A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's, and Other Stories. Bret Harte
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only one who could talk—that meant him. But the cards are out of my hands; the game’s been played without me. For he’s dead!”
The girl started. Mr. Hamlin’s hand passed caressingly twice or thrice along her sleeve with a peculiar gentleness that seemed to magnetize her.
“Dead,” he repeated slowly. “Shot in San Diego by another man, but not by me. I had him tracked as far as that, and had my eyes on him, but it wasn’t my deal. But there,” he added, giving her magnetized arm a gentle and final tap as if to awaken it, “he’s dead, and so is the whole story. And now we’ll drop it forever.”
The girl’s downcast eyes were fixed on the table. “But there’s my sister,” she murmured.
“Did she know you went with him?” asked Jack.
“No; but she knows I ran away.”
“Well, you ran away from home to study how to be an artist, don’t you see? Some day she’ll find out you ARE ONE; that settles the whole thing.”
They were both quite cheerful again when Aunt Chloe returned to clear the table, especially Jack, who was in the best spirits, with preternaturally bright eyes and a somewhat rare color on his cheeks. Aunt Chloe, who had noticed that his breathing was hurried at times, watched him narrowly, and when later he slipped from the room, followed him into the passage. He was leaning against the wall. In an instant the negress was at his side.
“De Lawdy Gawd, Marse Jack, not AGIN?”
He took his handkerchief, slightly streaked with blood, from his lips and said faintly, “Yes, it came on—on the boat; but I thought the d–d thing was over. Get me out of this, quick, to some hotel, before she knows it. You can tell her I was called away. Say that”—but his breath failed him, and when Aunt Chloe caught him like a child in her strong arms he could make no resistance.
In another hour he was unconscious, with two doctors at his bedside, in the little room that had been occupied by Sophy. It was a sharp attack, but prompt attendance and skillful nursing availed; he rallied the next day, but it would be weeks, the doctors said, before he could be removed in safety. Sophy was transferred to the parlor, but spent most of her time at Jack’s bedside with Aunt Chloe, or in the studio with the door open between it and the bedroom. In spite of his enforced idleness and weakness, it was again a singularly pleasant experience to Jack; it amused him to sometimes see Sophy at her work through the open door, and when sitters came,—for he had insisted on her continuing her duties as before, keeping his invalid presence in the house a secret,—he had all the satisfaction of a mischievous boy in rehearsing to Sophy such of the conversation as could be overheard through the closed door, and speculating on the possible wonder and chagrin of the sitters had they discovered him. