While this simple pastoral life was centred around the school-house in
the clearing, broken only by an occasional warning pistol-shot in the
direction of the Harrison-McKinstry boundaries, the more business part
of Indian Spring was overtaken by one of those spasms of enterprise
peculiar to all Californian mining settlements. The opening of the
Eureka Ditch and the extension of stagecoach communication from Big
Bluff were events of no small importance, and were celebrated on the
same day. The double occasion overtaxing even the fluent rhetoric of
the editor of the “Star” left him struggling in the metaphorical
difficulties of a Pactolian Spring, which he had rashly turned into
the Ditch, and obliged him to transfer the onerous duty of writing the
editorial on the Big Bluff Extension to the hands of the Honorable Abner
Dean, Assemblyman from Angel's. The loss of the Honorable Mr. Dean's
right eye in an early pioneer fracas did not prevent him from looking
into the dim vista of the future and discovering with that single
unaided optic enough to fill three columns of the “Star.” “It is not too
extravagant to say,” he remarked with charming deprecation, “that
Indian Spring, through its own perfectly organized system of inland
transportation, the confluence of its North Fork with the Sacramento
River, and their combined effluence into the illimitable Pacific, is
thus put not only into direct communication with far Cathay but even
remoter Antipodean markets. The citizen of Indian Spring taking the 9 A.
M. Pioneer Coach and arriving at Big Bluff at 2.40 is enabled to connect
with the through express to Sacramento the same evening, reaching San
Francisco per the Steam Navigation Company's palatial steamers in time
to take the Pacific Mail Steamer to Yokohama on the following day at
8.30 P. M.” Although no citizen of Indian Spring appeared to avail
himself of this admirable opportunity, nor did it appear at all likely
that any would, everybody vaguely felt that an inestimable boon lay
in the suggestion, and even the master professionally intrusting the
reading aloud of the editorial to Rupert Filgee with ulterior designs
of practice in the pronunciation of five-syllable words, was somewhat
affected by it. Johnny Filgee and Jimmy Snyder accepting it as a
mysterious something that made Desert Islands accessible at a moment's
notice and a trifling outlay, were round-eyed and attentive. And
the culminating information from the master that this event would
be commemorated by a half-holiday, combined to make the occasion as
exciting to the simple school-house in the clearing as it was to the
gilded saloon in the main street.
And so the momentous day arrived, with its two new coaches from Big
Bluff containing the specially invited speakers--always specially
invited to those occasions, and yet strangely enough never before
feeling the extreme “importance and privilege” of it as they did then.
Then there were the firing of two anvils, the strains of a brass band,
the hoisting of a new flag on the liberty-pole, and later the
ceremony of the Ditch opening, when a distinguished speaker in a most
unworkman-like tall hat, black frock coat, and white cravat, which gave
him the general air of a festive grave-digger, took a spade from the
hands of an apparently hilarious chief mourner and threw out the first
sods. There were anvils, brass bands, and a “collation” at the hotel.
But everywhere--overriding the most extravagant expectation and even
the laughter it provoked--the spirit of indomitable youth and resistless
enterprise intoxicated the air. It was the spirit that had made
California possible; that had sown a thousand such ventures
broadcast through its wilderness; that had enabled the sower to stand
half-humorously among his scant or ruined harvests without fear and
without repining, and turn his undaunted and ever hopeful face to
further fields. What mattered it that Indian Spring had always before
its eyes the abandoned trenches and ruined outworks of its earlier
pioneers? What mattered it that the eloquent eulogist of the Eureka
Ditch had but a few years before as prodigally scattered his adjectives
and his fortune on the useless tunnel that confronted him on the
opposite side of the river? The sublime forgetfulness of youth ignored
its warning or recognized it as a joke. The master, fresh from his
little flock and prematurely aged by their contact, felt a stirring
of something like envy as he wandered among these scarcely older
enthusiasts.
