Angered, discomfited, and physically and morally beaten, James Reddy
stumbled and clambered back across the field. The beam of light that had
streamed out over the dark field as the door opened and shut on the
girl left him doubly confused and bewildered. In his dull anger and
mortification, there seemed only one course for him to pursue. He would
demand his wages in the morning, and cut the whole concern. He would go
back to San Francisco and work there, where he at least had friends who
respected his station. Yet, he ought to have refused the girl's offer
before she had repulsed him; his retreat now meant nothing, and might
even tempt her, in her vulgar pique, to reveal her rebuff of him. He
raised his eyes mechanically, and looked gloomily across the dark waste
and distant bay to the opposite shore. But the fog had already hidden
the glow of the city's lights, and, thickening around the horizon,
seemed to be slowly hemming him in with the dreary rancho. In his
present frame of mind there was a certain fatefulness in this that
precluded his once free agency, and to that extent relieved and absolved
HIM of any choice. He reached the dormitory and its turned-down lights
in a state of tired and dull uncertainty, for which sleep seemed to
offer the only relief. He rolled himself in his blankets with an animal
instinct of comfort and shut his eyes, but their sense appeared to
open upon Nelly Woodridge as she stood looking down upon him from the
platform. Even through the dull pain of his bruised susceptibilities he
was conscious of a strange satisfaction he had not felt before. He fell
asleep at last, to waken only to the sunlight streaming through the
curtainless windows on his face. To his surprise the long shed was empty
and deserted, except for a single Chinaman who was sweeping the floor at
the farther end. As Reddy started up, the man turned and approached him
with a characteristic, vague, and patient smile.
“All lity, John, you sleepee heap! Mistel Woodlidge he say you no go
wolkee field allee same Mellikan man. You stoppee inside housee allee
same ME. Shabbee? You come to glubbee [grub] now” (pointing to the
distant dining-shed), “and then you washee dish.”
The full extent of his new degradation flashed upon Reddy with this
added insult of his brother menial's implicit equality. He understood
it all. He had been detached from the field-workers and was to come to
a later breakfast, perhaps the broken victuals of the first repast,
and wash the dishes. He remembered his new bargain. Very well! he
would refuse positively, take his dismissal, and leave that morning! He
hurriedly dressed himself, and followed the Chinaman into the open air.
The fog still hung upon the distant bay and hid the opposite point. But
the sun shone with dry Californian brilliancy over the league-long field
around him, revealing every detail of the rancho with sharp, matter of
fact directness, and without the least illusion of distance or romance.
The rough, unplaned, unpainted walls of the dinner-shed stood out
clearly before him; the half-filled buckets of water on the near
platform, and the immense tubs piled with dirty dishes. He scowled
darkly as he walked forward, conscious, nevertheless, of the
invigorating discipline of the morning air and the wholesome whip in the
sky above him. He entered sharply and aggressively. To his relief, the
room at first sight seemed, like the dormitory he had just left, to be
empty. But a voice, clear, dry, direct, and practical as the morning
itself, spoke in his ear: “Mornin', Reddy! My daughter says you're
willin' to take an indoor job, and I reckon, speakin' square, as man
to man, it's more in your line than what you've bin doin'. It mayn't
be high-toned work, but work's WORK anyhow you can fix it; and the only
difference I kin see is in the work that a man does squarely, and the
work that he shirks.”
“But,” said Reddy hurriedly, “there's a mistake. I came here only to”--
“Work like the others, I understand. Well, you see you CAN'T. You do
your best, I know. I ain't findin' fault, but it ain't in your line.
THIS is, and the pay is better.”
“But,” stammered Reddy, “Miss Woodridge didn't understand”--
“Yes, she did,” returned Woodridge impatiently, “and she told me. She
says she'll show you round at first. You'll catch on all right. Sit down
and eat your breakfast, and she'll be along before you're through.
Ez for ME, I must get up and get. So long!” and before Reddy had an
opportunity to continue his protest, he turned away.
