* * * * *
* * * * *
Pap lived just outside the village in anadobebuilt upon a small hill to the north-west of our ranch. No garden surrounded it, no pleasant live oaks spread their shade between the porch and the big barns. Pap could sit on his porch and survey his domain stretching for leagues in front of him, but he never did sit down in the daytime-- except on a saddle--and at night he went to bed early to save the expense of oil. Knowing his habits, we rode up to theadobeabout eight. All was dark, and we could see, just below us, the twinkling lights of Paradise. After thundering at the door twice, Pap appeared, carrying a lantern. In answer to his first question, we told him that we had business to discuss. Muttering to himself, he led us into the house and lighted two candles in the parlour. We had never entered the parlour before, and accordingly looked about with interest and curiosity. The furniture, which had belonged to Pap's father-in- law, a Spanish-Californian, was of mahogany and horsehair, very good and substantial. In a bookcase were some ancient tomes bound in musty leather. A strange-looking piano, with a high back, covered with faded rose-coloured silk, stood in a corner. Some half a dozen daguerreotypes, a case of stuffed humming-birds, and a wreath of flowers embellished the walls. Upon everything lay the fine white dust of the dry year, which lay also thick upon many hearts.
"Sit ye down," said Pap. "I reckon ye've come up to ask for a loan?"
"Yes," said Ajax. "But first I wish to beg your pardon. I had no right to speak as I did in the store this evening. I'm sorry."
Pap nodded indifferently.
"'Twas good advice," he muttered. "I ain't skeered o' much, but diptheery gives me cold feet. I calc'late to skin out o' this and into the mountains to-morrer. How about this yere loan?"
"It's not for us," said I.
"I don't lend no good dollars on squatters' claims," said Pap. "Let's git to business."
We explained what we wanted. Upon the top of Pap's head the sparse grey hairs bristled ominously. His teeth clicked; his eyes snapped. He was furiously angry--as I had expected him to be.
"You've a nerve," he jerked out. "You boys come up here askin' me fer a thousand dollars. What air you goin' to do?"
"We've no money," said Ajax, "but we've leisure. I dare say we may dig graves."
"You're two crazy fools."
"We know that, Mr. Spooner."
"I'm a-goin' to tell ye something. Diptheery in this yere country is worse'n small-pox--and I've seen both." The look of horror came again into his face. "My wife an' my child died o' diptheery nearly thirty- five year ago." He shuddered. Then he pointed a trembling finger at one of the daguerreotypes. "There she is--a beauty! And before she died--oh, Heaven!" I thought I saw something in his eyes, something human. Ajax burst out----
"Mr. Spooner, because of that, won't you help these poor people?"
"No! When she died, when the child died, something died in me. D'ye think I don't know what ye all think? Don't I know that I'm the ornariest, meanest old skinflint atween Point Sal and San Diego? That's me, and I'm proud of it. I aim to let the hull world stew in its own juice. The folks in these yere foothills need thinnin' anyway. Halloa! What in thunder's this?" Through the door, which we had left ajar, very timidly, all blushes and dimples, and sucking one small thumb, came Sissy Leadham. She stood staring at us, standing on one leg and scratching herself nervously with the other.
"Why, Sissy?" said Ajax.
She removed her thumb, reluctantly.
"Yas--it's me," she confessed. "Popsy don't know as I've comed up here." Then, suddenly remembering the conventions, she said, politely, "Good-evening, Mr. Spooner."
"Good-evening," said the astonished Pap.
"You wasn't expectin' me?"
"I didn't think it was very likely as you'd call in," said Pap, "seein', Missy, as you'd never called in afore."
"My name's Sissy, not Missy. Well, I'll call again, Mr. Spooner, when you've no comp'ny."
"Jee-roosalem! Call again--will ye? An' s'pose I ain't to home--hey? No, Missy--wal, Sissy, then--no, Sissy, you speak out an' tell me what brought you a-visitin'--me?"
She shuffled very uneasily.
"I felt so awful sorry for you, Mr. Spooner. I jest hed to come, but I'll call again, early to-morrer."
"No, ye won't. Because I aim ter leave this yere ranch afore sun-up. Jest you speak up an' out. If yer folks has sent you here"--his eyes hardened and flashed--"to borrer money, why, you kin tell 'em I ain't got none to loan."
Sissy laughed gaily.
"Why, I know that, Mr. Spooner. It's jest because, be-cause yer so pore--so very, very pore, that I comed up."
"Is that so? Because I'm so very poor?"
"I heard that in the store this evenin'. I was a-comin' in as you was a-comin' out. I heard Popsy say you was the porest man in the county, porer than all of us pore folks put together."
She had lost her nervousness. She stood squarely before the old man, lifting her tender blue eyes to his.
