speak to him--if you wish it," said I.

"No," she returned, her eyes giving the lie to her lips. "It wouldn't be right."

But a woman's brain is a sorry advocate against her heart. Ajax, as I expected, put her scruples to rout. It was agreed that I should carry, as credentials, Gloriana's present--the parcel she hugged to her bosom, weighty with love and linen; that the interview should take place after dinner; that the recognition of Gloriana as Miriam's blood-relation should be not demanded but suggested with all deference due to a doctor of divinity. The Standishes boarded at the Hotel Buena Vista, where we always stayed; Gloriana was set down at a modest two- bit house, some three-quarters of a mile distant.

As the hour of meeting the Doctor approached, my courage oozed from every pore, distilling a malignant dew of mistrust that not even the optimism of Ajax could evaporate. As we sat at meat I noted with apprehension the stern features of Standish, who occupied an adjoining table. He ate sparingly, as became an old man, and drank no wine. His granddaughter, a charming girl, with eyes that reminded me of Gloriana, chattered gaily to him, but he replied in monosyllables. Doubtless he was thinking of the parting on the morrow.

Half-an-hour later he received me in his room, and asked courteously in what way he could serve me.

I laid my credentials upon the table. They were flanked, I remarked, by a Bible, and a well-worn book of prayer.

"This," I began lamely, "is a present from our housekeeper, Gloriana, to your granddaughter. She asked me to deliver it into your hands."

"I thank you, sir," he replied stiffly. "You say this--er--woman is your housekeeper?"

"Our housekeeper--and our friend."

"Indeed. Well, sir, I am obliged to you. Good-night."

"A present," said I, "demands an acknowledgment."

"An acknowledgment? You look at me very strangely, young man."

Upon this I spoke; explaining, in halting sentences, my mission. He listened attentively, a frown upon his somewhat narrow forehead.

"How dare you interfere in such matters!" he asked, in a voice that quavered with suppressed rage. "What right have you to come between me and a woman, an ignorant, immoral creature, whose very presence is contamination?"

"Ignorant, illiterate--yes; but a braver, truer, more loving spirit never breathed. I count it a privilege to know her. Surely she has suffered enough for a sister's sin!"

"My life has been poisoned," he muttered. "I was robbed at once of my son and of my profession, for I dared not preach what I could not practise--forgiveness. Leave me, sir."

"I beg your pardon," said I bitterly. "If you turn a deaf ear to this" (I touched his Bible), "and these" (I tore open the parcel, and spread Gloriana's handiwork upon the table), "how can I expect you to listen to me?"

"You are in possession of all the facts, sir. Don't presume to judge me. Go--and take these things with you. It has been the object of my life to keep my granddaughter and this woman apart. I allowed her to work for the child, but the clothes she has been sending I have given to--others. Already, despite my efforts, she suspects that there is some unhappy mystery about her birth."

* * * * *

Ajax met me on the threshold of our cheerless hotel parlour, and listened confounded to my story. As we sat smoking and talking the bell-boy ushered in Gloriana. When she caught sight of her precious parcel she gasped with satisfaction.

"I'm most choked," she panted, "in trying ter get here in time. I reckon I run most o' the way. Ever since ye set me down I've bin tryin' studyin' an' worryin'. I don't want ye," she turned an anxious face to mine, "ter speak ter Doctor Standish to-night, fer it might onsettle Miriam. Good land o' Peter, how short my breath is! Ye see ther couldn't be room in the child's heart jest now fer me an' the _Pro_fessor. An' when that ther idee took aholt it seemed as if I couldn't rest till I saw ye. I'm mighty glad I was in time."

The words fell from her lips in sobs and gasps.

"It's all right," said Ajax. "Sit down, Gloriana. You deserve a scolding."

As he spoke she sank upon the couch, and tugged convulsively at the white linen band around her throat.

"She is ill," whispered Ajax. "Run for assistance--quick!"

I chanced to meet the bell-boy, and dispatched him in search of a physician. Unable to discriminate between doctors of medicine and divinity, the youth summoned in hot haste Doctor Standish. His granddaughter, learning that a woman was in sore distress, accompanied him. They entered the room together. The Doctor motioned the girl back, but she hastened forward, and, looking with infinite compassion into the poor twisted face, took Gloriana's hands in hers. Some one administered brandy and spirits of ammonia.

