"And some want to see the old father and mother?"
"Yes--mine both died years ago."
"Just so," with attempted cheerfulness; "we're different, we're enough
for each other."
No answer this time. Bob looked at the fair, pretty boyish face; it
was pink all over, pink as an honest, genuine blush could make it; he
turned away, and sighed again. The jay-bird on the earth-heap strutted
up and down like a sentinel on guard, chattering noisily and screaming
now and then; the wind blew from the pine woods, bringing the pungent
smell with it; the evening was very warm. Steve let fall his pick,
brushed a few earth specks from his shirt, washed his face and hands in
an unconscious sort of way, then looked at his partner.
"I'm going to turn it up for to-day," he said.
"Ah!" Bob returned, slowly. "Well, I'll put in a bit more work, I
think."
Steve lingered a moment as though he would have said more with a little
encouragement, but Bob was so deeply engaged in his work that he felt a
sort of delicacy in disturbing him, and turned away, walking slowly and
thoughtfully, as though undecided about something. The jay-bird watched
him go, then came nearer to Bob, pecked at his shirt sleeve, pulled
at his red handkerchief, and took other liberties, keeping his sharp
eyes on the handsome face and hammer alternatively. Bob glanced at him,
smiled and sighed at one and the same time, then let his hands fall
idly between his knees.
So he sat for some time, then looked round. He wanted to say something,
and there was no one to say it to. _Thought_ scarcely unburdens one's
mind; _speech_ is always a relief. He looked at the earth, the sky, the
quartz, and finally at the bird. There was something so human about the
little creature that he decided to make him his confidant.
"You see," he said, gravely, giving the bird his whole attention, "it's
like this: me and Steve, we've been partners since we came to this here
Hunter's Pocket. He being a bit weakly, and having habits which isn't
usual in these parts, I've been obliged to stand up for him and fight
his battles, so to speak, which, naturally, makes me a bit partial to
him--being partners, you see, we've been used to share everything, luck
and all. But there's sometimes a thing happens to a man when sharing
can't be the order of the day; that time's when a man falls in love."
The bird shut his eyes for a moment, then turned them up and looked
sentimental, as much as to say, "It's the same with us."
"You see," Bob went on, slowly, "Steve haven't said anything to me, and
I haven't, so to speak, mentioned the fact to him: but there it is, we
two partners have set our hearts on Mariposas, and the question is:
Who'd make her the best husband?"
The bird grew restless; perhaps he thought that was a tame ending to
a love story. Doubtless he had expected that Bob would at least wish
to fight for the girl. He hopped away with one bright eye turned round
to the digger, then changing his mind, perhaps feeling a bit curious,
came back, and began pecking at the blue shirt again.
[Illustration: "HIS CONFIDANT."]
"Which'd make her the best husband?" Bob repeated. "Not," with a shake
of his head, "that I can say she's given either of us 'casion to think
that she'd take us into partnership; but if I thought that Steve would
suit her better than me and make her happier, I'd cut my throat before
I'd say a word as might disturb her."
The bird intimated by a low, guttural sound that this was a most
laudable sentiment, then, perching himself upon the digger's leg,
nestled up to him.
"Steve's clean, and Steve's a gentleman," Bob went on, stroking the
bird softly with one finger. "He'd treat her like a lady always, speak
gently to her, and not offend with any rough ways: but he's weakly, he
couldn't protect her 'gainst rudeness or insult as I could; he couldn't
love her as I could. Great God!" bringing one hand down heavily upon
his knee while with the other he held the bird in a firm, gentle clasp,
"how I'd love her if she'd have me!" His face flushed, his great breast
heaved, the red blood crept up under his bronzed skin, his blue eyes
grew tender, then he lifted his voice and sang:
"Mariposas, Mariposas, idol of this heart of mine;
Mariposas, Mariposas, all the love I have is thine.
Could I tell thee how I love thee, wouldst thou laugh or smile at me?
Mariposas, Mariposas, say, what would your answer be?"
He paused a moment, then sang the same words again. They had come to
him as a sort of inspiration some few days before; previously, as he
gravely told himself, "he had not known he was one of those darned
poet chaps." He was a little ashamed of the weakness, but found the
constant repetition of the poor verse, adapted to the tune of a camp
hymn, very soothing and comforting. The words softened his nature,
and almost brought the tears into his eyes. They made him blissfully
miserable, and in this misery he took a melancholy pleasure, as some do
in picturing the scene of their own death-bed, the leave-takings, the
last touching words they will breathe, and the quiet, happy smile which
will set their lips as they hear the angels calling, and see the gates
of Heaven open.
