The educational establishment of Mrs. Mix and Madame Bance, situated
in the best quarter of Sacramento and patronized by the highest state
officials and members of the clergy, was a pretty if not an imposing
edifice. Although surrounded by a high white picket fence and entered
through a heavily boarded gate, its balconies festooned with jasmine
and roses, and its spotlessly draped windows as often graced with fresh,
flower-like faces, were still plainly and provokingly visible above the
ostentatious spikes of the pickets. Nevertheless, Mr. Jack Hamlin, who
had six months before placed his niece, Miss Sophonisba Brown, under
its protecting care, felt a degree of uneasiness, even bordering on
timidity, which was new to that usually self-confident man. Remembering
how his first appearance had fluttered this dovecote and awakened a
severe suspicion in the minds of the two principals, he had discarded
his usual fashionable attire and elegantly fitting garments for a rough,
homespun suit, supposed to represent a homely agriculturist, but which
had the effect of transforming him into an adorable Strephon, infinitely
more dangerous in his rustic shepherd-like simplicity. He had also
shaved off his silken mustache for the same prudential reasons, but had
only succeeded in uncovering the delicate lines of his handsome
mouth, and so absurdly reducing his apparent years that his avuncular
pretensions seemed more preposterous than ever; and when he had rung
the bell and was admitted by a severe Irish waiting-maid, his momentary
hesitation and half humorous diffidence had such an unexpected effect
upon her, that it seemed doubtful if he would be allowed to pass beyond
the vestibule. “Shure, miss,” she said in a whisper to an under teacher,
“there's wan at the dhure who calls himself, 'Mister' Hamlin, but av it
is not a young lady maskeradin' in her brother's clothes Oim very much
mistaken; and av it's a boy, one of the pupil's brothers, shure ye might
put a dhress on him when you take the others out for a walk, and he'd
pass for the beauty of the whole school.”
Meantime, the unconscious subject of this criticism was pacing somewhat
uneasily up and down the formal reception room into which he had been
finally ushered. Its farther end was filled by an enormous parlor organ,
a number of music books, and a cheerfully variegated globe. A large
presentation Bible, an equally massive illustrated volume on the Holy
Land, a few landscapes in cold, bluish milk and water colors, and rigid
heads in crayons--the work of pupils--were presumably ornamental. An
imposing mahogany sofa and what seemed to be a disproportionate excess
of chairs somewhat coldly furnished the room. Jack had reluctantly
made up his mind that, if Sophy was accompanied by any one, he would be
obliged to kiss her to keep up his assumed relationship. As she entered
the room with Miss Mix, Jack advanced and soberly saluted her on the
cheek. But so positive and apparent was the gallantry of his presence,
and perhaps so suggestive of some pastoral flirtation, that Miss Mix, to
Jack's surprise, winced perceptibly and became stony. But he was still
more surprised that the young lady herself shrank half uneasily from his
lips, and uttered a slight exclamation. It was a new experience to Mr.
Hamlin.
But this somewhat mollified Miss Mix, and she slightly relaxed her
austerity. She was glad to be able to give the best accounts of Miss
Brown, not only as regarded her studies, but as to her conduct and
deportment. Really, with the present freedom of manners and laxity of
home discipline in California, it was gratifying to meet a young lady
who seemed to value the importance of a proper decorum and behavior,
especially towards the opposite sex. Mr. Hamlin, although her guardian,
was perhaps too young to understand and appreciate this. To this
inexperience she must also attribute the indiscretion of his calling
during school hours and without preliminary warning. She trusted,
however, that this informality could be overlooked after consultation
with Madame Bance, but in the mean time, perhaps for half an hour, she
must withdraw Miss Brown and return with her to the class. Mr. Hamlin
could wait in this public room, reserved especially for visitors, until
they returned. Or, if he cared to accompany one of the teachers in a
formal inspection of the school, she added, doubtfully, with a glance
at Jack's distracting attractions, she would submit this also to Madame
Bance.
“Thank you, thank you,” returned Jack hurriedly, as a depressing vision
of the fifty or sixty scholars rose before his eyes, “but I'd rather
not. I mean, you know, I'd just as lief stay here ALONE. I wouldn't have
called anyway, don't you see, only I had a day off,--and--and--I wanted
to talk with my niece on family matters.” He did not say that he had
received a somewhat distressful letter from her asking him to come; a
new instinct made him cautious.
Considerably relieved by Jack's unexpected abstention, which seemed to
spare her pupils the distraction of his graces, Miss Mix smiled more
amicably and retired with her charge. In the single glance he had
exchanged with Sophy he saw that, although resigned and apparently
self-controlled, she still appeared thoughtful and melancholy. She had
improved in appearance and seemed more refined and less rustic in her
school dress, but he was conscious of the same distinct separation of
her personality (which was uninteresting to him) from the sentiment that
had impelled him to visit her. She was possibly still hankering after
that fellow Stratton, in spite of her protestations to the contrary;
perhaps she wanted to go back to her sister, although she had declared
she would die first, and had always refused to disclose her real name
or give any clue by which he could have traced her relations. She would
cry, of course; he almost hoped that she would not return alone; he half
regretted he had come. She still held him only by a single quality
of her nature,--the desperation she had shown on the boat; that was
something he understood and respected.
