It was Sunday, and the little valley was still with the stillness of warm, drowsy, quiescent life. At noon, the narrow road stretching between the shadowless barley-fields was haunted by slender, hurrying spirals of dust, like phantoms tempted by the silence to a wild frolic in the sunlight. The white air shimmered in wavy lines above the stubble. Em shut her eyes as she came out of the little church, as if the glare blinded her. Steve was waiting near the door, and a sudden, unreasoning hope thrilled her heart. He was looking for some one. She could hear the blood throbbing in her temples. He took a step forward. Then a red silken cloud shut out her sun, and the riot died out of her poor young heart. 'Rene was smiling up into his sunburned face from the roseate glory of her new parasol. Em walked home through the sunlight with the echo of their banter humming in her ears.
Ben sat on the porch watching for her, a feverish brightness in his sunken eyes.
"Was 'Rene at church?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes, Ben."
Em stood behind his chair, looking down at the cords of his poor, wasted neck. Her eyelids burned with hot, unshed tears.
"Did she look nice—did she have anything new?"
"Yes, she had a new parasol. She looked real pretty." The girl spoke with dull, unfeeling gentleness. Ben tried to turn and look up into her face.
"She's been wanting it all summer. I told her 'way long in the spring that I'd get it for her birthday. I wonder if she forgot it? I didn't have any idea I'd be laid up this way."
Em stood perfectly still.
"I'll bet she was surprised, Em," he went on wistfully; "do you think she'll come over and say anything about it?"
"She'd better," said Em, setting her teeth in her bright under lip.
The invalid gave a little, choking cough, and looked out across the valley. A redspot was moving through the stubble toward the house. He put up his hot hand and laid it on Em's cold fingers.
"Mother tried to fool me about the money," he said feebly, "but I think I know where she got it. I don't mean to forget it either, Em. I'll pay it back just as soon as I get up."
"Yes, Ben."
The girl dropped her cheek on his head with a little wailing sob.
"Yes, Ben, I ain't a bit afraid about my pay." Then she slipped her hand from under his and went into the house.
The red spot was drawing nearer. Mrs. Wickersham glanced through the open window at her son.
"Benny's looking brighter than I've seen him in a long time," she thought. "I guess his ride yesterday done him good."
And in her little room Em sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall through blinding tears.
"I wish I had it all to do over again," she said. "I'd do it all—even if I knew—for Ben!"
We were sojourning between Anaheim and the sea. There was a sunshiny dullness about the place, like the smiles of a vapid woman. The bit of vineyard surrounding our whitewashed cabin was an emerald set in the dull, golden-brown plain. Before the door an artesian well glittered in the sun like an inverted crystal bowl. Esculapius called the spot Fezzan, and gradually I came to think the well a fountain, and the sunburnt waste about us a stretch of yellow sand.
When I had walked to the field of whispering corn behind the house, and through the straggling vines to the edge of the vineyard in front, I came back to where my invalid sat beneath the feathery acacias, dreaming in happy lonesomeness.
"Did you ever see such placid, bright, ethereal stillness?" I asked.
Esculapius took his cigar from his lips and looked at me pensively.
"It may be my misfortune, I hope it is not my fault, but I do not remember to have seen stillness of any sort."
Esculapius has but one shortcoming—he is not a poet. I never wound him by appearing to notice this defect, so I sat down on the dry burr-clover and made no reply.
"You think it is still," he went on in a mannish, instructive way, "but in fact there are a thousand sounds. At night, when it is really quiet, you will hear the roar of the ocean ten miles away. Hark!"
Our host was singing far down in the corn. He was a minister, a deep-toned Methodist, brimming over with vocal piety.
"Nearer the great white throne,Nearer the jasper sea,"—
came to us in slow, rich cadences.
