THE STRANGER AT DEEP GULCH.
They found the miners in their Sunday clothes, some sitting on the
ground, some on big boulders and piles of debris, some standing, and all
smoking and waiting anxiously the arrival of Mr. Hansford. When they saw
only Rob, with Elithe, their countenances fell.
“Where’s the parson? Isn’t he coming?” they asked, gathering around
Elithe, who told them of her father’s illness, and said she had brought
the new music and would play and sing it for them.
This was some consolation, but, evidently, there was something else on
their minds, and at last Bill Stokes said, “If we hadn’t expected your
father we should have sent for him. There’s a sick fellow here, crazy as
a loon by spells, and we don’t know what to do. I s’pose he orto have a
doctor.”
“Where is he, and who is he?” Elithe asked, and Stokes replied, “We’ve
got him into my cabin, where Lizy Ann can look after him. He did lay on
a buffalo skin a spell in one of the boys’ huts, cussin’ and howlin’
with tremens,—snakes, and all that.”
“Oh-h!” Elithe said, with a shudder. “It’s dreadful. Where did he come
from? What is his name?”
“John Pennington, he says, though the Lord knows if that’s so. We have
so many names here that don’t belong to us, but I reckon this is
genuine,” Stokes replied. “His close is marked ‘J. P.’ Lizy Ann has
washed his shirts and things,—all store shirts, fine as a fiddle, with
gold studs in his cuffs and a diamond collar button, and a big diamond
on his little finger. I’ve got the studs and collar button safe. The
ring I left on him, for he wouldn’t let me take it off. He came into
camp a week ago,—from New York, I reckon, and he wanted to go snucks in
a mine to pay a debt of honor. That’s what he told me. Some of us let
him go to digging on pay, but, my Lord, he was that shaky in his legs he
could hardly stan’; was just gittin’ over a bender, for I put it to him
and he owned up, and said it was his last,—he’d sworn off, and was goin’
to reform. Reform! He couldn’t do that, nor work, neither, and in less
than three days he was down with the very old Harry, tearin’ and
yellin’, so’s we had to hold him to keep the devils he said was after
him from gettin’ him. He’s quieter now, but keeps mutterin’ and
repeatin’ your father’s name.”
“My father’s name! How did he know it?” Elithe asked, and Stokes
replied: “Heard us talkin’ of expectin’ him; there’s no other way. Lizy
Ann is great on religion, and she told him the parson was comin’ and
as’t if he’d like to see him. He swore awful then that no parson should
come near him, and that’s about the size of it as it stan’s. He’s asleep
now in Lizy Ann’s bunk.”
“I’d like to see him,” Elithe said. But Stokes hesitated. “I do’ know
‘bout it. He cusses some now, and mebby your father wouldn’t like to
have you hear such words. Our cussin’ can’t hold a candle to his’n,
which is kind of genteel like and makes you squirm.”
“Still, I’d like to see him,” Elithe persisted, and Stokes led the way
into his cabin, the most comfortable one in the camp.
On a cot in a corner of the room a young man lay asleep, with marks of
dissipation and suffering on his face, which, in spite of the
dissipation, was a handsome one. His hands, on one of which the diamond
ring was showing, were lying outside the sheet and were whiter than
Elithe’s.
“Them hands never done no work,” Stokes whispered, pointing to them.
“He’s a New Yorker sure.”
Elithe’s ideas of New Yorkers were not very clear, but she accepted
Stokes’s theory as correct, and sitting down by the bed said to Mrs.
Stokes: “You look tired. Go out into the fresh air a while. I will stay
here.”
Mrs. Stokes was tired, as she had sat all night by the restless man and
was glad of a little change. He would probably sleep for some time, and,
accepting the offer, she went out, leaving Elithe alone with the
stranger. For a time she sat very still, studying him closely, wondering
who he was and feeling a great pity that one so young should have fallen
so low. Her father was a gentleman and so were many of the men who lived
in Samona, but Elithe felt that this stranger was a different type from
them; not half so good, but more polished, perhaps,—more accustomed to
polite society, of which she knew so little. Once he stirred in his
sleep and muttered something of which she could only catch the word
“Mignon.” Who was Mignon? Elithe wondered. His sister, or wife, or
sweetheart? Probably the latter, and her interest in him was at once
increased. Again he stirred and spoke to Mignon, this time more
distinctly, telling her he was sorry and would pay it all in time.
