A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's, and Other Stories

“Well, I declare,” continued Mrs. Woodridge; “is that YOUR idea—or yours, Helen?”

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

“Well, as long as it ain’t mere finikin,” said the lady graciously, “and seems to bring the folks and their vittles nearer together—we’ll try it to-day. It does look kinder CITYFIED—and I reckoned that was all the good it was. But I calkilated you were goin’ to check the crockery this morning.”

“It’s done,” said Reddy, smilingly handing her the account-book.

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

“And you didn’t find any plates that were dirty and that had to be sent back?”

“Yes, two or three, but I cleaned them myself.”

Mrs. Woodridge glanced at him with a look of approving curiosity, but his eyes were just then seeking her daughter’s for a more grateful sympathy. All of which the good lady noted, and as it apparently answered the unasked question in her own mind, she only uttered the single exclamation, “Humph!”

But the approbation he received later at dinner, in the satisfaction of his old companions with the new arrangement, had also the effect of diverting from him the criticism he had feared they would make in finding him installed as an assistant to Mrs. Woodridge. On the contrary, they appeared only to recognize in him some especial and superior faculty utilized for their comfort, and when the superintendent, equally pleased, said it was “all Reddy’s own idea,” no one doubted that it was this particular stroke of genius which gained him the obvious promotion. If he had still thought of offering his flirtation with Nelly as an excuse, there was now no necessity for any. Having shown to his employers his capacity for the highest and lowest work, they naturally preferred to use his best abilities—and he was kept from any menial service. His accounts were so carefully and intelligently rendered that the entire care of the building and its appointments was intrusted to him. At the end of the week Mr. Woodridge took him aside.

“I say, you ain’t got any job in view arter you finish up here, hev ye?”

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

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

He did. But meantime he seemed to make little progress in his court of the superintendent’s daughter. He tried to think it was because he had allowed himself to be diverted by his work, but although she always betrayed the same odd physical consciousness of his presence, it was certain that she never encouraged him. She gave him the few directions that his new occupation still made necessary, and looked her approval of his success. But nothing more. He was forced to admit that this was exactly what she might have done as the superintendent’s daughter to a deserving employee. Whereat, for a few days he assumed an air of cold and ceremonious politeness, until perceiving that, far from piquing the girl, it seemed to gratify her, and even to render her less sensitive in his company, he sulked in good earnest. This proving ineffective also,—except to produce a kind of compassionate curiosity,—his former dull rage returned. The planting of the rancho was nearly over; his service would be ended next week; he had not yet given his answer to Woodridge’s proposition; he would decline it and cut the whole concern!

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

“I’m goin’ to take the women folks over to Oakdale to church,” said Mr. Woodridge; “ef ye keer to join us thar’s a seat in the wagon, and I’ll turn on a couple of Chinamen to do the work for you, just now; and Nelly or the old woman will give you a lift this afternoon with the counting up.”

Reddy felt instinctively that the invitation had been instigated by the young girl. A week before he would have rejoiced at it; a month ago he would have accepted it if only as a relief to his degraded position, but in the pique of this new passion he almost rudely declined it. An hour later he saw Nelly, becomingly and even tastefully dressed,—with the American girl’s triumphant superiority to her condition and surroundings,—ride past in her father’s smart “carryall.” He was startled to see that she looked so like a lady. Then, with a new and jealous inconsistency, significant of the progress of his passion, he resolved to go to church too. She should see that he was not going to remain behind like a mere slave. He remembered that he had still certain remnants of his past finery in his trunk; he would array himself in them, walk to Oakdale, and make one of the congregation. He managed to change his clothes without attracting the attention of his fellows, and set out.

