A CALL
There is a regrettable but very well defined tendency in human nature
which prompts the author of a miss-fire revenge to take it out on the
dog. Certainly there was no more innocent party to the inveigling of
Gloomy Gus than Bowles, and yet for some reason Hardy Atkins and his
comrades in crime chose to gaze upon him with a frown. After laboring
far into the night they had finally persuaded the cook that it was all a
mistake; that no insult was intended to his years; and that it would be
contrary to those high principles of Southern chivalry of which he had
always been such an illustrious exponent to report the fake fight to the
boss. Then they had busied themselves in the early morning with chopping
wood and packing water, and similar ingratiating tasks, with the result
that, when Henry Lee came down after breakfast, there was no complaint
from anybody. But when he had let it pass, and started off for Chula
Vista, it was cloudy in the south for Bowles.
But your true lover, with the wine of ecstasy in his veins, and haunting
feminine glimpses to catch his eye, is not likely to be scanning the
horizon for a cloud the size of a man's hand. Bowles' troubles began
that evening when, after an arduous day in the saddle, he returned to
his own social sphere. For two months and more Samuel Bowles had been a
cow-hand. He had slept on the ground, he had eaten in the dirt, and when
luck had gone against him he had learned to swear. But now, as he was
riding past the gate, Mrs. Lee, in a charming house-gown, had waylaid
him with a smile; he paused for a friendly word, and his breeding had
prompted him to linger while she chatted; then she had invited him to
dinner--not supper--and he had forgotten his lowly part. Forgotten also
was the warning of Hardy Atkins, now so sullen in his defeat, and
everything else except the lure of dainty living and the memory of a
smile. So, after a hasty shave and a change to cleaner clothes, he
stepped out boldly from the ranks and walked up to the big white house.
The chill and gusty days of early spring had passed and the soft warmth
of May had brought out all the flowers. Along the gallery the
honeysuckle and the Cherokee climbers were fragrant with the first
blossoms of summer, and Bowles was glad to tarry beneath them when Mrs.
Lee met him hospitably at the stoop. In the far west the Tortugas were
passing through the daily miracle of sunset, and the hush of evening had
settled upon all the land.
"Ah, Mrs. Lee," sighed Bowles, as he contemplated with a poet's eye the
beauties of nature, "now I understand how you can live here for thirty
years and never go back to New York. Such illumination--such color! And
from the hill here, it is so much more glorious! Really, in spite of the
loneliness, I almost envy you those thirty years!"
"Yes," admitted Mrs. Lee, leading him to a rawhide chair beneath the
honeysuckle, "it _is_ beautiful. I like it--in a way--but still, I can
never forget New York. It offers so much, you know, of music and art and
society; and yet--well, Henry needed me, and so I stayed. But I have
tried to give my daughter what advantages I could. I have a sister, you
know, living in New York--Mrs. Elwood Tupper--perhaps you know her?"
"Why, the name seems familiar," returned Bowles glibly.
"Yes, she's my sister," resumed Mrs. Lee, after glancing at him
curiously. "Dixie was with her all last winter--I thought perhaps you
might have met her there?"
Once more she gazed at him in that same inquiring way, and Bowles
wondered if she had heard anything, but he was quick to elude the point.
"Hmm," he mused, "Tupper! No, I hardly think so. When I return, though,
I shall be glad to look her up--perhaps I can convey some message from
you. Your daughter must find it rather close and confining in the city,
after her fine, free life in the open. Really, Mrs. Lee, I never knew
what living was until I came out here! Of course, I'm very new yet----"
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Lee, who knew a few social sleights herself, "Dixie
did complain of the confinement, but she----_O Dixie_!"
"Yes, Mother!" replied a dutiful voice from within.
"Come out on the gallery--Mr. Bowles is here. But she met some very nice
people there--some of the real old families, you know--and I
thought----"
The door opened at this point, and Bowles leapt to his feet in
astonishment. It was a different Dixie that appeared before him--the
same bewitching creature who had dazzled his eyes at the Wordsworth
Club, and she wore the very same gown. And what a wonderful
transformation it seemed to make in her--she was so quiet and demure
now, and she greeted him in quite the proper manner.
"I was just telling Mr. Bowles, Dixie," continued Mrs. Lee, still
holding to her fixed idea, "that you went out quite a little in New
York--and perhaps you might have met back there."
For a moment the two eyed each other shrewdly, each guessing how much
the other had said, and then Bowles opened up the way.
"Why, really, Miss Lee," he exclaimed, still gazing at her with admiring
eyes, "you do look familiar in that dress! Perhaps we have met in a
crush, like ships that pass in the night? May I ask at what function you
wore this charming gown?"
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Bowles," returned Dixie May; "but, rather than run
over the whole list and recall a winter's agony, let's take it for
granted that we met. It's a fine, large place to come away from, isn't
it--dear old New York? Wasn't the slush of those sidewalks something
elegant? And that steam heat! My! It never gets as hot as that out here.
Yes, indeed, Mother, I'm sure Mr. Bowles and I have met before; but,"
she added, and here her voice changed, "since he's traveling incognito,
changing his name as a garment and not getting any letters from home,
perhaps it's just as well not to dwell upon the matter."
"Why, Dixie, child!" protested Mrs. Lee. "What in the world do you
mean?"
"Nothing at all, Mother, except that he is our guest. Shall we go in now
to dinner?"