The young man glanced vexatiously around him. A breakfast much better in
service and quality than the one he had been accustomed to smoked on the
table. There was no one else in the room. He could hear the voices of
the Chinese waiters in the kitchen beyond. He was healthily hungry,
and after a moment's hesitation sat down and began his meal. He could
expostulate with her afterward, and withdraw his promise. He was
entitled to his breakfast, anyway!
Once or twice, while thus engaged, he heard the door of the kitchen
open and the clipping tread of the Chinese waiters, who deposited some
rattling burden on the adjacent tables, but he thought it prudent not
to seem to notice them. When he had finished, the pleasant, hesitating,
boyish contralto of Miss Woodridge fell upon his ear.
“When you're ready, I'll show you how to begin your work.”
He turned quickly, with a flush of mortification at being discovered
at his repast, and his anger returned. But as his eyes fell upon
her delicately colored but tranquil face, her well-shaped figure,
coquettishly and spotlessly cuffed, collared, and aproned, and her clear
blue but half-averted eyes, he again underwent a change. She certainly
was very pretty--that most seductive prettiness which seemed to be
warmed into life by her consciousness of himself. Why should he take her
or himself so seriously? Why not play out the farce, and let those
who would criticise him and think his acceptance of the work degrading
understand that it was only an affair of gallantry. He could afford
to serve Woodridge at least a few weeks for the favor of this Rachel!
Forgetful of his rebuff of the night before, he fixed his brown eyes on
hers with an audacious levity.
“Oh yes--the work! Let us see it. I'm ready in name and nature for
anything that Miss Woodridge wants of me. I'm just dying to begin.”
His voice was raised slightly, with a high comedy jauntiness, for
the benefit of the Chinese waiters who might be lingering to see the
“Mellican man” assume their functions. But it failed in effect. With
their characteristic calm acceptance of any eccentricity in a “foreign
devil,” they scarcely lifted their eyes. The young girl pointed to
a deep basket filled with dishes which had been placed on the larger
table, and said, without looking at Reddy:--
“You had better begin by 'checking' the crockery. That is, counting the
pieces separately and then arranging them in sets as they come back from
washing. There's the book to compare them with and to set down what is
broken, missing, or chipped. You'll have a clean towel with you to wipe
the pieces that have not been cleaned enough; or, if they are too dirty,
you'll send them back to the kitchen.”
“Couldn't I wash them myself?” said Reddy, continuing his ostentatious
levity.
“Not yet,” said the girl, with grave hesitation; “you'd break them.”
She stood watching him, as with affected hilarity he began to take the
dishes from the basket. But she noticed that in spite of this jocular
simulation his grasp was firm and delicate, and that there was no
clatter--which would have affected her sensitive ear--as he put them
down. She laid a pencil and account book beside him and turned away.
“But you are not going?” he said, in genuine surprise.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “until you get through 'checking.' Then I'll
come back and show you what you have to do next. You're getting on very
well.”
“But that was because you were with me.”
She colored slightly and, without looking at him, moved slowly to the
door and disappeared.
Reddy went back to his work, disappointed but not discomfited. He was
getting accustomed to the girl's eccentricities. Whether it was the
freshness of the morning air and sunlight streaming in at the open
windows, the unlooked-for solitude and security of the empty room, or
that there was nothing really unpleasant in his occupation, he went on
cheerfully “checking” the dishes, narrowly examining them for chips and
cracks, and noting them in the book. Again discovering that a few were
imperfectly cleaned and wiped, he repaired the defect with cold water
and a towel without the least thought of the operation being degrading.
He had finished his task in half an hour; she had not returned; why
should he not go on and set the table? As he straightened and turned the
coarse table-cloth, he made the discovery that the long table was
really composed of half a dozen smaller ones, and that the hideous
parallelogram which had always so offended him was merely the outcome of
carelessness and want of taste. Without a moment's hesitation he set
at work to break up the monotonous line and rearranged the tables
laterally, with small open spaces between them. The task was no light
one, even for a stronger man, but he persevered in it with a new-found
energy until he had changed the whole aspect of the room. It looked
larger, wider, and less crowded; its hard practical, workhouse-like
formality had disappeared. He had paused to survey it, panting still
with his unusual exertion, when a voice broke upon his solitude.
