INTERCESSION
Babe tiptoed up the first flight, walked solidly and boldly up the
second, and ran up the third. She had decided to have a talk with Sheila,
to soothe her indignation, and, if possible, to explain Dickie. It seemed
to Babe that Dickie needed explanation.
Sheila's room was at the top of the house--the very room, in fact, whose
door opened on the bird cage of a balcony between two cupolas. Babe came
to the door and knocked. A voice answered sharply: "Come in," and Babe,
entering, shut the door and leaned against it.
It was a small, bare, whitewashed room, with a narrow cot, a washstand,
a bureau, and two extraordinary chairs--a huge one that rocked on
damaged springs, enclosed in plaited leather like the case of an
accordion, and one that had been a rocker, but stood unevenly on its
diminished legs. Babe had protested against Momma's disposal of the
"girl from Noo York," and had begged that Sheila be allowed to share her
own red, white, and blue boudoir below. But Sheila had preferred her
small room. It was red as a rose at sunset, still and high, remote from
Millings, and it faced The Hill.
Now, the gaslight flared against the bare walls and ceiling. Sheila's
hat and coat and muff lay on the bed where she had thrown them. She
stood, looking at Babe. Her face was flushed, her eyes gleamed, that
slight exaggeration of her chin was more pronounced than usual.
Babe put her head on one side. "Oh, say, Sheila, why bother about Dickie.
Nobody cares about Dickie. He'll get a proper bawlin'-out from Poppa
to-morrow. But I'd think myself simple to be scared by him. He's
harmless. The poor kid can't half help himself now. He got started when
he was awful young."
"Oh," said Sheila, as sharply as before, stopping before Babe, "I'm not
frightened. I'm angry--angry at myself. I _like_ Dickie. I like him!"
Babe's lips fell apart. She sat down in the accordion-plaited chair and
rocked. A squealing, shaking noise accompanied the motion. Her fingers
sought and found against the chair-back a piece of chewing-gum which she
had stuck there during her last visit to Sheila. Babe hid and resurrected
chewing-gum as instinctively as a dog hides and resurrects his bones.
"I can _see_ you likin' Dickie," she remarked ironically.
"But I do, I tell you! He was sweet. He didn't say a word or do a thing
to frighten me--"
"But he was full, Shee, you know he was."
"Yes. He'd been drinking. I smelt it. And he didn't walk very straight,
and he was a little mixed in his speech. But, all the same, he was as
good as gold. And friendly and nice. I might have walked home quietly
with him and sent him away at the door. And he wouldn't have been seen by
his father." Sheila's eyes filled. "It was dreadful--to--to knock him
down the steps!"
"Say, if you'd had as much to put up with from Dickie as Poppa's had--"
"Oh," said Sheila in a tone that welled up as from under a weight, "if I
had always lived in Millings, I'd drink myself!"
Babe looked red and resentful, but Sheila's voice rushed on.
"That saloon is the only interesting and attractive place in town. The
only thrilling people that ever come here go in through those doors. I've
seen some wonderful-looking men. I'd like to paint them. I've made some
drawings of them--men from over there back of the mountains."
"You mean the cowboys from over The Hill, I guess," drawled Babe
contemptuously. "Those sagebrush fellows from Hidden Creek. I don't think
a whole lot of them. Put one of them alongside of one of our town boys!
Why, they don't speak good, Sheila, and they're rough as a hill trail.
You'd be scared to death of them if you knew them better."
"They look like real men to me," said Sheila. "And I never did
like towns."
"But you're a town girl."
"I am not. I've been in cities and I've been in the country. I've never
lived in a town."
"Well, there'll be a dance one of these days next summer in the Town
Hall, and maybe you'll meet some of those rough-necks. You'll change your
mind about them. Why, I'd sooner dance with a sheep-herder from beyond
the bad-lands, or with one of the hands from the oil-fields, than with
those Hidden Creek fellows. Horse-thieves and hold-ups and Lord knows
what-all they are. No account runaways. Nothing solid or respectable
about them. Take a boy like Robert, now, or Jim--"
Sheila put her hands to her ears. Her face, between the hands, looked
rather wicked in a sprite-like fashion.
"Don't mention to me Mr. James Greely of the Millings National Bank!"
Babe rose pompously. "I think you're kind of off your bat to-night,
Sheila Arundel," she said, chewing noisily. "First you run out at night
with the mercury at 4 below and come dashing back scared to death,
banging at the door, and then you tell me you like Dickie and ask me not
to mention the finest fellow in Millings!"
"The finest fellow in the finest city in the world!" cried Sheila and
laughed. Her laugh was like a torrent of silver coins, but it had the
right maliceful ring of a brownie's "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
Babe stopped in the doorway and spoke heavily.
"You're short on sense, Sheila," she said. "You're kind of dippy ...
going out to look at the stars and drawing pictures of that Hidden Creek
trash. But you'll learn better, maybe."
"Wait a minute, Babe!" Sheila was sober again and not unpenitent. "I'm
coming down with you. I want to tell your father that Dickie was sweet to
me. I don't want him to--to--what was it he was going to do to-morrow?"
"Bawl Dickie out."
"Yes. I don't want him to do that. It sounds awful."
"Well, it is. But it won't hurt Dickie any. He's used to it."
Babe, forgiving and demonstrative, here forgot the insult to Millings and
Jim Greely, put her arm round Sheila, and went down the stairs, squeezing
the smaller girl against the wall.
"I guess I won't go with you to see Poppa," she said, stopping at the top
of the last flight. "Poppa's kind of a rough talker sometimes."
Sheila looked rather alarmed. "You mean you think he--he will bawl me
out?"
"I wouldn't wonder." Babe smiled, showing a lump of putty-colored
chewing-gum between her flashing teeth.
Sheila stood halfway down the stairs. She had not yet quite admitted to
herself that she was afraid of Sylvester Hudson and now she did admit it.
But with a forlorn memory of Dickie, she braced herself and went slowly
down the six remaining steps. The parlor door was shut and back of it to
and fro prowled Sylvester. Sheila opened the door.
Hudson's face, ready with a scowl, changed. He came quickly toward her.
"Well, say, Miss Sheila, I am sure-ly sorry--"
Sheila shook her head. "Not half so sorry as I am, Mr. Hudson. I came
down to apologize."
He pulled out a chair and Sheila sat down. Sylvester placed himself
opposite to her and lighted a huge black cigar, watching her meanwhile
curiously, even anxiously. His face was as quiet and sallow and gentle as
usual. Sheila's fear subsided.
"_You_ came down to apologize?" repeated Hudson. "Well, ma'am, that
sounds kind of upside down to me."
"I behaved like a goose. Your son hadn't done or said anything to
frighten me. He was sweet. I like him so much. He was coming home and saw
me walking off alone, and he thought that I might be lonely or frightened
or fall into the snow--which I did"--Sheila smiled coaxingly; "I went
down up to my neck and Dickie pulled me out and was--lovely to me. It
wasn't till I was halfway down the hill that I--that it came to me, all
of a sudden, that--perhaps--he'd been drinking--"
"Perhaps," said Sylvester dryly. "It's never perhaps with Dickie."
Sheila's eyes filled. For a seventeen-year-old girl the situation was
difficult. It was not easy to discuss Dickie's habit with his father.
"I am so--sorry," she faltered. "I behaved absurdly. Just because I saw
that he wasn't quite himself I ran away from him and made a scene. Truly,
Mr. Hudson, he had not said or done anything the least bit horrid. He'd
been sensible and nice and friendly--Oh, dear!" For she saw before her a
relentless and incredulous face. "You won't believe me now, I suppose!"
"I can't altogether, Miss Sheila, for I reckon you wouldn't have run away
from a true-blue, friendly fellow, would you?"
"Yes, Mr. Hudson, I would. Because, you see, I did. It was just a sort of
panic. Too much moonshine."
"Yes, ma'am. Too much moonshine inside of Dickie. I hope"--he leaned
toward her, and Sheila, the child, could not help but be flattered by his
deference--"I hope you're not thinking that Dickie's unfortunate habit is
my fault. I'm his father and I own that saloon. But, all the same, it's
not my fault nor The Aura's fault either. I never did spoil Dickie. And
I'm a sober man myself. He's just naturally ornery, no account. He always
was. I believe he's kind of lacking in the upper story."
"Oh, _no_, Mr. Hudson!"
The protest was so emphatic that Sylvester pulled his cigar out of his
mouth, brushed away the smoke, and looked searchingly at Sheila. She was
sitting very straight. Against the crimson plush of an enormous
chair-back her small figure looked extravagantly delicate and her little
pointed fingers on the arms, startlingly white and fine. A color flamed
in her cheeks, her eyes and lips were possessed by the remorseful
earnestness of her appeal.
"Well, say, if _you_ think not!" Sylvester narrowed his eyes and thrust
the cigar back into a hole made by his mouth for its reception; "you're
the first person that hasn't kind of agreed with me on that point. I
can't see why he took to the whiskey, anyway. Moderation's my motto and
always was. It's the motto of The Aura. There ain't a bar east nor west
of the Rockies, Miss Sheila, believe _me_, that has the reputation for
decency and moderation that my Aura has. She's classy, she's
stylish--well, sir--she's exquisite"--he pronounced it ex-_squis_it--"I
don't mind sayin' so. She's a saloon in a million. And she's famous. You
can hear talk of The Aura in the best clubs, the most se-lect bars of
Chicago and Noo York and San Francisco. She's mighty near perfect. Well,
say, there was an Englishman in there one night two summers ago. He was
some Englishman, too, an earl, that was him. Been all over the world,
east, west, and in between. Had a glass in his eye--one of those fellers.
Do you know what he told me, Miss Sheila? Can you guess?"
"That The Aura was classy?" suggested Sheila bravely.
"More'n that," Sylvester leaned farther toward her and emphasized his
words with the long forefinger.
"'It's all but perfect'--that's what he said--'it only needs one thing to
make it quite perfect!'"
"What was the thing?"
But Hudson did not heed her question. "Believe me or not, Miss Sheila,
that saloon--"
"But I do believe you," said Sheila with her enchanting smile. "And
that's just the trouble with Dickie, isn't it? Your saloon is--must
be--the most fascinating place in Millings. Why, Mr. Hudson, ever since I
came here, I've been longing to go into it myself!"
She got up after this speech and went to stand near the stove. Not that
she was cold--the small room, which looked even smaller on account of its
huge flaming furniture and the enormous roses on its carpet and
wall-paper, was as hot as a furnace--but because she was abashed by her
own speech and by his curious reception of it. The dark blood of his body
had risen to his face; he had opened his eyes wide upon her, had sunk
back again and begun to smoke with short, excited puffs.
Sheila thought that he was shocked and she was very close to tears. She
blinked at the stove and moved her fingers uncertainly. "Nice girls," she
thought, "never want to go into saloons!"
Then Sylvester spoke. "You're a girl in a million, Miss Sheila!" he
said. His voice was more cracked than usual. Sheila transferred her
blinking, almost tearful look from the stove to him. "You're a heap too
good for dish-washing," said Sylvester.
For some reason the girl's heart began to beat unevenly. She had a
feeling of excitement and suspense. It was as if, after walking for many
hours through a wood where there was a lurking presence of danger, she
had heard a nearing step. She kept her eyes upon Sylvester. In his there
was that mysterious look of appraisal, of vision. He seemed nervous,
rolled his cigar and moved his feet.
"Are you satisfied with your work, Miss Sheila?"
Sheila assembled her courage. "I know you'll think me a beast, Mr.
Hudson, after all your kindness--and it isn't that I don't like the work.
But I've a feeling--no, it's more than a feeling!--I _know_ that your
wife doesn't need me. And I know she doesn't want me. She doesn't like to
have me here. I've been unhappy about that ever since I came. And it's
been getting worse. Yesterday she said she couldn't bear to have me
whistling round her kitchen. Mr. Hudson"--Sheila's voice broke
childishly--"I can't help whistling. It's a habit. I couldn't work at all
if I didn't whistle. I wouldn't have told you, but since you asked me--"
Sylvester held up his long hand. Its emerald glittered.
"That's all right," he said. "I wanted to learn the truth about it.
Perhaps you've noticed, Miss Sheila, that I'm not a very happy man at
home."
"You mean--?"
"I mean," said Sylvester heavily--"_Momma_."
Sheila overcame a horrible inclination to laugh.
"I'm so sorry," she said uncertainly. She was acutely embarrassed, but
did not know how to escape. And she _was_ sorry for him, for certainly it
seemed to her that a man married to Momma had just cause for unhappiness.
"I ought to be ashamed of myself for bringing you here, Miss Sheila. You
see, that's me. I'm so all-fired soft-hearted that I just don't think.
I'm all feelings. My heart's stronger than my head, as the palmists say."
He rose and came over to Sheila; standing beside her and smiling so that
the wrinkle stood out sharply across his unwilling lip. "Did you ever go
to one of those fellows?" he asked.
"Palmists?"
"Yes, ma'am. Well, now, say, did they ever tell you that you were
going to be the pride and joy of old Pap Hudson? Give me your little
paw, girl!"
Sheila's hand obeyed rather unwillingly her irresolute, polite will.
Hudson's came quickly to meet it, spread it out flat in his own long
palm, and examined the small rigid surface.
"Well, now, Miss Sheila, I can read something there."
"What can you read?"
"You're goin' to be famous. You're goin' to make Millings famous. Girl,
you're goin' to be a picture that will live in the hearts of fellows and
keep 'em warm when they're herding winter nights. The thought of you is
goin' to keep 'em straight and pull 'em back here. You 're goin' to be
a--a sort of a beacon light."
He was holding her slim hand with its small, crushable bones in an
excited grip. He was bending forward, not looking at the palm, but at
her. Sheila pulled back, wincing a little.
"What do you mean, Mr. Hudson? How could I be all that?"
Sylvester let her go. He began to pace the room. He stopped and looked at
her, almost wistfully.
"You really think that I've been kind of nice to you?" he asked.
"Indeed, you have!"
"I'm not a happy man and I've got to be sort of distrustful. I haven't
got much faith in the thankfulness of people. I've got fooled too often."
"Try me," said Sheila quickly.
He looked at her with a long and searching look. Then he sighed.
"Some day maybe I will. Run away to bed now."
Sheila felt as if she had been pushed away from a half-opened door.
She drew herself up and walked across the huge flowers of the carpet.
But before going out she turned back. Sylvester quickly banished a
sly smile.
"You won't be angry with Dickie?" she asked.
"Not if it's going to deal you any misery, little girl."
"You're _very_ kind to me."
He put up his hand. "That's all right, Miss Sheila," he said. "That's all
right. It's a real pleasure and comfort to me to have you here and I'll
try to shape things so they'll suit you--and Momma too. Trust _me_. But
don't you ask me to put any faith in Dickie's upper story. I've climbed
up there too often. I'll give up my plan to go round there to-morrow
and--" He paused grimly.
"And bawl him out?" suggested Sheila with one of her Puckish impulses.
"Hump! I was going a little further than that. He would likely have done
the bawlin'. But don't you worry yourself about Dickie. He's safe for
this time--so long's you don't blame me, or--The Aura."
His voice on the last word suffered from one of its cracks. It was as
though it had broken under a load of pride and tenderness.
Sheila saw for a moment how it was with him. To every man his passion and
his dream: to Sylvester Hudson, his Aura. More than wife or child, he
loved his bar. It was a fetish, an idol. To Sheila's fancy Dickie
suddenly appeared the sacrifice.