“If you knew what a hole I’m working in and how I have blistered my
hands, you would know I am in earnest,” he said, and then relapsed again
into a heavy sleep.
The sweetheart theory did not seem quite so likely now. Mignon was some
one he owed and was trying to pay, Elithe thought, remembering what he
had said to Stokes about a debt of honor. Glancing at his hands, she saw
the red blotches on them where the skin had peeled off, and knew that
they had been blistered in his efforts to wield the heavy pick-axe.
“Poor fellow, I’m sorry for him,” she thought, just as in the next cabin
she heard the jerky sound of the melodeon Rob was trying to play, while
those of the miners who could read music were attempting to follow him.
The sound grated harshly on her sensitive ear, but she was not prepared
for the effect it had on the sick man, who started from his pillow and
said in a thick, husky voice very different from the one in which he had
talked to Mignon, “Shtop that d——d discord, I shay.”
Elithe gave an exclamation of dismay, which the man heard, and turning
fixed his eyes on her. They were large and dark and bright, with a
watery expression, telling of dissipation and of something else which,
unused as she was to any world but Samona, Elithe could not define. She
liked him better with his eyes shut, and turned her own away from him,
but turned them back when he said in a natural voice, “I beg your
pardon; I thought you were Lizy Ann. She was here when I went to sleep.
I didn’t expect to find a lady in this place.”
He was lying back upon his pillow, with his eyes fastened upon her, a
kindling light in them which fascinated her in spite of herself. She had
no idea what a lovely picture she made in that humble room with her
fresh, young face, her soft brown eyes, her bright color and her short,
curly hair with the jaunty riding cap upon it. The sick man noted it
all, but seemed at first most struck with the cap.
“I say, where did you get that cap, so much like Mignon’s?” he asked.
Elithe did not think it necessary to explain that it came in a
missionary box and simply answered, “It is mine, sir.”
“It looks like one I have seen Mignon wear. Who are you, any way?” he
continued.
“I am Miss Hansford,” was Elithe’s reply, given with a slight elevation
of her head.
“Hansford? Hansford?” the man repeated, as if trying to recall
something. “Oh, yes, I know. Lizy Ann told me he was the parson and was
coming here. Are you the parson’s daughter?”
“I am the Rev. Roger Hansford’s daughter,” Elithe replied with dignity
and a heightened color.
The word “parson” when applied to her father always grated upon her and
doubly so when spoken as this man spoke it. He must have read her
thoughts, for he hastened to say: “Excuse me, Miss Hansford; I meant no
disrespect. Lizy Ann called him the parson, and I did the same on the
principle do as the Romans do when you are among them. Where is he?”
Elithe said that, as he was ill, she came in his stead.
“A deuced good exchange, too,” the stranger replied, “but aren’t you
afraid with all these miners? There are some hard cases among them, and
your face——”
Something in Elithe’s face checked him suddenly, while she rejoined
vehemently: “I am not afraid. The hardest miner here would not see me
harmed.”
“I believe you. The man would be a brute who could harm you, but he
can’t help thinking,” the stranger replied in a tone of voice which made
Elithe wish Mrs. Stokes would come.
The sound of the melodeon had ceased, and after a moment Rob pushed open
the door and called to her: “Elithe, Elithe; they want you to play for
them. I tried my hand and couldn’t make it go. Mrs. Stokes will sit with
him.”
He nodded towards the bed, seeing now for the first time that the sick
man was awake. Rob had heard of the snakes and the blue devils which had
held high carnival in that room the night before, and he, too, shrank
from the eyes fixed upon him. But when the stranger asked, “And who are
you, coming in like a whirlwind to take my nurse away,” he answered
fearlessly, “She is not your nurse. She’s my sister and I am Robert
Hansford.”