The fern-like branches above us stirred softly against the blue. Little aromatic whiffs came from the grove of pale eucalyptus-trees near the house. Esculapius diluted the intoxicating air with tobacco smoke and remained sane, but as for me thesunshine went to my head, and whirled and eddied there like some Eastern drug.
"My love," I said wildly, "if we stay here very long and nothing happens, I shall do something rash."
The next morning a huge derrick frowned in the dooryard, and a picturesque group of workmen lounged under the acacias. The well had ceased to flow.
Esculapius called me to a corner of the piazza, and spoke in low, hurried tones.
"Something has happened," he said; "the well has stopped. I thought it might relieve your feelings to get off that quotation about the golden bowl and the wheel, and the pitcher, and the fountain, etc.; then, if it is safe to leave you, I would like to go hunting."
I looked at him with profound compassion.
"I have forgotten the quotation," I said, "but I think it begins: 'The grinders shall cease because they are few.' Perhaps you had better take your shotgun, and don't forget your light overcoat. Good-by."
Then I took a pitcher and went down the walk to the disglorified well. The musical drip on the pebbles was hushed; the charm of our oasis had departed. In its place stood a length of rusty pipe full of standing water. Some bits of maiden's-hair I had placed in reach of the cool spray yesterday were already withered in the sun. I took the gourd from its notch in the willows sadly. Some one had been before me and carved "Ichabod" on its handle. I filled my pitcher and turned to go. A tall form separated itself from the group of workmen and came gallantly forward.
"Madame," said a rich, hearty voice, "if you'll just allow me, I'll tackle that pitcher and tote it in for you. Jarvis is my name, Colonel Bob Jarvis, well-borer. We struck a ten-inch flow down at Scranton's last week, and rather knocked the bottom out of things around here."
"But the pitcher isn't at all heavy, Colonel Jarvis."
"Oh, never mind that: anything's too heavy for a lady; that's my sentiments. You see, I'm a ladies' man,—born and brought up to it. Nursed my mother and two aunts and a grandmother through consumption, and never let one of 'em lift afinger. 'Robert,' my mother used to say, in her thin, sickly voice, 'Robert, be true to God and the women;' and, by godfrey, I mean to be."
I relinquished the pitcher instantly. Esculapius was right; something had happened. The well was gone, but in its place I had found something a thousand times more refreshing. When my husband returned, he found me sitting breathless and absorbed under the acacias.
"Hush!" I said, with upraised finger; "listen!"
Our host and the colonel were talking as they worked at the well.
"We've had glorious meetings this week over at Gospel Swamp, Jarvis," the minister was saying. "I looked for you every night. If you could just come over and hear the singing, and have some of the good brothers and sisters pray with you, don't you think"—
"Why, God bless your soul, man!" interrupted the colonel; "don't you know I'm religious? I'm with you right along, as to first principles, that is; but, you see, I can't quite go the Methodist doctrine. Iwas raised a Presbyterian, you know,—regular black-and-blue Calvinist,—and what a fellow takes in with his mother's milk sticks by him. I'm attached to the old ideas,—infant damnation, and total depravity, and infernal punishment, and the interference of the saints. You fellows over at the Swamp are loose! Why, by—the way, my mother used to say to me, in her delicate, squeaky voice: 'Robert, beware of Methodists; they're loose, my son, loose as a bag of bones.' No, indeed, I wouldn't want you to think me indifferent to religion; religion's my forte. Why, by—and by, I mean to start a Presbyterian church right here under your nose."
"I'm glad of it," responded the minister warmly; "you've no idea how glad I am, Jarvis."
"Why, man alive, that church is in my mind day and night. I want to get about forty good, pious Presbyterian families to settle around here, and I'll bore wells for 'em, and talk up the church business between times. You saw me carrying that lady's pitcher for her this morning, didn't you? Well, by—the way, that was a religious move entirely. I took her man for a Presbyterian preacher the minute I struck the ranch; maybe it's poor health gives him that cadaverous look, but you can't most always tell. More likely it's religion. At any rate"—
Esculapius retreated in wild disorder, and did not appear again until supper-time. When that meal was finished, Colonel Jarvis followed me as I walked to the piazza.