They went in, and throughout the rest of the evening Bowles was guiltily
conscious of a startled mother's eyes which regarded him with anxious
scrutiny at first and then became very resolute and stern. Mrs. Lee had
solved her problem, whatever it was, and settled upon her duty. Bowles
felt a social chill creep into the air as he rose to go, and he braced
himself for some ultimatum; but his hostess did not speak her thoughts.
There was no further allusion to New York, or his alias, or the fact
that he had acted a lie. All those things were taken for granted, and he
left with a balked feeling, as if he had failed of some purpose. Her
very silence clutched at his heart, and her passive hand-touch as they
parted. Dixie, too, seemed to share in the general aloofness. She had
said good-night without any friendly grip of the fingers, looking at him
very straight, as if to fathom his deceit.
Bowles lay awake that night and thought it out, and he saw where he had
made his mistake. From the first his manner had been evasive almost to
mendacity, and, with both Dixie and her mother, he had made a mystery of
his past. Now the time for explanations was gone, and he was reaping his
just reward. He should have taken Dixie into his confidence when they
were alone beneath the cedars; he should have answered that question of
hers when she asked it--but now it was too late.
"Mr. Bowles," she had said, "who are you, anyway?"
And when he had evaded her, she had never asked again. And now, through
the same damnable ineptitude, he had estranged her mother and lost his
welcome at the big house. All the explanations in the world would not
square him now, for one deceit follows another and his second word was
no better than his first. He could see with half an eye that Mrs. Lee
distrusted him. He must seem to her candid mind no less than a polite
adventurer, a ne'er-do-weel young profligate from the East with
intentions as dark as his past. Nor could he bring himself to blame her,
for the inference was logical--if a man conceals his identity and denies
his acquaintances and friends, surely there must be something shameful
that he is at such pains to hide.
But the way out? That was what kept Bowles awake. Certainly, if he were
a gentleman, he would stay away from the house. Nor would it be wholly
honorable to waylay Dixie May and explain. And, besides, there was
nothing to explain. He had references, of course, but if he gave them,
his aunt would discover his whereabouts and summon him home--and then
there was Christabel!
The memory of those prearranged meetings at his aunt's swept over him,
and he shuddered where he lay. Dear, pretty, patient Christabel! What if
she should sense this conspiracy to make him marry her and lose that
friendly smile? What if she should blush as he had blushed at each
chance tete-a-tete, gazing nervously into his eyes to guess if he would
yield? And to wonder if that was love! Ah no, he could never do that!
Rather than inflict such torture upon her he would flee to the depths of
the wilderness and hide until she was married. But his safety lay only
in flight, for his aunt was a resolute woman, with tears and sighs at
her command, if all else failed. Yes, he must run away--that was the way
out.
And it would solve all his problems at once. There would be no lame
explanations to make at the house, no cheap jealousies with Hardy
Atkins, no breaking of his cherished dream of seeing the West. He would
move on into the White Mountains and explore their fastnesses with
Brigham. Or, lacking Brigham, he would plunge into that wilderness
alone.
The harsh clangor of Gloomy Gus's dishpan cut short his fitful sleep,
and he rolled out of bed with his mind made up to quit. At breakfast he
said nothing, bolting his food with the rest of them, and followed on to
the horse corral for a private word with Brig. But right there fate
played him a scurvy trick, and disrupted all his schemes, for as he
stepped around behind the corral Hardy Atkins strode in upon him and
made signs to certain of his friends.
"Now, lookee here, Mr. Man," he said, and he said it quietly for once,
"you been four-flushin' around hyer long enough, and we give you warnin'
to git. We got yore record and we know what you're after, so don't hand
us out any bull. Yore name ain't Bowles and you're aimin' at Dix, but
she's got too many good friends. Now we've let you off easy, so far, but
Gawd he'p you if we come ag'in. Ain't that so, boys?"
"You bet it is!" answered three or four, and the rest of them looked
their disdain.
But an unreasoning anger swept over Bowles at the very first word, and
he returned the sneer with interest.
"Mr. Atkins," he said, "you have threatened me before, but I am not
afraid of you. You cannot frighten me away."
"Oh, I cain't, cain't I?" jeered Hardy Atkins, while his friends rumbled
threats from behind. "Well, _poco pronto_ you're liable to change yore
mind. You come into this country on a Hinglish trot and we thought you
was a sport, but now that we know better, you got to make good or git.
Ain't that so, boys?"
"You bet it is!" roared the bunch, and Atkins hitched up his shaps.
"All right," he said. "You got a job with this outfit by claimin' that
you could ride. _Now_--you're so brave--either you ride that Dunbar
hawse the way you said or we kick you out o' camp! You can take yore
choice."
"Very well," said Bowles; "I'll ride the horse."
"Like hell you will!" sneered the gang in a chorus, but Bowles did not
heed their words.
"Any time you put the saddle on him," he said, "I'll ride him."
At this they stood irresolute, unable to make him out. On the morning
that he had ridden Wa-ha-lote he was a tenderfoot, not knowing one horse
from another, but now he had seen the worst. And yet he would climb up
on Dunbar!
"Come on--let's rope 'im!" urged Hardy Atkins, but he did not move out
of his tracks. "No, the boss is comin' back," he said. "Let's wait till
we're hyer by ourse'ves. All right, Mr. Bronco-bustin' Bowles, we'll fix
you good and plenty--the first time the folks leave the house. And
meantime, if you value yore health, you better stay down on low ground."
"I will go wherever I please," answered Bowles; but he stayed down on
the low ground.