“Well, I wanter know!”
The voice was not Nelly's, but that of her mother,--a large-boned,
angular woman of fifty,--who had entered the room unperceived. The
accents were simply those of surprise, but on James Reddy's present
sensitive mood, coupled with the feeling that here was a new witness
to his degradation, he might have resented it; but he detected the
handsome, reserved figure of the daughter a few steps behind her. Their
eyes met; wonderful to relate, the young girl's no longer evaded him,
but looked squarely into his with a bright expression of pleasure he
had not seen before. He checked himself with a sudden thrill of
gratification.
“Well, I declare,” continued Mrs. Woodridge; “is that YOUR idea--or
yours, Helen?”
Here Reddy simply pointed out the advantages for serving afforded by the
new arrangement; that all the tables were equally and quickly accessible
from the serving-table and sideboard, and that it was no longer
necessary to go the whole length of the room to serve the upper table.
He tactfully did not refer to the improved appearance of the room.
“Well, as long as it ain't mere finikin,” said the lady graciously, “and
seems to bring the folks and their vittles nearer together--we'll try
it to-day. It does look kinder CITYFIED--and I reckoned that was all the
good it was. But I calkilated you were goin' to check the crockery this
morning.”
“It's done,” said Reddy, smilingly handing her the account-book.
Mrs. Woodridge glanced over it, and then surveyed her new assistant.
“And you didn't find any plates that were dirty and that had to be sent
back?”
“Yes, two or three, but I cleaned them myself.”
Mrs. Woodridge glanced at him with a look of approving curiosity, but
his eyes were just then seeking her daughter's for a more grateful
sympathy. All of which the good lady noted, and as it apparently
answered the unasked question in her own mind, she only uttered the
single exclamation, “Humph!”
But the approbation he received later at dinner, in the satisfaction
of his old companions with the new arrangement, had also the effect
of diverting from him the criticism he had feared they would make
in finding him installed as an assistant to Mrs. Woodridge. On the
contrary, they appeared only to recognize in him some especial
and superior faculty utilized for their comfort, and when the
superintendent, equally pleased, said it was “all Reddy's own idea,” no
one doubted that it was this particular stroke of genius which gained
him the obvious promotion. If he had still thought of offering his
flirtation with Nelly as an excuse, there was now no necessity for any.
Having shown to his employers his capacity for the highest and lowest
work, they naturally preferred to use his best abilities--and he
was kept from any menial service. His accounts were so carefully and
intelligently rendered that the entire care of the building and its
appointments was intrusted to him. At the end of the week Mr. Woodridge
took him aside.
“I say, you ain't got any job in view arter you finish up here, hev ye?”
Reddy started. Scarcely ten days ago he had a hundred projects, schemes,
and speculations, more or less wild and extravagant, wherewith he was to
avenge and recoup himself in San Francisco. Now they were gone he knew
not where and how. He briefly said he had not.
“Because,” continued Woodridge, “I've got an idea of startin' a hotel in
the Oak Grove, just on the slope back o' the rancho. The company's bound
to make some sort o' settlement there for the regular hands, and the
place is pooty enough for 'Frisco people who want to run over here and
get set up for a day or two. Thar's plenty of wood and water up thar,
and the company's sure to have a wharf down on the shore. I'll provide
the capital, if you will put in your time. You can sling in ez much
style as you like there” (this was an allusion to Reddy's attempt to
enliven the blank walls with colored pictures from the illustrated
papers and green ceanothus sprays from the slope); “in fact, the more
style the better for them city folks. Well, you think it over.”
