We gleaned a few more details. Angela was the daughter of a doctor at
Surbiton, and apparently a damsel of accomplishments. She could punt,
play tennis, dance, sing, and make her own blouses; in a word, a
"ripper," "top-hole," and no mistake! Ajax slightly raised his brows
when we learned that the course of true love had run smooth; but the
doctor's blessing was adequately accounted for--Angela had five
sisters.
"But when your lungs went wrong----?"
Misterton laughed.
"Being a doctor, you see--and a devilish clever chap--he knew that I'd
be as right as rain out here. 'If you want Angela,' he said, 'you must
go full steam for fresh air and sunshine.'"
Riding home through the cactus and manzanita Ajax said irritably, "Is
there any Paradise on earth without a fool in it?"
* * * * *
The following spring, Angela came out. We attended the wedding, Ajax
assisting as best man. Afterwards, somewhat reluctantly, we agreed
that Angela's photograph had aroused expectations not quite satisfied.
She was very pretty, but her manners were neither of the town nor of
the country. Ajax said, "There must be hundreds like her in Upper
Tooting; that's where she ought to live."
Because I was more than half assured of this, I made a point of
disputing it.
"She's plastic, anyway; a nice little thing."
"Is a nice little thing the right sort of a wife for a squatter?"
"If she loves him--"
"Of course she loves him--now."
"Look at her pluck in coming out!"
"Pluck? She has five sisters in Upper Tooting."
"Surbiton."
"I'm sure it's Upper Tooting."
"And she can make her own blouses."
"Can she cook, can she milk a cow, can she keep a house clean?"
"Give her time!"
"Time? I'd like to give her father six months. What's the use of
jawing? We've been aiding and abetting a crime. We might have
prevented this slaughter of the innocents. What will that skin be like
in one year from now?"
"If she were sallow, you would be less excited."
We spent a few days in San Francisco; and then we returned to the
ranch to give a luncheon in the bride's honour. The table was set
under some splendid live-oaks in the home-pasture, which, in May,
presents the appearance of a fine English park. A creek tinkled at our
feet, and beyond, out of the soft, lavender-coloured haze, rose the
blue peaks of the Santa Lucia mountains.
"Reminds one a little of the Old Country," I remarked to Angela, who
was all smiles and quite conscious of being the most interesting
object in the landscape.
"Oh, please, don't speak of England!"
Her pretty forehead puckered, and her mouth drooped piteously. Then
she laughed, as she launched into a vivid description of her first
attempt to bake bread. Whenever she spoke, I saw Jim's large, slightly
prominent eyes fix themselves upon her face. His beaming satisfaction
in everything she did or said would have been delightful had I been
able to wean my thoughts from the place which he still believed to be
--Eden. At intervals I heard him murmur, "This is rippin'!"
After luncheon, Angela asked to see the ranch-house, and almost as
soon as we were out of hearing, she said with disconcerting
abruptness--
"Does your ranch pay?" She added half-apologetically, "I do so want to
know."
"It doesn't pay," I answered grimly.
"You are not going--behind?" she faltered, using the familiar phrase
of the country in which she had spent as yet but three weeks.
"We are going behind," I answered, angry with her curiosity: not old
enough or experienced enough to see beneath it fear and misery. Angela
said nothing more till we passed into the house. Then, with lack-
lustre eyes, she surveyed our belongings, murmuring endless
commonplace phrases. Presently she stopped opposite a photograph of a
girl in Court dress.
"What a lovely frock!" she exclaimed, with real interest. "I do wish
I'd been presented at Court. Who is she? Oh, a cousin. I wonder you
can bear to look at her."
Without another word she burst into tears, heart-breaking sobs, the
more vehement because obviously she was trying to suppress them. I
stared at her, helpless with dismay, confronted for the first time
with an emergency which seemed to paralyse rather than stimulate
action. Had I sympathised, had I presented any aspect other than that
of the confounded idiot, she might have become hysterical. Without
doubt, my impassivity pulled her together. The sobs ceased, and she
said with a certain calmness--
"I couldn't help it. You and your brother have this splendid ranch;
you have experience, capital, everything looks so prosperous, and yet
you are going--_behind_. And if that is the case, what is to
become of us?"
