A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's, and Other Stories Page 3

  THE REFORMATION OF JAMES REDDY.

  I.

  It was a freshly furrowed field, so large that the eye at firstscarcely took in its magnitude. The irregular surface of upturned, oily,wave-shaped clods took the appearance of a vast, black, chopping sea,that reached from the actual shore of San Francisco Bay to the low hillsof the Coast Range. The sea-breeze that blew chilly over this bleakexpanse added to that fancy, and the line of straggling whitewashed farmbuildings, that half way across lifted themselves above it, seemed tobe placed on an island in its midst. Even the one or two huge, misshapenagricultural machines, abandoned in the furrows, bore an odd resemblanceto hulks or barges adrift upon its waste.

  This marine suggestion was equally noticeable from the door of one ofthe farm buildings--a long, detached wooden shed--into which a number offarm laborers were slowly filing, although one man was apparently enoughimpressed by it to linger and gaze over that rigid sea. Except in theirrough dress and the labor-stains of soil on their hands and faces, theyrepresented no particular type or class. They were young and old,robust and delicate, dull and intelligent; kept together only by somephilosophical, careless, or humorous acceptance of equally enforcedcircumstance in their labors, as convicts might have been. For they hadbeen picked up on the streets and wharves of San Francisco,--dischargedsailors, broken-down miners, helpless newcomers, unemployed professionalmen, and ruined traders,--to assist in ploughing and planting certainbroad leagues of rich alluvial soil for a speculative Joint StockCompany, at a weekly wage that would have made an European peasantindependent for half a year. Yet there was no enthusiasm in their labor,although it was seldom marked by absolute laziness or evasion, and wasmore often hindered by ill-regulated "spurts" and excessive effort,as if the laborer was anxious to get through with it; for in the fewconfidences they exchanged there was little allusion to the present, andthey talked chiefly of what they were going to do when their work wasover. They were gregarious only at their meals in one of the sheds, orwhen at night they sought their "bunks" or berths together in the largerbuilding.

  The man who had lingered to look at the dreary prospect had a somewhatgloomy, discontented face, whose sensitive lines indicated a certainsusceptibility to such impressions. He was further distinguished byhaving also lingered longer with the washing of his hands and facein the battered tin basin on a stool beside the door, and by thecircumstance that the operation revealed the fact that they were whiterthan those of his companions. Drying his fingers slowly on the longroller-towel, he stood gazing with a kind of hard abstraction across thedarkening field, the strip of faded colorless shore, and the chill graysea, to the dividing point of land on the opposite coast, which in thedying daylight was silhouetted against the cold horizon.

  He knew that around that point and behind it lay the fierce, half-grown,half-tamed city of yesterday that had worked his ruin.

  It was scarcely a year ago that he had plunged into its wildestexcesses,--a reckless gambler among speculators, a hopeless speculatoramong gamblers, until the little fortune he had brought thither had beenswept away.

  From time to time he had kept up his failing spirit with the feverishexaltation of dissipation, until, awakening from a drunkard's dream onemorning, he had found himself on board a steamboat crossing the bay, incompany with a gang of farm laborers with whom he was hired. A bittersmile crossed his lips as his eyes hovered over the cold, rugged fieldsbefore him. Yet he knew that they had saved him. The unaccustomed manuallabor in the open air, the regular hours, the silent, heavy, passionlessnights, the plain but wholesome food, were all slowly restoring hisyouth and strength again. Temptation and passion had alike fled theseunlovely fields and grim employment. Yet he was not grateful. He nursedhis dreary convalescence as he had his previous dissipation, as part ofa wrong done him by one for whose sake, he was wont to believe, he hadsacrificed himself. That person was a woman.

  Turning at last from the prospect and his bitter memories to join hiscompanions, he found that they had all passed in. The benches before thelong table on which supper was spread were already filled, and he stoodin hesitation, looking down the line of silent and hungrily preoccupiedmen on either side. A young girl, who was standing near a smallerserving-table, apparently assisting an older woman in directing theoperation of half a dozen Chinese waiters, moved forward and cleared aplace for him at a side-table, pushing before it the only chair in theroom,--the one she had lately vacated. As she placed some of the dishesbefore him with a timid ostentation, and her large but well-shaped handscame suddenly in contact with, and in direst contrast to his own whiterand more delicate ones, she blushed faintly. He lifted his eyes to hers.

  He had seen her half a dozen times before, for she was the daughter ofthe ranch superintendent, and occasionally assisted her mother inthis culinary supervision--which did not, however, bring her into anyfamiliar association with the men. Even the younger ones, perhaps fromover-consciousness of their inferior position or the preoccupation oftheir labor, never indulged in any gallantry toward her, and he himself,in his revulsion of feeling against the whole sex, had scarcely noticedthat she was good-looking. But this naive exhibition of preference couldnot be overlooked, either by his companions, who smiled cynically acrossthe table, or by himself, from whose morbid fancy it struck an ignoblesuggestion. Ah, well! the girl was pretty--the daughter of his employer,who rumor said owned a controlling share in the company; why shouldhe not make this chance preference lead to something, if only toameliorate, in ways like this, his despicable position here. He knewthe value of his own good looks, his superior education, and a certainrecklessness which women liked; why should he not profit by them as wellas the one woman who had brought him to this? He owed her sex nothing;if those among them who were not bad were only fools, there was noreason why he should not deceive them as they had him. There wasall this small audacity and cynical purpose in his brown eyes ashe deliberately fixed them on hers. And I grieve to say that theseabominable sentiments seemed only to impart to them a certain attractivebrilliancy, and a determination which the undetermining sex is apt toadmire.

  She blushed again, dropped her eyes, replied to his significant thankswith a few indistinct words, and drew away from the table with a suddentimidity that was half confession.

  She did not approach him again during the meal, but seemed to have takena sudden interest in the efficiency of the waiters, generally, which shehad not shown before. I do not know whether this was merely an effortat concealment, or an awakened recognition of her duty; but, after thefashion of her sex,--and perhaps in contrast to his,--she was kinderthat evening to the average man on account of HIM. He did not, however,notice it; nor did her absence interfere with his now healthy appetite;he finished his meal, and only when he rose to take his hat from thepeg above him did he glance around the room. Their eyes met again. Ashe passed out, although it was dark, he put on his hat a little moresmartly.

  The air was clear and cold, but the outlines of the landscape hadvanished. His companions, with the instinct of tired animals, werealready making their way in knots of two or three, or in silent file,across the intervening space between the building and their dormitory.A few had already lit their pipes and were walking leisurely, but themajority were hurrying from the chill sea-breeze to the warmth andcomfort of the long, well-lit room, lined with blanketed berths, and setwith plain wooden chairs and tables. The young man lingered for a momenton the wooden platform outside the dining-shed,--partly to evade thisonly social gathering of his fellows as they retired for the night, andpartly attracted by a strange fascination to the faint distant glow,beyond the point of land, which indicated the lights of San Francisco.