"If it ain't presuming, madam," he said confidentially, "I'd like to ask your advice. I take it you're from the city, now?"
"Yes," I answered, with preternatural gravity; "what makes you think so?"
"Well, I knew it by your gait, mostly. A woman that's raised in the country walks as if she was used to havin' the road to herself; city women are generally good steppers. But that ain't the point. I'm engaged to be married!"
My composure under this announcement was a good deal heightened by the fact that Esculapius, who had sauntered out after us, whistling to himself, became suddenly quiet, and disappeared tumultuously.
"Engaged to be married!" I said. "Letme congratulate you, Colonel. May I hope to see the fortunate young lady?"
"That depends. You see, I'm in a row,—the biggest kind of a row, by—a good deal; and I thought you might give me a lift. She's a 'Frisco lady, you know; one of your regular high-flyers; black eyes, bangs, no end o' spirit. You see, she was visitin' over at Los Nietos, and we made it up, and when she went back to 'Frisco I thought I'd send her a ring; so I bought this," fumbling in his pocket, and producing the most astounding combination of red glass and pinchbeck; "and, by godfrey! she sent it back to me. Now, I don't see anything wrong about that ring; do you?"
"It is certainly a little—well, peculiar, at least, for an engagement ring; perhaps she would like something a trifle less showy. Ladies have a great many whims about jewelry, you know."
"Exactly. That is just what I reflected. So I went and boughtthis" (triumphantly displaying a narrow band); "now that's what I call genteel; don't you? Well, if you'll believe it, she sent that back, too, by—return mail. I wish I'd fetched you theletter she wrote; if it wasn't the spiciest piece of literature I ever read by—anybody. 'She'd have me understand she wasn't a barmaid nor a Quaker; and if I didn't know what was due a lady in her position, I'd better find out before I aspired to her hand,'et cetery. Oh, I tell you, she's grit; no end o' mettle. So, you see, I've struck a boulder, and it gets me bad, because I meant to see the parson through with his well here, and then go on to 'Frisco and get married. Now, if you'll help me through, and get me into sand and gravel again, and your man decides to settle in these parts, I'll guarantee you a number one well, good, even two-inch flow, and no expense but pipe and boardin' hands. I'll do it, by—some means."
"Oh, no, Colonel," I said, struggling with a laugh; "I couldn't allow that. It gives me great pleasure to advise you, only it's a very delicate matter, you know—and—really" (I was casting about wildly for an inspiration) "wouldn't it be better to go on to the city, as you intended, and ask the lady to go with you and exercise her own taste in selecting a ring?"
My companion took a step backward, folded his arms, and looked at me admiringly.
"Well, if it don't beat all how a woman walks through a millstone! Now that's what I call neat. Why, God bless you, madam, I've been boring at that thing for a week steady, night and day, by—myself, and making no headway. It makes me think of my mother. 'Robert,' she used to say (and she had a very small, trembly voice),—'Robert, a woman's little finger weighs more than a man's whole carcass;' and she was right. I'll be—destroyed if she wasn't right!"
Esculapius laughed rather unnecessarily when I repeated this conversation to him.
"I am willing to allow that it's funny," I said; "but after all there is a rude pathos in the man, an untutored chivalry. Nearly every man loves and reverences a woman; but this man loves and reverences women. It is old-fashioned, I know, but it has a breezy sweetness of its own, like the lavender and rosemary of our grandmothers; don't you think so?"
There was no reply. I imagine that Esculapius is sensible at times of his want of ideality, and feels a delicacy in conversing with me. So I went on musingly:—
"With such natures love is an instinct; and it is to instinct, after all, that we must look for everything that is fresh and poetic in humanity. We have all made this sacrifice to culture,—a sacrifice of force to expression. Isn't it so, my love?"