"I dare say things will brighten up a bit."
"Brighten up?" She laughed derisively.
"That's the worst of it. The brightness is appalling. These hard, blue
skies without a cloud in them, this everlasting sunshine--how I loathe
it!"
Again I became tongue-tied.
"Jim thinks it _is_ Eden. When he showed me that ugly hut, and
his sickly fruit trees, and that terrible little garden where every
flower seemed to be protesting against its existence, I had to make-
believe that it was Eden to me. Each day he goes off to his work, and
he always asks the same question: 'You won't be lonesome, little
woman, will you?' and I answer, 'No.' But I am lonesome, so lonesome
that I should have gone mad if I hadn't found someone--you--to whom I
could speak out."
"I'm frightfully sorry," I stammered.
"Thanks. I know you are. And your brother is sorry, and everybody
else, too. The women, my neighbours in the brush-hills, look at me
with the same question in their eyes: 'What are you doing here?' they
say.
"How impertinent!"
"Pertinent, I call it."
From that moment I regarded her with different eyes. If she had brains
to measure obstacles, she might surmount them, for brains in a new
country are the one possession which adversity increases.
"Mrs. Misterton," I said slowly, "you are in a tight place, and I
won't insult your intelligence by calling it by a prettier name; but
you can pull yourself and Jim out of it, and I believe you will."
"Thanks," she said soberly.
For some weeks after this we saw little of the Mistertons. Then Jim
rode down to the ranch with an exciting piece of news.
"I've got a pup coming out."
A "pup" in California means a young English gentleman, generally the
fool of the family, who pays a premium to some fellow-countryman in
return for board and lodging and the privilege of learning not so much
how to do things as how not to do them--the latter being the more
common object-lesson afforded him. Ajax and I had gleaned experience
with pups, and we had long ago determined that no premium was adequate
compensation for the task and responsibility of breaking them in. Jim
went into details.
"It's Tomlinson-Thorpe. You fellows have heard of him, of course?"
"Never," said Ajax.
"The International! You ought to see him go through a scrum with half
a dozen fellows on his back."
"A footballer," said my brother thoughtfully.
"One of the best. Naturally he puts on a little side. He has money,
and I told him he could double it in a year or two."
"_You_ told him that? Have you doubled your capital, Jim?"
"Well--er--no. But I'm rather a Juggins. Thorpe is as 'cute as they
make 'em."
"A man of mind and muscle," murmured Ajax.
"And my greatest pal," added the enthusiastic James.
* * * * *
Both Ajax and I took a profound dislike to Tomlinson-Thorpe the moment
we set eyes upon him. He presented what is worst in the Briton abroad
--a complacent aggressiveness tempered by a condescension which nothing
but a bullet can lay low. But undeniably he was specially designed to
go through scrums or Kitchen Lancers, the admired of all beholders.
"A schoolgirl's darling," growled the injudicious Ajax.
"Nothing of the sort," retorted Jim. "I mean," he added, "that Thorpe
appeals to--er--mature women. I know for a fact that the wife of a
baronet is head over ears in love with him."
"I hope he didn't tell you so," said Ajax.
"I should think not. First and last he's a gentleman."
During the next few weeks we had abundant opportunity of testing this
assertion, for Thorpe was kind enough to consume much of our time and
provisions. He bought himself a smart pony, and, very accurately
turned out, would canter down to the ranch-house three or four times a
week.
"There's nothing to learn up there," he explained.
It is fair to add that he helped us on the range, and exhibited
aptitude in the handling of cattle and horses.
Meanwhile, his advent had made an enormous difference to the
Mistertons. Jim fetched a hired girl from town, and Angela was
relieved, during a scorching summer, of a housewife's most intolerable
duties. Also, when Jim was hard at work clearing his brush-hills,
wrestling with refractory roots of chaparral and manzanita, his
greatest pal was kind enough to undertake the entertainment of Angela.
The pair rode about together, and Jim told us that it did his heart
good to see how the little woman had brightened up. Thorpe, for his
part, admitted with becoming modesty that he was most awfully sorry
for his friend's wife.
