AT “THE SAMONA.”
One morning about a week later as Elithe was sweeping the door steps she
saw an ox-cart coming up the street. Beside it was Bill Stokes
flourishing his whip and calling loudly to the oxen, as if to attract
her attention. Half sitting, half reclining in the cart was Mr.
Pennington, pale and thin and looking about him with a good deal of
curiosity and interest. The moment he caught sight of Elithe his face
brightened, and, taking off his hat, he bowed and kept it off, as if in
the presence of royalty, until the house was passed. As the Rectory
stood a little back from the street Elithe did not speak to him or
Stokes, but stood watching the cart until it stopped in front of the
hotel, which the miners always called the _tavern_, and whose sign, a
big board nailed across a post, bore the ambitious name, “The Samona,”
in imitation of larger places. Mr. Pennington was evidently expected,
for the landlord and bartender came out to meet him, and Elithe noticed
that he walked rather feebly as he entered the house. In the course of
half an hour, Stokes, having disposed of his passenger and oxen and
refreshed his inner man with a glass of beer, appeared at the door of
the kitchen, where Elithe was washing the breakfast dishes. Sitting down
on the step and wiping his face with his handkerchief, he began: “Wall,
how’s all the folks? Is the parson to home?”
The _parson_ answered for himself, as he entered the room, followed by
his wife, who, as was her habit, sank into the nearest chair.
“You look kinder shiffless this morning,” Stokes said to her. “Well, I
feel shiffless, too, and no wonder, routed out before light to get that
New York chap over here. Seems’s ef he couldn’t wait another minit. He’s
picked up wonderful in a week, but says he’s done with diggin’; tain’t
his forte, and I guess ’taint; hands too white and soft. He wanted to
get here the worst kind, so as to be near the Post Office and church, he
said. As’t how often you had meetin’. He’s got awful pious since Miss
Elithe was there.”
Here a knowing wink from Stokes swept the room, but was lost on Elithe,
who kept on with her dishes while Stokes continued: “I do b’lieve he
means to reform, and the way he’s put us through that Magnificat is a
caution. We know it now from stem to stern, with all its whirligigs.
He’s signed the pledge, too, promisin’ solemnly not to touch no more
spiritual liquors.”
“Where did he get a pledge to sign?” Mr. Hansford asked, and Stokes
replied: “Oh, he made one on a piece of paper. Wrote it himself and I
signed as a witness, and so did Lizy Ann.”
“Where is it?” was Mr. Hansford’s next question.
“In his trouses’ pocket. I offered to keep it for him, but he said no,
he’d keep it; then he’d know when he broke it. He’s had a letter sinse
you was there from somewhere. Says he expects another with some money.
He hain’t much now, and we fellers chipped in and made him up a little.
We kind of like the cuss. He wants to sell that stun he wears on his
little finger, but says this ain’t no place for that. Joe Newell, who’s
great on jewelry, offered him twenty-five dollars for it, thinkin’ he
was doin’ a big thing. You or’to seen Pennington’s face. ‘Twenty-five
dollars!’ says ’ee. ‘Are you crazy? It cost three hundred.’ I don’t
b’lieve it, do you? There’s his watch he’s goin’ to send to Helena, or
Butte, when he gits a chance. Says that cost a hundred and fifty
dollars. I don’t b’lieve it, do you? They’ve give him the best room up
to the tavern, and he’ll pay, too. I b’lieve he’s honest for a New
Yorker, but I can’t make him out. He never says a word about his folks,
with all Lizy Ann’s pumpin’, and she’s good at that. She couldn’t git
nothin’ from him. He talked about some gal with a queer name when he was
outen his head before Miss Elithe came. Since then when he talked in his
sleep it hain’t been that girl’s name, but two or three times he’s
called for Elithe, Elithe, to git him outen some scrape.”
Here Stokes gave another wink, which Elithe did not see. But her father
did, and stopped the garrulous Stokes by abruptly changing the
conversation and asking after the work in the mine in which he had a
small interest.
“Fust rate, fust rate. You’ll be a nabob some day, and I hope you will,”
Stokes said, leaving Mr. Pennington and launching into the subject of
the mines. “Well, good day,” he said at last. “I must be goin’ back.
Keep an eye on New York; that’s what we call him, and don’t let him
backslide. He never cussed but oncet comin’ here, and that was when we
run over a boulder and sent him up about a foot. Good-bye.”
He started to go, then stopped and added: “I reckon New York will he
spectin’ some of you to call soon. It’s kind’er lonesome changin’ from
the mines to the tarvern.”