"How did this happen?" said the Doctor aside to me.

I spared him nothing in the recital, and his stern features softened as I emphasised Gloriana's anxiety to save Miriam from worry. As I finished, the faithful creature opened her eyes, which rested naturally upon the face of Miriam.

"Why--it's my little girl," she said faintly. Doctor Standish bent forward.

"If she mistakes you for one of her own kin, don't undeceive her. Play the part."

Miriam nodded, and kissed the frail hands that fluttered round her head.

"Gimme my parcel," she said presently, in a stronger voice. "Mercy sakes! I'm awful weak; but I'd like ter show my little girl the things I made for her."

The parcel was brought and untied. Gloriana touched the garments tenderly.

"Nothin'," she murmured, "kin come closer to ye than these pretty things, excep' the love I stitched into 'em. When you wear 'em you'll think o' me, Miss Standish."

At the sound of her name the girl started, and looked askance at her grandfather, who turned his head aside.

"Who is this woman!" she asked in a low voice.

The answer came from Gloriana, slowly and distinctly.

"I'm--nothin'--to--ye; but ye've bin the world an' all ter me. Well--I said I'd never go ter my little girl, because I wasn't fit, but I always thought that the Lord in His mercy would bring her ter me. Ye wore the clothes I sent, an' mebbee ye wondered who made 'em. 'Twas the happiness o' my life sewing on 'em, an' ter think you was wearin' them. I've worked awful hard, but I kin take it easy--now. I feel reel sleepy, too. Good-night, my pretty, good-night!"

We were quite unprepared for what happened, believing that our poor friend was merely over-wrought and weary. But as the words "good- night" fell softly upon our ears Gloriana sighed peacefully--and died.

"Who is this woman?" said Miriam for the second time, thinking that Gloriana had fallen asleep.

The Doctor was not so deceived. He pressed forward, and laid his trembling fingers upon the wrist of the dead, and then bent his head till it rested upon the breast of her he had counted a scandalous sinner. When he confronted us the tears were rolling down his face.

"May God forgive me!" he cried, falling upon his knees. "This woman, Miriam, was your mother."

V

BUMBLEPUPPY

Bumblepuppy is a synonym of whist played in defiance of certain time- honoured conventions and principles. Ajax said with reason that Johnnie Kapus, the nephew of our neighbour, old man Kapus, played the game of life in such a sorry, blundering fashion that he marvelled why his uncle gave him house-room. Ajax christened Johnnie--Bumble-puppy.

Once we hired Johnnie to work for us at the rate of half-a-dollar a day. A heavy rain-storm had just taken place, and my brother insisted that Johnnie was the right man to fill up the "wash-outs" in and about the corrals. He was strong, big, docile as a cow, and he lived within a few hundred yards of the ranch-house.

Johnnie was provided with a spade and a wheelbarrow, and led to a gaping hole beneath the barn. I explained that the rain had washed away the soil and made the hole, which must be filled up before more rain should fall.

"Wheer shall I git the dirt from?" Johnnie demanded.

"From the most convenient place," said I. Ajax and I returned to the barn an hour later. The hole was filled; but another hole, from which Johnnie had taken the dirt, as large as the first, seriously threatened the under-pinning of the building.

Ajax swore. Johnnie looked at me, as he drawled out:

"The boss told me to git the dirt wheer 'twas mos' handy."

Ajax grinned.

"I see. It was the boss' fault, not yours. Now then, Johnnie, the work must be done all over again."

"If you say so, boys, I'll do it."

As we moved away Ajax pointed out the propriety of giving explicit directions. At dinner time we came back to the barn. Johnnie had taken the earth out of the first hole and put it back again into the second!

"You star-spangled fool!" said Ajax.

"You tole me," replied Johnnie, "that the work mus' be did all over agen--an' I done it."

"Directions," I remarked, "may be made too explicit."

After this incident, we always spoke of Johnnie as Bumblepuppy.

Some six months later Alethea-Belle told us that Johnnie Kapus was doing "chores" for the widow Janssen; milking her cow, taking care of the garden, and drawing water. Upon inquiry, however, we learned that the cow was drying up, the well had caved in, and the garden produced no weeds, it is true, and no vegetables!

"Why doesn't the widow sack him?" Ajax asked.

"Mis' Janssen is kinder sorry for Johnnie," replied the schoolmistress; then she added irrelevantly, "There's no denyin' that Johnnie Kapus has the loveliest curly hair."