  There was a slight rustle behind him! It was the young girl who, with awhite woolen scarf thrown over her head and shoulders, had just left theroom. She started when she saw him, and for an instant hesitated.

  "You are going home, Miss Woodridge?" he said pleasantly.

  "Yes," she returned, in a faint, embarrassed voice. "I thought
I'd runon ahead of ma!"

  "Will you allow me to accompany you?"

  "It's only a step," she protested, indicating the light in the window ofthe superintendent's house, the most remote of the group of buildings,yet scarcely a quarter of a mile distant.

  "But it's quite dark," he persisted smilingly.

  She stepped from the platform to the ground; he instantly followed andranged himself at a little distance from her side. She protested stillfeebly against his "troubling himself," but in another moment they werewalking on quietly together. Nevertheless, a few paces from the platformthey came upon the upheaved clods of the fresh furrows, and theirprogress over them was slow and difficult.

  "Shall I help you? Will you take my arm?" he said politely.

  "No, thank you, Mr. Reddy."

  So! she knew his name! He tried to look into her eyes, but the woolenscarf hid her head. After all, there was nothing strange in herknowing him; she probably had the names of the men before her in thedining-room, or on the books. After a pause he said:--

  "You quite startled me. One becomes such a mere working machine herethat one quite forgets one's own name,--especially with the prefix of'Mr.'"

  "And if it don't happen to be one's real name either," said the girl,with an odd, timid audacity.

  He looked up quickly--more attracted by her manner than her words; moreamused than angry.

  "But Reddy happens to be my real name."

  "Oh!"

  "What made you think it was not?"

  The clods over which they were clambering were so uneven that sometimesthe young girl was mounting one at the same moment that Reddy wasdescending from another. Her reply, half muffled in her shawl, wasdelivered over his head. "Oh, because pa says most of the men here don'tgive their real names--they don't care to be known afterward. Ashamed oftheir work, I reckon."

  His face flushed a moment, even in the darkness. He WAS ashamed of hiswork, and perhaps a little of the pitiful sport he was beginning. Butoddly enough, the aggressive criticism only whetted his purpose. Thegirl was evidently quite able to take care of herself; why should he beover-chivalrous?

  "It isn't very pleasant to be doing the work of a horse, an ox, or amachine, if you can do other things," he said half seriously.

  "But you never used to do anything at all, did you?" she asked.

  He hesitated. Here was a chance to give her an affecting history ofhis former exalted fortune and position, and perhaps even to stir herevidently romantic nature with some suggestion of his sacrifices to oneof her own sex. Women liked that sort of thing. It aroused at oncetheir emulation and their condemnation of each other. He seized theopportunity, but--for some reason, he knew not why--awkwardly andclumsily, with a simulated pathos that was lachrymose, a self-assertionthat was boastful, and a dramatic manner that was unreal. Suddenly thegirl stopped him.

  "Yes, I know all THAT; pa told me. Told me you'd been given away by somewoman."

  His face again flushed--this time with anger. The utter failure of hisstory to excite her interest, and her perfect possession of herself andthe situation,--so unlike her conduct a few moments before,--made himsavagely silent, and he clambered on sullenly at her side. Presently shestopped, balancing herself with a dexterity he could not imitate on oneof the larger upheaved clods, and said:--

  "I was thinking that, as you can't do much with those hands of yours,digging and shoveling, and not much with your feet either, over ploughedground, you might do some inside work, that would pay you better, too.You might help in the dining room, setting table and washing up, helpingma and me--though I don't do much except overseeing. I could show youwhat to do at first, and you'd learn quick enough. If you say 'yes,'I'll speak to pa to-night. He'll do whatever I say."

  The rage and shame that filled his breast choked even the bitter laughthat first rose to his lips. If he could have turned on his heel andleft her with marked indignation, he would have done so, but they werescarcely half way across the field; his stumbling retreat would haveonly appeared ridiculous, and he was by no means sure that she would nothave looked upon it as merely a confession of his inability to keepup with her. And yet there was something peculiarly fascinating andtantalizing in the situation. She did not see the sardonic glitter inhis eye as he said brutally:--

  "Ha! and that would give me the exquisite pleasure of being near you."

  She seemed a little confused, even under her enwrappings, and instepping down her foot slipped. Reddy instantly scrambled up to herand caught her as she was pitching forward into the furrow. Yet in thestruggle to keep his own foothold he was aware that she was assistinghim, and although he had passed his arm around her waist, as if for herbetter security, it was only through HER firm grasp of his wrists thathe regained his own footing. The "cloud" had fallen back from her headand shoulders, her heavy hair had brushed his cheek and left itsfaint odor in his nostrils; the rounded outline of her figure hadbeen slightly drawn against his own. His mean resentment wavered; herproposition, which at first seemed only insulting, now took a vague formof satisfaction; his ironical suggestion seemed a natural expression."Well, I say 'yes' then," he said, with an affected laugh. "That is, ifyou think I can manage to do the work; it is not exactly in my line, youknow." Yet he somehow felt that his laugh was feeble and unconvincing.

  "Oh, it's easy enough," said the girl quietly. "You've only got to beclean--and that's in your line, I should say."

  "And if I thought it would please you," he added, with another attemptat gallantry.

  She did not reply, but moved steadily on, he fancied a little morerapidly. They were nearing the house; he felt he was losing time andopportunity. The uneven nature of the ground kept him from walkingimmediately beside her, unless he held her hand or arm. Yet an oddtimidity was overtaking him. Surely this was the same girl whoseconsciousness and susceptibility were so apparent a moment ago; yet herspeech had been inconsistent, unsympathetic, and coldly practical. "It'svery kind of you," he began again, scrambling up one side of the furrowas she descended on the other, "to--to--take such an interest in--in astranger, and I wish you knew how" (she had mounted the ridge again, andstood balancing herself as if waiting for him to finish his sentence)"how--how deeply--I--I"--She dropped quickly down again with the samemovement of uneasy consciousness, and he left the sentence unfinished.The house was now only a few yards away; he hurried forward, but shereached the wooden platform and stoop upon it first. He, however, at thesame moment caught her hand.

  "I want to thank you," he said, "and say good-night."

  "Good-night." Her voice was indistinct again, and she was trembling.Emboldened and reckless, he sprang upon the platform, and encircling herwith one arm, with his other hand he unloosed the woolen cloud aroundher head and bared her faintly flushed cheek and half-open, hurriedlybreathing lips. But the next moment she threw her head back with asingle powerful movement, and, as it seemed to him, with scarcely aneffort cast him off with both hands, and sent him toppling from theplatform to the ground. He scrambled quickly to his feet again, flushed,angry, and--frightened! Perhaps she would call her father; he would beinsulted, or worse,--laughed at! He had lost even this pitiful chance ofbettering his condition. But he was as relieved as he was surprisedto see that she was standing quietly on the edge of the platform,apparently waiting for him to rise. Her face was still uncovered, stillslightly flushed, but bearing no trace of either insult or anger. Whenhe stood erect again, she looked at him gravely and drew the woolencloud over her head, as she said calmly, "Then I'll tell pa you'll takethe place, and I reckon you'll begin to-morrow morning."