Still no reply.
"I like to picture to myself the affection of which such a man is capable, for no doubt he loves this girl of whom he speaks; not, of course, as you—as yououghtto love me, but with a rude, wild sincerity, a sort of rugged grandeur. Imagine him betrayed by her. A man of the world might grow white about the lips and sick at heart, but he would find relief in cynicism and bitter words. This man wouldact,—some wild, strange act of vengeance. The cultured nature is a honeycomb: his is a solid mass; and masses give us our most picturesque effects. Don't you think so, my dear?"
And still no reply.
"Esculapius!"
"Well, my love?"
"Isn't it barbarous of you not to answer when I speak to you?"
"Possibly; at least it has that appearance, but there are mitigating circumstances, my dear. I was asleep."
Two weeks later the colonel brought his wife to call upon me. She was a showy, loud-voiced blonde, resplendently over-dressed. At the first opportunity her husband motioned me aside.
"Isn't she about the gayest piece of calico you ever saw?" he asked, with proud confidence. "Doesn't she lay over anything around here by a large majority?"
"She is certainly a very striking woman," I said gravely, "and one who does you great credit. But I am a little surprised, Colonel. No doubt it was a mistake, but I got the impression in some way that the lady was a brunette."
The colonel's countenance fell. "Now, look here," he said, after a little reflection; "I don't mind telling you, because you're up to the city ways and you'll understand.The fact is, thisisn't the one. You see, I went on to 'Frisco as you advised, and planked down a check for five hundred dollars the minute I got there. 'Now,' said I, 'Bob Jarvis don't do things by halves; just you take that money, my girl, and get yourself a ring that's equal to the occasion. I don't care if it's a cluster of solitary diamonds as big as a section of well-pipe.' Now, I call that square, don't you? Well, God bless your soul, madam, if she didn't take that money and skip out with another fellow! Some white-livered city sneak—beggin' your husband's pardon—who'd been hangin' around for a year or more. Of course I was stuck when I heard of it. It was this one told me. She's her sister. I could see that she felt bad about it. 'It was a nasty, dirty trick,' she said; and I'll be—demoralized if I don't think so myself, and said so at the time. But, after all, it turned out a lucky thing for me. Now look at that, will you?"
I followed his gaze of admiring fondness to where Mrs. Jarvis was, bridling and simpering under Esculapius's compliments.
"Isn't she a nosegay? But don't yoube jealous, madam; she's just wrapped up in me, and constant," he added, shaking his head reflectively; "why, bless your soul, she's as constant as sin."
When I told Esculapius of this he sighed deeply.
"What is the matter?" I asked, with some anxiety.
He threw back his head and sent a little dreamy cloud of smoke up through the acacias.
"I was thinking," he said, pensively, "what a 'wild, strange act of vengeance' it was!"
I looked him sternly in the eye. "My dear," I said, "I don't think you ought to distress yourself about that. I never should have reminded you of it. You were dreaming, you know, and you are not responsible for what you dream. Besides, dreams are like human nature, they always go by contraries."
He came up the mountain road at nightfall, urging his lean mustang forward wearily, and coughing now and then—a heavy, hollow cough that told its own story.
There were only two houses on the mesa stretching shaggy and sombre with greasewood from the base of the mountains to the valley below,—two unpainted redwood dwellings, with their clumps of trailing pepper-trees and tattered bananas,—mere specks of civilization against a stern background of mountain-side. The traveler halted before one of them, bowing awkwardly as the master of the house came out.
"Mr. Brandt, I reckon."
Joel Brandt looked up into the stranger's face. Not a bad face, certainly: sallow and drawn with suffering,—one of those hopelessly pathetic faces, barely saved from the grotesque by a pair of dull, wistful eyes.Not that Joel Brandt saw anything either grotesque or pathetic about the man.