"My heart bleeds for her," he told Ajax.
"The bounder with the bleeding heart," said Ajax to me that same
evening.
"We don't know that he is a bounder," I objected.
"He bounds, and he is as unconscious of his bounds as a kangaroo. As
for Jim, he is the apex of the world's pyramid of fools."
"Angela can take care of herself."
"Can she?"
At our fall round-up, Ajax's question was answered. Conspicuously
Angela attached herself to Tomlinson-Thorpe, regardless of the gaping
eyes and mouths of neighbours, Puritan to the backbone in everything
except the stealing of unbranded calves.
Most unfortunately, Thorpe--I think more kindly of him when I don't
give him his double-barrelled name--was daily exhibiting those
qualities which had carried him through scrums. In a bar-room brawl
with two pot-valiant cowboys, he had come out supremely "on top." They
had jeered at his riding-breeches, at his bob-tailed cob, at his
English accent, and Thorpe had suffered them gladly. Then, quite
suddenly, Angela's name fell upon a silence. As suddenly Thorpe seized
both men, one in each hand, and brought their heads together with a
crash which the barkeeper described afterwards as "splendiferous."
With an amazing display of physical violence, he flung them apart,
each falling in a crumpled heap of profanity upon the floor.
"Don't fool with that feller," was the verdict in the foothills.
The affair would have been of no consequence had not Jim been present
when the row took place. Jim might have played the _beau rôle_
had he carried a pistol. Admittedly he would have been licked in a
fight with either cowboy singly. Thorpe, so I was told, entreated Jim
to keep the story from his wife. Angela had it, with slight
exaggeration, from the hero-worshipper's lips within an hour. "It
brought her heart into her mouth, I tell you," the simple fellow told
Ajax, and later Ajax murmured to me: "I wonder whether it struck
Angela that Jim would have tackled both of 'em, if Thorpe had not
interfered."
A dozen trifles hardly worth recording emphasised the difference
between Jim and his greatest pal. Thorpe mastered the colt which had
thrown Jim; Thorpe, when fresh meat was wanted, killed handsomely the
fat buck missed by the over-eager James; Thorpe made a pretty profit
over a hog deal at the psychological moment when poor Misterton
allowed three Poland-China sows to escape through an improperly
constructed fence!
Thorpe was a man. Did Angela think of Jim as a mouse?
* * * * *
After the fall round-up, Ajax and I spent a month fishing in British
Columbia. When we got back to the ranch, one of the first to greet us
happened to be Jim Misterton. He looked so pale and thin that I
thought for a moment his old enemy had attacked him. However, he
assured us that he was perfectly well, but unable to sleep properly.
We asked him to stay to supper, rather as a matter of form, for he had
always refused our invitations unless Angela were included. To our
surprise he accepted.
"He'll uncork himself after the second pipe," said the sage Ajax.
He did. And, oddly enough, our cousin's photograph in Court dress
moved him as it had moved his wife.
"Boys," he said, "I'm the biggest fool that ever came to this burnt-up
wilderness; and I'm a knave because I persuaded the sweetest girl in
England to join me."
Oil may calm troubled waters, but it feeds flames. We said something,
nothing worth repeating; then Jim stood up, trembling with agitation,
waving his briar pipe (which had gone out), cursing himself and the
brazen skies, and the sterile soil, and the jack-rabbits, and barb-
wire, and his spring, now a pool of stagnant mud. When he had
finished--and how his tongue must have ached!--Ajax said quietly--
"Were you any good as a clerk?"
Jim nodded sullenly.
"I knew my business, of course. Heavens! what a soft job that was
compared to what I've tackled out here!"
"It might be possible to find another such job in California. You
never thought of that?"
Jim's face brightened.
"Never," he declared. "Fresh air and exercise was the prescription--
and I'm fed up on both. If I could get a billet as clerk in San
Lorenzo, if----" He clenched his fists, unable to articulate another
word, then, very slowly, he went on: "Boys, I'd give my life to get
Angela away from Paradise."
"We'll help you," said Ajax.
"Mrs. Misterton would be much happier in San Lorenzo," I added.
Jim flushed scarlet.