He walked discontentedly to the window and looked out; he walked
discontentedly to the end of the room and stopped before the organ.
It was a fine instrument; he could see that with an admiring and
experienced eye. He was alone in the room; in fact, quite alone in that
part of the house which was separated from the class-rooms. He would
disturb no one by trying it. And if he did, what then? He smiled a
little recklessly, slowly pulled off his gloves, and sat down before it.
He played cautiously at first, with the soft pedal down. The instrument
had never known a strong masculine hand before, having been fumbled and
friveled over by softly incompetent, feminine fingers. But presently it
began to thrill under the passionate hand of its lover, and carried away
by his one innocent weakness, Jack was launched upon a sea of musical
reminiscences. Scraps of church music, Puritan psalms of his boyhood;
dying strains from sad, forgotten operas, fragments of oratorios and
symphonies, but chiefly phases from old masses heard at the missions
of San Pedro and Santa Isabel, swelled up from his loving and masterful
fingers. He had finished an Agnus Dei; the formal room was pulsating
with divine aspiration; the rascal's hands were resting listlessly on
the keys, his brown lashes lifted, in an effort of memory, tenderly
towards the ceiling.
Suddenly, a subdued murmur of applause and a slight rustle behind him
recalled him to himself again. He wheeled his chair quickly round. The
two principals of the school and half a dozen teachers were standing
gravely behind him, and at the open door a dozen curled and frizzled
youthful heads peered in eagerly, but half restrained by their teachers.
The relaxed features and apologetic attitude of Madame Bance and Miss
Mix showed that Mr. Hamlin had unconsciously achieved a triumph.
He might not have been as pleased to know that his extraordinary
performance had solved a difficulty, effaced his other graces, and
enabled them to place him on the moral pedestal of a mere musician, to
whom these eccentricities were allowable and privileged. He shared the
admiration extended by the young ladies to their music teacher, which
was always understood to be a sexless enthusiasm and a contagious
juvenile disorder. It was also a fine advertisement for the organ.
Madame Bance smiled blandly, improved the occasion by thanking Mr.
Hamlin for having given the scholars a gratuitous lesson on the
capabilities of the instrument, and was glad to be able to give Miss
Brown a half-holiday to spend with her accomplished relative. Miss Brown
was even now upstairs, putting on her hat and mantle. Jack was relieved.
Sophy would not attempt to cry on the street.
Nevertheless, when they reached it and the gate closed behind them, he
again became uneasy. The girl's clouded face and melancholy manner were
not promising. It also occurred to him that he might meet some one who
knew him and thus compromise her. This was to be avoided at all hazards.
He began with forced gayety:--
“Well, now, where shall we go?”
She slightly raised her tear-dimmed eyes. “Where you please--I don't
care.”
“There isn't any show going on here, is there?” He had a vague idea of a
circus or menagerie--himself behind her in the shadow of the box.
“I don't know of any.”
“Or any restaurant--or cake shop?”
“There's a place where the girls go to get candy on Main Street. Some of
them are there now.”
Jack shuddered; this was not to be thought of. “But where do you walk?”
“Up and down Main Street.”
“Where everybody can see you?” said Jack, scandalized.
The girl nodded.
They walked on in silence for a few moments. Then a bright idea struck
Mr. Hamlin. He suddenly remembered that in one of his many fits
of impulsive generosity and largesse he had given to an old negro
retainer--whose wife had nursed him through a dangerous illness--a house
and lot on the river bank. He had been told that they had opened a small
laundry or wash-house. It occurred to him that a stroll there and a
call upon “Uncle Hannibal and Aunt Chloe” combined the propriety and
respectability due to the young person he was with, and the requisite
secrecy and absence of publicity due to himself. He at once suggested
it.
“You see she was a mighty good woman and you ought to know her, for she
was my old nurse”--
The girl glanced at him with a sudden impatience.
“Honest Injin,” said Jack solemnly; “she did nurse me through my last
cough. I ain't playing old family gags on you now.”
“Oh, dear,” burst out the girl impulsively, “I do wish you wouldn't ever
play them again. I wish you wouldn't pretend to be my uncle; I wish you
wouldn't make me pass for your niece. It isn't right. It's all wrong.
Oh, don't you know it's all wrong, and can't come right any way? It's
just killing me. I can't stand it. I'd rather you'd say what I am and
how I came to you and how you pitied me.”