"Another sickly looking stranger outside, Barbara, wants to try the air up here. Can you keep him? Or maybe the Fox's'll give him a berth."
Mrs. Brandt shook her head in a house-wifely meditation.
"No; Mrs. Fox can't, that's certain. She has an asthma and two bronchitises there now. What's the matter with him, Joel?"
The stranger's harsh, resonant cough answered.
"Keep him?—to be sure. You might know I'd keep him, Joel; the night air's no place for a man to cough like that. Bring him into the kitchen right away."
The newcomer spread his bony hands over Mrs. Brandt's cheery fire, and the soft, dull eyes followed her movements wistfully.
"The fire feels kind o' homey, ma'am; Californy ain't much of a place for fires, it 'pears."
"Been long on the coast, stranger?" Joel squared himself interrogatively.
"'Bout a week. I'm from Indianny.Brice's my name—Posey Brice the boys 'n the glass-mill called me. I wuz blowed up in a glass-mill oncet." The speaker turned to show an ugly scar on his neck. "Didn't know where I wuz fer six weeks—thought I hadn't lit. When I come to, there wuz Loisy potterin' over me; but I ain't been rugged sence."
"Married?"
The man's answer broke through the patient homeliness of his face at once. He fumbled in his pocket silently, like one who has no common disclosure to make.
"What d' ye think o' them, stranger?"
Joel took the little, rusty, black case in his hands reverently. A woman's face, not grand, nor fair even, some bits of tawdry finery making its plainness plainer; and beside it a round-eyed boy plumped into a high chair, with two little feet sticking sturdily out in Joel's face.
Mrs. Brandt looked over her husband's shoulder with kindly curiosity.
"The boy favors you amazingly about the mouth; but he's got his mother's eyes, and they're sharp, knowin' eyes, too. He's a bright one, I'll be bound."
"Yours, I reckon?"
"Yes, that's Loisy an' the boy," fighting the conscious pride in his voice like one who tries to wear his honors meekly.
He took the well-worn case again, gazing into the two faces an instant with helpless yearning, and returned it to its place. The very way he handled it was a caress, fastening the little brass hook with scrupulous care.
"I'll be sendin' fur 'em when I git red o' this pesterin' cough."
A very quiet, unobtrusive guest Mrs. Brandt found the man Brice; talking little save in a sudden gush of confidence, and always of his wife and child; choosing a quiet corner of the kitchen in the chill California nights, where he watched his hostess's deft movements with wistful admiration.
"Try huntin', Brice; the doctors mostly say it's healthy."
And Brice tried hunting, as Joel advised, taking the gun from its crotch over the door after breakfast, and wandering for hours in the yellow, wine-like air of themesa. He came in at noon and nightfall always empty-handed, yet no one derided his failure. There was something about the man that smothered derision.
"A sort o' thunderin' patience that knocks a fellow," Bert Fox put it.
Mrs. Brandt had always an encouraging word for the hunter.
"Greasewood's bad fer huntin'. Joel says it don't pay to look fer quail in the brush when he does fetch 'em down."
"Like enough. I dunno, ma'am. Reckon I've had a good many shots at the little wild critters, but they allus turn their heads so kind o' innocent like. A man as has been blowed up oncet hisself ain't much at separatin' fam'lies. But I s'pose it ain't the shootin' that's healthy, mebbe."
And so the hunting came to an end without bloodshed. Whether the doctors were right, or whether it was the mingled resin and honey of the sage and chaparral, no one cared to ask. Certain it is that the "pesterin' cough" yielded a little, and the bent form grew a trifle more erect.
"I think likely it's the lookin' up, ma'am. Mountains seem to straighten a fellow someway. 'Pears to me somebody writ oncet uv liftin' his eyes to the hills fer help. Mebbe not, though. I ain't much at recollectin' verses. Loisy's a powerful hand that way."
Perhaps the man was right. It was the looking up.
He followed Joel from the table one morning, stopping outside, his face full of patient eagerness.