The air was pure but keen, with none of the languor of spring in its breath, although a few flowers were beginning to star the weedy wagon-tracked lane, and there was an awakening spice in the wayside southernwood and myrtle. He felt invigorated, although it seemed only to whet his jealous pique. He hurried on without even glancing toward the distant coast-line of San Francisco or even thinking of it. The bitter memories of the past had been obliterated by the bitterness of the present. He no longer thought of “that woman;” even when he had threatened to himself to return to San Francisco, he was vaguely conscious that it was not SHE who was again drawing him there, but Nelly who was driving him away.

The service was nearly over when he arrived at the chilly little corrugated-zinc church at Oakdale, but he slipped into one of the back seats. A few worshipers turned round to look at him. Among them were the daughters of a neighboring miller, who were slightly exercised over the unusual advent of a good-looking stranger with certain exterior signs of elegance. Their excitement was communicated by some mysterious instinct to their neighbor, Nelly Woodridge. She also turned and caught his eye. But to all appearances she not only showed no signs of her usual agitation at his presence, but did not seem to even recognize him. In the acerbity of his pique he was for a moment gratified at what he believed to be the expression of her wounded pride, but his uneasiness quickly returned, and at the conclusion of the service he slipped out of the church with one or two of the more restless in the congregation. As he passed through the aisle he heard the escort of the miller’s daughters, in response to a whispered inquiry, say distinctly: “Only the head-waiter over at the company’s rancho.” Whatever hesitating idea Reddy might have had of waiting at the church door for the appearance of Nelly vanished before the brutal truth. His brow darkened, and with flushed cheeks he turned his back upon the building and plunged into the woods. This time there was no hesitation in his resolve; he would leave the rancho at the expiration of his engagement. Even in a higher occupation he felt he could never live down his reputation there.

In his morose abstraction he did not know how long or how aimlessly he had wandered among the mossy live-oaks, his head and shoulders often imperiled by the downcurving of some huge knotted limb; his feet straying blindly from the faint track over the thickly matted carpet of chickweed which hid their roots. But it was nearly an hour before he emerged upon a wide, open, wooded slope, and, from the distant view of field and shore, knew that he was at Oak Grove, the site of Woodridge’s projected hotel. And there, surely, at a little distance, was the Woodridges’ wagon and team tied up to a sapling, while the superintendent and his wife were slowly climbing the slope, and apparently examining the prospect. Without waiting to see if Nelly was with them, Reddy instantly turned to avoid meeting them. But he had not proceeded a hundred yards before he came upon that young lady, who had evidently strayed from the party, and who was now unconsciously advancing toward him. A rencontre was inevitable.

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

She spoke first.

“You were at church. I didn’t quite know you in—in—these clothes.”

In her own finery she had undergone such a change to Reddy’s consciousness that he, for the first time in their acquaintance, now addressed her as on his own level, and as if she had no understanding of his own feelings.

“Oh,” he said, with easy bitterness, “OTHERS did, if you did not. They all detected the ‘head-waiter’ at the Union Company’s rancho. Even if I had accepted your kindness in offering me a seat in your wagon it would have made no difference.” He was glad to put this construction on his previous refusal, for in the new relations which seemed to be established by their Sunday clothes he was obliged to soften the churlishness of that refusal also.

“I don’t think you’d look nice setting the table in kid gloves,” she said, glancing quickly at his finery as if accepting it as the real issue; “but you can wear what you like at other times. I never found fault with your working clothes.”

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

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

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

“But if I simply go away—WITHOUT being manager—I won’t hear their criticism either.”

“What do you mean?” she said quickly.

“I’ve—I’ve been thinking of—of going back to San Francisco,” he stammered awkwardly.

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

“I don’t understand you,” he said, flushing.

“Father ought to have told you,” she went on dryly, “that that woman has gone off to the Springs with her husband, and you won’t see HER at San Francisco.”

“I don’t know what you mean—and your father seems to take an unwarrantable interest in my affairs,” said Reddy, with an anger that he was conscious, however, was half simulated.

“No more than he ought to, if he expects to trust you with all HIS affairs,” said the girl shortly; “but you had better tell him you have changed your mind at once, before he makes any further calculations on your staying. He’s just over the hill there, with mother.”