About a fortnight after this, when the July sun was at its zenith and the starch out of everything animate and inanimate, old man Kapus came up to the ranch-house. Johnnie, he said, disappeared during the previous night.

"And he's bin kidnapped, too," the uncle added.

"Kidnapped?"

"Yes, boys--hauled out o' winder! A man weighin' close onter two hundred pounds 'd naterally prefer to walk out o' the door, but the widder hauled Johnnie out o' winder."

"The widow?"

"Mis' Janssen. There was buggy tracks at the foot o' the melon patch, and the widder's missin'. She's put it up to marry my Johnnie. I suspicioned something, but I counted on Johnnie. I sez to myself: 'Others might be tempted by a plump, well-lookin' widder, but not Johnnie.' Ye see, boys, Johnnie ain't quite the same as you an' me."

"Not quite," said Ajax.

"Mebbee ye've wondered why I sot sech store by Johnnie. Wal--I'll tell ye. Johnnie's paw an' me was brothers an' pardners afore the war. An' after Bull Run John sez to me: 'Abram,' he sez, 'we mustn't let Ole Glory trail in the dust.' That's what he sez. 'John,' I answers, 'what kin we do to prevent it?' '_Enlist_,' sez he. An' we done it. But afore we go within smellin' distance o' the rebs, yes, boys, afore we saw 'em, a bullet comes slam-bang into John's head."

The old man paused, overcome. We turned our eyes from his wrinkled, troubled face, as Ajax entreated him to say no more.

"He died in defence of his flag," I muttered.

"Ah!" exclaimed Johnnie's uncle, "I thought you'd say that. No, boys, John didn't die. A Kapus takes a heap o' killin.' John up an lived-- an' _married_! He married my girl, too, Susie Bunker. Susie felt awful sorry for him, for that there rebel bullet had kinder made scrambled eggs with pore John's brains. I let Susie marry John, because I knew that he needed a good woman's keer. And then Johnnie was born: a whoppin' baby, but with a leetle something missin' in his purty head. Then John died, and soon enough Susie got peaked-face an' lost her relish fer food. She tuk a notion that John needed her t'otherside. Just afore she sent in her checks, she give me Johnnie, an' she ast my pardon for marryin' John instead o' me. I tole her she done right. An' I promised to look after Johnnie. Up to date, boys, I hev. But now that darned widder woman has onexpectedly kidnapped him. What kin I do?"

"The widow will look after both of you," I suggested.

"What! Share my Johnnie with her? Not much. She stole that there boy from me by force. By Jing! I'll take him from her without liftin' a finger. Ye see, Johnnie is mighty apt to disappint the widder. Sometimes--more often than not--Johnnie _is_--disappintin'! I allus jedge the pore boy by contrairies. Most o' men when they marry air apt to forgit them as raised 'em, but Johnnie'll pine fer me. I know it. Bless his heart, he can't git along nohow without me."

Listening to this simple talk, watching the old man's rough, honest face, my own heart grew chill with apprehension. The widow had a small income and many charms. It was certain that Johnnie's curly hair, bright blue eyes, and stalwart figure had captivated her fancy. Pity had bloomed into love. The pair must have driven--as fast as the widow's steed could travel--into San Lorenzo. By this time, high noon, the licence, doubtless, had been issued and the marriage solemnised by parson or justice of the peace. Once married, no man--not even old man Kapus--would be justified in tearing Bumblepuppy from the fond arms of his bride.

We asked Johnnie's uncle to dine with us. He thanked us warmly.

"Boys, you surmise that I'm feelin' lonesome. And I am. But I won't be lonesome long. The widder can't let that cow o' hers go without two milkin's, an' her pigs an' chickens must be fed. She'll be back in the village 'bout four or five; an' to-night, to-night, boys, my Johnnie 'll be home to supper."

Ajax discreetly descanted upon the widow's fine complexion, but old man Kapus lent him but an indifferent ear.

"She's fat an' slick," he admitted, "but Johnnie's fat an' slick, too. An' who made him so? Why--his uncle Abram. D'ye think now that I've fed him up and got him into sech fine shape that he'll leave me? No, sir. You might act that-a-way, but not my Johnnie."

