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Probably owing to the affair of the specimens, the elder Sharpe did not seem to regard the possible mesalliance of Richelieu with extraordinary disfavor. “That boy is conceited enough with hair ile and fine clothes for anything,” he said plaintively. “But didn’t that Louise Macy hev a feller already—that Captain Greyson? Wot’s gone o’ him?”
“That’s it,” said Minty: “he kin go out in the woods and whistle now. But all the same, she could hitch him in again at any time if the other stranger kicked over the traces. That’s the style over there at The Lookout. There ain’t ez much heart in them two women put together ez would make a green gal flush up playin’ forfeits. It’s all in their breed, Pop. Love ain’t going to spile their appetites and complexions, give ‘em nose-bleed, nor put a drop o’ water into their eyes in all their natural born days. That’s wot makes me mad. Ef I thought that Loo cared a bit for that child I wouldn’t mind; I’d just advise her to make him get up and get—pack his duds out o’ camp, and go home and not come back until he had a written permit from his mother, or the other baronet in office.”
“Looks sorter ef some one orter interfere,” said the blacksmith, reflectively. “‘Tain’t exackly a case for a vigilance committee, tho’ it’s agin public morals, this sorter kidnappin’ o’ strangers. Looks ez if it might bring the country into discredit in England.”
“Well, don’t YOU go and interfere and havin’ folks say ez my nose was put out o’ jint over there,” said Minty, curtly. “There’s another Englishman comin’ up from ‘Frisco to see him to-morrow. Ef he ain’t scooped up by Jenny Bradley he’ll guess there’s a nigger in the fence somewhere. But there, Pop, let it drop. It’s a bad aig, anyway,” she concluded, rising from the table, and passing her hands down her frock and her shapely hips, as if to wipe off further contamination of the subject. “Where’s Richelieu agin?”
“Said he didn’t want supper, and like ez not he’s gone over to see that fammerly at the Summit. There’s a little girl thar he’s sparkin’, about his own age.”
“His own age!” said Minty, indignantly. “Why, she’s double that, if she’s a day. Well—if he ain’t the triflinest, conceitednest little limb that ever grew! I’d like to know where he got it from—it wasn’t mar’s style.”
Mr. Sharpe smiled darkly. Richelieu’s precocious gallantry evidently was not considered as gratuitous as his experimental metallurgy. But as his eyes followed his daughter’s wholesome, Phyllis-like figure, a new idea took possession of him: needless to say, however, it was in the line of another personal aggrievement, albeit it took the form of religious reflection.
“It’s curous, Minty, wot’s foreordained, and wot ain’t. Now, yer’s one of them high and mighty fellows, after the Lord, ez comes meanderin’ around here, and drops off—ez fur ez I kin hear—in a kind o’ faint at the first house he kems to, and is taken in and lodged and sumptuously fed; and, nat’rally, they gets their reward for it. Now wot’s to hev kept that young feller from coming HERE and droppin’ down in my forge, or in this very room, and YOU a tendin’ him, and jist layin’ over them folks at The Lookout?”
“Wot’s got hold o’ ye, Pop? Don’t I tell ye he had a letter to Jim Bradley?” said Minty, quickly, with an angry flash of color in her cheek.
“That ain’t it,” said Sharpe confidently; “it’s cos he WALKED. Nat’rally, you’d think he’d RIDE, being high and mighty, and that’s where, ez the parson will tell ye, wot’s merely fi-nite and human wisdom errs! Ef that feller had ridden, he’d have had to come by this yer road, and by this yer forge, and stop a spell like any other. But it was foreordained that he should walk, jest cos it wasn’t generally kalkilated and reckoned on. So, YOU had no show.”
For a moment, Minty seemed struck with her father’s original theory. But with a vigorous shake of her shoulders she threw it off. Her eyes darkened.
“I reckon you ain’t thinking, Pop—” she began.
“I was only sayin’ it was curous,” he rejoined quietly. Nevertheless, after a pause, he rose, coughed, and going up to the young girl, as she leaned over the dresser, bent his powerful arm around her, and, drawing her and the plate she was holding against his breast, laid his bearded cheek for an instant softly upon her rebellious head. “It’s all right, Minty,” he said; “ain’t it, pet?” Minty’s eyelids closed gently under the familiar pressure. “Wot’s that in your hair, Minty?” he said tactfully, breaking an embarrassing pause.
“Bar’s grease, father,” murmured Minty, in a child’s voice—the grown-up woman, under that magic touch, having lapsed again into her father’s motherless charge of ten years before.
