The afternoon did not, however, bring their expected visitors. It
brought, instead, a brief note by the hands of Whiskey Dick from
Fairfax, apologizing for some business that kept him and George Kearney
from accompanying the ladies. It added that the horses were at the
disposal of themselves and any escort they might select, if they would
kindly give the message to Whiskey Dick.
The two girls looked at each other awkwardly; Jessie did not attempt to
conceal a slight pout.
“It looks as if they were anticipating us,” she said, with a half-forced
smile. “I wonder, now, if there really has been any gossip? But no! They
wouldn't have stopped for that, unless--” She looked curiously at her
sister.
“Unless what?” repeated Christie; “you are horribly mysterious this
morning.”
“Am I? It's nothing. But they're wanting an answer. Of course you'll
decline.”
“And intimate we only care for their company! No! We'll say we're sorry
they can't come, and--accept their horses. We can do without an escort,
we two.”
“Capital!” said Jessie, clapping her hands. “We'll show them--”
“We'll show them nothing,” interrupted Christie decidedly. “In our place
there's only the one thing to do. Where is this--Whiskey Dick?”
“In the parlor.”
“The parlor!” echoed Christie. “Whiskey Dick? What--is he--”
“Yes; he's all right,” said Jessie confidently. “He's been here before,
but he stayed in the hall; he was so shy. I don't think you saw him.”
“I should think not--Whiskey Dick!”
“Oh, you can call him Mr. Hall, if you like,” said Jessie, laughing.
“His real name is Dick Hall. If you want to be funny, you can say Alky
Hall, as the others do.”
Christie's only reply to this levity was a look of superior resignation
as she crossed the hall and entered the parlor.
Then ensued one of those surprising, mystifying, and utterly
inexplicable changes that leave the masculine being so helpless in the
hands of his feminine master. Before Christie opened the door her face
underwent a rapid transformation: the gentle glow of a refined woman's
welcome suddenly beamed in her interested eyes; the impulsive courtesy
of an expectant hostess eagerly seizing a long-looked-for opportunity
broke in a smile upon her lips as she swept across the room, and stopped
with her two white outstretched hands before Whiskey Dick.
It needed only the extravagant contrast presented by that gentleman to
complete the tableau. Attired in a suit of shining black alpaca, the
visitor had evidently prepared himself with some care for a possible
interview. He was seated by the French window opening upon the veranda,
as if to secure a retreat in case of an emergency. Scrupulously washed
and shaven, some of the soap appeared to have lingered in his eyes and
inflamed the lids, even while it lent a sleek and shining lustre, not
unlike his coat, to his smooth black hair. Nevertheless, leaning back
in his chair, he had allowed a large white handkerchief to depend
gracefully from his fingers--a pose at once suggesting easy and elegant
langour.
“How kind of you to give me an opportunity to make up for my misfortune
when you last called! I was so sorry to have missed you. But it was
entirely my fault! You were hurried, I think--you conversed with others
in the hall--you--”
She stopped to assist him to pick up the handkerchief that had fallen,
and the Panama hat that had rolled from his lap towards the window
when he had started suddenly to his feet at the apparition of grace and
beauty. As he still nervously retained the two hands he had grasped,
this would have been a difficult feat, even had he not endeavored at the
same moment, by a backward furtive kick, to propel the hat out of the
window, at which she laughingly broke from his grasp and flew to the
rescue.
“Don't mind it, miss,” he said hurriedly. “It is not worth your
demeaning yourself to touch it. Leave it outside thar, miss. I wouldn't
have toted it in, anyhow, if some of those high-falutin' fellows hadn't
allowed, the other night, ez it were the reg'lar thing to do; as if,
miss, any gentleman kalkilated to ever put on his hat in the house afore
a lady!”
But Christie had already possessed herself of the unlucky object, and
had placed it upon the table. This compelled Whiskey Dick to rise again,
and as an act of careless good breeding to drop his handkerchief in it.
He then leaned one elbow upon the piano, and, crossing one foot over the
other, remained standing in an attitude he remembered to have seen
in the pages of an illustrated paper as portraying the hero in some
drawing-room scene. It was easy and effective, but seemed to be more
favorable to revery than conversation. Indeed, he remembered that he had
forgotten to consult the letterpress as to which it represented.
“I see you agree with me, that politeness is quite a matter of
intention,” said Christie, “and not of mere fashion and rules. Now, for
instance,” she continued, with a dazzling smile, “I suppose, according
to the rules, I ought to give you a note to Mr. Munroe, accepting his
offer. That is all that is required; but it seems so much nicer, don't
you think, to tell it to YOU for HIM, and have the pleasure of your
company and a little chat at the same time.”