  II.

  Angered, discomfited, and physically and morally beaten, James Reddystumbled and clambered back across the field. The beam of light that hadstreamed out over the dark field as the door opened and shut on thegirl left him doubly confused and bewildered. In his dull anger andmortification, there seemed only one course for him to pursue. He woulddemand his wages in the morning, and cut the whole concern. He would goback to San Franc
isco and work there, where he at least had friends whorespected his station. Yet, he ought to have refused the girl's offerbefore she had repulsed him; his retreat now meant nothing, and mighteven tempt her, in her vulgar pique, to reveal her rebuff of him. Heraised his eyes mechanically, and looked gloomily across the dark wasteand distant bay to the opposite shore. But the fog had already hiddenthe glow of the city's lights, and, thickening around the horizon,seemed to be slowly hemming him in with the dreary rancho. In hispresent frame of mind there was a certain fatefulness in this thatprecluded his once free agency, and to that extent relieved and absolvedHIM of any choice. He reached the dormitory and its turned-down lightsin a state of tired and dull uncertainty, for which sleep seemed tooffer the only relief. He rolled himself in his blankets with an animalinstinct of comfort and shut his eyes, but their sense appeared toopen upon Nelly Woodridge as she stood looking down upon him from theplatform. Even through the dull pain of his bruised susceptibilities hewas conscious of a strange satisfaction he had not felt before. He fellasleep at last, to waken only to the sunlight streaming through thecurtainless windows on his face. To his surprise the long shed was emptyand deserted, except for a single Chinaman who was sweeping the floor atthe farther end. As Reddy started up, the man turned and approached himwith a characteristic, vague, and patient smile.

  "All lity, John, you sleepee heap! Mistel Woodlidge he say you no gowolkee field allee same Mellikan man. You stoppee inside housee alleesame ME. Shabbee? You come to glubbee [grub] now" (pointing to thedistant dining-shed), "and then you washee dish."

  The full extent of his new degradation flashed upon Reddy with thisadded insult of his brother menial's implicit equality. He understoodit all. He had been detached from the field-workers and was to come toa later breakfast, perhaps the broken victuals of the first repast,and wash the dishes. He remembered his new bargain. Very well! hewould refuse positively, take his dismissal, and leave that morning! Hehurriedly dressed himself, and followed the Chinaman into the open air.

  The fog still hung upon the distant bay and hid the opposite point. Butthe sun shone with dry Californian brilliancy over the league-long fieldaround him, revealing every detail of the rancho with sharp, matter offact directness, and without the least illusion of distance or romance.The rough, unplaned, unpainted walls of the dinner-shed stood outclearly before him; the half-filled buckets of water on the nearplatform, and the immense tubs piled with dirty dishes. He scowleddarkly as he walked forward, conscious, nevertheless, of theinvigorating discipline of the morning air and the wholesome whip in thesky above him. He entered sharply and aggressively. To his relief, theroom at first sight seemed, like the dormitory he had just left, to beempty. But a voice, clear, dry, direct, and practical as the morningitself, spoke in his ear: "Mornin', Reddy! My daughter says you'rewillin' to take an indoor job, and I reckon, speakin' square, as manto man, it's more in your line than what you've bin doin'. It mayn'tbe high-toned work, but work's WORK anyhow you can fix it; and the onlydifference I kin see is in the work that a man does squarely, and thework that he shirks."

  "But," said Reddy hurriedly, "there's a mistake. I came here only to"--

  "Work like the others, I understand. Well, you see you CAN'T. You doyour best, I know. I ain't findin' fault, but it ain't in your line.THIS is, and the pay is better."

  "But," stammered Reddy, "Miss Woodridge didn't understand"--

  "Yes, she did," returned Woodridge impatiently, "and she told me. Shesays she'll show you round at first. You'll catch on all right. Sit downand eat your breakfast, and she'll be along before you're through.Ez for ME, I must get up and get. So long!" and before Reddy had anopportunity to continue his protest, he turned away.

  The young man glanced vexatiously around him. A breakfast much better inservice and quality than the one he had been accustomed to smoked on thetable. There was no one else in the room. He could hear the voices ofthe Chinese waiters in the kitchen beyond. He was healthily hungry,and after a moment's hesitation sat down and began his meal. He couldexpostulate with her afterward, and withdraw his promise. He wasentitled to his breakfast, anyway!

  Once or twice, while thus engaged, he heard the door of the kitchenopen and the clipping tread of the Chinese waiters, who deposited somerattling burden on the adjacent tables, but he thought it prudent notto seem to notice them. When he had finished, the pleasant, hesitating,boyish contralto of Miss Woodridge fell upon his ear.

  "When you're ready, I'll show you how to begin your work."

  He turned quickly, with a flush of mortification at being discoveredat his repast, and his anger returned. But as his eyes fell uponher delicately colored but tranquil face, her well-shaped figure,coquettishly and spotlessly cuffed, collared, and aproned, and her clearblue but half-averted eyes, he again underwent a change. She certainlywas very pretty--that most seductive prettiness which seemed to bewarmed into life by her consciousness of himself. Why should he take heror himself so seriously? Why not play out the farce, and let thosewho would criticise him and think his acceptance of the work degradingunderstand that it was only an affair of gallantry. He could affordto serve Woodridge at least a few weeks for the favor of this Rachel!Forgetful of his rebuff of the night before, he fixed his brown eyes onhers with an audacious levity.

  "Oh yes--the work! Let us see it. I'm ready in name and nature foranything that Miss Woodridge wants of me. I'm just dying to begin."

  His voice was raised slightly, with a high comedy jauntiness, forthe benefit of the Chinese waiters who might be lingering to see the"Mellican man" assume their functions. But it failed in effect. Withtheir characteristic calm acceptance of any eccentricity in a "foreigndevil," they scarcely lifted their eyes. The young girl pointed toa deep basket filled with dishes which had been placed on the largertable, and said, without looking at Reddy:--

  "You had better begin by 'checking' the crockery. That is, counting thepieces separately and then arranging them in sets as they come back fromwashing. There's the book to compare them with and to set down what isbroken, missing, or chipped. You'll have a clean towel with you to wipethe pieces that have not been cleaned enough; or, if they are too dirty,you'll send them back to the kitchen."

  "Couldn't I wash them myself?" said Reddy, continuing his ostentatiouslevity.

  "Not yet," said the girl, with grave hesitation; "you'd break them."

  She stood watching him, as with affected hilarity he began to take thedishes from the basket. But she noticed that in spite of this jocularsimulation his grasp was firm and delicate, and that there was noclatter--which would have affected her sensitive ear--as he put themdown. She laid a pencil and account book beside him and turned away.

  "But you are not going?" he said, in genuine surprise.