He did. But meantime he seemed to make little progress in his court of
the superintendent's daughter. He tried to think it was because he had
allowed himself to be diverted by his work, but although she always
betrayed the same odd physical consciousness of his presence, it was
certain that she never encouraged him. She gave him the few directions
that his new occupation still made necessary, and looked her approval
of his success. But nothing more. He was forced to admit that this was
exactly what she might have done as the superintendent's daughter to a
deserving employee. Whereat, for a few days he assumed an air of cold
and ceremonious politeness, until perceiving that, far from piquing the
girl, it seemed to gratify her, and even to render her less sensitive
in his company, he sulked in good earnest. This proving ineffective
also,--except to produce a kind of compassionate curiosity,--his former
dull rage returned. The planting of the rancho was nearly over; his
service would be ended next week; he had not yet given his answer to
Woodridge's proposition; he would decline it and cut the whole concern!
It was a crisp Sunday morning. The breakfast hour was later on that
day to allow the men more time for their holiday, which, however, they
generally spent in cards, gossip, or reading in their sleeping sheds.
It usually delayed Reddy's work, but as he cared little for the
companionship of his fellows, it enabled him, without a show of
unsociability, to seclude himself in the dining-room. And this morning
he was early approached by his employer.
“I'm goin' to take the women folks over to Oakdale to church,” said Mr.
Woodridge; “ef ye keer to join us thar's a seat in the wagon, and I'll
turn on a couple of Chinamen to do the work for you, just now; and Nelly
or the old woman will give you a lift this afternoon with the counting
up.”
Reddy felt instinctively that the invitation had been instigated by the
young girl. A week before he would have rejoiced at it; a month ago he
would have accepted it if only as a relief to his degraded position, but
in the pique of this new passion he almost rudely declined it. An hour
later he saw Nelly, becomingly and even tastefully dressed,--with
the American girl's triumphant superiority to her condition and
surroundings,--ride past in her father's smart “carryall.” He was
startled to see that she looked so like a lady. Then, with a new and
jealous inconsistency, significant of the progress of his passion, he
resolved to go to church too. She should see that he was not going to
remain behind like a mere slave. He remembered that he had still certain
remnants of his past finery in his trunk; he would array himself in
them, walk to Oakdale, and make one of the congregation. He managed to
change his clothes without attracting the attention of his fellows, and
set out.
The air was pure but keen, with none of the languor of spring in
its breath, although a few flowers were beginning to star the weedy
wagon-tracked lane, and there was an awakening spice in the wayside
southernwood and myrtle. He felt invigorated, although it seemed only to
whet his jealous pique. He hurried on without even glancing toward the
distant coast-line of San Francisco or even thinking of it. The bitter
memories of the past had been obliterated by the bitterness of the
present. He no longer thought of “that woman;” even when he had
threatened to himself to return to San Francisco, he was vaguely
conscious that it was not SHE who was again drawing him there, but Nelly
who was driving him away.
The service was nearly over when he arrived at the chilly little
corrugated-zinc church at Oakdale, but he slipped into one of the back
seats. A few worshipers turned round to look at him. Among them were the
daughters of a neighboring miller, who were slightly exercised over the
unusual advent of a good-looking stranger with certain exterior signs of
elegance. Their excitement was communicated by some mysterious instinct
to their neighbor, Nelly Woodridge. She also turned and caught his
eye. But to all appearances she not only showed no signs of her usual
agitation at his presence, but did not seem to even recognize him.
In the acerbity of his pique he was for a moment gratified at what he
believed to be the expression of her wounded pride, but his uneasiness
quickly returned, and at the conclusion of the service he slipped out of
the church with one or two of the more restless in the congregation.
As he passed through the aisle he heard the escort of the miller's
daughters, in response to a whispered inquiry, say distinctly: “Only
the head-waiter over at the company's rancho.” Whatever hesitating idea
Reddy might have had of waiting at the church door for the appearance
of Nelly vanished before the brutal truth. His brow darkened, and with
flushed cheeks he turned his back upon the building and plunged into the
woods. This time there was no hesitation in his resolve; he would
leave the rancho at the expiration of his engagement. Even in a higher
occupation he felt he could never live down his reputation there.