“That's it, that's just it, Miss Carr; you've hit it in the centre this
time,” said Whiskey Dick, now quite convinced that his attitude was not
intended for eloquence, and shifting back to his own seat, hat and all;
“that's tantamount to what I said to the boys just now. 'You want an
excuse,' sez I, 'for not goin' out with the young ladies. So, accorden'
to rules, you writes a letter allowin' buzziness and that sorter thing
detains you. But wot's the facts? You're a gentleman, and as gentlemen
you and George comes to the opinion that you're rather playin' it for
all it's worth in this yer house, you know--comin' here night and day,
off and on, reg'lar sociable and fam'ly like, and makin' people talk
about things they ain't any call to talk about, and, what's a darned
sight more, YOU FELLOWS ain't got any right YET to allow 'em to talk
about, d'ye see?” he paused, out of breath.
It was Miss Christie's turn to move about. In changing her seat to the
piano-stool, so as to be nearer her visitor, she brushed down some loose
music, which Whiskey Dick hastened to pick up.
“Pray don't mind it,” she said, “pray don't, really--let it be--”
But Whiskey Dick, feeling himself on safe ground in this attention,
persisted to the bitter end of a disintegrated and well-worn
“Travatore.” “So that is what Mr. Munroe said,” she remarked quietly.
“Not just then, in course, but it's what's bin on his mind and in his
talk for days off and on,” returned Dick, with a knowing smile and a nod
of mysterious confidence. “Bless your soul, Miss Carr, folks like you
and me don't need to have them things explained. That's what I said to
him, sez I. 'Don't send no note, but just go up there and hev it out
fair and square, and say what you do mean.' But they would hev the note,
and I kalkilated to bring it. But when I set my eyes on you, and heard
you express yourself as you did just now, I sez to myself, sez I, 'Dick,
yer's a young lady, and a fash'nable lady at that, ez don't go foolin'
round on rules and etiketts'--excuse my freedom, Miss Carr--'and you and
her, sez I, 'kin just discuss this yer matter in a sociable, off-hand,
fash'nable way.' They're a good lot o' boys, Miss Carr, a square
lot--white men all of 'em; but they're a little soft and green, may be,
from livin' in these yer pine woods along o' the other sap. They just
worship the ground you and your sister tread on--certain! of course!
of course!” he added hurriedly, recognizing Christie's half-conscious,
deprecating gesture with more exaggerated deprecation. “I understand.
But what I wanter say is that they'd be willin' to be that ground,
and lie down and let you walk over them--so to speak, Miss Carr, so to
speak--if it would keep the hem of your gown from gettin' soiled in the
mud o' the camp. But it wouldn't do for them to make a reg'lar curderoy
road o' themselves for the houl camp to trapse over, on the mere chance
of your some time passin' that way, would it now?”
“Won't you let me offer you some refreshment, Mr. Hall?” said Christie,
rising, with a slight color. “I'm really ashamed of my forgetfulness
again, but I'm afraid it's partly YOUR fault for entertaining me to the
exclusion of yourself. No, thank you, let me fetch it for you.”
She turned to a handsome sideboard near the door, and presently faced
him again with a decanter of whiskey and a glass in her hand, and a
return of the bewitching smile she had worn on entering.
“But perhaps you don't take whiskey?” suggested the arch deceiver, with
a sudden affected but pretty perplexity of eye, brow, and lips.
For the first time in his life Whiskey Dick hesitated between two forms
of intoxication. But he was still nervous and uneasy; habit triumphed,
and he took the whiskey. He, however, wiped his lips with a slight wave
of his handkerchief, to support a certain easy elegance which he firmly
believed relieved the act of any vulgar quality.
“Yes, ma'am,” he continued, after an exhilarated pause. “Ez I said
afore, this yer's a matter you and me can discuss after the fashion o'
society. My idea is that these yer boys should kinder let up on you and
Miss Jessie for a while, and do a little more permiskus attention round
the Ford. There's one or two families yer with grown-up gals ez oughter
be squared; that is--the boys mighter put in a few fancy touches among
them--kinder take 'em buggy riding--or to church--once in a while--just
to take the pizen outer their tongues, and make a kind o' bluff to the
parents, d'ye see? That would sorter divert their own minds; and even if
it didn't, it would kinder get 'em accustomed agin to the old style and
their own kind. I want to warn ye agin an idea that might occur to you
in a giniral way. I don't say you hev the idea, but it's kind o' nat'ral
you might be thinkin' of it some time, and I thought I'd warn you agin
it.”
“I think we understand each other too well to differ much, Mr. Hall,”
said Christie, still smiling; “but what is the idea?”
The delicate compliment to their confidential relations and the slight
stimulus of liquor had tremulously exalted Whiskey Dick. Affecting to
look cautiously out of the window and around the room, he ventured
to draw nearer the young woman with a half-paternal, half-timid
familiarity.
“It might have occurred to you,” he said, laying his handkerchief as if
to veil mere vulgar contact, on Christie's shoulder, “that it would be a
good thing on YOUR side to invite down some of your high-toned gentlemen
friends from 'Frisco to visit you and escort you round. It seems quite
nat'ral like, and I don't say it ain't, but--the boys wouldn't stand for
it.”