After dinner, we accompanied Uncle Abram as far as the creek which flows between the village and our domain. Here stand some fine cottonwood trees and half-a-dozen lordly white-oaks. The spot is famous as a picnicking ground, and in the heat of summer is as cool a place as may be found in the county. And here, paddling in the brook like an urchin, we found Bumblepuppy. His eyes sparkled as they fell upon the face of his uncle.

"Ye've got back, Johnnie," said the old man.

"Yas. 'Twas hotter'n a red-hot stove on the road."

"Ye druv in with the widder woman?"

"Yas. I druv in with her; but I walked back. Guess I run the most o' the way, too."

"An' Mis' Janssen--wheer is she?"

"I dunno', uncle Abram."

"Is she still a widder woman, Johnnie?"

"She was when I left her," said Bumblepuppy.

He had ascended the bank. Sitting down, he began to put on his socks. I noted the admirable symmetry of calf and ankle; I thought of the lungs and muscles which had sustained the superb body during a twenty- six mile run between blazing earth and sky.

"What in thunder did ye go to town fer?" asked the old man. "Speak up, Johnnie. Give us the cold facts."

Then Bumblepuppy made the speech of his life.

"Uncle Abram, you tole me to obey Mis' Janssen, an' do what she said."

"That's so, Johnnie."

"Yesday, she tole me to fix up an' be ready to go to San Lorenzy with her. She said we'd travel by night 'cause o' the heat. An' she said I was not to 'sturb you. She said she'd come to the winder an' tap. Then I'd crawl out without 'sturbin' you. Wal--she come around about two, jest as the roosters was a'crowin 'fer the second time. I slipped out o' winder in my stockined feet. I hope I didn't 'sturb ye?"

"Ye didn't. Go on."

"In town Mis' Janssen said she'd fixed it up to marry me. She said I needed a lovin' wife, and that me an' she'd have a Fourth o' July time together. I said nothing, 'cause you'd tole me never to interrup' a lady when she was a-talkin'. She kep' on a-talkin' till we got to the Court House, where Mis' Janssen bought a licence. Then we hunted a minister. Bimeby, he ast me if I was willin' to take Sairy Anne Janssen to be my wife----"

"An' ye said NO, my own Johnnie?"

"That's what I done, Uncle Abram. And then she sez, kinder wheedlin': 'But you will marry yer Sairy Anne, Johnnie, won't ye?' And then, gittin' scared, I kinder forgot my manners, fer I said: 'No--I'm d---- d if I will!' An' I disremember what she said nex', but I found myself in the road, a-runnin' like a mad steer. Jee! that road was hotter'n a red-hot stove!"

During the recital of this adventure Bumblepuppy's face had deepened in tint till it glowed like an iron disc in the heart of a fire. As he finished speaking, he knelt down and dipped his head into the cool, bubbling creek. Lifting up his ruddy face, a ray of sunshine, filtering through the tremulous leaves of the cottonwoods, fell full upon his chestnut curls, and each drop of water on his hair became of a sudden a gem of prismatic colour and most brilliant lustre.

"Phew-w-w!" said Bumblepuppy. "I hope Mis' Janssen ain't feelin' as warm as I am."

VI

JASPERSON'S BEST GIRL

Jasperson came to the ranch at the time of the March branding, and it was well understood between the contracting parties--Ajax and I of the first part, and Jasper Jasperson of the second part, all of San Lorenzo County, in the State of California--that the said Jasperson came to us as a favour, and, so to speak, under protest. For he had never worked out before, and was possessed of money in bank and some four hundred acres of good arable land which, he carefully explained to us, he was unwilling to farm himself. Indeed, his appearance bespoke the man of independent means, for he wore a diamond collar- stud--his tie was always pulled carefully down so as not to interfere with this splendid gem--and two diamond rings. In Jasperson's hot youth he had come into violent contact with a circular saw, and the saw, as he admitted, had the best of the encounter--two fingers of his left hand being left in the pit. A man of character and originality, he insisted upon wearing the rings upon his maimed hand, both upon the index finger; and once, when Ajax suggested respectfully that the diamonds would shine to better advantage upon the right hand, he retorted reasonably enough that the mutilated member "kind of needed settin' off." He seized the opportunity to ask Ajax why we wore no jewellery, and upon my brother replying that we considered diamonds out of place upon a cattle ranch, he roundly asserted that in his opinion a "gen'leman couldn't be too dressy."