Having tired out the patient bird, who backed from his hand, ruffling
all his feathers the wrong way, and hopped away, he rose from his seat,
then turned quickly as a low ripple of laughter fell upon his ear.
Such a vision met his gaze as made his great frame tremble. Mariposas,
with a teasing smile upon her beautiful face, was standing just behind
him: she had been a listener to his idiocy.
"That's a fine song, and no mistake, Bob," she said, standing some
little distance from him, and flashing defiant glances at him from her
dark eyes. "The lady'd be obliged to you for making her name so public.
The magpies'll be calling it out to-night."
She paused: he had no word to say, but just stood before her drinking
in her beauty, longing, yet afraid, to fall down and worship her.
"Where's Steve?" she said, sharply, stooping down to the bird, who was
examining her shoe-lace minutely.
"Gone home," Bob said, finding his tongue. "He'll be at the Paradise
by this time likely. Did you want him?"
[Illustration: "A VISION MET HIS GAZE."]
"One's always pleased to see Steve," she said, eyeing the stained
clothes of the splendid specimen of manhood before her with great
displeasure. "_He_ keeps himself decent." She paused again. Bob had
nothing to say; he looked down at his own clothes and sighed. "Well,"
she said, sharply, after a moment, "have you nothing to say for
yourself?"
"No," he answered, humbly. "Some can keep clean, some can't. If,"
sheepishly, "I had a wife, now----"
"A wife!" interrupting him. "D'you suppose any decent woman would
undertake _you_? Not she."
His expression grew quite hopeless.
"You think not?" he said, so sadly that her heart might have been
touched. "Well," stooping down and picking up his tools, "I've feared
the same myself. It's a bad job, but somehow," looking himself slowly
over, "the earth seems to have a spite against me."
"Steve can keep clean."
"Yes," agreeingly, "it's curious, but that's so. You're quite right,
Steve's the better man of us two."
She tossed her head and blushed rosy red, but neither agreed nor
disagreed with him.
"I'm going back now," she said, after a little pause. "I came for a
walk to get a breath of fresh air. It isn't often I'm down in the
gulch--it's not an inviting place. Are you leaving work now?"
"Yes," Bob answered; "but I'll wait awhile till you've gone. You'd not
like to be seen walking with me."
He spoke quite simply, and scarcely understood why she pouted her
pretty lips--putting it down as meaning that _that_ she certainly would
not like to do. He stood looking at her, then suddenly she turned away.
He watched her, hoping that perhaps she would turn her head; but
she did not. She went slowly, though, and suddenly sat down on an
earth-heap. He wondered why she was resting. He went to her. She was
holding one foot as though it pained her, but her eyes laughed round at
him and her cheeks were as red as a rose.
"Is anything the matter?" he asked.
"No," she answered, while her lips twitched amusedly; "at least,
nothing much: I've sprained my ankle. I shall have to stop here till it
is better."
"Can't you walk?" he said, looking troubled.
"No," she answered, shortly.
He stood by her side, scarcely knowing what to do. He could have taken
her up in his arms and carried her as easily as though she had been a
baby. The very thought of holding her so made him tremble; but, then,
she would never let him.
"I wish Steve were here," he said.
"Why?" sharply. "What could Steve do that you cannot?"
"Steve could help you; you wouldn't mind him, he's clean."
"Steve couldn't carry me."
"No, that's true. Steve's but a weakly chap, but"--loyally--"he's
clean!"
"Go and fetch someone to help me."
"And leave you here alone? Not I." He looked down upon her, at her
lovely hair, at her laughing eyes; then he looked at her white dress.
"Will it wash?" he asked, touching it.
"Oh, yes."
"Then let me carry you."
Her eyes sought the ground, the smile round her lips grew merrier; she
began pushing the loose stones about with her fingers.
"May I?" he said, eagerly.
She looked up with defiant eyes. "Well, I suppose I must get home," she
answered.
He waited for no more, but caught her up in his arms and held her
closely clasped. For a moment he paused while he battled with, and
conquered, an inclination to stoop and kiss her, then, turning his face
from hers, he swung away towards the huts.
She smiled to herself, and laid her head down upon his shoulder; she
could feel the mad beating of his heart, and it made her own beat
faster.
"Bob," she said.
"Yes," he answered, keeping his face steadily turned away.
"Look at me," she said, authoritatively, "Why do you look away?" "Am I
so ugly?"
He turned slowly, looking down upon her face, at her lips, scarce an
inch from his. "So beautiful," he said; "so beautiful. It is best that
I do not look at you."
"Am I heavy, Bob?"
[Illustration: "AM I HEAVY?"]
"Heavy? No!"
"Put me down if I tire you."
"Tire me!"
"You've turned your face away again."
"I must."
"Why, Bob?"
He held her a little closer, and answered with another question: "Did
you ever see cherries growing?"
"Yes, Bob."
"And did ever you notice that folks put nets over them to keep the
birds from pecking them?"
"Yes, Bob."
"Do you think they'd be able to resist the temptation of touching them
if they could see them looking so tempting, so sweet and beautiful, if
they wasn't protected?"
"I dare say not."
"Well,"--he turned and looked at her for a moment--"I'm like the birds,
and your lips are the cherries. I mustn't look or I shall be tempted."
She flushed all over her face and neck, then into her eyes laughter
stole.
"Did it ever strike you that perhaps the cherries were made for the
birds to peck?" she said, half nervously.
He looked at her once more; the bronze colour faded from his face, his
great chest heaved.
"Mariposas?" he said, gently, questioningly, "Mariposas!"
She grew pale and frightened, she had only been playing with him.
"Let me down," she said, "I can walk now; let me down, Bob."
"But your foot?"
"Let me down."
He lowered her from his arms gently, she stood firmly upon both feet,
there was no vestige of pain in the expression of her face.
"Thank you," she said, demurely, looking up at him and laughing as
though something amused her. "Are you going on to the Paradise? Wait a
little while; let me go alone; folks'll talk if they see us together;
most outrageous ideas get into some people's heads when they've not
much to think of."
She tripped away, Bob standing watching her. Almost he expected to hear
a little cry of pain and to be called to her help, but seemingly the
ankle was quite well.
He watched her out of sight, then his eyes wandered over his own
person--his clothes seemed more earth-stained than ever; his shirt,
that had been clean that morning, was splashed with liquid mud.
"She's right," he said, softly, "no decent woman would marry a dirty
fellow like me."
He stood hesitatingly, then turned away towards his hut. There he got
water and scoured himself almost savagely, then changed his clothes,
and somewhat sheepishly, if the truth be told, made his way towards the
Paradise Hotel.
It was pretty full; everyone had knocked off work for the day--the
whole camp was spending the evening convivially--they hailed Bob with
delight. Someone thrust a pewter pot into his hand, bade him drain it,
and give them a song.
Bob looked round at the presiding goddess.
"If it's quite agreeable to all, I'll be happy," he said.
His look asked for Mariposas' permission. She did not answer for a
moment, but looked him all over; he felt himself colouring.
"You've not been working to-day, have you, Bob?" she said.
He blushed painfully, and, their attention thus drawn, the whole camp
noticed his spotless cleanliness.
"Yes," he answered.
"Then you've been getting married, or going to a christening since?"
"No."
"Then it's sweethearting you are?"
He looked her full in the face. "Yes," he answered, "that's it. I'm
sweethearting."
There was a chorus of good-humoured laughter at this. They thought he
was joking, all but the girl: she knew better, but she did not mean to
spare him.
[Illustration: "'YOU MUST GO AWAY FROM HERE,' SHE SAID."]
"Then you must go away from here," she said. "We won't ask her name;
but, like as not, she'd prefer that you should spend your time with
her. When you're married and want to get away from her nagging, you may
come back."
The men laughed, they thought it was a good joke.
"Shan't I give you the song?" Bob asked, humbly.
"No, thank you," the girl answered. "Steve is going to sing with me."
"Steve!"
He looked at his partner and smiled. Steve had a voice about as
melodious as the jay-bird.
"Then I am not wanted?"
All the men looked at Mariposas, waiting for her to speak. They thought
in some way Bob had offended.
"No," she said, "not here. Good-night, Bob; give my love to your
sweetheart."
He went out slowly, and back to his hut. He could not understand how
he had offended the girl--what made her treat him so. It never crossed
his mind that it might simply be wilfulness. Once or twice he sang his
little love song over to himself; then he closed his eyes, folded his
arms as they had been folded when he held the girl he loved in them,
and tried to think she was there still.
About midnight Steve came in. Bob opened his eyes and looked at him.
Something about his footstep had struck him as unusual; generally it
was light, now it dragged; his face, too, was colourless, and in his
boyish eyes there were tears.
Bob rose slowly and went to him.
"Anything wrong, Steve?" he asked, laying his great hand upon his
partner's shoulder with a touch gentle as a woman's.
Steve dropped his face upon his hands.
"She won't have me," he said. "I asked her to-night; she had been so
kind, singing with me, walking a little way with me; I thought it meant
that I might speak. She must have known that I loved her."
"And she refused you?"
"Yes."
"Try again; perhaps she wants you to try again."
"No, she says her heart is not her's to give."
"Does she?"
Bob went cold, and pale too. He wondered who it could be that she
loved; there was none worthier than Steve.
"If it had been you," Steve went on, "I could have borne it; but see
how she treated you to-night. I shall go away from here, Bob."
"And I, Steve."
It was little they slept that night, and before the next evening
everyone knew that Singing Bob and Lily Steve were going away from the
camp. Perhaps, too, they half guessed the cause.
[Illustration: "MARIPOSAS ENTERED THE HUT."]
They had done very well, and their claim sold for a fair price. They
would take quite enough away to start in some new way.
It was the night before they had settled to leave: Steve had gone up
to the Paradise to say good-bye to Mariposas. Bob said he couldn't and
wouldn't, but sent a message by his friend. He was sitting alone, half
wishing that he had gone just to see her face and hear her voice once
more, when someone lifted the latch of his door, and the subject of his
thoughts entered the hut.
He rose quickly, then stood still, not knowing what to do; she broke
the silence.
"So you were going without bidding me good-bye?" she said.
"Yes," he answered, huskily, for now that she was there, so near to
him, it seemed harder than ever to go. "Yes, I thought it best."
"Why?"
"Because I loved you, because I love you."
"You never told me so."
"No, Steve loved you. Steve is a better fellow than I, and--and you
said that no decent woman would take me. Steve told me the other night
that he had asked you to be his wife, and that you had said no, that
your heart was already given, and so we are both going. I could not
stop and see you belonging to another."
There was a silence. It had begun to rain; the heavy drops pattered
against the window, and a rising wind rattled the door.
"It is better that I go," he said. "I shall start now in some other way
of life."
"You and Steve?"
"No, Steve will go back to his people; he has relations."
"And you?"
"I have no people. I have no one belonging to me, not a single soul--I
never shall have."
"You are quite alone in the world?"
"Quite."
"And that sweetheart you spoke of?"
He did not answer, he only looked at her: she coloured and faltered.
"It is not well for a man to live alone," she said, unconsciously
quoting. "Bob," coming a little nearer to him, "do you remember that
day that you carried me?"
"Is it likely I could forget?"
"And you thought I was hurt, but I wasn't. Bob"--softly--"I _wanted_ to
be taken in your arms."
He did not speak, he did not understand--why had she wanted him to take
her in his arms?
"And they are so strong," she went on, "they held me so comfortably.
Bob--since you are going away, since after to-night I shall never see
you again--take me into them once more."
He took a step backwards.
"But the man you love!" he said.
"Bob! Must I ask you twice?"
He paused no longer, he threw his strong arms around her, lifting her
in them.
"Now," she said, a shy smile creeping over her lips, "kiss me once--we
are friends, parting for ever."
He bent his head; he kissed her, not once, but fifty times.
"Great God!" he said, hoarsely, "how can I go? How can I part with her
now?"
"Is it hard?" she said. "Poor Bob," touching his face gently with her
slender fingers, "have I made it harder? I must go now and you must go
to-morrow; put me down."
He did not obey, he held her close.
"Who is it that you love?" he asked.
She looked straight into his eyes.
"Is it fair to ask?" she answered. "And does it matter--you go
to-morrow?"
"Yes, I go to-morrow."
She reached her arms upward as she had once before; she lifted herself
a little in his embrace, and laid her cheek against his.
"Take me with you, Bob," she whispered. "It is you I love!"
"Mariposas!"
"Are you glad?--then kiss me again!"
_How Composers Work._