"Angela married the wrong man," he said deliberately.
Ajax interrupted.
"Jim, fill your pipe!"
He held out his pouch, which Jim waved aside.
"She married the wrong man," he repeated, "and that is what is keeping
me awake nights. She'd have been happy with Thorpe. He could have
given her all the little things women value."
"And how about the great things?"
"The little things are great things--to her. Good-night, boys." We
shook hands and he went to the door. On the threshold he turned a
tired face towards us. "I hope I haven't given you fellows the idea
that Angela isn't the best little woman on earth. She never complains.
And Thorpe has been a pal in ten thousand. His heart simply bleeds for
Angela. So long!"
Ajax mixed a stiff tumbler. Before he put it to his lips he looked at
me. "If that bounder's heart would bleed and bleed and bleed to death,
I should not cross the road to fetch a doctor."
* * * * *
About a fortnight later the annual County Fair was held outside San
Lorenzo. We drove to the Buena Vista Hotel, and, to our surprise, upon
the broad verandah we discovered Angela, in the last of her pretty
dresses, and Thorpe. Angela explained matters. Jim and she were
Thorpe's guests for the week. They were going to the races, to the
ball, to all the shows. She finished breathlessly--
"And there's a captive balloon!"
Thorpe added, "Jim is rather blue, you know." As soon as we were
alone, Ajax said savagely--
"Do you think Jim understands?"
"Understands what?"
"Oh, don't pretend! We know our Thorpe by this time. He's a cutlet-
for-a-cutlet fellow. What do I say? A cutlet-for-a-baron-of-beef
gentleman. Hang him!"
"But Angela----"
"Angela is a reckless little idiot. She's been starving for a lark,
and she's swallowed it without counting the cost."
"But I trust her," said I; "and Jim is here."
Ajax shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
Next day, at the races, Jim attached himself to us, while aloft in the
grand-stand Angela sat with Thorpe: the handsomest couple at the Fair.
For the moment, at any rate, Angela was enjoying herself; Jim, on the
other hand, looked miserable. Contrast had discoloured the good time.
He couldn't snatch pleasure out of the present because he saw so
plainly the future.
"I'm a wet blanket," he said dolefully. "Every time Angela laughs I
want to cry, and yet I ought to be thankful that old Thorpe can give
her what I can't."
"He's doing the thing well," said Ajax meaningly.
"He has been left a bit more money. Didn't he tell you? No? And he's
going to buy that big tract to the north-west of us. Mum's the word,
but--between ourselves--the agreement is signed."
"Oh!" said Ajax.
The big tract in question belonged to a bank, whose president, a very
good fellow, was our particular friend. Early next morning I paid him
a visit. Almost immediately he asked me questions about Thorpe, which
I was able to answer satisfactorily from a business point of view.
"Mr. Thorpe struck me as a very shrewd young man. He'll get there."
"He played football for England."
"Ah! Well, indirectly, I suppose, we can thank you for this deal."
"You can thank Jim Misterton and his wife."
"I have not the pleasure of knowing them. They had something to do
with this, eh?"
"Everything."
The president frowned; his voice was not quite so pleasant as he
said--
"Are they likely to claim a commission?"
"Certainly not. All the same, something is due. Without the Mistertons
you would never have sold this ranch to Thorpe. One moment. It is in
your power to do these people a service, and it will cost you nothing.
Jim Misterton was a clerk in London, and a capable one, but his health
broke down. He came out here to the brush-hills. He got back his
health, but he's lost everything else. Give him a place in this bank.
He's straight as a string, and he knows his work."
Before I left the bank it was understood that Jim was to call upon the
president and submit his credentials. Humanly speaking, the billet was
secured. Nothing remained but to find Jim. To my surprise, however,
Ajax urged me to wait a few hours.
"I want to see Jim's honest grin again as much as you do, but we must
tell him before Thorpe When I upset an apple-cart, I like to see the
apple rolling about, don't you?"
"We'll tell 'em after dinner to-night."