  "Yes," she said quietly, "until you get through 'checking.' Then I'llcome back and show you what you have to do next. You're getting on verywell."

  "But that was because you were with me."

  She colored slightly and, without looking at him, moved slowly to thedoor and disappeared.

  Reddy went back to his work, disappointed but not discomfited. He wasgetting accustomed to the girl's eccentricities. Whether it was thefreshness of the morning air and sunlight streaming in at the openwindows, the unlooked-for solitude and security of the empty room, orthat there was nothing really unpleasant in his occupation, he went oncheerfully "checking" the dishes, narrowly examining them for chips andcracks, and noting them in the book. Again discovering that a few wereimperfectly cleaned and wiped, he repaired the defect with cold waterand a towel without the least thought of the operation being degrading.He had finished his task in half an hour; she had not returned; whyshould he not go on and set the table? As he straightened and turned thecoarse table-cloth, he made the discovery that the long table wasreally composed of half a dozen smaller ones, and that the hideousparallelogram which had always so offended him was merely the outcome ofcarelessness and want of taste. Without a moment's hesitation he setat work to break up the monot
onous line and rearranged the tableslaterally, with small open spaces between them. The task was no lightone, even for a stronger man, but he persevered in it with a new-foundenergy until he had changed the whole aspect of the room. It lookedlarger, wider, and less crowded; its hard practical, workhouse-likeformality had disappeared. He had paused to survey it, panting stillwith his unusual exertion, when a voice broke upon his solitude.

  "Well, I wanter know!"

  The voice was not Nelly's, but that of her mother,--a large-boned,angular woman of fifty,--who had entered the room unperceived. Theaccents were simply those of surprise, but on James Reddy's presentsensitive mood, coupled with the feeling that here was a new witnessto his degradation, he might have resented it; but he detected thehandsome, reserved figure of the daughter a few steps behind her. Theireyes met; wonderful to relate, the young girl's no longer evaded him,but looked squarely into his with a bright expression of pleasure hehad not seen before. He checked himself with a sudden thrill ofgratification.

  "Well, I declare," continued Mrs. Woodridge; "is that YOUR idea--oryours, Helen?"

  Here Reddy simply pointed out the advantages for serving afforded by thenew arrangement; that all the tables were equally and quickly accessiblefrom the serving-table and sideboard, and that it was no longernecessary to go the whole length of the room to serve the upper table.He tactfully did not refer to the improved appearance of the room.

  "Well, as long as it ain't mere finikin," said the lady graciously, "andseems to bring the folks and their vittles nearer together--we'll tryit to-day. It does look kinder CITYFIED--and I reckoned that was all thegood it was. But I calkilated you were goin' to check the crockery thismorning."

  "It's done," said Reddy, smilingly handing her the account-book.

  Mrs. Woodridge glanced over it, and then surveyed her new assistant.

  "And you didn't find any plates that were dirty and that had to be sentback?"

  "Yes, two or three, but I cleaned them myself."

  Mrs. Woodridge glanced at him with a look of approving curiosity, buthis eyes were just then seeking her daughter's for a more gratefulsympathy. All of which the good lady noted, and as it apparentlyanswered the unasked question in her own mind, she only uttered thesingle exclamation, "Humph!"

  But the approbation he received later at dinner, in the satisfactionof his old companions with the new arrangement, had also the effectof diverting from him the criticism he had feared they would makein finding him installed as an assistant to Mrs. Woodridge. On thecontrary, they appeared only to recognize in him some especialand superior faculty utilized for their comfort, and when thesuperintendent, equally pleased, said it was "all Reddy's own idea," noone doubted that it was this particular stroke of genius which gainedhim the obvious promotion. If he had still thought of offering hisflirtation with Nelly as an excuse, there was now no necessity for any.Having shown to his employers his capacity for the highest and lowestwork, they naturally preferred to use his best abilities--and hewas kept from any menial service. His accounts were so carefully andintelligently rendered that the entire care of the building and itsappointments was intrusted to him. At the end of the week Mr. Woodridgetook him aside.

  "I say, you ain't got any job in view arter you finish up here, hev ye?"

  Reddy started. Scarcely ten days ago he had a hundred projects, schemes,and speculations, more or less wild and extravagant, wherewith he was toavenge and recoup himself in San Francisco. Now they were gone he knewnot where and how. He briefly said he had not.

  "Because," continued Woodridge, "I've got an idea of startin' a hotel inthe Oak Grove, just on the slope back o' the rancho. The company's boundto make some sort o' settlement there for the regular hands, and theplace is pooty enough for 'Frisco people who want to run over here andget set up for a day or two. Thar's plenty of wood and water up thar,and the company's sure to have a wharf down on the shore. I'll providethe capital, if you will put in your time. You can sling in ez muchstyle as you like there" (this was an allusion to Reddy's attempt toenliven the blank walls with colored pictures from the illustratedpapers and green ceanothus sprays from the slope); "in fact, the morestyle the better for them city folks. Well, you think it over."

  He did. But meantime he seemed to make little progress in his court ofthe superintendent's daughter. He tried to think it was because he hadallowed himself to be diverted by his work, but although she alwaysbetrayed the same odd physical consciousness of his presence, it wascertain that she never encouraged him. She gave him the few directionsthat his new occupation still made necessary, and looked her approvalof his success. But nothing more. He was forced to admit that this wasexactly what she might have done as the superintendent's daughter to adeserving employee. Whereat, for a few days he assumed an air of coldand ceremonious politeness, until perceiving that, far from piquing thegirl, it seemed to gratify her, and even to render her less sensitivein his company, he sulked in good earnest. This proving ineffectivealso,--except to produce a kind of compassionate curiosity,--his formerdull rage returned. The planting of the rancho was nearly over; hisservice would be ended next week; he had not yet given his answer toWoodridge's proposition; he would decline it and cut the whole concern!

  It was a crisp Sunday morning. The breakfast hour was later on thatday to allow the men more time for their holiday, which, however, theygenerally spent in cards, gossip, or reading in their sleeping sheds.It usually delayed Reddy's work, but as he cared little for thecompanionship of his fellows, it enabled him, without a show ofunsociability, to seclude himself in the dining-room. And this morninghe was early approached by his employer.

  "I'm goin' to take the women folks over to Oakdale to church," said Mr.Woodridge; "ef ye keer to join us thar's a seat in the wagon, and I'llturn on a couple of Chinamen to do the work for you, just now; and Nellyor the old woman will give you a lift this afternoon with the countingup."

  Reddy felt instinctively that the invitation had been instigated by theyoung girl. A week before he would have rejoiced at it; a month ago hewould have accepted it if only as a relief to his degraded position, butin the pique of this new passion he almost rudely declined it. An hourlater he saw Nelly, becomingly and even tastefully dressed,--withthe American girl's triumphant superiority to her condition andsurroundings,--ride past in her father's smart "carryall." He wasstartled to see that she looked so like a lady. Then, with a new andjealous inconsistency, significant of the progress of his passion, heresolved to go to church too. She should see that he was not going toremain behind like a mere slave. He remembered that he had still certainremnants of his past finery in his trunk; he would array himself inthem, walk to Oakdale, and make one of the congregation. He managed tochange his clothes without attracting the attention of his fellows, andset out.