“It’s pow’ful soothin’, and pretty,” said her father.
“I made it myself—do you want some?” asked Minty.
“Not now, girl!” For a moment they slightly rocked each other in that attitude—the man dexterously, the woman with infinite tenderness—and then they separated.
Late that night, after Richelieu had returned, and her father wrestled in his fitful sleep with the remorse of his guilty indulgence at supper, Minty remained alone in her room, hard at work, surrounded by the contents of one of her mother’s trunks and the fragments of certain ripped-up and newly-turned dresses. For Minty had conceived the bold idea of altering one of her mother’s gowns to the fashion of a certain fascinating frock worn by Louise Macy. It was late when her self-imposed task was completed. With a nervous trepidation that was novel to her, Minty began to disrobe herself preparatory to trying on her new creation. The light of a tallow candle and a large swinging lantern, borrowed from her father’s forge, fell shyly on her milky neck and shoulders, and shone in her sparkling eyes, as she stood before her largest mirror—the long glazed door of a kitchen clock which she had placed upon her chest of drawers. Had poor Minty been content with the full, free, and goddess-like outlines that it reflected, she would have been spared her impending disappointment. For, alas! the dress of her model had been framed upon a symmetrically attenuated French corset, and the unfortunate Minty’s fuller and ampler curves had under her simple country stays known no more restraining cincture than knew the Venus of Milo. The alteration was a hideous failure, it was neither Minty’s statuesque outline nor Louise Macy’s graceful contour. Minty was no fool, and the revelation of this slow education of the figure and training of outline—whether fair or false in art—struck her quick intelligence with all its full and hopeless significance. A bitter light sprang to her eyes; she tore the wretched sham from her shoulders, and then wrapping a shawl around her, threw herself heavily and sullenly on the bed. But inaction was not a characteristic of Minty’s emotion; she presently rose again, and, taking an old work-box from her trunk, began to rummage in its recesses. It was an old shell-incrusted affair, and the apparent receptacle of such cheap odds and ends of jewelry as she possessed; a hideous cameo ring, the property of the late Mrs. Sharpe, was missing. She again rapidly explored the contents of the box, and then an inspiration seized her, and she darted into her brother’s bedroom.
That precocious and gallant Lovelace of ten, despite all sentiment, had basely succumbed to the gross materialism of youthful slumber. On a cot in the corner, half hidden under the wreck of his own careless and hurried disrobing, with one arm hanging out of the coverlid, Richelieu lay supremely unconscious. On the forefinger of his small but dirty hand the missing cameo was still glittering guiltily. With a swift movement of indignation Minty rushed with uplifted palm towards the tempting expanse of youthful cheek that lay invitingly exposed upon the pillow. Then she stopped suddenly.
She had seen him lying thus a hundred times before. On the pillow near him an indistinguishable mass of golden fur—the helpless bulk of a squirrel chained to the leg of his cot; at his feet a wall-eyed cat, who had followed his tyrannous caprices with the long-suffering devotion of her sex; on the shelf above him a loathsome collection of flies and tarantulas in dull green bottles: a slab of ginger-bread for light nocturnal refection, and her own pot of bear’s grease. Perhaps it was the piteous defencelessness of youthful sleep, perhaps it was some lingering memory of her father’s caress; but as she gazed at him with troubled eyes, the juvenile reprobate slipped back into the baby-boy that she had carried in her own childish arms such a short time ago, when the maternal responsibility had descended with the dead mother’s ill-fitting dresses upon her lank girlish figure and scant virgin breast—and her hand fell listlessly at her side.
The sleeper stirred slightly and awoke. At the same moment, by some mysterious sympathy, a pair of beady bright eyes appeared in the bulk of fur near his curls, the cat stretched herself, and even a vague agitation was heard in the bottles on the shelf. Richelieu’s blinking eyes wandered from the candle to his sister, and then the guilty hand was suddenly withdrawn under the bedclothes.
“No matter, dear,” said Minty; “it’s mar’s, and you kin wear it when you like, if you’ll only ask for it.”
Richelieu wondered if he was dreaming! This unexpected mildness—this inexplicable tremor in his sister’s voice: it must be some occult influence of the night season on the sisterly mind, possibly akin to a fear of ghosts! He made a mental note of it in view of future favors, yet for the moment he felt embarrassedly gratified. “Ye ain’t wantin’ anything, Minty,” he said affectionately; “a pail o’ cold water from the far spring—no nothin’?” He made an ostentatious movement as if to rise, yet sufficiently protracted to prevent any hasty acceptance of his prodigal offer.