That afternoon we forgathered in the Fair Grounds. The racing was
uninteresting, and presently Angela suggested that we should go up in
the captive balloon. We had watched it ascending and descending with
interest. Some of our friends bored us by describing at too great
length the panoramic splendour of the view. Angela and Ajax wanted to
soar, Thorpe and I preferred Mother Earth; to Jim was offered the
casting vote. He spun a dollar to decide, and within a few minutes the
five of us were seated in the wicker-car. I remember that our aeronaut
inspired confidence in Angela because he wore the Grand Army medal. A
windlass and a donkey-engine controlled the big rope which held us
captive. We went aloft in a series of disagreeable and upsetting
jerks. This may be an unusual experience, but it was ours. I am a bad
sailor, and so is Ajax. Neither of us smiled when Thorpe addressed the
veteran as--"Steward!"
Suddenly there came a still sharper jerk, and the cable split. The
balloon seemed to leap upwards, swerved like a frightened bird, and
then, caught by the wind, sailed upward and seaward, swooping on with
a paradoxically smooth yet uneven flight.
"Jeeroosalem!" ejaculated our aeronaut. Then he added coolly enough:
"Sit tight; you'll none of you be the worse for this little trip."
His confidence diffused itself agreeably. Angela laughed, Thorpe's
face relaxed, Jim peered over the edge of the car.
"Gad!" said he, "we seem to be going a tremendous pace."
The veteran took a squint alow and aloft as he fingered the rope that
opened the valve. Next time he spoke the confidence had leaked from
his voice, leaving behind a nervous squeak.
"This yere valve won't work!"
"Oh!" said Angela.
She looked at Thorpe as if seeking from him some word, some sign, of
comfort and encouragement. At the same moment she made an instinctive
movement towards him. Jim was staring at her, very pale. I saw him
half-open his lips and then close them. Frightened as I was, I can
swear that Jim was thinking only of his wife and what he could read
upon her face. Thorpe was quite impassive, but his fingers were
twitching. Then I heard Jim's voice curiously distinct--
"What are you going to do?"
"The valve may work loose. Anyways, she leaks a bit. Guess we're all
right."
Once more his confidence diffused itself subtly, and again a phrase
shattered it.
"How far is San Lorenzy from the ocean?"
"Eleven miles," said Ajax.
"We're sailin' plumb into the fog."
In late October the sea fog generally begins to roll up about four
o'clock. If the breeze is from the land, the fog is kept at bay for an
hour or two. As a rule, the breeze fails, and then the fog asserts its
dominion over all things on land and sea. Without knowing much of
aerial navigation, I grasped the fact that we were being swept into
the fog, and that if we intended to descend on land there was not a
minute to be lost. Thorpe, I fancy, had arrived at the same
conclusion. He said in a queer, high-pitched tone--
"Can't you stick a knife into the balloon?"
"It ain't easy, and it's mighty risky."
Jerking at the two ropes in his hands, he spoke collectedly, in an
indifferent tone--the tone of a man who has confronted death often,
who realises his impotence, who submits apathetically to impending
fate, whether good or ill.
"It's very cold," said Angela. Jim began to unbutton his jacket.
"Don't," she said sharply; "all the coats in the world wouldn't warm
me."
"Stick a knife into the confounded thing," repeated Thorpe.
"S'pose you do it," said the veteran snappishly.
Thorpe stood up at once, staggered, and fell upon the floor of the
car. He could master a broncho, but he had never attempted to boss a
balloon. The old man smiled.
"A man," said he, "may be mighty smart on land and behave like a baby
in a balloon. You sit tight, mister."
The balloon was now careening like a racing-yacht in a squall. We had
met opposing currents of air in the debatable area where wind and fog
struggled for the mastery. The fog had the mighty trade wind behind
it, forcing it landward. Already we were approaching the sand-dunes,
the very spot for an easy descent if we could descend.
"Gosh, I've done it!"
Above I could hear the soft, sibilant sound of the escaping gas, not
unlike the hiss of a snake. I was also sensible that my heart, not to
mention other important organs, was trying to get into my throat.
"Valve must ha' bust," said the old man. "Stand by to throw out
ballast."
The bottom of the car was covered with sacks of sand. Ordinarily one
unties the sacks and the sand is allowed to trickle out in a harmless
stream. I peered over the side. The balloon was now, so to speak, on
an even keel, falling almost perpendicularly. I saw, far down, a flash
of blue.