  The air was pure but keen, with none of the languor of spring inits breath, although a few flowers were beginning to star the weedywagon-tracked lane, and there was an awakening spice in the waysidesouthernwood and myrtle. He felt invigorated, although it seemed only towhet his jealous pique. He hurried on without even glancing toward thedistant coast-line of San Francisco or even thinking of it. The bittermemories of the past had been obliterated by the bitterness of thepresent. He no longer thought of "that woman;" even when he hadthreatened to himself to return to San Francisco, he was vaguelyconscious that it was not SHE who was again drawing him there, but Nellywho was driving him away.

  The service was nearly over when he arrived at the chilly littlecorrugated-zinc church at Oakdale, but he slipped into one of the backseats. A few worshipers turned round to look at him. Among them were thedaughters of a neighboring miller, who were slightly exercised over theunusual advent of a good-looking stranger with certain exterior signs ofelegance. Their excitement was communicated by some mysterious instinctto their neighbor, Nelly Woodridge. She also turned and caught hiseye. But to all appearances she not only showed no signs of her usualagitation at his presence, but did not seem to even recognize him.In the acerbity of
his pique he was for a moment gratified at what hebelieved to be the expression of her wounded pride, but his uneasinessquickly returned, and at the conclusion of the service he slipped out ofthe church with one or two of the more restless in the congregation.As he passed through the aisle he heard the escort of the miller'sdaughters, in response to a whispered inquiry, say distinctly: "Onlythe head-waiter over at the company's rancho." Whatever hesitating ideaReddy might have had of waiting at the church door for the appearanceof Nelly vanished before the brutal truth. His brow darkened, and withflushed cheeks he turned his back upon the building and plunged into thewoods. This time there was no hesitation in his resolve; he wouldleave the rancho at the expiration of his engagement. Even in a higheroccupation he felt he could never live down his reputation there.

  In his morose abstraction he did not know how long or how aimlessly hehad wandered among the mossy live-oaks, his head and shoulders oftenimperiled by the downcurving of some huge knotted limb; his feetstraying blindly from the faint track over the thickly matted carpetof chickweed which hid their roots. But it was nearly an hour before heemerged upon a wide, open, wooded slope, and, from the distant view offield and shore, knew that he was at Oak Grove, the site of Woodridge'sprojected hotel. And there, surely, at a little distance, wasthe Woodridges' wagon and team tied up to a sapling, while thesuperintendent and his wife were slowly climbing the slope, andapparently examining the prospect. Without waiting to see if Nelly waswith them, Reddy instantly turned to avoid meeting them. But he had notproceeded a hundred yards before he came upon that young lady, whohad evidently strayed from the party, and who was now unconsciouslyadvancing toward him. A rencontre was inevitable.

  She started slightly, and then stopped, with all her old agitation andembarrassment. But, to his own surprise, he was also embarrassed andeven tongue-tied.

  She spoke first.

  "You were at church. I didn't quite know you in--in--these clothes."

  In her own finery she had undergone such a change to Reddy'sconsciousness that he, for the first time in their acquaintance, nowaddressed her as on his own level, and as if she had no understanding ofhis own feelings.

  "Oh," he said, with easy bitterness, "OTHERS did, if you did not. Theyall detected the 'head-waiter' at the Union Company's rancho. Even if Ihad accepted your kindness in offering me a seat in your wagon it wouldhave made no difference." He was glad to put this construction onhis previous refusal, for in the new relations which seemed to beestablished by their Sunday clothes he was obliged to soften thechurlishness of that refusal also.

  "I don't think you'd look nice setting the table in kid gloves," shesaid, glancing quickly at his finery as if accepting it as the realissue; "but you can wear what you like at other times. I never foundfault with your working clothes."

  There was such a pleasant suggestion in her emphasis that his ill-humorsoftened. Her eyes wandered over the opposite grove, where herunconscious parents had just disappeared.

  "Papa's very keen about the hotel," she continued, "and is going tohave the workmen break ground to-morrow. He says he'll have it up in twomonths and ready to open, if he has to make the men work double time.When you're manager, you won't mind what folks say."

  There was no excuse for his further hesitation. He must speak out, buthe did it in a half-hearted way.

  "But if I simply go away--WITHOUT being manager--I won't hear theircriticism either."

  "What do you mean?" she said quickly.

  "I've--I've been thinking of--of going back to San Francisco," hestammered awkwardly.

  A slight flush of contemptuous indignation passed over her face, andgave it a strength and expression he had never seen there before. "Oh,you've not reformed yet, then?" she said, under her scornful lashes.

  "I don't understand you," he said, flushing.

  "Father ought to have told you," she went on dryly, "that that woman hasgone off to the Springs with her husband, and you won't see HER at SanFrancisco."

  "I don't know what you mean--and your father seems to take anunwarrantable interest in my affairs," said Reddy, with an anger that hewas conscious, however, was half simulated.

  "No more than he ought to, if he expects to trust you with all HISaffairs," said the girl shortly; "but you had better tell him you havechanged your mind at once, before he makes any further calculations onyour staying. He's just over the hill there, with mother."

  She turned away coldly as she spoke, but moved slowly and in thedirection of the hill, although she took a less direct trail thanthe one she had pointed to him. But he followed her, albeit stillembarrassedly, and with that new sense of respect which had checked hisformer surliness. There was her strong, healthy, well-developedfigure moving before him, but the modish gray dress seemed to give itspronounced outlines something of the dignity of a goddess. Even the firmhands had the distinguishment of character.

  "You understand," he said apologetically, "that I mean no discourtesy toyour father or his offer. And"--he hesitated--"neither is my reason whatyou would infer."

  "Then what is it?" she asked, turning to him abruptly. "You know youhave no other place when you leave here, nor any chance as good as theone father offers you. You are not fit for any other work, and you knowit. You have no money to speculate with, nor can you get any. If youcould, you would have never stayed here."

  He could not evade the appalling truthfulness of her clear eyes. Heknew it was no use to lie to her; she had evidently thoroughly informedherself regarding his past; more than that, she seemed to read hispresent thoughts. But not all of them! No! he could startle her still!It was desperate, but he had nothing now to lose. And she liked thetruth,--she should have it!

  "You are right," he said shortly; "these are not my reasons."

  "Then what reason have you?"

  "You!"

  "Me?" she repeated incredulously, yet with a rising color.

  "Yes, YOU! I cannot stay here, and have you look down upon me."

  "I don't look down on you," she said simply, yet without the haste ofrepelling an unjust accusation. "Why should I? Mother and I have donethe same work that you are doing,--if that's what you mean; and father,who is a man like yourself, helped us at first, until he could do otherthings better." She paused. "Perhaps you think so because YOU lookeddown on us when you first came here."

