"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 a finger. '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. I was
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. "Let me 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 bought _this_"
(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 the letter 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 you _ought_ to 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 would
_act_,--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."