"I'm gittin' right smart o' strength, neighbor. Ef there's odd jobs you could gi' me; I'd be slow, mebbe, but seems like 'most anything 'ud be better 'n settin' 'round."
Joel scratched his head reflectively. The big, brawny-handed fellow felt no disposition to smile at his weak brother.
"Fox and I wuz sayin' yesterday we'd like to put another man on the ditch; it'll be easy work fer a week, till we strike rock again. Then there's the greasewood. It's always on hand. You might take it slow, grubbin' when you wuz able. I guess we'll find you jobs enough, man."
The scarred, colorless face brightened.
"Thank ye, neighbor. Ef you'll be sokind, there's another little matter. I'll have a trifle over when I've paid your woman fer her trouble. I wuz thinkin' like enough you'd let me run up a shanty on yer place here. Loisy wouldn't mind about style—just a roof to bring 'em to. It's fer her and the boy, you know," watching Joel's face eagerly.
"Yes, yes, Brice; we'll make it all right. Just take things kind o' easy. I'll be goin' in with wood next week, and I'll fetch you out a load o' lumber. We'll make a day of it after 'while, and put up your house in a jiffy."
And so Brice went to work on the ditch, gently at first, spared from the heaviest work by strong arms and rough kindliness. And so, ere long, another rude dwelling went up on the mesa, the blue smoke from its fireside curling slowly toward the pine-plumed mountain-tops.
The building fund, scanty enough at best, was unexpectedly swelled by a sudden and obstinate attack of forgetfulness which seized good Mrs. Brandt.
"No, Brice, you haven't made me a spark o' trouble, not a spark. I'm sure you'vepaid your way twice over bringin' in wood, and grindin' coffee, an' the like. Many a man'd asked wages for the half you've done, so I'm gettin' off easy to call it square." And the good lady stood her ground unflinchingly.
"You've been powerful good to me, ma'am. We'll be watchin' our chance to make it up to you,—Loisy an' me. I'll be sendin' fer Loisy d'reckly now."
"Yes, yes, man, and there'll be bits o' furniture and things to get. Spread your money thin, and Mrs. Fox and me'll come in and put you to rights when you're lookin' for her."
He brought the money to Joel at last, a motley collection of gold and silver pieces.
"Ef ye'll be so kind as to send it to 'er, neighbor,—Mrs. Loisy Brice, Plattsville, Indianny. I've writ the letter tellin' her how to come. There's enough fer the ticket and a trifle to spare. The boy's a master hand at scuffin' out shoes an' things. You'll not make any mistake sendin' it, will you?"
"No, no, Brice; it'll go straight as a rocket. Let me see now. The letter'llbe a week, then 'lowin' 'em a week to get started"—
"Loisy won't be a week startin', neighbor."
"Never you mind, man. 'Lowin' 'em a week to get off, that's two weeks; then them emigrant trains is slow, say thirteen days on the road,—that's about another fortnight,—four weeks; this is the fifth, ain't it? Twenty-eight and five's thirty-three; that'll be the third o' next month, say. Now mind what I tell you, Brice; don't look fer 'em a minute before the third,—not a minute."
"'Pears like a long spell to wait, neighbor."
"I know it, man; but it'll seem a thunderin' sight longer after you begin to look fer 'em."
"I reckon you're right. Say four weeks from to-day, then. Like enough you'll be goin' in."
"Yes, we'll hitch up and meet 'em at the train,—you and me. The women'll have things kind o' snug ag'in' we git home. Four weeks'll soon slide along, man."
Joel went into the house smiling softly.
"I had to be almost savage with the fellow, Barbara. The anxious seat's no place fer a chap like him; it'd wear him to a toothpick in a week."
"But she might get here before that, you know, Joel."
"I'll fix that with the men at the depot. If she comes sooner we'll have her out here in a hurry. Wish to goodness she would."