“More Hansfords. I should not be surprised if the old one herself
appeared pretty soon,” and the man laughed a low, chuckling laugh; then
changing suddenly, and still looking at Rob, he continued: “I was once a
boy like you, only not half so good, I reckon. Keep good, my lad, and
never do what I have done.”
“Get drunk, you mean?” Rob asked with a bluntness which startled Elithe,
whose warning hush-h came too late.
The stranger did not seem in the least offended, and answered
good-humoredly: “Yes, get drunk, and other things which getting drunk
leads to. I have a sister,—not exactly like yours. She would never come
among the miners and sit in this place with such as I am. Still she is
my sister.”
Here he closed his eyes and seemed to be thinking painful thoughts, for
there was a scowl on his forehead and a set look about his lips. Just
then Mrs. Stokes appeared, repeating Bob’s message and saying she had
come to take Elithe’s place.
“No, no. Don’t go. They’ll come back if you do,” the stranger cried,
putting out his hand to restrain Elithe, who had risen to her feet, only
too glad to get away. “You are really going?” he said so piteously that
Elithe involuntarily took his hot hand in hers and answered soothingly:
“I must go for a while. I’ll come back again.”
“You promise?” he asked, clinging to her hands as if in them lay safety
for him.
“I promise,” she replied, and releasing herself from him she went with
Rob to the next cabin, where her father was accustomed to hold services
and where some of the miners were waiting for her and humming the
Magnificat.
Sitting down to the instrument, she began to play and sing the opening
sentences, the men repeating them after her and catching the tune with a
wonderful quickness and accuracy. There were many fine voices among
them, and as they became accustomed to the music and the air was filled
with melody, the sick man sat upright with a rapt expression on his face
as the strains rose louder and higher, Elithe’s voice leading clear and
sweet as a bird’s. Suddenly, as the time became broken and difficult,
there was a frightful discord, and the singers were startled by a loud
call from Stokes’s cabin.
“Idiots, why don’t you keep with Elithe, and not make such an infernal
break as that? It’s this way,” and, taking up the words, “He hath showed
strength,” the stranger sang in rich, musical tones, while Elithe and
the miners listened breathlessly. “That’s the way to do it. Now try it
again,” he said, authoritatively.
They began as he told them and sang on, stopping when he bade them stop,
repeating when he bade them repeat, until they had a pretty accurate
knowledge of half the Magnificat, and knew they had been well drilled.
But the driller was exhausted, and relapsed into a state of half
delirium, half consciousness, calling for Elithe, who, he insisted,
should sit with him instead of “that snuff-colored woman with the big
bald spot on the top of her head and that terrible nasal twang,” which
he imitated when he spoke of her. This was rather rough on Lizy Ann, who
had tired herself out in his behalf. She was very glad, however, to give
up her post to Elithe, to whom the stranger said, as she sat down beside
him, “We’ve had a first-rate singing-school, haven’t we? We might go
through the country giving lessons. It would be easier than digging in
the dirt, or nursing either, and I believe we’d make more at it.”
To this Elithe did not reply, but asked if she should read or sing to
him.
“What will you read?” he said, and she replied, “How would the Gospel
and Epistle for the day do, seeing it is Sunday?”
“Oh, go ’way with your Gospel and Epistle. I had enough of them when I
was a boy. Sing something.”
“What shall I sing?” Elithe asked, and, after considering a moment, he
said: “‘Anna Rooney’ is pretty good. Know it?”
Elithe was horrified, and showed it in her face.
“Oh, I see,” he continued. “Anna isn’t a Sunday girl. Well, suit
yourself: only don’t make it too pious. I’m not that kind.”
Elithe was puzzled till a happy thought came to her like an inspiration,
and she began the familiar words,
“Sowing the seed by the wayside fair,
Sowing the seed by the noonday glare.”