“No, dear,” she said, still gazing at him with an absorbed look in her dark eyes.
Richelieu felt a slight creepy sensation under that lonely far-off gaze. “Your eyes look awful big at night, Minty,” he said. He would have added “and pretty,” but she was his sister, and he had the lofty fraternal conviction of his duty in repressing the inordinate vanity of the sex. “Ye’re sure ye ain’t wantin’ nothin’?”
“Not now, dear.” She paused a moment, and then said deliberately: “But you wouldn’t mind turnin’ out after sun-up and runnin’ an errand for me over to The Lookout?”
Richelieu’s eyes sparkled so suddenly that even in her absorption Minty noticed the change. “But ye’re not goin’ to tarry over there, ner gossip—you hear? Yer to take this yer message. Yer to say ‘that it will be onpossible for me to come back there, on account—on account of—‘”
“Important business,” suggested Richelieu; “that’s the perlite style.”
“Ef you like.” She leaned over the bed and put her lips to his forehead, still damp with the dews of sleep, and then to his long-lashed lids. “Mind Nip!”—the squirrel—he practically suggested. For an instant their blond curls mingled on the pillow. “Now go to sleep,” she said curtly.
But Richelieu had taken her white neck in the short strangulatory hug of the small boy, and held her fast. “Ye’ll let me put on my best pants?”
“Yes.”
“And wear that ring?”
“Yes”—a little sadly.
“Then yer kin count me in, Minty; and see here”—his voice sank to a confidential whisper—“mebbee some day ye’ll be beholden to ME for a lot o’ real jewelry.”
She returned slowly to her room, and, opening the window, looked out upon the night. The same moon that had lent such supererogatory grace to the natural beauty of The Lookout, here seemed to have failed; as Minty had, in disguising the relentless limitations of Nature or the cruel bonds of custom. The black plain of granite, under its rays, appeared only to extend its poverty to some remoter barrier; the blackened stumps of the burnt forest stood bleaker against the sky, like broken and twisted pillars of iron. The cavity of the broken ledge where Richelieu had prospected was a hideous chasm of bluish blackness, over which a purple vapor seemed to hover; the “brush dump” beside the house showed a cavern of writhing and distorted objects stiffened into dark rigidity. She had often looked upon the prospect: it had never seemed so hard and changeless; yet she accepted it, as she had accepted it before.
She turned away, undressed herself mechanically, and went to bed. She had an idea that she had been very foolish; that her escape from being still more foolish was something miraculous, and in some measure connected with Providence, her father, her little brother, and her dead mother, whose dress she had recklessly spoiled. But that she had even so slightly touched the bitterness and glory of renunciation—as written of heroines and fine ladies by novelists and poets—never entered the foolish head of Minty Sharpe, the blacksmith’s daughter.
CHAPER IV
It was a little after daybreak next morning that Mainwaring awoke from the first unrefreshing night he had passed at The Lookout. He was so feverish and restless that he dressed himself at sunrise, and cautiously stepped out upon the still silent veranda. The chairs which he and Louise Macy had occupied were still, it seemed to him, conspicuously confidential with each other, and he separated them, but as he looked down into the Great Canyon at his feet he was conscious of some undefinable change in the prospect. A slight mist was rising from the valley, as if it were the last of last night’s illusions; the first level sunbeams were obtrusively searching, and the keen morning air had a dryly practical insistence which irritated him, until a light footstep on the farther end of the veranda caused him to turn sharply.
It was the singular apparition of a small boy, bearing a surprising resemblance to Minty Sharpe, and dressed in an unique fashion. On a tumbled sea of blond curls a “chip” sailor hat, with a broad red ribbon, rode jauntily. But here the nautical suggestion changed, as had the desire of becoming a pirate which induced it. A red shirt, with a white collar, and a yellow plaid ribbon tie, that also recalled Minty Sharpe, lightly turned the suggestion of his costume to mining. Short black velvet trousers, coming to his knee, and ostentatiously new short-legged boots, with visible straps like curling ears, completed the entirely original character of his lower limbs.
Mainwaring, always easily gentle and familiar with children and his inferiors, looked at him with an encouraging smile. Richelieu—for it was he—advanced gravely and held out his hand, with the cameo ring apparent. Mainwaring, with equal gravity, shook it warmly, and removed his hat. Richelieu, keenly observant, did the same.
“Is Jim Bradley out yet?” asked Richelieu, carelessly.
“No; I think not. But I’m Frank Mainwaring. Will I do?”
Richelieu smiled. The dimples, the white teeth, the dark, laughing eyes, were surely Minty’s?