She turned away coldly as she spoke, but moved slowly and in the direction of the hill, although she took a less direct trail than the one she had pointed to him. But he followed her, albeit still embarrassedly, and with that new sense of respect which had checked his former surliness. There was her strong, healthy, well-developed figure moving before him, but the modish gray dress seemed to give its pronounced outlines something of the dignity of a goddess. Even the firm hands had the distinguishment of character.

“You understand,” he said apologetically, “that I mean no discourtesy to your father or his offer. And”—he hesitated—“neither is my reason what you would infer.”

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

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

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

“Then what reason have you?”

“You!”

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

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

“I don’t look down on you,” she said simply, yet without the haste of repelling an unjust accusation. “Why should I? Mother and I have done the same work that you are doing,—if that’s what you mean; and father, who is a man like yourself, helped us at first, until he could do other things better.” She paused. “Perhaps you think so because YOU looked down on us when you first came here.”

“But I didn’t,” said Reddy quickly.

“You did,” said the young girl quietly. “That’s why you acted toward me as you did the night you walked home with me. You would not have behaved in that way to any San Francisco young lady—and I’m not one of your—fast—MARRIED WOMEN.”

Reddy felt the hot blood mount to his cheek, and looked away. “I was foolish and rude—and I think you punished me at the time,” he stammered. “But you see I was right in saying you looked down on me,” he concluded triumphantly.

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

“I wasn’t thinking of THAT,” she said. “It’s that you don’t know your own mind.”

“If I said that I would stay and accept your father’s offer, would you think that I did?” he asked quickly.

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

“But if I stayed—and—and—if I told you that I stayed on YOUR account—to be with you and near you only—would you think that a proof?” He spoke hesitatingly, for his lips were dry with a nervousness he had not known before.

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

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

“But what would YOU say, Nelly?” He drew closer to her and held out both his hands. But she retreated a step and slipped her own behind her.

“Better see what father says first,” she said quietly. “You may change your mind again and go back to San Francisco.”

He was confused, and reddened again. But he had become accustomed to her ways; rather, perhaps, he had begun to recognize the quaint justice that underlaid them, or, possibly, some better self of his own, that had been buried under bitterness and sloth and struggled into life. “But whatever he says,” he returned eagerly, “cannot alter my feelings to YOU. It can only alter my position here, and you say you are above being influenced by that. Tell me, Nelly—dear Nelly! have you nothing to say to me, AS I AM, or is it only to your father’s manager that you would speak?” His voice had an unmistakable ring of sincerity in it, and even startled him—half rascal as he was!

The young girl’s clear, scrutinizing eyes softened; her red resolute lips trembled slightly and then parted, the upper one hovering a little to one side over her white teeth. It was Nelly’s own peculiar smile, and its serious piquancy always thrilled him. But she drew a little farther back from his brightening eyes, her hands still curled behind her, and said, with the faintest coquettish toss of her head toward the hill: “If you want to see father, you’d better hurry up.”

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

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

III

It was only May, but the freshness of early summer already clothed the great fields of the rancho. The old resemblance to a sea was still there, more accented, perhaps, by the undulations of bluish-green grain that rolled from the actual shore-line to the foothills. The farm buildings were half submerged in this glowing tide of color and lost their uncouth angularity with their hidden rude foundations. The same sea-breeze blew chilly and steadily from the bay, yet softened and subdued by the fresh odors of leaf and flower. The outlying fringe of oaks were starred through their underbrush with anemones and dog-roses; there were lupines growing rankly in the open spaces, and along the gentle slopes of Oak Grove daisies were already scattered. And, as if it were part of this vernal efflorescence, the eminence itself was crowned with that latest flower of progress and improvement,—the new Oak Grove Hotel!