"Chuck 'em out, boys!"
Several sacks went overboard, and at once my solar plexus felt easier.
Again I peered down and saw nothing. The fog had engulfed us, but I
could hear the crash of the big combers as they broke upon the rocks
to the north of Avila.
What followed took place within a few seconds. We were encompassed by
thick dank fog. The balloon was perfectly steady, descending less
quickly, but with inexorable certainty, into the ocean. Around, an
uncanny silence encompassed us; above, we could hear the hiss of the
serpent; below, the menacing roar of the breakers. Then the old man
said curtly--
"Hurry up, boys. If we can get her up again, we may just strike the
dunes. What wind there is blows from the west."
We threw out the rest of the sacks. The balloon rose and slowly sank
again. The old man took off his coat.
"I can't swim worth a cent," he muttered grimly, "but I'm a-going to
try. If she tumbles quietly into the water, the wind may blow us
ashore."
A few more seconds passed. I heard a queer noise and discovered that
my teeth were chattering. Thorpe was taking off his boots.
The next moment the balloon gave a tremendous bound. I know that I
nearly fell upon my face, and Angela was thrown violently into the
bottom of the car. For an appreciable interval not one of us realised
that Jim had slipped overboard.
"The trade's got us," said the old man. "We shall just make them
dunes."
"Oh, thank God!" exclaimed Angela.
By the tone of her voice, by the smile parting her lips, I could see
that she did not know what had happened. Terror had dulled all
faculties save the one overmastering instinct of self-preservation.
Thorpe was about to speak, but Ajax caught his eye and with a gesture
silenced him. Once more the balloon began to fall----
* * * * *
We were thrown out upon the dunes. Some of us were badly bruised. When
we staggered to our feet, Angela said quickly--
"Why, where's Jim?"
Thorpe told her; let us give him credit for that. When he had
finished, he put out his hand, but she turned from him to Ajax.
"Come," she said.
She ran past us towards the beach, instinctively taking the right
direction. As she ran she called shrilly: "Jim--Jim!"
Ajax followed. For an instant Thorpe and I were alone, face to face.
"Why did he do it?" he asked.
"Because he thought that Angela had married the wrong man; but she--
didn't."
When I caught Ajax up, Angela was still ahead, running like a mad
creature.
"Jim never took off his boots," said Ajax.
"Nor his coat."
"All the same, the love of life is strong."
"We don't know how far he was from the water; the fall may have killed
him."
"I feel in my bones that he is not dead, and that Angela will find
him."
We pressed on, unwilling to be outstripped by a woman, but sensible
that we were running ourselves to a standstill. The fog was thicker
near the water's edge, and Angela's figure loomed through the mist
like that of a wraith, but we still heard her piteous cry: "Jim--Jim!"
We were nearly spent when we overtook her. She had stopped where the
foam from the breakers lay thick upon the sand.
"Listen!" she said.
We heard nothing but our thumping hearts and the raucous note of some
sea-bird.
"He answered me!" she asserted with conviction. "There!"
Certainly my ears caught a faint cry to the left. We ran on,
forgetting our bruises. Again Angela called, and out of the mist
beyond the breakers came an answering voice. We shouted back and
plunged into the surf. Angela knelt down upon the sand.
Afterwards we admitted that Angela had saved his life, although Jim
could not have fought his way through the breakers without our help.
Indeed, when we got him ashore, I made certain that he was dead. Had
Angela's instinct or intuition failed, had she hesitated for a few
minutes, Jim would have drowned within a few hundred yards of the spot
where the balloon struck. Since, Jim has maintained that he was
sinking when he heard her voice; her faint, attenuated tones infused
strength into his limbs and hope into his heart.
We dined together, and I delivered the president's message in Thorpe's
presence. He shook hands with Jim, and said quietly--
"I am happier to-night than I ever expected to be again."
Bounder or not, he meant it.
Only the other day I received a letter from Angela. She wrote at
length concerning her eldest child, my godson, and she mentioned
incidentally that Jim was now cashier of the San Lorenzo Bank.