  "But I didn't," said Reddy quickly.

  "You did," said the young girl quietly. "That's why you acted toward meas you did the night you walked home with me. You would not havebehaved in that way to any San Francisco young lady--and I'm not one ofyour--fast--MARRIED WOMEN."

  Reddy felt the hot blood mount to his cheek, and looked away. "Iwas foolish and rude--and I think you punished me at the time," hestammered. "But you see I was right in saying you looked down on me," heconcluded triumphantly.

  This was at best a feeble sequitur, but the argument of the affectionsis not always logical. And it had its effect on the girl.

  "I wasn't thinking of THAT," she said. "It's that you don't know yourown mind."

  "If I said that I would stay and accept your father's offer, would youthink that I did?" he asked quickly.

  "I should wait and see what you actually DID do," she replied.

  "But if I stayed--and--and--if I told you that I stayed on YOURaccount--to be with you and near you only--would you think that aproof?" He spoke hesitatingly, for his lips were dry with a nervousnesshe had not known before.

  "I might, if you told father you expected to be engaged on those terms.For it concerns HIM as much as me. And HE engages you, and not I.Otherwise I'd think it was only your talk."

  Reddy looked at her in astonishment. There was not the slightest traceof coyness, coquetry, or even raillery in her clear, honest eyes, andyet it would seem as if she had taken his proposition in its fullestsense as a matrimonial declaration, and actually referred him to herfather. He was pleased, frightened, and utterly unprepared.

  "But what would YOU say, Nelly?" He drew closer to her and held out bot
hhis hands. But she retreated a step and slipped her own behind her.

  "Better see what father says first," she said quietly. "You may changeyour mind again and go back to San Francisco."

  He was confused, and reddened again. But he had become accustomed to herways; rather, perhaps, he had begun to recognize the quaint justice thatunderlaid them, or, possibly, some better self of his own, that had beenburied under bitterness and sloth and struggled into life. "But whateverhe says," he returned eagerly, "cannot alter my feelings to YOU. It canonly alter my position here, and you say you are above being influencedby that. Tell me, Nelly--dear Nelly! have you nothing to say to me, ASI AM, or is it only to your father's manager that you would speak?" Hisvoice had an unmistakable ring of sincerity in it, and even startledhim--half rascal as he was!

  The young girl's clear, scrutinizing eyes softened; her red resolutelips trembled slightly and then parted, the upper one hovering a littleto one side over her white teeth. It was Nelly's own peculiar smile, andits serious piquancy always thrilled him. But she drew a little fartherback from his brightening eyes, her hands still curled behind her, andsaid, with the faintest coquettish toss of her head toward the hill: "Ifyou want to see father, you'd better hurry up."

  With a sudden determination as new to him as it was incomprehensible,Reddy turned from her and struck forward in the direction of the hill.He was not quite sure what he was going for. Yet that he, who had onlya moment before fully determined to leave the rancho and her, was nowgoing to her father to demand her hand as a contingency of his remainingdid not strike him as so extravagant and unexpected a denouement asit was a difficult one. He was only concerned HOW, and in what way, heshould approach him. In a moment of embarrassment he hesitated, turned,and looked behind him.

  She was standing where he had left her, gazing after him, leaningforward with her hands still held behind her. Suddenly, as with aninspiration, she raised them both, carried them impetuously to her lips,blew him a dozen riotous kisses, and then, lowering her head like acolt, whisked her skirt behind her, and vanished in the cover.

  III.

  It was only May, but the freshness of early summer already clothedthe great fields of the rancho. The old resemblance to a sea was stillthere, more accented, perhaps, by the undulations of bluish-greengrain that rolled from the actual shore-line to the foothills. The farmbuildings were half submerged in this glowing tide of color and losttheir uncouth angularity with their hidden rude foundations. The samesea-breeze blew chilly and steadily from the bay, yet softened andsubdued by the fresh odors of leaf and flower. The outlying fringe ofoaks were starred through their underbrush with anemones and dog-roses;there were lupines growing rankly in the open spaces, and along thegentle slopes of Oak Grove daisies were already scattered. And, as if itwere part of this vernal efflorescence, the eminence itself was crownedwith that latest flower of progress and improvement,--the new Oak GroveHotel!

  Long, low, dazzling with white colonnades, verandas, and balconies whichretained, however, enough of the dampness of recent creation to makethem too cool for loungers, except at high noon, the hotel neverthelesshad the charms of freshness, youth, and cleanliness. Reddy's fastidiousneatness showed itself in all the appointments, from the mirrored andmarbled barroom, gilded parlors, and snowy dining-room, to the chintzand maple furnishing of the bedrooms above. Reddy's taste, too, hadselected the pretty site; his good fortune had afterward discoveredin an adjoining thicket a spring of blandly therapeutic qualities. Acomplaisant medical faculty of San Francisco attested to its merits;a sympathetic press advertised the excellence of the hotel; anovelty-seeking, fashionable circle--as yet without laws and blindlyimitative--found the new hotel an admirable variation to the vulgarordinary "across the bay" excursion, and an accepted excuse for a novelsocial dissipation. A number of distinguished people had already visitedit; certain exclusive families had secured the best rooms; there were ascore of pretty women to be seen in its parlors; there had already beena slight scandal. Nothing seemed wanting to insure its success.

  Reddy was passing through the little wood where four months before hehad parted from Kelly Woodridge to learn his fate from her father. Heremembered that interview to which Nelly's wafted kiss had inspiredhim. He recalled to-day, as he had many times before, the singularcomplacency with which Mr. Woodridge had received his suit, as if itwere a slight and unimportant detail of the business in hand, and how hehad told him that Kelly and her mother were going to the "States" for athree months' visit, but that after her return, if they were both "stillagreed," he, Woodridge, would make no objection. He remembered theslight shock which this announcement of Kelly's separation from himduring his probationary labors had given him, and his sudden suspicionthat he had been partly tricked of his preliminary intent to secure hercompany to solace him. But he had later satisfied himself that sheknew nothing of her father's intentions at the time, and he was fain tocontent himself with a walk through the fields at her side the day shedeparted, and a single kiss--which left him cold. And now in a few daysshe would return to witness the successful fufillment of his labors,and--reward him!

  It was certainly a complacent prospect. He could look forward to asensible, prosperous, respectable future. He had won back his goodname, his fortune, and position,--not perhaps exactly in the way hehad expected,--and he had stilled the wanton, foolish cravings of hispassionate nature in the calm, virginal love of an honest, handsome girlwho would make him a practical helpmeet, and a comfortable, trustworthywife. He ought to be very happy. He had never known such perfect healthbefore; he had lost his reckless habits; his handsome, nervous face hadgrown more placid and contented; his long curls had been conventionallyclipped; he had gained flesh unmistakably, and the lower buttons ofthe slim waistcoat he had worn to church that memorable Sunday were tootight for comfort or looks. HE WAS happy; yet as he glanced over thematerial spring landscape, full of practical health, blossom, andpromise of fruition, it struck him that the breeze that blew over it waschilly, even if healthful; and he shivered slightly.