The effect was magical. Closing his eyes, the sick man lay perfectly
still until she reached the words,
“Gathered in time or eternity,
Sure, oh, sure, will the harvest be.”
Then two great tears rolled down his cheeks as he whispered: “I’m
ashamed to cry, but something in your voice compels it, and I’m thinking
of what I have sown and what I am reaping, and wondering what the future
harvest will be for me.”
Elithe felt a little afraid of him, but with this glimpse of his better
side her fear vanished, and she sang whatever she thought he would like
until he fell into a quiet sleep and she went out to find a storm coming
down the mountains with great rapidity. It was not a shower, but a
driving rain, which fell in sheets and continued with little abatement
until sunset. Then it was so dark that it was not thought safe for her
to start for home, as the streams she must cross were sure to be
swollen, and possibly a log bridge carried away.
“Your folks will know why you stayed, for it must have rained there as
hard as here. The clouds all went that way,” Mr. Stokes said to Elithe,
whose chief concern was for the anxiety at home when she did not come.
She had never spent a night in the camp, and there came over her a
feeling of intense loneliness, amounting almost to homesickness, as she
looked out into the darkness, through which a few lights were shining
here and there, while occasionally a miner passed, wrapped in his big
cape, with the water dripping from his broad-brimmed hat.
“Where in the world shall I sleep?” she thought, knowing that Mr.
Pennington was occupying the most comfortable room in the camp.
This difficulty was settled by Mr. Pennington himself. He had been awake
for some time, and was growing very restless, with the rain beating
against the cabin and the wind roaring through the valley. The demons
were coming to carry him away, he said, fighting with his arms in the
air and bidding them go back to the infernal regions until he was ready,
when he would send them a postal. Then he began to clamor for Elithe,
and grew so excited and violent that she went to him at last and asked
what she could do for him.
“Sit where I can see your face and then sing,—not ‘Sowing the seed,’
I’ve sown a ton and am reaping the result. If you don’t like ‘Annie
Rooney,’ sing what you please, only sing.”
She sat down where he bade her sit, and, reaching out his arm, he said:
“Let me take your hand; it’s like the drop of water the rich man wanted
to cool his tongue.”
She let him take it and hold it while she sang “Rest for the weary,—rest
for you.” It was like a lullaby such as mothers sing to their fretful
infants, and, soothed by the soft, low tones, he fell asleep, still
holding Elithe’s hand, which she could not release from his grasp. If
she tried to do so he stirred at once and held it closer. Thus an hour
passed, when he awoke, burning with fever and delirium and calling for
Elithe to bathe his head or do something to keep him from the pit. Only
Elithe could quiet him, and it became evident that she must stay by him
if they kept him in bed. Once he started to get up, but Elithe was equal
to the emergency.
“Lie down,” she said, with a stamp of her foot, and he lay down, and,
looking at her slily from under the bed clothes, said to her: “Got some
of the old woman in you, haven’t you?”
She did not know what old woman he meant, nor did she care. She had
conquered him, and, with Lizy Ann nodding in a chair opposite her and
Rob sleeping on a pillow and blanket on the floor beside her, she sat
through the longest night she had ever known. Occasionally Bill Stokes
looked in to see if anything were wanted. Once when he did so Pennington
lifted his head and said: “All quiet on the Potomac. Don’t you worry.”
And again, when Stokes came, he waved his hand authoritatively, saying:
“Go away; go away; Elithe is running the ranch and running it well.
Arn’t you, Elithe?”
She did not answer, but looked toward the rain-stained window, with an
inexpressible longing for some sign of day. It came at last, and almost
before it was fairly light her father opened the door and walked in. He
and his wife had passed an anxious and nearly sleepless night, although
feeling sure that the storm which had swept over Samona was the cause of
their children’s absence. That they would be safe in the camp and
comparatively comfortable they knew, but with the first streak of dawn
Roger was on his way to Deep Gulch. Bill Stokes was the first one he
met, learning from him all the particulars of the stranger and what
Elithe had done for him.
“He’d of cut loose and run yellin’ over the plains if it hadn’t been for
her, I b’lieve my soul,” he said, as he led the way to his cabin and
opened the door.