They had luckily entered a narrow side street, and the sobs which shook
the young girl's frame were unnoticed. For a few moments Jack felt a
horrible conviction stealing over him, that in his present attitude
towards her he was not unlike that hound Stratton, and that, however
innocent his own intent, there was a sickening resemblance to the
situation on the boat in the base advantage he had taken of her
friendlessness. He had never told her that he was a gambler like
Stratton, and that his peculiarly infelix reputation among women made it
impossible for him to assist her, except by a stealth or the deception
he had practiced, without compromising her. He who had for years faced
the sneers and half-frightened opposition of the world dared not tell
the truth to this girl, from whom he expected nothing and who did not
interest him. He felt he was almost slinking at her side. At last he
said desperately:--
“But I snatched them bald-headed at the organ, Sophy, didn't I?”
“Oh yes,” said the girl, “you played beautifully and grandly. It was so
good of you, too. For I think, somehow, Madame Bance had been a little
suspicious of you, but that settled it. Everybody thought it was fine,
and some thought it was your profession. Perhaps,” she added timidly,
“it is?”
“I play a good deal, I reckon,” said Jack, with a grim humor which did
not, however, amuse him.
“I wish I could, and make money by it,” said the girl eagerly. Jack
winced, but she did not notice it as she went on hurriedly: “That's what
I wanted to talk to you about. I want to leave the school and make my
own living. Anywhere where people won't know me and where I can be alone
and work. I shall die here among these girls--with all their talk of
their friends and their--sisters,--and their questions about you.”
“Tell 'em to dry up,” said Jack indignantly. “Take 'em to the cake shop
and load 'em up with candy and ice cream. That'll stop their mouths.
You've got money, you got my last remittance, didn't you?” he repeated
quickly. “If you didn't, here's”--his hand was already in his pocket
when she stopped him with a despairing gesture.
“Yes, yes, I got it all. I haven't touched it. I don't want it. For I
can't live on you. Don't you understand,--I want to work. Listen,--I can
draw and paint. Madame Bance says I do it well; my drawing-master says
I might in time take portraits and get paid for it. And even now I can
retouch photographs and make colored miniatures from them. And,” she
stopped and glanced at Jack half-timidly, “I've--done some already.”
A glow of surprised relief suffused the gambler. Not so much at this
astonishing revelation as at the change it seemed to effect in her. Her
pale blue eyes, made paler by tears, cleared and brightened under
their swollen lids like wiped steel; the lines of her depressed mouth
straightened and became firm. Her voice had lost its hopeless monotone.
“There's a shop in the next street,--a photographer's,--where they
have one of mine in their windows,” she went on, reassured by Jack's
unaffected interest. “It's only round the corner, if you care to see.”
Jack assented; a few paces farther brought them to the corner of a
narrow street, where they presently turned into a broader thoroughfare
and stopped before the window of a photographer. Sophy pointed to an
oval frame, containing a portrait painted on porcelain. Mr. Hamlin was
startled. Inexperienced as he was, a certain artistic inclination
told him it was good, although it is to be feared he would have been
astonished even if it had been worse. The mere fact that this headstrong
country girl, who had run away with a cur like Stratton, should be able
to do anything else took him by surprise.
“I got ten dollars for that,” she said hesitatingly, “and I could have
got more for a larger one, but I had to do that in my room, during
recreation hours. If I had more time and a place where I could
work”--she stopped timidly and looked tentatively at Jack. But he was
already indulging in a characteristically reckless idea of coming back
after he had left Sophy, buying the miniature at an extravagant price,
and ordering half a dozen more at extraordinary figures. Here, however,
two passers-by, stopping ostensibly to look in the window, but really
attracted by the picturesque spectacle of the handsome young rustic and
his schoolgirl companion, gave Jack such a fright that he hurried
Sophy away again into the side street. “There's nothing mean about that
picture business,” he said cheerfully; “it looks like a square kind of
game,” and relapsed into thoughtful silence.
At which, Sophy, the ice of restraint broken, again burst into
passionate appeal. If she could only go away somewhere--where she saw no
one but the people who would buy her work, who knew nothing of her past
nor cared to know who were her relations! She would work hard; she knew
she could support herself in time. She would keep the name he had given
her,--it was not distinctive enough to challenge any inquiry,--but
nothing more. She need not assume to be his niece; he would always be
her kind friend, to whom she owed everything, even her miserable life.
She trusted still to his honor never to seek to know her real name, nor
ever to speak to her of that man if he ever met him. It would do no good
to her or to them; it might drive her, for she was not yet quite sure of
herself, to do that which she had promised him never to do again.
There was no threat, impatience, or acting in her voice, but he
recognized the same dull desperation he had once heard in it, and her
eyes, which a moment before were quick and mobile, had become fixed and
set. He had no idea of trying to penetrate the foolish secret of her
name and relations; he had never had the slightest curiosity, but it
struck him now that Stratton might at any time force it upon him. The
only way that he could prevent it was to let it be known that, for
unexpressed reasons, he would shoot Stratton “on sight.” This would
naturally restrict any verbal communication between them. Jack's ideas
of morality were vague, but his convictions on points of honor were
singularly direct and positive.