  He reached the hotel, entered the office, glanced at the register, andpassed through into his private room. He had been away for two days,and noticed with gratification that the influx of visitors was stillincreasing. His clerk followed into the room.

  "There's a lady in 56 who wanted to see you when you returned. She askedparticularly for the manager."

  "Who is she?"

  "Don't know. It's a Mrs. Merrydew, from Sacramento. Expecting herhusband on the next steamer."

  "Humph! You'll have to be rather careful about these solitary marriedwomen. We don't want another scandal, you know."

  "She asked for you by name, sir, and I thought you might know her,"returned the clerk.

  "Very well. I'll go up."

  He sent a waiter ahead to announce him, and leisurely mounted thestairs. No. 56 was the sitting-room of a private suite on the firstfloor. The waiter was holding the door open. As he approached it afaint perfume from the interior made him turn pale. But he recovered hispresence of mind sufficiently to close the door sharply upon the waiterbehind him.

  "Jim," said a voice which thrilled him.

  He looked up and beheld what any astute reader of romance will havealready suspected--the woman to whom he believed he owed his ruin inSan Francisco. She was as beautiful and alluring as ever, albeit she wasthinner and more spiritual than he had ever seen her. She was tastefullydressed, as she had always been, a certain style of languorous silkendeshabille which she was wont to affect in better health now became herpaler cheek and feverishly brilliant eyes. There was the same opulenceof lace and ornament, and, whether by accident or design, clasped aroundthe slight wrist of her extended hand was a bracelet which he rememberedhad swept away the last dregs of his fortune.

  He took her hand mechanically, yet knowing whatever rage was in hisheart he had not the strength to refuse it.

  "They told me it was Mrs. Merrydew," he stammered.

  "That was my mother's name," she said, wit
h a little laugh. "I thoughtyou knew it. But perhaps you didn't. When I got my divorce fromDick--you didn't know that either, I suppose; it's three months ago,--Ididn't care to take my maiden name again; too many people rememberedit. So after the decree was made I called myself Mrs. Merrydew. You haddisappeared. They said you had gone East."

  "But the clerk says you are expecting your HUSBAND on the steamer. Whatdoes this mean? Why did you tell him that?" He had so far collectedhimself that there was a ring of inquisition in his voice.

  "Oh, I had to give him some kind of reason for my being alone when I didnot find you as I expected," she said half wearily. Then a change cameover her tired face; a smile of mingled audacity and tentative coquetrylit up the small features. "Perhaps it is true; perhaps I may have ahusband coming on the steamer--that depends. Sit down, Jim."

  She let his hand drop, and pointed to an armchair from which she hadjust risen, and sank down herself in a corner of the sofa, her thinfingers playing with and drawing themselves through the tassels of thecushion.

  "You see, Jim, as soon as I was free, Louis Sylvester--you rememberLouis Sylvester?--wanted to marry me, and even thought that he was thecause of Dick's divorcing me. He actually went East to settle up someproperty he had left him there, and he's coming on the steamer."

  "Louis Sylvester!" repeated Reddy, staring at her. "Why, he was a biggerfool than I was, and a worse man!" he added bitterly.

  "I believe he was," said the lady, smiling, "and I think he stillis. But," she added, glancing at Reddy under her light fringed lids,"you--you're regularly reformed, aren't you? You're stouter, too, andaltogether more solid and commercial looking. Yet who'd have thought ofyour keeping a hotel or ever doing anything but speculate in wild-cator play at draw poker. How did you drift into it? Come, tell me! I'm notMrs. Sylvester just yet, and maybe I might like to go into the businesstoo. You don't want a partner, do you?"

  Her manner was light and irresponsible, or rather it suggested achildlike putting of all responsibility for her actions upon others,which he remembered now too well. Perhaps it was this which kept himfrom observing that the corners of her smiling lips, however, twitchedslightly, and that her fingers, twisting the threads of the tassel,were occasionally stiffened nervously. For he burst out: Oh yes; he haddrifted into it when it was a toss up if it wasn't his body insteadthat would be found drifting out to sea from the first wharf of SanFrancisco. Yes, he had been a common laborer,--a farm hand, in thosefields she had passed,--a waiter in the farm kitchen, and but for luckhe might be taking her orders now in this very hotel. It was not herfault if he was not in the gutter.

  She raised her thin hand with a tired gesture as if to ward off theonset of his words. "The same old Jim," she repeated; "and yet I thoughtyou had forgotten all that now, and become calmer and more sensiblesince you had taken flesh and grown so matter of fact. You ought to haveknown then, as you know now, that I never could have been anything toyou as long as I was tied to Dick. And you know you forced your presentson me, Jim. I took them from YOU because I would take nothing from Dick,for I hated him. And I never knew positively that you were in straitsthen; you know you always talked big, Jim, and were always going to makeyour fortune with the next thing you had in hand!"

  It was true, and he remembered it. He had not intended this kind ofrecrimination, but he was exasperated with her wearied acceptance of hisreproaches and by a sudden conviction that his long-cherished grievanceagainst her now that he had voiced it was inadequate, mean, andtrifling. Yet he could not help saying:--

  "Then you had presents from Sylvester, too. I presume you did not hatehim, either?"

  "He would have married me the day after I got my divorce."

  "And so would I," burst out Reddy.

  She looked at him fixedly. "You would?" she said with a peculiaremphasis. "And now"--

  He colored. It had been part of his revengeful purpose on seeing her totell her of his engagement to Kelly. He now found himself tongue-tied,irresolute, and ashamed. Yet he felt she was reading his innermostthoughts.

  She, however, only lowered her eyes, and with the same tired expressionsaid: "No matter now. Let us talk of something nearer. That was twomonths ago. And so you have charge of this hotel! I like it so much. Imean the place itself. I fancy I could live here forever. It is so faraway and restful. I am so sick of towns and cities, and people. And thislittle grove is so secluded. If one had merely a little cottage here,one might be so happy."

  What did she mean?--what did she expect?--what did she think of doing?She must be got rid of before Kelly's arrival, and yet he found himselfwavering under her potent and yet scarcely exerted influence. Thedesperation of weakness is apt to be more brutal than the determinationof strength. He remembered why he had come upstairs, and blurted out:"But you can't stay here. The rules are very stringent in regard to--tostrangers like yourself. It will be known who you really are and whatpeople say of you. Even your divorce will tell against you. It's allwrong, I know--but what can I do? I didn't make the rules. I am only aservant of the landlord, and must carry them out."

  She leaned back against the sofa and laughed silently. But she presentlyrecovered herself, although with the same expression of fatigue. "Don'tbe alarmed, my poor Jim! If you mean your friend, Mr. Woodridge, Iknow him. It was he, himself, who suggested my coming here. Anddon't misunderstand him--nor me either. He's only a good friend ofSylvester's; they had some speculation together. He's coming here to seeme after Louis arrives. He's waiting in San Francisco for his wife anddaughter, who come on the same steamer. So you see you won't get intotrouble on my account. Don't look so scared, my dear boy."