Long, low, dazzling with white colonnades, verandas, and balconies which retained, however, enough of the dampness of recent creation to make them too cool for loungers, except at high noon, the hotel nevertheless had the charms of freshness, youth, and cleanliness. Reddy’s fastidious neatness showed itself in all the appointments, from the mirrored and marbled barroom, gilded parlors, and snowy dining-room, to the chintz and maple furnishing of the bedrooms above. Reddy’s taste, too, had selected the pretty site; his good fortune had afterward discovered in an adjoining thicket a spring of blandly therapeutic qualities. A complaisant medical faculty of San Francisco attested to its merits; a sympathetic press advertised the excellence of the hotel; a novelty-seeking, fashionable circle—as yet without laws and blindly imitative—found the new hotel an admirable variation to the vulgar ordinary “across the bay” excursion, and an accepted excuse for a novel social dissipation. A number of distinguished people had already visited it; certain exclusive families had secured the best rooms; there were a score of pretty women to be seen in its parlors; there had already been a slight scandal. Nothing seemed wanting to insure its success.

Reddy was passing through the little wood where four months before he had parted from Kelly Woodridge to learn his fate from her father. He remembered that interview to which Nelly’s wafted kiss had inspired him. He recalled to-day, as he had many times before, the singular complacency with which Mr. Woodridge had received his suit, as if it were a slight and unimportant detail of the business in hand, and how he had told him that Kelly and her mother were going to the “States” for a three months’ visit, but that after her return, if they were both “still agreed,” he, Woodridge, would make no objection. He remembered the slight shock which this announcement of Kelly’s separation from him during his probationary labors had given him, and his sudden suspicion that he had been partly tricked of his preliminary intent to secure her company to solace him. But he had later satisfied himself that she knew nothing of her father’s intentions at the time, and he was fain to content himself with a walk through the fields at her side the day she departed, and a single kiss—which left him cold. And now in a few days she would return to witness the successful fufillment of his labors, and—reward him!

It was certainly a complacent prospect. He could look forward to a sensible, prosperous, respectable future. He had won back his good name, his fortune, and position,—not perhaps exactly in the way he had expected,—and he had stilled the wanton, foolish cravings of his passionate nature in the calm, virginal love of an honest, handsome girl who would make him a practical helpmeet, and a comfortable, trustworthy wife. He ought to be very happy. He had never known such perfect health before; he had lost his reckless habits; his handsome, nervous face had grown more placid and contented; his long curls had been conventionally clipped; he had gained flesh unmistakably, and the lower buttons of the slim waistcoat he had worn to church that memorable Sunday were too tight for comfort or looks. HE WAS happy; yet as he glanced over the material spring landscape, full of practical health, blossom, and promise of fruition, it struck him that the breeze that blew over it was chilly, even if healthful; and he shivered slightly.

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

“There’s a lady in 56 who wanted to see you when you returned. She asked particularly for the manager.”

“Who is she?”

“Don’t know. It’s a Mrs. Merrydew, from Sacramento. Expecting her husband on the next steamer.”

“Humph! You’ll have to be rather careful about these solitary married women. We don’t want another scandal, you know.”

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

“Very well. I’ll go up.”

He sent a waiter ahead to announce him, and leisurely mounted the stairs. No. 56 was the sitting-room of a private suite on the first floor. The waiter was holding the door open. As he approached it a faint perfume from the interior made him turn pale. But he recovered his presence of mind sufficiently to close the door sharply upon the waiter behind him.

“Jim,” said a voice which thrilled him.

He looked up and beheld what any astute reader of romance will have already suspected—the woman to whom he believed he owed his ruin in San Francisco. She was as beautiful and alluring as ever, albeit she was thinner and more spiritual than he had ever seen her. She was tastefully dressed, as she had always been, a certain style of languorous silken deshabille which she was wont to affect in better health now became her paler cheek and feverishly brilliant eyes. There was the same opulence of lace and ornament, and, whether by accident or design, clasped around the slight wrist of her extended hand was a bracelet which he remembered had swept away the last dregs of his fortune.

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