The Southern winter blossomed royally. Bees held high carnival in the nodding spikes of the white sage, and now and then a breath of perfume from the orange groves in the valley came up to mingle with the wild mountain odors. Brice worked every moment with feverish earnestness, and the pile of gnarled roots on the clearing grew steadily larger. With all her loveliness, Nature failed to woo him. What was the exquisite languor of those days to him but so many hours of patient waiting? The dull eyes saw nothing of the lavish beauty around him then, looking through it all with restless yearning to where an emigranttrain, with its dust and dirt and noisome breath, crawled over miles of alkali, or hung from dizzy heights.
"To-morrow's the third, neighbor. I reckon she'll be 'long now d'reckly."
"That's a fact; what a rattler time is!" The days had not been long to Joel. "We'll go in to-morrow, and if they don't come you can stay and watch the trains awhile. She won't know you, Brice; you've picked up amazingly."
"I think likely Loisy'll know me if she comes."
But she did not come. Joel returned the following night alone, having left Brice at cheap lodgings near the station. Numberless passers-by must have noticed the patient watcher at the incoming trains, the homely pathos of his face deepening day by day, the dull eyes growing a shade duller, and the awkward form a trifle more stooped with each succeeding disappointment. It was two weeks before he reappeared on the mesa, walking wearily like a man under a load.
"I reckon there's something wrong, ma'am. I come out to see ef yer man 'udwrite me a letter. I hadn't been long in Plattsville, but I worked a spell fer a man named Yarnell; like enough he'd look it up a little. I ain't much at writin', an' I'd want it all writ out careful like, you know." The man's voice had the old, uncomplaining monotony.
Joel wrote the letter at once, making the most minute inquiries regarding Mrs. Brice, and giving every possible direction concerning her residence. Then Brice fell back into the old groove, working feverishly, in spite of Mrs. Brandt's kindly warnings.
"I can't stop, ma'am; the settin' 'round 'ud kill me."
The answer came at last, a businesslike epistle, addressed to Joel. Mrs. Brice had left Plattsville about the time designated. Several of her neighbors remembered that a stranger, a well-dressed man, had been at the house for nearly a week before her departure, and the two had gone away together, taking the Western train. The writer regretted his inability to give further information, and closed with kindly inquiries concerning his former employee'shealth, and earnest commendation of him to Mr. Brandt.
Joel read the letter aloud, something—some sturdy uprightness of his own, no doubt—blinding him to its significance.
"Will you read it ag'in, neighbor? I'm not over-quick."
The man's voice was a revelation full of an unutterable hurt, like the cry of some dumb wounded thing.
And Joel read it again, choking with indignation now at every word.
"Thank ye, neighbor. I'll trouble you to write a line thankin' him; that's all."
He got up heavily, staggering a little as he crossed the floor, and went out into the yellow sunlight. There was the long, sun-kissed slope, the huge pile of twisted roots, the rude shanty with its clambering vines. The humming of bees in the sage went on drowsily. Life, infinitely shrunken, was life still. A more cultured grief might have swooned or cried out. This man knew no such refuge; even the poor relief of indignation was denied to him. None of the thousand wild impulses that come to men smitten like him flitted across hisclouded brain. He only knew to take up his burden dumbly and go on. If he had been wiser, could he have known more?
No one spoke of the blow that had fallen upon him. The sympathy that met him came in the warmer clasp of hard hands and the softening of rough voices, none the worse certainly for its quietness. Alone with her husband, however, good Mrs. Brandt's wrath bubbled incessantly.
"It's a crying, burning, blistering shame, Joel, that's what it is. I s'pose it's the Lord's doings, but I can't see through it."
"If the Lord's up to that kind o' business, Barbara, I don't see no further use fer the devil," was the dry response.