"Wal--an' what are you a-goin' to do about it?"
"I can't do overly much, Mr. Spooner, but fer a little girl I'm rich. The dry year ain't hurt me any--yet. I've three dollars and sixty cents of my own."
One hand had remained tightly clenched. Sissy opened it. In the moist pink palm lay three dollars, a fifty-cent piece, and a dime. Never had Pap's voice sounded so harsh in my ears as when he said: "Do I understan' that ye offer this to--me?"
His tone frightened her.
"Yas, sir. Won't you p-p-please t-take it?"
"Did yer folks tell ye to give me this money?"
"Why, no. I'd oughter hev asked 'em, I s'pose, but I never thought o' that. Honest Injun, Mr. Spooner, I didn't--and--and it's my own money," she concluded, half defiantly, "an' Popsy said as how I could do what I liked with it. Please take it."
"No," said Pap.
He stared at us, clicking his teeth and frowning. Then he said, curtly, "Wal, I'll take the dime, Sissy--I kin make a dime go farther than a dollar, can't I, boys?"
"You bet," said Ajax.
"And now, Sissy, you run along home," said Pap.
"We'll take her," I said, for Sissy was a sworn friend of ours. At once she put her left hand into mine. We bade the old man good-night, and took leave of him. On the threshold Ajax turned and asked a question----
"Won't you reconsider your decision, Mr. Spooner?"
"No," he snapped, "I won't. I dunno as all this ain't a reg'lar plant. Looks like it. And, as I say, the scallywags in these yere foothills need thinnin'--they need thinnin'."
Ajax said something in a low voice which Sissy and I could not hear. Later I asked him what it was, because Pap had clicked his teeth.
"I told him," said my brother, "that he needn't think his call was coming, because I was quite certain that they did not want him either in Heaven--or in the other place."
"Oh," said I, "I thought that you were going to use a little tact with Pap Spooner."
* * * * *
* * * * *
Next morning, early, we had a meeting in the store. A young doctor, a capital fellow, had come out from San Lorenzo with the intention of camping with us till the disease was wiped out; but he shook his head very solemnly when someone suggested that the first case, carefully isolated, might prove the last.
There were two fresh cases that night!
I shall not attempt to describe the horrors that filled the next three weeks. But, not for the first time, I was struck by the heroism and self-sacrifice of these rude foothill folk, whose great qualities shine brightest in the dark hours of adversity. My brother and I had passed through the big boom, when our part of California had become of a sudden a Tom Tiddler's ground, where the youngest and simplest could pick up gold and silver. We had seen our county drunk with prosperity- -drunk and disorderly. And we had seen also these same revellers chastened by low prices, dry seasons, and commercial stagnation. But we had yet to witness the crowning sobering effect of a raging pestilence.
The little schoolmarm, Alethea-Belle Buchanan, organised the women into a staff of nurses. Mrs. Dumble enrolled herself amongst the band. Did she take comfort in the thought that she was wiping out John Jacob Dumble's innumerable rogueries? Let us hope so.
Within a week yellow bunting waved from half a score of cottages in and about Paradise. And then, one heavenly morning, as we were riding into the village, we saw the hideous warning fluttering outside George Leadham's door.
Sissy was down with it!
Poor George, his brown, weather-beaten face seamed with misery, met us at the garden gate.
"She's awful bad," he muttered, "an' the doc. says she'll be worse afore she's better."
Next door a man was digging two graves in his garden.
Meantime, Pap Spooner had disappeared. We heard that he had gone to a mountain ranch of his about fifteen miles away. Nobody missed him; nobody cared whether he went or stayed. In the village store it was conceded that Pap's room, rain or shine, was better than his company. His name was never mentioned till it began to fall from Sissy Leadham's delirious lips.
The schoolmarm first told me that the child was asking for Andrew Spooner, moaning, wailing, shrieking for "pore old Pap." George Leadham was distracted.
"What in thunder she wants that ole cuss fer I can't find out. She's drivin' me plum crazy." I explained.
"That's it," said George. "It's bin Pap an' her money night an' day fer forty-eight hours. She wanted ter give him--him, by Jing!--her money."
The doctor heard the story half an hour later. He had not the honour of Andrew Spooner's acquaintance, and he had reason to believe that all men in the foothills were devoid of fear.
"Fetch Pap," said he, in the same tone as he might have said, "Fetch milk and water!" We made no remark.
"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 oldadobe, 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.
IVGLORIANA
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 avaquerowould 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 over-alls 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 headvaquero, 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 oldadobenear the big corral, boarded himself and a couple of Mexicans upontortillas,frijolesand 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 cattleslowly. 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 ourcordon bleuin 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 sayProfessorLeadbetter, 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.