“I’m Richelieu,” he rejoined with equal candor.
“Richelieu?”
“Yes. That Frenchman—the Lord Cardinal—you know. Mar saw Forrest do him out in St. Louis.”
“Do him?”
“Yes, in the theayter.”
With a confused misconception of his meaning, Mainwaring tried to recall the historical dress of the great Cardinal and fit it to the masquerader—if such he were—before him. But Richelieu relieved him by adding,—
“Richelieu Sharpe.”
“Oh, that’s your NAME!” said Mainwaring, cheerfully. “Then you’re Miss Minty’s brother. I know her. How jolly lucky!”
They both shook hands again. Richelieu, eager to get rid of the burden of his sister’s message, which he felt was in the way of free-and-easy intercourse with this charming stranger, looked uneasily towards the house.
“I say,” said Mainwaring, “if you’re in a hurry, you’d better go in there and knock. I hear some one stirring in the kitchen.”
Richelieu nodded, but first went back to the steps of the veranda, picked up a small blue knotted handkerchief, apparently containing some heavy objects, and repassed Mainwaring.
“What! have you cut it, Richelieu, with your valuables? What have you got there?”
“Specimins,” said Richelieu, shortly, and vanished.
He returned presently. “Well, Cardinal, did you see anybody?” asked Mainwaring.
“Mrs. Bradley; but Jim’s over to the mill. I’m goin’ there.”
“Did you see Miss Macy?” continued Mainwaring, carelessly.
“Loo?”
“Loo!—well; yes.”
“No. She’s philanderin’ with Captain Greyson.”
“Philandering with Greyson?” echoed Mainwaring, in wonder.
“Yes; on horseback on the ridge.”
“You mean she’s riding out with Mr.—with Captain Greyson?”
“Yes; ridin’ AND philanderin’,” persisted Richelieu.
“And what do you call philandering?”
“Well; I reckon you and she oughter know,” returned Richelieu, with a precocious air.
“Certainly,” said Mainwaring, with a faint smile. Richelieu really was like Minty.
There was a long silence. This young Englishman was becoming exceedingly uninteresting. Richelieu felt that he was gaining neither profit nor amusement, and losing time. “I’m going,” he said.
“Good morning,” said Mainwaring, without looking up.
Richelieu picked up his specimens, thoroughly convinced of the stranger’s glittering deceitfulness, and vanished.
It was nearly eight o’clock when Mrs. Bradley came from the house. She apologized, with a slightly distrait smile, for the tardiness of the household. “Mr. Bradley stayed at the mill all night, and will not be here until breakfast, when he brings your friend Mr. Richardson with him”—Mainwaring scarcely repressed a movement of impatience—“who arrives early. It’s unfortunate that Miss Sharpe can’t come to-day.”
In his abstraction Mainwaring did not notice that Mrs. Bradley slightly accented Minty’s formal appellation, and said carelessly,—
“Oh, that’s why her brother came over here so early!”
“Did YOU see him?” asked Mrs. Bradley, almost abruptly.
“Yes. He is an amusing little beggar; but I think he shares his sister’s preference for Mr. Bradley. He deserted me here in the veranda for him at the mill.”
“Louise will keep you company as soon as she has changed her dress,” continued Mrs. Bradley. “She was out riding early this morning with a friend. She’s very fond of early morning rides.”
“AND philandering,” repeated Mainwaring to himself. It was quite natural for Miss Macy to ride out in the morning, after the fashion of the country, with an escort; but why had the cub insisted on the “philandering”? He had said, “AND philandering,” distinctly. It was a nasty thing for him to say. Any other fellow but he, Mainwaring, might misunderstand the whole thing. Perhaps he ought to warn her—but no! he could not repeat the gossip of a child, and that child the brother of one of her inferiors. But was Minty an inferior? Did she and Minty talk together about this fellow Greyson? At all events, it would only revive the awkwardness of the preceding day, and he resolved to say nothing.
He was rewarded by a half-inquiring, half-confiding look in Louise’s bright eyes, when she presently greeted him on the veranda. “She had quite forgotten,” she said, “to tell him last night of her morning’s engagement; indeed, she had half forgotten IT. It used to be a favorite practice of hers, with Captain Greyson; but she had lately given it up. She believed she had not ridden since—since—”
“Since when?” asked Mainwaring.
“Well, since you were ill,” she said frankly.
A quick pleasure shone in Mainwaring’s cheek and eye; but Louise’s pretty lids did not drop, nor her faint, quiet bloom deepen. Breakfast was already waiting when Mr. Richardson arrived alone.