In spite of her self-possession, Christie's eyes suddenly darkened,
and she involuntarily drew herself up. But Whiskey Dick, guiltily
attributing the movement to his own indiscreet gesture, said, “Excuse
me, miss,” recovered himself by lightly dusting her shoulder with his
handkerchief, as if to remove the impression, and her smile returned.
“They wouldn't stand for it,” said Dick, “and there'd be some shooting!
Not afore you, miss--not afore you, in course! But they'd adjourn to the
woods some morning with them city folks, and hev it out with rifles at
a hundred yards. Or, seein' ez they're city folks, the boys would do the
square thing with pistols at twelve paces. They're good boys, as I
said afore; but they're quick and tetchy--George, being the youngest,
nat'rally is the tetchiest. You know how it is, Miss Carr; his pretty,
gal-like face and little moustaches haz cost him half a dozen scrimmages
already. He'z had a fight for every hair that's growed in his moustache
since he kem here.”
“Say no more, Mr. Hall!” said Christie, rising and pressing her hands
lightly on Dick's tremulous fingers. “If I ever had any such idea, I
should abandon it now; you are quite right in this as in your other
opinions. I shall never cease to be thankful to Mr. Munroe and Mr.
Kearney that they intrusted this delicate matter to your hands.”
“Well,” said the gratified and reddening visitor, “it ain't perhaps
the square thing to them or myself to say that they reckoned to have me
discuss their delicate affairs for them, but--”
“I understand,” interrupted Christie. “They simply gave you the letter
as a friend. It was my good fortune to find you a sympathizing and
liberal man of the world.” The delighted Dick, with conscious vanity
beaming from every feature of his shining face, lightly waved the
compliment aside with his handkerchief, as she continued, “But I am
forgetting the message. We accept the horses. Of course we COULD do
without an escort; but forgive my speaking so frankly, are YOU engaged
this afternoon?”
“Excuse me, miss, I don't take--” stammered Dick, scarcely believing his
ears.
“Could you give us your company as an escort?” repeated Christie with a
smile.
Was he awake or dreaming, or was this some trick of liquor in his
often distorted fancy? He, Whiskey Dick! the butt of his friends, the
chartered oracle of the barrooms, even in whose wretched vanity there
was always the haunting suspicion that he was despised and scorned; he,
who had dared so much in speech, and achieved so little in fact! he,
whose habitual weakness had even led him into the wildest indiscretion
here; he--now offered a reward for that indiscretion! He, Whiskey Dick,
the solicited escort of these two beautiful and peerless girls! What
would they say at the Ford? What would his friends think? It would be
all over the Ford the next day. His past would be vindicated, his future
secured. He grew erect at the thought. It was almost in other voice,
and with no trace of his previous exaggeration, that he said, “With
pleasure.”
“Then, if you will bring the horses at once, we shall be ready when you
return.”
In another instant he had vanished, as if afraid to trust the reality of
his good fortune to the dangers of delay. At the end of half an hour
he reappeared, leading the two horses, himself mounted on a half-broken
mustang. A pair of large, jingling silver spurs and a stiff sombrero,
borrowed with the mustang from some mysterious source, were donned to do
honor to the occasion.
The young girls were not yet ready, but he was shown by the Chinese
servant into the parlor to wait for them. The decanter of whiskey and
glasses were still invitingly there. He was hot, trembling, and flushed
with triumph. He walked to the table and laid his hand on the decanter,
when an odd thought flashed upon him. He would not drink this time.
No, it should not be said that he, the selected escort of the elite of
Devil's Ford, had to fill himself up with whiskey before they started.
The boys might turn to each other in their astonishment, as he proudly
passed with his fair companions, and say, “It's Whiskey Dick,” but he'd
be d----d if they should add, “and full as ever.” No, sir! Nor when
he was riding beside these real ladies, and leaning over them at some
confidential moment, should they even know it from his breath! No. . . .
Yet a thimbleful, taken straight, only a thimbleful, wouldn't be much,
and might help to pull him together. He again reached his trembling
hand for the decanter, hesitated, and then, turning his back upon it,
resolutely walked to the open window. Almost at the same instant he
found himself face to face with Christie on the veranda.
She looked into his bloodshot eyes, and cast a swift glance at the
decanter.
“Won't you take something before you go?” she said sweetly.
“I--reckon--not, jest now,” stammered Whiskey Dick, with a heroic
effort.
“You're right,” said Christie. “I see you are like me. It's too hot for
anything fiery. Come with me.”
She led him into the dining-room, and pouring out a glass of iced
tea handed it to him. Poor Dick was not prepared for this terrible
culmination. Whiskey Dick and iced tea! But under pretence of seeing if
it was properly flavored, Christie raised it to her own lips.
“Try it, to please me.”
He drained the goblet.
“Now, then,” said Christie gayly, “let's find Jessie, and be off!”