In his morose abstraction he did not know how long or how aimlessly he
had wandered among the mossy live-oaks, his head and shoulders often
imperiled by the downcurving of some huge knotted limb; his feet
straying blindly from the faint track over the thickly matted carpet
of chickweed which hid their roots. But it was nearly an hour before he
emerged upon a wide, open, wooded slope, and, from the distant view of
field and shore, knew that he was at Oak Grove, the site of Woodridge's
projected hotel. And there, surely, at a little distance, was
the Woodridges' wagon and team tied up to a sapling, while the
superintendent and his wife were slowly climbing the slope, and
apparently examining the prospect. Without waiting to see if Nelly was
with them, Reddy instantly turned to avoid meeting them. But he had not
proceeded a hundred yards before he came upon that young lady, who
had evidently strayed from the party, and who was now unconsciously
advancing toward him. A rencontre was inevitable.
She started slightly, and then stopped, with all her old agitation and
embarrassment. But, to his own surprise, he was also embarrassed and
even tongue-tied.
She spoke first.
“You were at church. I didn't quite know you in--in--these clothes.”
In her own finery she had undergone such a change to Reddy's
consciousness that he, for the first time in their acquaintance, now
addressed her as on his own level, and as if she had no understanding of
his own feelings.
“Oh,” he said, with easy bitterness, “OTHERS did, if you did not. They
all detected the 'head-waiter' at the Union Company's rancho. Even if I
had accepted your kindness in offering me a seat in your wagon it would
have made no difference.” He was glad to put this construction on
his previous refusal, for in the new relations which seemed to be
established by their Sunday clothes he was obliged to soften the
churlishness of that refusal also.
“I don't think you'd look nice setting the table in kid gloves,” she
said, glancing quickly at his finery as if accepting it as the real
issue; “but you can wear what you like at other times. I never found
fault with your working clothes.”
There was such a pleasant suggestion in her emphasis that his ill-humor
softened. Her eyes wandered over the opposite grove, where her
unconscious parents had just disappeared.
“Papa's very keen about the hotel,” she continued, “and is going to
have the workmen break ground to-morrow. He says he'll have it up in two
months and ready to open, if he has to make the men work double time.
When you're manager, you won't mind what folks say.”
There was no excuse for his further hesitation. He must speak out, but
he did it in a half-hearted way.
“But if I simply go away--WITHOUT being manager--I won't hear their
criticism either.”
“What do you mean?” she said quickly.
“I've--I've been thinking of--of going back to San Francisco,” he
stammered awkwardly.
A slight flush of contemptuous indignation passed over her face, and
gave it a strength and expression he had never seen there before. “Oh,
you've not reformed yet, then?” she said, under her scornful lashes.
“I don't understand you,” he said, flushing.
“Father ought to have told you,” she went on dryly, “that that woman has
gone off to the Springs with her husband, and you won't see HER at San
Francisco.”
“I don't know what you mean--and your father seems to take an
unwarrantable interest in my affairs,” said Reddy, with an anger that he
was conscious, however, was half simulated.
“No more than he ought to, if he expects to trust you with all HIS
affairs,” said the girl shortly; “but you had better tell him you have
changed your mind at once, before he makes any further calculations on
your staying. He's just over the hill there, with mother.”
She turned away coldly as she spoke, but moved slowly and in the
direction of the hill, although she took a less direct trail than
the one she had pointed to him. But he followed her, albeit still
embarrassedly, and with that new sense of respect which had checked his
former surliness. There was her strong, healthy, well-developed
figure moving before him, but the modish gray dress seemed to give its
pronounced outlines something of the dignity of a goddess. Even the firm
hands had the distinguishment of character.
“You understand,” he said apologetically, “that I mean no discourtesy to
your father or his offer. And”--he hesitated--“neither is my reason what
you would infer.”
“Then what is it?” she asked, turning to him abruptly. “You know you
have no other place when you leave here, nor any chance as good as the
one father offers you. You are not fit for any other work, and you know
it. You have no money to speculate with, nor can you get any. If you
could, you would have never stayed here.”
He could not evade the appalling truthfulness of her clear eyes. He
knew it was no use to lie to her; she had evidently thoroughly informed
herself regarding his past; more than that, she seemed to read his
present thoughts. But not all of them! No! he could startle her still!