Especially memorable was the exciting day to Johnny Filgee, not only for
the delightfully bewildering clamor of the brass band, in which, between
the trombone and the bass drum, he had got inextricably mixed; not only
for the half-frightening explosions of the anvils and the maddening
smell of the gunpowder which had exalted his infant soul to sudden and
irrelevant whoopings, but for a singular occurrence that whetted his
always keen perceptions. Having been shamelessly abandoned on the
veranda of the Eureka Hotel while his brother Rupert paid bashful court
to the pretty proprietress by assisting her in her duties, Johnny gave
himself up to unlimited observation. The rosettes of the six horses, the
new harness, the length of the driver's whiplash, his enormous buckskin
gloves and the way he held his reins; the fascinating odor of shining
varnish on the coach, the gold-headed cane of the Honorable Abner Dean:
all these were stored away in the secret recesses of Johnny's memory,
even as the unconsidered trifles he had picked up en route were
distending his capacious pockets. But when a young man had alighted
from the second or “Truly” coach among the REAL passengers, and strolled
carelessly and easily in the veranda as if the novelty and the occasion
were nothing to him, Johnny, with a gulp of satisfaction, knew that
he had seen a prince! Beautifully dressed in a white duck suit, with a
diamond ring on his finger, a gold chain swinging from his fob, and a
Panama hat with a broad black ribbon jauntily resting on his curled
and scented hair, Johnny's eyes had never rested on a more resplendent
vision. He was more romantic than Yuba Bill, more imposing and less
impossible than the Honorable Abner Dean, more eloquent than the
master--far more beautiful than any colored print that he had ever seen.
Had he brushed him in passing Johnny would have felt a thrill; had he
spoken to him he knew he would have been speechless to reply. Judge
then of his utter stupefaction when he saw Uncle Ben--actually
Uncle Ben!--approach this paragon of perfection, albeit with some
embarrassment, and after a word or two of unintelligible conversation
walk away with him! Need it be wondered that Johnny, forgetful at once
of his brother, the horses, and even the collation with its possible
“goodies,” instantly followed.
The two men turned into the side street, which, after a few hundred
yards, opened upon the deserted mining flat, crossed and broken by
the burrows and mounds made by the forgotten engines of the early
gold-seekers. Johnny, at times hidden by these irregularities, kept
closely in their rear, sauntering whenever he came within the range of
their eyes in that sidelong, spasmodic and generally diagonal fashion
peculiar to small boys, but ready at any moment to assume utter
unconsciousness and the appearance of going somewhere else or of
searching for something on the ground. In this way appearing, if noticed
at all, each time in some different position to the right or left of
them, Johnny followed them to the fringe of woodland which enabled him
to draw closer to their heels.
Utterly oblivious of this artistic “shadowing” in the insignificant
person of the small boy who once or twice even crossed their path with
affected timidity, they continued an apparently confidential previous
interview. The words “stocks” and “shares” were alone intelligible.
Johnny had heard them during the day, but he was struck by the fact
that Uncle Ben seemed to be seeking information from the paragon and was
perfectly submissive and humble. But the boy was considerably mystified
when after a tramp of half an hour they arrived upon the debatable
ground of the Harrison-McKinstry boundary. Having been especially warned
never to go there, Johnny as a matter of course was perfectly familiar
with it. But what was the incomprehensible stranger doing there? Was he
brought by Uncle Ben with a view of paralyzing both of the combatants
with the spectacle of his perfections? Was he a youthful sheriff, a
young judge, or maybe the son of the Governor of California? Or was it
that Uncle Ben was “silly” and didn't know the locality? Here was an
opportunity for him, Johnny, to introduce himself, and explain and even
magnify the danger, with perhaps a slight allusion to his own fearless
familiarity with it. Unfortunately, as he was making up his small mind
behind a tree, the paragon turned and with the easy disdain that so well
became him, said:
“Well, I wouldn't offer a dollar an acre for the whole ranch. But if YOU
choose to give a fancy price--that's your lookout.”
To Johnny's already prejudiced mind, Uncle Ben received this just
contempt submissively, as he ought, but nevertheless he muttered
something “silly” in reply, which Johnny was really too disgusted to
listen to. Ought he not to step forward and inform the paragon that he
was wasting his time on a man who couldn't even spell “ba-ker,” and who
was taught his letters by his, Johnny's, brother?
The paragon continued:
“And of course you know that merely your buying the title to the land
don't give you possession. You'll have to fight these squatters and
jumpers just the same. It'll be three instead of two fighting--that's
all!”
Uncle Ben's imbecile reply did not trouble Johnny. He had ears now only
for the superior intellect before him. IT continued coolly:
“Now let's take a look at that yield of yours. I haven't much time to
give you, as I expect some men to be looking for me here--and I suppose
you want this thing still kept a secret. I don't see how you've managed
to do it so far. Is your claim near? You live on it--I think you said?”
But that the little listener was so preoccupied with the stranger, this
suggestion of Uncle Ben's having a claim worth the attention of that
distinguished presence would have set him thinking; the little that he
understood he set down to Uncle Ben's “gassin'.” As the two men moved
forward again, he followed them until Uncle Ben's house was reached.
It was a rude shanty of boards and rough boulders, half burrowing in one
of the largest mounds of earth and gravel, which had once represented
the tailings or refuse of the abandoned Indian Spring Placer. In fact
it was casually alleged by some that Uncle Ben eked out the scanty “grub
wages,” he made by actual mining, in reworking and sifting the tailings
at odd times--a degrading work hitherto practised only by Chinese, and
unworthy the Caucasian ambition. The mining code of honor held that a
man might accept the smallest results of his daily labor, as long as he
was sustained by the prospect of a larger “strike,” but condemned his
contentment with a modest certainty. Nevertheless a little of this
suspicion encompassed his dwelling and contributed to its loneliness,
even as a long ditch, the former tail-race of the claim, separated him
from his neighbors. Prudently halting at the edge of the wood, Johnny
saw his resplendent vision cross the strip of barren flat, and enter the
cabin with Uncle Ben like any other mortal. He sat down on a stump and
awaited its return, which he fondly hoped might be alone! At the end
of half an hour he made a short excursion to examine the condition of a
blackberry bramble, and returned to his post of observation. But there
was neither sound nor motion in the direction of the cabin. When
another ten minutes had elapsed, the door opened and to Johnny's intense
discomfiture, Uncle Ben appeared alone and walked leisurely towards the
woods. Burning with anxiety Johnny threw himself in Uncle Ben's way.
But here occurred one of those surprising inconsistencies known only
to children. As Uncle Ben turned his small gray eyes upon him in a
half astonished, half questioning manner, the potent spirit of childish
secretiveness suddenly took possession of the boy. Wild horses could not
now have torn from him that question which only a moment before was on
his lips.
“Hullo, Johnny! What are ye doin' here?” said Uncle Ben kindly.
“Nothin'.” After a pause, in which he walked all round Uncle Ben's large
figure, gazing up at him as if he were a monument, he added, “Huntin'
blackberrieth.”
“Why ain't you over at the collation?”
“Ruperth there,” he answered promptly.
The idea of being thus vicariously present in the person of his brother
seemed a sufficient excuse. He leap-frogged over the stump on which he
had been sitting as an easy unembarrassing pause for the next question.
But Uncle Ben was apparently perfectly satisfied with Johnny's reply,
and nodding to him, walked away.
When his figure had disappeared in the bushes, Johnny cautiously
approached the cabin. At a certain distance he picked up a stone and
threw it against the door, immediately taking to his heels and the
friendly copse again. No one appearing he repeated the experiment twice
and even thrice with a larger stone and at a nearer distance. Then he
boldly skirted the cabin and dropped into the race-way at its side.
Following it a few hundred yards he came upon a long disused shaft
opening into it, which had been covered with a rough trap of old planks,
as if to protect incautious wayfarers from falling in. Here a sudden and
inexplicable fear overtook Johnny, and he ran away. When he reached
the hotel, almost the first sight that met his astounded eyes was the
spectacle of the paragon, apparently still in undisturbed possession
of all his perfections--driving coolly off in a buggy with a fresh
companion.
Meantime Mr. Ford, however touched by the sentimental significance of
the celebration, became slightly wearied of its details. As his own room
in the Eureka Hotel was actually thrilled by the brass band without and
the eloquence of speakers below, and had become redolent of gunpowder
and champagne exploded around it, he determined to return to the
school-house and avail himself of its woodland quiet to write a few
letters.
The change was grateful, the distant murmur of the excited settlement
came only as the soothing sound of wind among the leaves. The pure air
of the pines that filled every cranny of the quiet school-room,
and seemed to disperse all taint of human tenancy, made the far-off
celebrations as unreal as a dream. The only reality of his life was
here.
He took from his pocket a few letters one of which was worn and soiled
with frequent handling. He re-read it in a half methodical, half patient
way, as if he were waiting for some revelation it inspired, which
was slow that afternoon in coming. At other times it had called up
a youthful enthusiasm which was wont to transfigure his grave and
prematurely reserved face with a new expression. To-day the revelation
and expression were both wanting. He put the letter back with a slight
sigh, that sounded so preposterous in the silent room that he could
not forego an embarrassed smile. But the next moment he set himself
seriously to work on his correspondence.