He explained that Mr. Bradley had some important and unexpected business which had delayed him, but which, he added, “Mr. Bradley says may prove interesting enough to you to excuse his absence this morning.” Mainwaring was not displeased that his critical and observant host was not present at their meeting. Louise Macy was, however, as demurely conscious of the different bearing of the two compatriots. Richardson’s somewhat self-important patronage of the two ladies, and that Californian familiarity he had acquired, changed to a certain uneasy deference towards Mainwaring; while the younger Englishman’s slightly stiff and deliberate cordiality was, nevertheless, mingled with a mysterious understanding that appeared innate and unconscious. Louise was quick to see that these two men, more widely divergent in quality than any two of her own countrymen, were yet more subtly connected by some unknown sympathy than the most equal of Americans. Minty’s prophetic belief of the effect of the two women upon Richardson was certainly true as regarded Mrs. Bradley. The banker—a large material nature—was quickly fascinated by the demure, puritanic graces of that lady, and was inclined to exhibit a somewhat broad and ostentatious gallantry that annoyed Mainwaring. When they were seated alone on the veranda, which the ladies had discreetly left to them, Richardson said,—
“Odd I didn’t hear of Bradley’s wife before. She seems a spicy, pretty, comfortable creature. Regularly thrown away with him up here.”
Mainwaring replied coldly that she was “an admirable helpmeet of a very admirable man,” not, however, without an uneasy recollection of her previous confidences respecting her husband. “They have been most thoroughly good and kind to me; my own brother and sister could not have done more. And certainly not with better taste or delicacy,” he added, markedly.
“Certainly, certainly,” said Richardson, hurriedly. “I wrote to Lady Mainwaring that you were taken capital care of by some very honest people; and that—”
“Lady Mainwaring already knows what I think of them, and what she owes to their kindness,” said Mainwaring, dryly.
“True, true,” said Richardson, apologetically. “Of course you must have seen a good deal of them. I only know Bradley in a business way. He’s been trying to get the Bank to help him to put up some new mills here; but we didn’t see it. I dare say he is good company—rather amusing, eh?”
Mainwaring had the gift of his class of snubbing by the polite and forgiving oblivion of silence. Richardson shifted uneasily in his chair, but continued with assumed carelessness:—
“No; I only knew of this cousin, Miss Macy. I heard of her when she was visiting some friends in Menlo Park last year. Rather an attractive girl. They say Colonel Johnson, of Sacramento, took quite a fancy to her—it would have been a good match, I dare say, for he is very rich—but the thing fell through in some way. Then, they say, SHE wanted to marry that Spaniard, young Pico, of the Amador Ranche; but his family wouldn’t hear of it. Somehow, she’s deuced unlucky. I suppose she’ll make a mess of it with Captain Greyson she was out riding with this morning.”
“Didn’t the Bank think Bradley’s mills a good investment?” asked Mainwaring quietly, when Richardson paused.
“Not with him in it; he is not a business man, you know.”
“I thought he was. He seems to me an energetic man, who knows his work, and is not afraid to look after it himself.”
“That’s just it. He has got absurd ideas of co-operating with his workmen, you know, and doing everything slowly and on a limited scale. The only thing to be done is to buy up all the land on this ridge, run off the settlers, freeze out all the other mills, and put it into a big San Francisco company on shares. That’s the only way we would look at it.”
“But you don’t consider the investment bad, even from HIS point of view?”
“Perhaps not.”
“And you only decline it because it isn’t big enough for the Bank?”
“Exactly.”
“Richardson,” said Mainwaring, slowly rising, putting his hands in his trousers pockets, and suddenly looking down upon the banker from the easy level of habitual superiority, “I wish you’d attend to this thing for me. I desire to make some return to Mr. Bradley for his kindness. I wish to give him what help he wants—in his own way—you understand. I wish it, and I believe my father wishes it, too. If you’d like him to write to you to that effect—”
“By no means, it’s not at all necessary,” said Richardson, dropping with equal suddenness into his old-world obsequiousness. “I shall certainly do as you wish. It is not a bad investment, Mr. Mainwaring, and as you suggest, a very proper return for their kindness. And, being here, it will come quite naturally for me to take up the affair again.”
“And—I say, Richardson.”
“Yes, sir?”
“As these ladies are rather short-handed in their domestic service, you know, perhaps you’d better not stay to luncheon or dinner, but go on to the Summit House—it’s only a mile or two farther—and come back here this evening. I shan’t want you until then.”