These plain, honest folk never dreamed of intruding upon their neighbor's grief with poor suggestions of requital. Away in the city across the mountains men babbled of remedies at law. But this man's hurt was beyond the jurisdiction of any court. Day by day the hollow cough grew more frequent, and the awkward step slower. Nobody asked him to quit his work now. Even Mrs. Brandt shrank from the patient misery of his face when idle. Hecame into her kitchen one evening, choosing the old quiet corner, and following her with his eyes silently.
"Is there anything lackin', Brice?" The woman came and stood beside him, the great wave of pity in her heart welling up to her voice and eyes.
"Nothin', ma'am, thank ye. I've been thinkin'," he went on, speaking more rapidly than was his wont, "an' I dunno. You've knowed uv people gettin' wrong in their minds, I s'pose. They wuz mostly smart, knowin' chaps, wuzn't they?" the low, monotonous voice growing almost sharp with eagerness. "I reckon you never knowed of any one not over-bright gittin' out of his head, ma'am?"
"I wouldn't talk o' them things, Brice. Just go on and do your best, and if there's any good, or any right, or any justice, you'll come out ahead; that's about all we know, but it's enough if we stick to it."
"I reckon you're right, ma'am. 'Pears sometimes, though, as ef anything 'ud be better 'n the thinkin'."
It all came to an end one afternoon. Brice was at work on the ditch again, preferring the cheerful companionship of Joel and Bert Fox to his own thoughts, and Mrs. Brandt was alone in her kitchen. Two shadows fell across the worn threshold, and a weak, questioning voice brought the good woman to her door instantly.
"Good-day to you, ma'am. Is there a man named Brice livin' nigh here anywhere?"
It was a woman's voice,—a woman with some bits of tawdry ornament about her, and a round-eyed boy clinging bashfully to her skirts.
Mrs. Brandt brought them into the house, urging the stranger to rest a bit and get her breath.
"Thank you, ma'am; I'd like to be movin' on. Do you know if he's well,—the man Brice? We're his wife an' boy."
The woman told her story presently, when Mrs. Brandt had induced her to wait there until the men came home,—told itwith no unnecessary words, and her listener made no comment.
"My brother come a week afore we was leavin', an' he helped us off an' come as fur as Omaha. He'd done well out in Nebrasky, an' he give me right smart o' money when he left. I was took sick on the road,—I disremember jest where,—an' they left me at a town with a woman named Dixon. She took care o' me. I was out o' my head a long time, an' when I come to I told 'em to write to Brice, an' they writ, an' I reckon they took the name of the place from the ticket. I was weak like fer a long spell, an' they kep' a writin' an' no word come, an' then I recollected about the town,—it was Los Angeles on the ticket,—and then I couldn't think of the place I'd sent the letters to before, an' the thinkin' worrited me, an' the doctor said I mustn't try. So I jest waited, an' when I got to Los Angeles I kep' a-askin' fer a man named Brandt, till one day somebody said, 'Brandt? Brandt? 'pears to me there's a Brandt 'way over beyond the Mission.' And then it come to me all at oncet that the place I'd writ to was San Gabriel Mission. An' I wentthere an' they showed me your house. Then a man give us a lift on his team part o' the way, an' we walked the rest. It didn't look very fur, but they say mountains is deceivin'. There 's somethin' kind o' grand about 'em, I reckon; it makes everything 'pear sort o' small."
Mrs. Brandt told Joel about it that evening.
"I just took the two of 'em up to the shanty, and opened the door, and you'd a cried to see how pleased she was with everything. And I told her to kindle a fire and I'd fetch up a bite o' supper. And when I'd carried it up and left it, I just come back and stood on the step till I saw Brice comin' home. He was walkin' slow, as if his feet was a dead weight, and when he took hold o' the door he stopped a minute, lookin' over the valley kind o' wishful and hopeless. I guess she heard him come, for she opened the door, and I turned around and come in. 'Barbara Brandt,' says I, 'you've seen your see. If God wants to look at that, I suppose He has a right to; nobody else has, that's certain.'"
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