Presently he stopped; once or twice he had been overtaken by a vague
undefinable sense of pleasure, even to the dreamy halting of his pen.
It was a sensation in no way connected with the subject of his
correspondence, or even his previous reflections--it was partly
physical, and yet it was in some sense suggestive. It must be the
intoxicating effect of the woodland air. He even fancied he had noticed
it before, at the same hour when the sun was declining and the fresh
odors of the undergrowth were rising. It certainly was a perfume. He
raised his eyes. There lay the cause on the desk before him--a little
nosegay of wild Californian myrtle encircling a rose-bud which had
escaped his notice.
There was nothing unusual in the circumstance. The children were in the
habit of making their offerings generally without particular reference
to time or occasion, and it might have been overlooked by him during
school-hours. He felt a pity for the forgotten posy already beginning
to grow limp in its neglected solitude. He remembered that in some
folk-lore of the children's, perhaps a tradition of the old association
of the myrtle with Venus, it was believed to be emblematic of the
affections. He remembered also that he had even told them of this
probable origin of their superstition. He was still holding it in his
hand when he was conscious of a silken sensation that sent a magnetic
thrill through his fingers. Looking at it more closely he saw that
the sprigs were bound together, not by thread or ribbon, but by long
filaments of soft brown hair tightly wound around them. He unwound a
single hair and held it to the light. Its length, color, texture,
and above all a certain inexplicable instinct, told him it was Cressy
McKinstry's. He laid it down quickly, as if he had, in that act,
familiarly touched her person.
He finished his letter, but presently found himself again looking at
the myrtle and thinking about it. From the position in which it had been
placed it was evidently intended for him; the fancy of binding it with
hair was also intentional and not a necessity, as he knew his feminine
scholars were usually well provided with bits of thread, silk, or
ribbon. If it had been some new absurdity of childish fashion introduced
in the school, he would have noticed it ere this. For it was this
obtrusion of a personality that vaguely troubled him. He remembered
Cressy's hair; it was certainly very beautiful, in spite of her
occasional vagaries of coiffure. He recalled how, one afternoon, it had
come down when she was romping with Octavia in the play-ground, and was
surprised to find what a vivid picture he retained of her lingering in
the porch to put it up; her rounded arms held above her head, her pretty
shoulders, full throat, and glowing face thrown back, and a wisp of the
very hair between her white teeth! He began another letter.
When it was finished the shadow of the pine-branch before the window,
thrown by the nearly level sun across his paper, had begun slowly to
reach the opposite wall. He put his work away, lingered for a moment in
hesitation over the myrtle sprays, and then locked them in his desk
with an odd feeling that he had secured in some vague way a hold upon
Cressy's future vagaries; then reflecting that Uncle Ben, whom he had
seen in town, would probably keep holiday with the others, he resolved
to wait no longer, but strolled back to the hotel. The act however had
not recalled Uncle Ben to him by any association of ideas, for since his
discovery of Johnny Filgee's caricature he had failed to detect anything
to corroborate the caricaturist's satire, and had dismissed the subject
from his mind.
On entering his room at the hotel he found Rupert Filgee standing
moodily by the window, while his brother Johnny, overcome by a repletion
of excitement and collation, was asleep on the single arm-chair. Their
presence was not unusual, as Mr. Ford, touched by the loneliness of
these motherless boys, had often invited them to come to his rooms to
look over his books and illustrated papers.
“Well?” he said cheerfully.
Rupert did not reply or change his position. Mr. Ford, glancing at
him sharply, saw a familiar angry light in the boy's beautiful eyes,
slightly dimmed by a tear. Laying his hand gently on Rupert's shoulder
he said, “What's the matter, Rupert?”
“Nothin',” said the boy doggedly, with his eyes still fixed on the pane.
“Has--has--Mrs. Tripp” (the fair proprietress) “been unkind?” he went on
lightly.
No reply.
“You know, Rupe,” continued Mr. Ford demurely, “she must show SOME
reserve before company--like to-day. It won't do to make a scandal.”
Rupert maintained an indignant silence. But the dimple (which he usually
despised as a feminine blot) on the cheek nearer the master became
slightly accented. Only for a moment; the dark eyes clouded again.
“I wish I was dead, Mr. Ford.”
“Hallo!”
“Or--doin' suthin'.”
“That's better. What do you want to do?”
“To work--make a livin' myself. Quit toten' wood and water at home; quit
cookin' and makin' beds, like a yaller Chinaman; quit nussin' babies and
dressin' 'em and undressin' 'em, like a girl. Look at HIM now,” pointing
to the sweetly unconscious Johnny, “look at him there. Do you know what
that means? It means I've got to pack him home through the town jist ez
he is thar, and then make a fire and bile his food for him, and wash
him and undress him and put him to bed, and 'Now I lay me down to sleep'
him, and tuck him up; and Dad all the while 'scootin' round town with
other idjits, jawin' about 'progress' and the 'future of Injin Spring.'
Much future we've got over our own house, Mr. Ford. Much future he's got
laid up for me!”
The master, to whom those occasional outbreaks from Rupert were not
unfamiliar, smiled, albeit with serious eyes that belied his lips, and
consoled the boy as he had often done before. But he was anxious to
know the cause of this recent attack and its probable relations to the
fascinating Mrs. Tripp.
“I thought we talked all that over some time ago, Rupe. In a few months
you'll be able to leave school, and I'll advise your father about
putting you into something to give you a chance for yourself. Patience,
old fellow; you're doing very well. Consider--there's your pupil, Uncle
Ben.”
“Oh, yes! That's another big baby to tot round in school when I ain't
niggerin' at home.”
“And I don't see exactly what else you could do at Indian Spring,”
continued Mr. Ford.
“No,” said Rupert gloomily, “but I could get away to Sacramento. Yuba
Bill says they take boys no bigger nor me in thar express offices or
banks--and in a year or two they're as good ez anybody and get paid
as big. Why, there was a fellow here, just now, no older than you, Mr.
Ford, and not half your learnin', and he dressed to death with jewelry,
and everybody bowin' and scrapin' to him, that it was perfectly
sickenin'.”
Mr. Ford lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, you mean the young man of Benham and
Co., who was talking to Mrs. Tripp?” he said.
A quick flush of angry consciousness crossed Rupert's face. “Maybe; he
has just cheek enough for anythin'.”
“And you want to be like him?” said Mr. Ford.
“You know what I mean, Mr. Ford. Not LIKE him. Why YOU'RE as good as
he is, any day,” continued Rupert with relentless naivete; “but if a
jay-bird like that can get on, why couldn't I?”
There was no doubt that the master here pointed out the defectiveness
of Rupert's logic and the beneficence of patience and study, as became
their relations of master and pupil, but with the addition of a certain
fellow sympathy and some amusing recital of his own boyish experiences,
that had the effect of calling Rupert's dimples into action again. At
the end of half an hour the boy had become quite tractable, and, getting
ready to depart, approached his sleeping brother with something
like resignation. But Johnny's nap seemed to have had the effect of
transforming him into an inert jelly-like mass. It required the joint
exertions of both the master and Rupert to transfer him bodily into the
latter's arms, where, with a single limp elbow encircling his brother's
neck, he lay with his unfinished slumber still visibly distending his
cheeks, his eyelids, and even lifting his curls from his moist forehead.
The master bade Rupert “good-night,” and returned to his room as the boy
descended the stairs with his burden.
But here Providence, with, I fear, its occasional disregard of mere
human morality, rewarded Rupert after his own foolish desires. Mrs.
Tripp was at the foot of the stairs as Rupert came slowly down. He saw
her, and was covered with shame; she saw him and his burden, and was
touched with kindliness. Whether or not she was also mischievously aware
of Rupert's admiration, and was not altogether displeased with it, I
cannot say. In a voice that thrilled him, she said:--
“What! Rupert, are you going so soon?”
“Yes, ma'am---on account of Johnny.”
“But let me take him--I can keep him here to-night.”
It was a great temptation, but Rupert had strength to refuse, albeit
with his hat pulled over his downcast eyes.
“Poor dear, how tired he looks.”
She approached her still fresh and pretty face close to Rupert and laid
her lips on Johnny's cheek. Then she lifted her audacious eyes to his
brother, and pushing back his well-worn chip hat from his clustering
curls, she kissed him squarely on the forehead.
“Good-night, dear.”
The boy stumbled, and then staggered blindly forward into the outer
darkness. But with a gentleman's delicacy he turned almost instantly
into a side street, as if to keep this consecration of himself from
vulgar eyes. The path he had chosen was rough and weary, the night was
dark, and Johnny was ridiculously heavy, but he kept steadily on, the
woman's kiss in the fancy of the foolish boy shining on his forehead and
lighting him onward like a star.