For three weeks we had advertised for a cook--in vain! And ranch life,
in consequence, began to lose colour and coherence. Even the animals
suffered: the dogs, the chickens, and in particular the tame piglet,
who hung disconsolate about the kitchen door watching, and perchance
praying, for the hired girl that was not.
"This," said Ajax, "spells demoralisation."
He alluded to the plates which lay face downward upon the dining-room
table. We had agreed to wash up every other meal, saving time at the
expense of decency. One plate did double duty, for we used the top for
breakfast and the bottom for dinner. Before supper we scrubbed it
thoroughly and began again.
"And this bread of yours," I retorted warmly--the plate labour-saving
scheme was a happy thought of my own--"spells dyspepsia."
"True," he admitted forlornly. "I can make, but not bake bread. In a
domestic crisis like this many things must be left underdone. We must
find a cook. I propose that we ride to the village, and rope some aged
virgin."
We discussed the propriety of such a raid with spirit. I contended
that we might have reason to regret, at the end of another rope, so
high-handed a proceeding.
"You are right," said Ajax. "That is the worst of this confounded
ranch. Here, we enjoy neither the amenities of civilisation nor the
freedom of the desert. However, it's always darkest before dawn, and
I've a feeling in my bones that the present state of affairs cannot
last. Something will turn up."
That afternoon Gloriana turned up.
We were sitting upon the verandah oppressed with the weight of beans,
bacon, and soggy biscuit. As we smoked in silence our eyes rested
gloomily upon the landscape--our domain. Before us lay an amber-
coloured, sun-scorched plain; beyond were the foot-hills, bristling
with chaparral, scrub-oaks, pines and cedars; beyond these again rose
the grey peaks of the Santa Lucia range, pricking the eastern horizon.
Over all hung the palpitating skies, eternally and exasperatingly
blue, a-quiver with light and heat.
"Somebody's coming," said Ajax.
The country road, white with alkaline dust, crossed the ranch at right
angles. Far away, to the left, was a faint blur upon the pink hills.
"It's no wagon," said Ajax idly, "and a _vaquero_ would never
ride in the dust. It must be a buggy."
Five minutes later we could distinguish a quaint figure sitting
upright in an ancient buckboard whose wheels wobbled and creaked with
almost human infirmity. A mule furnished the motive power.
"Is it a man or a woman?" said Ajax.
"Possibly," I replied, "a cook."
"She is about to pay us a visit. Yes, it's a woman, a bundle of bones,
dust and alpaca crowned with a sombrero. A book-agent, I swear. Go and
tell her we have never learned to read."
I demurred. Finally we spun a dollar to decide upon which of us lay
the brutal duty of turning away the stranger within our gates. Fortune
frowned on me, and I rose reluctantly from my chair.
"Air you the hired man?" said the woman in the buggy, as I looked
askance into her face.
"I work here," I replied, "for my board--which is not of the best."
"Ye seem kinder thin. Say--air the lords to home?"
"The lords?"
"Yes, the lords. They tole me back ther," she jerked her head in the
direction of the village, "that two English lords owned a big cattle-
ranch right here; an' I thought, mebbee, that they'd like ter see--
me."
A pathetic accent of doubt quavered upon the personal pronoun.
"Ye kin tell 'em," she continued, "that I'm here. Yes, sir, I'm a
book-agent, an' my book will interest them--sure."
Her eyes, soft blue eyes, bespoke hope; her lips quivered with tell-
tale anxiety. Something inharmonious about the little woman, a queer
lack of adjustment between voice and mouth, struck me as singular, but
not unpleasing.
"It's called," she pleaded, in the tenderest tones, "_A Golden Word
from Mother_. I sell it bound in cloth, sheep, or moroccy. It's
perfectly lovely--in moroccy."
"One of the--er--lords," said I gravely, "is here. I'll call him. I
think he can read."
