village he bought Rose Cottage, opposite the splendid Wittleday
property, and he spent most of his time (his leave-of-absence always
occurring in the Summer season) in his garden, trimming his shrubs,
nursing his flowering-plants, growing magnificent roses, and in all ways
acting utterly unlike a man of blood. Occasionally he played a game of
chess with Parson Fisher, the jolly ex-clergyman, or smoked a pipe with
the sadler-postmaster; he attended all the East Patten tea-parties, too,
but he made himself so uniformly agreeable to all the ladies that the
mothers in Israel agreed with many sighs, that the major was not a
marrying man.
It may easily be imagined, then, that when one Summer the major
reappeared at East Patten with a brother officer who was young and
reasonably good-looking, the major's popularity did not diminish.
The young man was introduced as Lieutenant Doyson, who had once saved
the major's life by a lucky shot, as that chieftain, with empty pistols,
was trying to escape from a well-mounted Indian; and all the young
ladies in town declared they _knew_ the lieutenant _must_ have done
something wonderful, he was _so_ splendid.
But, with that fickleness which seems in some way communicable from
wicked cities to virtuous villages, East Patten suddenly ceased to
exhibit unusual interest in the pair of warriors, for a new excitement
had convulsed the village mind to its very centre.
It was whispered that Mrs. Wittleday, the sole and widowed owner of the
great Wittleday property, had wearied of the mourning she wore for the
husband she had buried two years previously, and that she would soon
publicly announce the fact by laying aside her weeds and giving a great
entertainment, to which every one was to be invited.
There was considerable high-toned deprecation of so early a cessation of
Mrs. Wittleday's sorrowing, she being still young and handsome, and
there was some fault found on the economic ground that the widow
couldn't yet have half worn out her mourning-garments; but as to the
propriety of her giving an entertainment, the voices of East Patten were
as one in the affirmative.
Such of the villagers as had chanced to sit at meat with the late Scott
Wittleday, had reported that dishes with unremembered foreign names were
as plenty as were the plainer viands on the tables of the old
inhabitants; such East Pattenites as had not been entertained at the
Wittleday board rejoiced in a prospect of believing by sight as well as
by faith.
The report proved to have unusually good foundation. Within a fortnight
each respectable householder received a note intimating that Mrs.
Wittleday would be pleased to see self and family on the evening of the
following Thursday.
The time was short, and the resources of the single store at East Patten
were limited, but the natives did their best, and the eventful evening
brought to Mrs. Wittleday's handsome parlors a few gentlemen and ladies,
and a large number of good people, who, with all the heroism of a
forlorn hope, were doing their best to appear at ease and happy.
The major and lieutenant were there, of course, and both in uniform, by
special request of the hostess. The major, who had met Mrs. Wittleday in
city society before her husband's death, and who had maintained a
bowing-acquaintance with her during her widowhood, gravely presented the
lieutenant to Mrs. Wittleday, made a gallant speech about the debt
society owed to her for again condescending to smile upon it, and then
presented his respects to the nearest of the several groups of ladies
who were gazing invitingly at him.
Then he summoned the lieutenant (whose reluctance to leave Mrs.
Wittleday's side was rendered no less by a bright smile which that lady
gave him as he departed), and made him acquainted with ladies of all
ages, and of greatly varying personal appearance. The young warrior went
through the ordeal with only tolerable composure, and improved his first
opportunity to escape and regain the society of the hostess. Two or
three moments later, just as Mrs. Wittleday turned aside to speak to
stately old Judge Bray, the lieutenant found himself being led rapidly
toward the veranda. The company had not yet found its way out of the
parlors to any extent, so the major locked the lieutenant's arm in his
own, commenced a gentle promenade, and remarked:
"Fred, my boy, you're making an ass of yourself."
"Oh, nonsense, major," answered the young man, with considerable
impatience. "I don't want to know all these queer, old-fashioned people;
they're worse than a lot of plebes at West Point."
"I don't mean that, Fred, though, if you don't want to make talk, you
must make yourself agreeable. But you're too attentive to Mrs.
Wittleday."
"By George," responded the lieutenant, eagerly, "how can I help it?
She's divine!"
"A great many others think so, too, Fred--I do myself--but they don't
make it so plagued evident on short acquaintance. Behave yourself,
now--your eyesight is good--sit down and play the agreeable to some old
lady, and look at Mrs. Wittleday across the room, as often as you like."
The lieutenant was young; his face was not under good control, and he
had no whiskers, and very little mustache to hide it, so, although he
obeyed the order of his superior, it was with a visage so mournful that
the major imagined, when once or twice he caught Mrs. Wittleday's eye,
that that handsome lady was suffering from restrained laughter.
Humorous as the affair had seemed to the major before, he could not
endure to have his preserver's sorrow the cause of merriment in any one
else; so, deputing Parson Fisher to make their excuse to the hostess
when it became possible to penetrate the crowd which had slowly
surrounded her, the major took his friend's arm and returned to the
cottage.
"Major!" exclaimed the subaltern, "I--I half wish I'd let that Indian
catch you; then you wouldn't have spoiled the pleasantest evening I ever
had--ever _began_ to have, I should say."
"You wouldn't have had an evening at East Patten then, Fred," said the
major, with a laugh, as he passed the cigars, and lit one himself.
"Seriously, my boy, you must be more careful. You came here to spend a
pleasant three months with me, and the first time you're in society you
act, to a lady you never saw before, too, in such a way, that if it had
been any one but a lady of experience, she would have imagined you in
love with her."
"I _am_ in love with her," declared the young man, with a look which was
intended to be defiant, but which was noticeably shamedfaced. "I'm going
to tell her so, too--that is, I'm going to write her about it."
"Steady, Fred--steady!" urged the major, kindly. "She'd be more provoked
than pleased. Don't you suppose fifty men have worshiped her at first
sight? They have, and she knows it, too--but it hasn't troubled her mind
at all: handsome women know they turn men's heads in that way, and they
generally respect the men who are sensible enough to hold their tongues
about it, at least until there's acquaintance enough between them to
justify a little confidence."
"Major," said poor Fred, very meekly, almost piteously, "don't--don't
you suppose I _could_ make her care something for me?"
The major looked thoughtfully, and then tenderly, at the cigar he held
between his fingers. Finally he said, very gently:
"My dear boy, perhaps you could. Would it be fair, though? Love in
earnest means marriage. Would you torment a poor woman, who's lost one
husband, into wondering three-quarters of the time whether the scalp of
another isn't in the hands of some villainous Apache?"
The unhappy lieutenant hid his face in heavy clouds of tobacco smoke.
"Well," said he, springing to his feet, and pacing the floor like a
caged animal, "I'll tell you what I'll do; I'll write her, and throw my
heart at her feet. Of course she won't care. It's just as you say. Why
should she? But I'll do it, and then I'll go back to the regiment. I
hate to spoil _your_ fun, major, if it's any fun to you to have such a
fool in your quarters; but the fact is, the enemy's too much for me. I
wouldn't feel worse if I was facing a division. I'll write her to
morrow. I'd rather be refused by her than loved by any other woman."
"Put it off a fortnight, Fred," suggested the major; "it's the polite
thing to call within a week after this party; you'll have a chance then
to become better acquainted with her. She's delightful company, I'm
told. Perhaps you'll make up your mind it's better to enjoy her society,
during our leave, than to throw away everything in a forlorn hope. Wait
a fortnight, that's a sensible youth."
"I can't, major!" cried the excited boy. "Hang it! you're an old
soldier--don't you know how infernally uncomfortable it is to stand
still and be shot at?"
"I _do_, my boy," said the major, with considerable emphasis, and a
far-away look at nothing in particular.
"Well, that'll be my fix as long as I stay here and keep quiet," replied
the lieutenant.
"Wait a week, then," persisted the major. "You don't want to be 'guilty
of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman,' eh? Don't spoil her
first remembrances of the first freedom she's known for a couple of
years."
"Well, call it a week, then," moodily replied the love-sick brave,
lighting a candle, and moving toward his room. "I suppose it will take
me a week, anyway, to make up a letter fit to send to such an angel."
The major sighed, put on an easy coat and slippers, and stepped into his
garden.
"Poor Fred!" he muttered to himself, as he paced the walk in front of
the piazza; "can't wait a fortnight, eh? Wonder what he would say if he
knew I'd been waiting for seven or eight years--if he knew I fell in
love with her as easily as he did, and that I've never recovered myself?
Wonder what he'd do if some one were to marry her almost before his very
eyes, as poor Wittleday did while I was longing for her acquaintance?
Wonder what sort of fool he'd call me if he knew that I came to East
Patten, time after time, just for a chance of looking at her--that I
bought Rose Cottage merely to be near her--that I'd kept it all to
myself, and for a couple of years had felt younger at the thought that I
might, perchance, win her after all? Poor Fred! And yet, why shouldn't
she marry him?--women have done stranger things; and he's a great deal
more attractive-looking than an old campaigner like myself. Well, God
bless 'em both, and have mercy on an old coward!"
The major looked toward the Wittleday mansion. The door was open; the
last guests were evidently departing, and their beautiful entertainer
was standing in the doorway, a flood of light throwing into perfect
relief her graceful and tastefully dressed figure. She said something
laughingly to the departing guests; it seemed exquisite music to the
major. Then the door closed, and the major, with a groan, retired within
his own door, and sorrowfully consumed many cigars.
The week that followed was a very dismal one to the major. He petted his
garden as usual, and whistled softly to himself, as was his constant
habit, but he insanely pinched the buds off the flowering plants, and
his whistling--sometimes plaintive, sometimes hopeless, sometimes
wrathful, sometimes vindictive in expression--was restricted to the
execution of dead-marches alone. He jeopardized his queen so often at
chess that Parson Fisher deemed it only honorable to call the major's
attention to his misplays, and to allow him to correct them.
The saddler post-master noticed that the major--usually a most
accomplished smoker--now consumed a great many matches in relighting
each pipe that he filled. Only once during the week did he chance to
meet Mrs. Wittleday, and then the look which accompanied his bow and
raised hat was so solemn, that his fair neighbor was unusually sober
herself for a few moments, while she wondered whether she could in any
way have given the major offense.
As for the lieutenant, he sat at the major's desk for many sorrowful
hours each day, the general result being a large number of closely
written and finely torn scraps in the waste-basket. Then coatless,
collarless, with open vest and hair disarranged in the manner
traditional among love-sick youths, he would pour mournful airs from a
flute.
The major complained--rather frequently for a man who had spent years on
the Plains--of drafts from the front windows, which windows he finally
kept closed most of the time, thus saving Mrs. Wittleday the annoyance
which would certainly have resulted from the noise made by the earnest
but unskilled amateur.
For the major himself, however, neither windows nor doors could afford
relief; and when, one day, the sergeant accidentally overturned a heavy
table, which fell upon the flute and crushed it, the major enjoyed the
only happy moments that were his during the week.
The week drew very near its close. The major had, with a heavy but
desperate heart, told stories, sung songs, brought up tactical points
for discussion--he even waxed enthusiastic in favor of a run through
Europe, he, of course, to bear all the expenses; but the subaltern
remained faithful and obdurate.
Finally, the morning of the last day arrived, and the lieutenant, to the
major's surprise and delight, appeared at the table with a very resigned
air.
"Major," said he, "I wouldn't mention it under any other circumstances,
but--I saved your life once?"
"You did, my boy. God bless you!" responded the major, promptly.
"Well, now I want to ask a favor on the strength of that act. I'll never
ask another. It's no use for me to try to write to her--the harder I try
the more contemptible my words appear. Now, what I ask, is this: _you_
write me a rough draft of what's fit to send to such an incomparable
being, and I'll copy it and send it over. I don't expect any answer--all
I want to do is to throw myself away on her, but I want to do it
handsomely, and--hang it, I don't know how. Write just as if you were
doing it for yourself. Will you do it?"
The major tried to wash his heart out of his throat with a sip of
coffee, and succeeded but partially; yet the appealing look of his
favorite, added to the unconscious pathos of his tone, restored to him
his self-command, and he replied:
"I'll do it, Fred, right away."
"Don't spoil your breakfast for it; any time this morning will do," said
the lieutenant, as the major arose from the table. But the veteran
needed an excuse for leaving his breakfast untouched, and he rather
abruptly stepped upon, the piazza and indulged in a thoughtful
promenade.
"Write just as if you were doing it for yourself."
The young man's words rang constantly in his ears, and before the major
had thought many moments, he determined to do exactly what he was asked
to do.
This silly performance of the lieutenant's would, of course, put an end
to the acquaintanceship of the major and Mrs. Wittleday, unless that
lady were most unusually gracious. Why should he not say to her, over
the subaltern's name, all that he had for years been hoping for an
opportunity to say? No matter that she would not imagine who was the
real author of the letter--it would still be an unspeakable comfort to
write the words and know that her eyes would read them--that her heart
would perhaps--probably, in fact--pity the writer.
The major seated himself, wrote, erased, interlined, rewrote, and
finally handed to the lieutenant a sheet of letter-paper, of which
nearly a page was covered with the major's very characteristic
chirography.
"By gracious, major!" exclaimed the lieutenant, his face having
lightened perceptibly during the perusal of the letter, "that's
magnificent! I declare, it puts hope into me; and yet, confound it, it's
plaguy like marching under some one else's colors."
"Never mind, my boy, copy it, sign it, and send it over, and don't hope
too much."
The romantic young brave copied the letter carefully, line for line; he
spoilt several envelopes in addressing one to suit him, and then
dispatched the missive by the major's servant, laying the rough draft
away for future (and probably sorrowful) perusal.
The morning hours lagged dreadfully. Both warriors smoked innumerable
cigars, but only to find fault with the flavor thereof.
The lieutenant tried to keep his heart up by relating two or three
stories, at the points of each of which the major forced a boisterous
laugh, but the mirth upon both sides was visibly hollow. Dinner was set
at noon, the usual military dinner-hour, but little was consumed, except
a bottle of claret, which the major, who seldom drank, seemed to
consider it advisable to produce.
The after-dinner cigar lasted only until one o'clock; newspapers by the
noon-day mail occupied their time for but a scant hour more, and an
attempted game of cribbage speedily dropped by unspoken but mutual
consent.
Suddenly the garden gate creaked. The lieutenant sprang to his feet,
looked out of the window, and exclaimed:
"It's her darkey--he's got an answer--oh, major!"
"Steady, boy, steady!" said the major, arising hastily and laying his
hand on the young man's shoulder, as that excited person was hastening
to the door. "'Officer and gentleman,' you know. Let Sam open the door."
The bell rang, the door was opened, a word or two passed between the two
servants, and Mrs. Wittleday's coachman appeared in the dining-room,
holding the letter. The lieutenant eagerly reached for it, but the sable
carrier grinned politely, said:
"It's for de major, sar--wuz told to give it right into his han's, and
nobody else," fulfilled his instructions, and departed with many bows
and smiles, while the two soldiers dropped into their respective chairs.
"Hurry up, major--do, please," whispered the lieutenant. But the veteran
seemed an interminably long time in opening the dainty envelope in his
hand. Official communications he opened with a dexterity suggesting
sleight-of-hand, but now he took a penknife from his pocket, opened its
smallest, brightest blade, and carefully cut Mrs. Wittleday's envelope.
As he opened the letter his lower jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide. He
read the letter through, and re-read it, his countenance indicating
considerable satisfaction, which presently was lost in an expression of
puzzled wonder.
"Fred," said he to the miserable lieutenant, who started to his feet as
a prisoner expecting a severe sentence might do, "what in creation did
you write Mrs. Wittleday?"
"Just what you gave me to write," replied the young man, evidently
astonished.
"Let me see my draft of it," said the major.
The lieutenant opened a drawer in the major's desk, took out a sheet of
paper, looked at it, and cried:
"I sent her your draft! _This_ is my letter!"
"And she imagined _I_ wrote it, and has accepted _me_!" gasped the
major.
The wretched Frederick turned pale, and tottered toward a chair. The
major went over to him and spoke to him sympathizingly, but despite his
genial sorrow for the poor boy, the major's heart was so full that he
did not dare to show his face for a moment; so he stood behind the
lieutenant, and looked across his own shoulder out of the window.
"Oh, major," exclaimed Fred, "isn't it possible that you're mistaken?"
"Here's her letter, my boy," said the major; "judge for yourself."
The young man took the letter in a mechanical sort of way, and read as
follows:
"_July_ 23d, 185--.
"DEAR MAJOR--I duly received your note of this morning, and you may
thank womanly curiosity for my knowing from whom the missive (which you
omitted to sign) came. I was accidentally looking out of my window, and
recognized the messenger.
"I have made it an inflexible rule to laugh at declarations of 'love at
first sight,' but when I remembered how long ago it was when first we
met, the steadfastness of your regard, proved to me by a new fancy
(which I pray you not to crush) that your astonishing fondness for East
Patten was partly on my account, forbade my indulging in any lighter
sentiment than that of honest gratitude.
"You may call this evening for your answer, which I suppose you, with
the ready conceit of your sex and profession, will have already
anticipated.
"Yours, very truly, HELEN WITTLEDAY."
The lieutenant groaned.
"It's all up, major! you'll _have_ to marry her. 'Twould be awfully
ungentlemanly to let her know there was any mistake."
"Do you think so, Fred?" asked the major, with a perceptible twitch at
the corners of his mouth.
"Certainly, I do," replied the sorrowful lover; "and I'm sure you can
learn to love her; she is simply an angel--a goddess. Confound it! you
can't help loving her."
"You really believe so, do you, my boy?" asked the major, with fatherly
gravity. "But how would _you_ feel about it?"
"As if no one else on earth was good enough for her--as if she was the
luckiest woman alive," quickly answered the young man, with a great deal
of his natural spirit. "'Twould heal _my_ wound entirely."
"Very well, my boy," said the major; "I'll put you out of your misery as
soon as possible."
* * * * *
Never had the major known an evening whose twilight was of such
interminable duration. When, however, the darkness was sufficient to
conceal his face, he walked quickly across the street, and to the door
of the Wittleday mansion.
That his answer was what he supposed it would be is evinced by the fact
that, a few months later, his resignation was accepted by the
Department, and Mrs. Wittleday became Mrs. Martt.
In so strategic a manner that she never suspected the truth, the major
told his _fiancee_ the story of the lieutenant's unfortunate love, and
so great was the fair widow's sympathy, that she set herself the task of
seeing the young man happily engaged. This done, she offered him the
position of engineer of some mining work on her husband's estate, and
the major promised him Rose Cottage for a permanent residence as soon as
he would find a mistress for it.
Naturally, the young man succombed to the influences exerted against
him, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Doyson were fairly settled, the major told
his own wife, to her intense amusement, the history of the letter which
induced her to change her name.
BUFFLE.
How he came by his name, no one could tell. In the early days of the
gold fever there came to California a great many men who did not
volunteer their names, and as those about them had been equally reticent
on their own advent, they asked few questions of newcomers.
The hotels of the mining regions never kept registers for the
accommodation of guests--they were considered well-appointed hotels if
they kept water-tight roofs and well-stocked bars.
Newcomers were usually designated at first by some peculiarity of
physiognomy or dress, and were known by such names as "Broken Nose,"
"Pink Shirt," "Cross Bars," "Gone Ears," etc.; if, afterward, any man
developed some peculiarity of character, an observing and original miner
would coin and apply a new name, which would afterward be accepted as
irrevocably as a name conferred by the holy rite of baptism.
No one wondered that Buffle never divulged his real name, or talked of
his past life; for in the mines he had such an unhappy faculty of
winning at cards, getting new horses without visible bills of sale,
taking drinks beyond ordinary power of computation, stabbing and
shooting, that it was only reasonable to suppose that he had acquired
these abilities at the sacrifice of the peace of some other community.
He was not vicious--even a strict theologian could hardly have accused
him of malice; yet, wherever he went, he was promptly acknowledged
chief of that peculiar class which renders law and sheriffs necessary
evils.
He was not exactly a beauty--miners seldom were--yet a connoisseur in
manliness could have justly wished there were a dash of the Buffle blood
in the well-regulated veins of many irreproachable characters in quieter
neighborhoods than Fat Pocket Gulch, where the scene of this story was
located.
He was tall, active, prompt and generous, and only those who have these
qualities superadded to their own virtues are worthy to throw stones at
his memory.
He was brave, too. His bravery had been frequently recorded in lead in
the mining regions, and such records were transmitted from place to
place with an alacrity which put official zeal to the deepest blush.