Rob was the first to call. He had thought the night at the mines a lark
and was a good deal interested in Mr. Pennington, whom he first called
Elithe’s patient and afterwards her convert. He found him in the
“chambre de luxe” of The Samona,—a large, square room with three
paper-curtained windows, a rag carpet, a high post bedstead, two hard
chairs, a table in the centre with a red cotton spread, a Bible, a high
washstand with a round hole in the top for the bowl and two small
towels. Mr. Pennington was glad to see the boy and kept him a long time,
asking him questions about the people in the town and his own family
generally. Then looking from his window to the far end of the long
street, where the church, soon to be consecrated, was standing, he
talked about that, learning that Elithe played the instrument, as Rob
called the little parlor organ, and led the singing and taught in
Sunday-school and “ran things generally, and ran them well, too,” Rob
said, adding with a good deal of pride: “Elithe is very religious,—not
stiff, you know; not the kind that won’t let a feller have a good time.
She likes fun and all that, but she’s great on the church and
temperance.”
Rob remembered the snakes and blue devils, and as the son of a clergyman
felt it his duty to drive a nail in the right direction when he had a
chance. There was no sign of snakes or devils about Mr. Pennington now.
He was clothed and in his right mind. A temperance pledge was in his
pocket and he meant to keep it. He had some money, thanks to his friends
the miners, whom he should pay as soon as he received what he was
expecting every day. He was lodged in a clean and comfortable room, and
what was better than all he was near Elithe. His “sweet wild rose of the
West” he called her to himself, and he had sworn a big oath that not a
petal of the rose should be tarnished by him. He was going to reform; he
had reformed, and when later in the day Mr. Hansford called he, like
Rob, was impressed with the gentlemanly manner with which he was
received. In some respects Mr. Pennington had the advantage of Roger. He
had traveled in Europe, had seen much of the world, had read many books
and had been to Harvard College. He did not say he had been sent home
for the very habit which had brought him so low at the mines, nor did
Mr. Hansford ask him troublesome questions. Accustomed to many phases of
human nature, he was shrewd enough to guess that behind this polished
exterior there was a past the man would keep from sight, and he did not
intend to meddle with it. If he could do him good he would and at the
same time he should guard his own fold sedulously, lest some taint of
poison should creep in. He invited Mr. Pennington to call at the
Rectory, and the next day he came, and the next and the next, until he
was quite one of the family. He seemed to know just what string to pull
to make himself popular. He told Rob of his trip to Egypt, of the
Pyramids and the Sphinx, and the grand old ruins of Luxor and Thebes. He
played backgammon with George, checkers with Thede, and hull-gull with
Artie. He treated Mrs. Hansford with the utmost deference as a lady and
an invalid, anticipating her wishes and making himself so agreeable to
her that she looked forward to his visits with more interest than
Elithe. To her Mr. Pennington never talked much. He knew that Mr.
Hansford was watching him in that direction, and nothing could be more
circumspect than his demeanor towards her. But he never for a moment
forgot her. He always heard her when she spoke,—heard, too, the rustle
of her dress and the sound of her footsteps when she was coming, and
when, as she sometimes did, she gave him her hand, as she said
good-night, the touch of her slender fingers sent the blood coursing
through his veins, and he would curse himself for a fool to care so much
for a little Western country girl who never could care for him, and who
he knew ought not to care for him if she could.
Meanwhile his reformation was progressing. He kept his pledge, was
gracious to everybody, and only swore occasionally under his breath at
the coarseness of his food and the way it was served. Every Sunday and
every week day when there was service found him at church, more devout
if possible than Elithe herself. Rob, who saw everything, said he kept
his head down longer than any body else and bowed nearly to the floor in
the creed.
“You are so good why don’t you get confirmed when the Bishop comes to
consecrate the church?” the boy said to him one day, and Pennington
replied: “By Jove, I b’lieve I will. I hadn’t thought of that. Do you
think she’d,—he’d, I mean,—do you think he’d take me?”
Rob understood the blunder. Like his father, he was awake to the
situation, and he replied: “He might take you, but I don’t know about
_she_.”
Mr. Pennington colored and mentally decided to abandon the confirmation
business. As a whole he was very popular in Samona, where some of the
people looked upon him as a suitor for the Rector’s daughter. It did not
take long for this gossip to reach Mr. Hansford, who was greatly
annoyed. As yet Elithe had shown no sign of consciousness, but there
might come an awakening, which, if possible, he would prevent. In his
extremity his thoughts turned to his aunt, Miss Phebe Hansford. It was
more than twenty years since he had seen her and a long time since he
had heard from her. She had opposed his marriage bitterly and opposed
his going into the ministry as an Episcopal clergyman. She had very
little faith in the church and less in Lucy Potter, and when he espoused
both she washed her hands of him and had kept them washed and dried ever
since. He could not ask her to invite Elithe to visit her, but he would
write to her and send his daughter’s picture, hoping that something
might come of it. It would be hard to part with Elithe, but he would do
it if by so doing he could remove her from danger. There was a
consultation with his wife, who at first demurred, but at last
consented, and the letter on which so much was pending was sent with a
prayer that it might have the desired result.