It was desperate, but he had nothing now to lose. And she liked the
truth,--she should have it!
“You are right,” he said shortly; “these are not my reasons.”
“Then what reason have you?”
“You!”
“Me?” she repeated incredulously, yet with a rising color.
“Yes, YOU! I cannot stay here, and have you look down upon me.”
“I don't look down on you,” she said simply, yet without the haste of
repelling an unjust accusation. “Why should I? Mother and I have done
the same work that you are doing,--if that's what you mean; and father,
who is a man like yourself, helped us at first, until he could do other
things better.” She paused. “Perhaps you think so because YOU looked
down on us when you first came here.”
“But I didn't,” said Reddy quickly.
“You did,” said the young girl quietly. “That's why you acted toward me
as you did the night you walked home with me. You would not have
behaved in that way to any San Francisco young lady--and I'm not one of
your--fast--MARRIED WOMEN.”
Reddy felt the hot blood mount to his cheek, and looked away. “I
was foolish and rude--and I think you punished me at the time,” he
stammered. “But you see I was right in saying you looked down on me,” he
concluded triumphantly.
This was at best a feeble sequitur, but the argument of the affections
is not always logical. And it had its effect on the girl.
“I wasn't thinking of THAT,” she said. “It's that you don't know your
own mind.”
“If I said that I would stay and accept your father's offer, would you
think that I did?” he asked quickly.
“I should wait and see what you actually DID do,” she replied.
“But if I stayed--and--and--if I told you that I stayed on YOUR
account--to be with you and near you only--would you think that a
proof?” He spoke hesitatingly, for his lips were dry with a nervousness
he had not known before.
“I might, if you told father you expected to be engaged on those terms.
For it concerns HIM as much as me. And HE engages you, and not I.
Otherwise I'd think it was only your talk.”
Reddy looked at her in astonishment. There was not the slightest trace
of coyness, coquetry, or even raillery in her clear, honest eyes, and
yet it would seem as if she had taken his proposition in its fullest
sense as a matrimonial declaration, and actually referred him to her
father. He was pleased, frightened, and utterly unprepared.
“But what would YOU say, Nelly?” He drew closer to her and held out both
his hands. But she retreated a step and slipped her own behind her.
“Better see what father says first,” she said quietly. “You may change
your mind again and go back to San Francisco.”
He was confused, and reddened again. But he had become accustomed to her
ways; rather, perhaps, he had begun to recognize the quaint justice that
underlaid them, or, possibly, some better self of his own, that had been
buried under bitterness and sloth and struggled into life. “But whatever
he says,” he returned eagerly, “cannot alter my feelings to YOU. It can
only alter my position here, and you say you are above being influenced
by that. Tell me, Nelly--dear Nelly! have you nothing to say to me, AS
I AM, or is it only to your father's manager that you would speak?” His
voice had an unmistakable ring of sincerity in it, and even startled
him--half rascal as he was!
The young girl's clear, scrutinizing eyes softened; her red resolute
lips trembled slightly and then parted, the upper one hovering a little
to one side over her white teeth. It was Nelly's own peculiar smile, and
its serious piquancy always thrilled him. But she drew a little farther
back from his brightening eyes, her hands still curled behind her, and
said, with the faintest coquettish toss of her head toward the hill: “If
you want to see father, you'd better hurry up.”
With a sudden determination as new to him as it was incomprehensible,
Reddy turned from her and struck forward in the direction of the hill.
He was not quite sure what he was going for. Yet that he, who had only
a moment before fully determined to leave the rancho and her, was now
going to her father to demand her hand as a contingency of his remaining
did not strike him as so extravagant and unexpected a denouement as
it was a difficult one. He was only concerned HOW, and in what way, he
should approach him. In a moment of embarrassment he hesitated, turned,
and looked behind him.
She was standing where he had left her, gazing after him, leaning
forward with her hands still held behind her. Suddenly, as with an
inspiration, she raised them both, carried them impetuously to her lips,
blew him a dozen riotous kisses, and then, lowering her head like a
colt, whisked her skirt behind her, and vanished in the cover.