This, according to our fraternal code, was rank treachery, yet I felt
no traitor. Ajax obeyed my summons, and, sauntering across the sun-
baked yard, lifted his hat to the visitor. She bowed politely, and
blinked, with short-sighted eyes, at my brother's overalls and
tattered canvas shirt. I have seen Ajax, in Piccadilly, glorious in a
frock-coat and varnished boots. I have seen him, as Gloriana saw him
for the first time, in rags that might provoke the scorn of Lazarus.
With the thermometer at a hundred in the shade, custom curtseys to
convenience. Ajax boasted with reason that the loosening of a single
safety-pin left him in condition for a plunge into the pool at the
foot of the corral.
"I hope you're well, lord," said the little woman; "an' if ye ain't,
why--what I've got here'll do ye more good than a doctor. I reckon ye
hev a mother, an' naterally she thinks the world of ye. Well, sir, I
bring ye a golden word from her very lips. Jest listen to this. I
ain't much on the elocute, but I'm goin' ter do my best."
We listened patiently as she declaimed half a page of wretched prose.
Her voice rose and fell in a sing-song cadence, but certain
modulations of tone lent charm to the absurd words. When she finished
her eyes were full of tears.
"That is very nice indeed," said Ajax softly. "I should like to buy
your book."
Her hands trembled.
"I sell it in cloth at--one dollar; in sheep at--one, six bits; in
reel moroccy, with gold toolin' at--two an' a half."
"We must certainly secure a copy in gold and morocco."
Her eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"Two copies," I suggested rashly: "one for you, Ajax; one for me."
"Ye kin take yer copy in cloth," said the little woman,
compassionately, "sein' as ye're only workin' for yer board."
"In gold and morocco," I replied firmly. "The hand that rocks the
cradle is the hand that rules the world. A golden word from mother
cannot be fittingly bound in fustian."
"Ye must hev had awful nice mothers, both of ye," she said simply. "Do
I sell many books? No, sir. Farmer-folks in Californy ain't got the
money ter spend in readin' matter. They're in big luck these times if
they kin pay the interest on their mortgages. With wheat at eighty
cents a cental, an' barley not wuth the haulin', it seems most an
impertinence to ask grangers ter buy books."
"Do you make twenty dollars a month at the business?"
She shook her head sorrowfully.
"This is September," said Ajax, "and within six weeks the rains will
begin. What will you do then?"
She regarded him wistfully, but made no reply.
"Your mule," continued Ajax, "is about played out--poor beast. Will
you stay here this winter, and keep house for us? I daresay you cook
very nicely; and next spring, if you feel like it, you can start out
bookselling again."
"My cookin' is sech as white folks kin eat, but----"
"We will pay you twenty dollars a month."
"The wages air more'n enough, but----"
"And the work will be light."
"I ain't scar't o' work," she retorted valiantly, "but----"
"It's settled, then," said Ajax, in his masterful way. "If you'll get
down, I'll unhitch the mule and put him in the barn. My brother will
show you the house."
She descended, protesting, but we could not catch the words that fell
from her lips.
"You must tell us your name," said Ajax
"It's Gloriana," she faltered.
"Gloriana? Gloriana--what?"
"Jes--Gloriana."
* * * * *
"She is a type," said Ajax, a few days later.
"A type of what?"
"Of the women who suffer and are not strong There are many such in
this Western country. I'd like to hear her story. Is she married or
single? old or young? crazy or sane?"
"Gloriana," I answered, "satisfies our appetites but not our
curiosity."
As time passed, her reticence upon all personal matters became
exasperating. At the end of the first month she demanded and received
her salary. Moreover, refusing our escort, she tramped three dusty
miles to the village post-office, and returned penniless but jubilant.
At supper Ajax said--"It's more blessed to give than to receive--eh,
Gloriana?"
She compressed her lips, but her eyes were sparkling. After supper
Ajax commented upon her improved appearance in her presence. He
confessed himself at a loss to account for this singular
rejuvenescence.