He struck a contemplative position, leaned against the house, extending
one hand after the manner of the minstrel sentimentalist, and softly
chanted:
"''Tis, O, 'tis the cottage of me love;'
"and there's where they're getting up as nice a little supper as can be
found on this road or any other. Let's go over!"
So we strolled across an open space where were two giant pines towering
somber against the twilight, a little mountain brooklet, and a few quiet
cows.
"Stop," said Smith, leaning his back against a pine, and encircling my
neck affectionately with an arm; "I told you, as regards Sarah Jane, how
my feelings stand. Well, now, you just bet she's on the reciprocate!
When I told old woman Copples I'd like to invite you over,--Sarah Jane
she passed me in the doorway,--and said she, 'Glad to see _your_
friends.'"
Then _sotto voce_, for we were very near, he sang again:
"''Tis, O, 'tis the cottage of me love;'
"and C. K.," he continued familiarly, "you're a judge of wimmen,"
chucking his knuckles into my ribs, whereat I jumped; when he added,
"There, I knew you was. Well, Sarah Jane is a derned magnificent female;
number three boot, just the height for me. _Venus de_ Copples, I call
her, and would make the most touching artist's wife in this planet. If I
design to paint a head, or a foot, or an arm, get my little old Sarah
Jane to peel the particular charm, and just whack her in on the
canvas."
We passed in through low doors, turned from a small, dark entry into the
family sitting-room, and were alone there in presence of a cheery log
fire, which good-naturedly bade us welcome, crackling freely and tossing
its sparks out upon floor of pine and coyote-skin rug. A few old framed
prints hung upon dark walls, their faces looking serenely down upon the
scanty, old-fashioned furniture and windows full of flowering plants. A
low-cushioned chair, not long since vacated, was drawn close by the
centre-table, whereon were a lamp and a large, open Bible, with a pair
of silver-bowed spectacles lying upon its lighted page.
Smith made a gesture of silence toward the door, touched the Bible, and
whispered, "_Here's_ where old woman Copples lives, and it is a good
thing; I read it aloud to her evenings, and I can just feel the high,
local lights of it. It'll fetch H. G. yet!"
At this juncture the door opened; a pale, thin, elderly woman entered,
and with tired smile greeted me. While her hard, labor-stiffened,
needle-roughened hand was in mine, I looked into her face and felt
something (it may be, it must be, but little, yet something) of the
sorrow of her life; that of a woman large in sympathy, deep in faith,
eternal in constancy, thrown away on a rough, worthless fellow. All
things she hoped for had failed her; the tenderness which never came,
the hopes years ago in ashes, the whole world of her yearnings long
buried, leaving only the duty of living and the hope of Heaven. As she
sat down, took up her spectacles and knitting, and closed the Bible, she
began pleasantly to talk to us of the warm, bright autumn nights, of
Smith's work, and then of my own profession, and of her niece, Sarah
Jane. Her genuinely sweet spirit and natively gentle manner were very
beautiful, and far overbalanced all traces of rustic birth and mountain
life.
O, that unquenchable Christian fire, how pure the gold of its result! It
needs no practiced elegance, no social greatness, for its success; only
the warm human heart, and out of it shall come a sacred calm and
gentleness, such as no power, no wealth, no culture may ever hope to
win.
No words of mine would outline the beauty of that plain, weary old
woman, the sad, sweet patience of those gray eyes, nor the spirit of
overflowing goodness which cheered and enlivened the half hour we spent
there.
H. G. might perhaps be pardoned for showing an alacrity when the door
again opened and Sarah Jane rolled--I might almost say trundled--in, and
was introduced to me.
Sarah Jane was an essentially Californian product, as much so as one of
those vast potatoes or massive pears; she had a suggestion of State-Fair
in the fullness of her physique, yet withal was pretty and modest.
If I could have rid myself of a fear that her buttons might sooner or
later burst off and go singing by my ear, I think I might have felt as
H. G. did, that she was a "magnificent female," with her smooth,
brilliant skin and ropes of soft brown hair.
H. G., in presence of the ladies, lost something of his original flavor,
and rose into studied elegance, greatly to the comfort of Sarah, whose
glow of pride as his talk ran on came without show of restraint.
The supper was delicious.
But Sarah was quiet, quiet to H. G. and to me, until after tea, when the
old lady said, "You young folks will have to excuse me this evening,"
and withdrew to her chamber.
More logs were then piled on the sitting-room hearth, and we three
gathered in a semi-circle.
Presently H. G. took the poker and twisted it about among coals and
ashes, prying up the oak sticks, as he announced, in a measured,
studied way, "An artist's wife, that is," he explained, "an
Academician's wife orter, well she'd orter _sabe_ the beautiful, and
take her regular æsthetics; and then again," he continued in explanatory
tone, "she'd orter to know how to keep a hotel, derned if she hadn't,
for it's rough like furst off, 'fore a feller gets his name up. But then
when he does, tho', she's got a salubrious old time of it. It's touch a
little bell" (he pressed the andiron-top to show us how the thing was
done), "and 'Brooks, the morning paper!' Open your regular Herald:
* * * * *
"'ART NOTES.--Another of H. G. Smith's tender works, entitled, "Off the
Grade," so full of out-of-doors and subtle feeling of nature, is now on
exhibition at Goupil's.'
"Look down a little further:
"'ITALIAN OPERA.--Between the acts all eyes turned to the _distingué_
Mrs. H. G. Smith, who looked,'"--then turning to me, and waving his hand
at Sarah Jane, "I leave it to you if she don't."
Sarah Jane assumed the pleasing color of the sugar-beet, without seeming
inwardly unhappy.
"It's only a question of time with H. G.," continued my friend. "Art is
long, you know--derned long--and it may be a year before I paint my
great picture, but after that Smith works in lead harness."
He used the poker freely, and more and more his flow of hopes turned a
shade of sentiment to Sarah Jane, who smiled broader and broader,
showing teeth of healthy whiteness.
At last I withdrew and sought my room, which was H. G.'s also, and his
studio. I had gone with a candle round the walls whereon were tacked
studies and sketches, finding here and there a bit of real merit among
the profusion of trash, when the door burst open and my friend entered,
kicked off his boots and trousers, and walked up and down at a sort of
quadrille step, singing:
"'Yes, it's the cottage of me love;
You bet, it's the cottage of me love,'
"and, what's more, H. G. has just had his genteel goodnight kiss; and
when and where is the good old bar-keep?"
I checked his exuberance as best I might, knowing full well that the
quiet and elegant dispenser of neat and mixed beverages hearing this
inquiry would put in an appearance in person and offer a few remarks
designed to provoke ill-feeling. So I at last got Smith in bed and the
lamp out. All was quiet for a few moments, and when I had almost gotten
asleep I heard my room-mate in low tones say to himself,--
"Married, by the Rev. Gospel, our talented California artist, Mr. H. G.
Smith, to Miss Sarah Jane Copples. No cards."
A pause, and then with more gentle utterance, "and that's what's the
matter with H. G."
Slowly from this atmosphere of art I passed away into the tranquil land
of dreams.
[From _Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada_, by Clarence King.
Copyright, 1871, by James R. Osgood & Co. Copyright, 1902, by
Charles Scribner's Sons.]