  "Does he know that you knew me?" said Reddy, with a white face.

  "Perhaps. But then that was three months ago," returned the lady,smiling, "and you know how you have reformed since, and grown ever somuch more steady and respectable."

  "Did he talk to you of me?" continued Reddy, still aghast.

  "A little--complimentary of course. Don't look so frightened. I didn'tgive you away."

  Her laugh suddenly ceased, and her face changed into a more nervousactivity as she rose and went toward the window. She had heard the soundof wheels outside--the coach had just arrived.

  "There's Mr. Woodridge now," she said in a more animated voice. "Thesteamer must be in. But I don't see Louis; do you?"

  She turned to where Reddy was standing, but he was gone.

  The momentary animation of her face changed. She lifted her shoulderswith a half gesture of scorn, but in the midst of it suddenly threwherself on the sofa, and buried her face in her hands.

  A few moments elapsed with the bustle of arrival in the hall andpassages. Then there was a hesitating step at her door. She quicklypassed her handkerchief over her wet eyes and resumed her former lookof weary acceptation. The door opened. But it was Mr. Woodridge whoentered. The rough shirt-sleeved ranchman had developed, during the lastfour months, into an equally blunt but soberly dressed proprietor. Hiskeen energetic face, however, wore an expression of embarrassment andanxiety, with an added suggestion of a half humorous appreciation of it.

  "I wouldn't have disturbed you, Mrs. Merrydew," he said, with a gentlebluntness, "if I hadn't wanted to ask your advice before I saw Reddy.I'm keeping out of his way until I could see you. I left Nelly and hermother in 'Frisco. There's been some queer goings-on on the steamercoming home; Kelly has sprang a new game on her mother, and--and suthin'that looks as if there might be a new deal. However," here a sense thathe was, perhaps, treating his statement too seriously, stopped him, andhe smiled reassuringly, "that is as may be."

  "I don't know," he went on, "as I ever told you anything about my Kellyand Reddy,--partik'lerly about Kelly. She's a good girl, a square girl,but she's got some all-fired romantic ideas in her head. Mebbee it kemfrom her reading, mebbee it kem from her not knowing other girls, orseeing too much of a queer sort of men; but she got an interest in thebad ones, and thought it was her mission to reform them,--reform themby pure kindness, attent
ive little sisterly ways, and moral example. Shefirst tried her hand on Reddy. When he first kem to us he was--well, hewas a blazin' ruin! She took him in hand, yanked him outer himself, puthis foot on the bedrock, and made him what you see him now. Well--whathappened; why, he got reg'larly soft on her; wanted to MARRY HER, andI agreed conditionally, of course, to keep him up to the mark. Did youspeak?"

  "No," said the lady, with her bright eyes fixed upon him.

  "Well, that was all well and good, and I'd liked to have carried out mypart of the contract, and was willing, and am still. But you see, Kelly,after she'd landed Reddy on firm ground, got a little tired, I reckon,gal-like, of the thing she'd worked so easily, and when she went Eastshe looked around for some other wreck to try her hand on, and she foundit on the steamer coming back. And who do you think it was? Why, ourfriend Louis Sylvester!"

  Mrs. Merrydew smiled slightly, with her bright eyes still on thespeaker.

  "Well, you know he IS fast at times--if he is a friend of mine--and shereg'larly tackled him; and as my old woman says, it was a sight to seeher go for him. But then HE didn't tumble to it. No! Reformin' ain't inHIS line I'm afeard. And what was the result? Why, Kelly only got allthe more keen when she found she couldn't manage him like Reddy,--and,between you and me, she'd have liked Reddy more if he hadn't been soeasy,--and it's ended, I reckon, in her now falling dead in love withSylvester. She swears she won't marry any one else, and wants to devoteher whole life to him! Now, what's to be done! Reddy don't know it yet,and I don't know how to tell him. Kelly says her mission was ended whenshe made a new man of him, and he oughter be thankful for that. Couldn'tyou kinder break the news to him and tell him there ain't any show forhim?"

  "Does he love the girl so much, then?" said the lady gently.

  "Yes; but I am afraid there is no hope for Reddy as long as she thinksthere's a chance of her capturing Sylvester."

  The lady rose and went to the writing-table. "Would it be any comfortto you, Mr. Woodridge, if you were told that she had not the slightestchance with Sylvester?"

  "Yes."

  She wrote a few lines on a card, put it in an envelope, and handed it toWoodridge. "Find out where Sylvester is in San Francisco, and give himthat card. I think it will satisfy you. And now as I have to catch thereturn coach in ten minutes, I must ask you to excuse me while I put mythings together."

  "And you won't first break the news to Reddy for me?"

  "No; and I advise you to keep the whole matter to yourself for thepresent. Good-by!"

  She smiled again, fascinatingly as usual, but, as it seemed to him, atrifle wearily, and then passed into the inner room. Years after, in hispractical, matter of fact recollections of this strange woman, he alwaysremembered her by this smile.

  But she had sufficiently impressed him by her parting adjuration tocause him to answer Reddy's eager inquiries with the statement thatKelly and her mother were greatly preoccupied with some friends inSan Francisco, and to speedily escape further questioning. Reddy'sdisappointment was somewhat mitigated by the simultaneous announcementof Mrs. Merrydew's departure. But he was still more relieved andgratified to hear, a few days later, of the marriage of Mrs. Merrydewwith Louis Sylvester. If, to the general surprise and comment itexcited, he contributed only a smile of cynical toleration and superiorself-complacency, the reader will understand and not blame him. Nor didthe public, who knew the austere completeness of his reform. Nor did Mr.Woodridge, who failed to understand the only actor in this little comedywho might perhaps have differed from them all.

  A month later James Reddy married Kelly Woodridge, in the chilly littlechurch at Oakdale. Perhaps by that time it might have occurred to himthat although the freshness and fruition of summer were everywhere, thebuilding seemed to be still unwarmed. And when he stepped forth with hisbride, and glanced across the prosperous landscape toward the distantbay and headlands of San Francisco, he shivered slightly at the drylypractical kiss of the keen northwestern Trades.

  But he was prosperous and comfortable thereafter, as the respectableowner of broad lands and paying shares. It was said that Mrs. Reddycontributed much to the popularity of the hotel by her charming freedomfrom prejudice and sympathy with mankind; but this was perhaps only dueto the contrast to her more serious and at times abstracted husband. Atleast this was the charitable opinion of the proverbially tolerant andkind-hearted Baroness Streichholzer (nee Merrydew, and relict of thelate lamented Louis Sylvester, Esq.), whom I recently had the pleasureof meeting at Wiesbaden, where the waters and reposeful surroundingsstrongly reminded her of Oakdale.