With a cry of joy Elithe threw herself into her father’s arms, sobbing
like a child, now that the strain was over and help had come. The cry
awoke Mr. Pennington, to whom, after soothing Elithe, Roger gave his
attention.
“This is father,” Elithe said, proudly, holding her father’s arm.
For an instant the stranger regarded him with a comical twinkle in his
eyes and said: “The parson? Another Hansford? The plot thickens, don’t
it?”
Then his mind seemed to recover its balance, and, putting out his hand,
he said, very courteously: “I am glad to see you, Mr. Hansford. I am
afraid your daughter has had a sorry night, but she has done me a world
of good. I believe I should have died without her. Will you sit down?
Our quarters are small and not the best ventilated in the world.”
Roger sat down, while Elithe went out into the fresh morning air, which
each moment grew fresher and warmer as the sun came over the hills. All
traces of the storm were gone, except where pools of water were standing
in the road and rain drops were falling from the trees. Mrs. Stokes’s
mother was preparing breakfast, and, attracted by the odor of coffee,
Elithe walked that way.
“Drink this. It will do you good. You are white as a sheet,” the woman
said, offering her a cup of strong, hot coffee.
Elithe drank it, and, sitting down upon a bench outside the door, fell
asleep from fatigue and exhaustion. Here her father found her when he
came from his interview with the stranger, who had seemed gentlemanly in
every way and very profuse in his thanks for what Elithe had done for
him.
“If she could only stay for a day or two, I believe she would exorcise
all the evil spirits there are in me and make a man of me,” he said.
He emphasized the _spirits_, and Roger knew what he meant. But this was
not the time for a temperance lecture, and he only replied that on no
account could he allow his daughter to stay. It was not the place for
her.
“I know,—I know,” the stranger interrupted him. “Miss Grundy would say
it is very much _not_ the place for her, but she’d be safe with these
men, who adore her; and safe with me. Suppose I am a scamp of the
deepest dye, I’d as soon insult my mother were she living as harm your
daughter by a word, or look, or thought. Let her stay for one day, and
you stay with her.”
He was very earnest, and drops of sweat stood on his forehead, but Mr.
Hansford was firm.
“I’ll come to-morrow and see how you are,” he said, “and when you are
able you will find a plain but good hotel in Samona, where you will be
more comfortable than here. My daughter must go home.”
“I suppose you are right, but you’ll let me say good-bye to her!”
Pennington said, quite cheerfully, buoyed up with the prospect of soon
getting to Samona, where he would be near Elithe.
He had seen many young girls, most of whom had shunned him on close
acquaintance as one whose atmosphere was not wholesome. And he did not
blame them. He knew himself perfectly, and knew what feelings were
stirred in him at the sight of a pretty face. But he had spoken truly
when he said he would as soon think of insulting his mother as breathing
a poisonous breath upon Elithe. It was as if she were hedged about with
an iron fence up to which he might come and look upon the aureole of
purity and innocence and girlish beauty surrounding her, but beyond
which he could not pass. He was steeped to the dregs in dissipation, but
had sworn to reform, and had said so to Roger, who was reminded of the
couplet,
“The de’il when sick a saint would be,
But when he was well, the de’il a saint was he.”
Still, as a clergyman, it was his duty to encourage the least sign of
reformation, and he spoke words of hope to the man who puzzled him
greatly and to whom he brought Elithe to say good-bye. Taking her hand,
Mr. Pennington said, “God bless you, Elithe, for all you have done for
me.” Then, noticing the surprise in Mr. Hansford’s face at hearing her
so familiarly addressed, he added: “I beg pardon for calling her Elithe.
I must have done so ever since I knew her name,—the prettiest I ever
heard. It does me good to say it.”
Roger bowed stiffly and took his daughter away. Half an hour later Mr.
Pennington, propped on pillows and looking through the window at the
foot of his bed, saw Elithe with her father and Rob disappear in the
gorge which led from the camp to Samona.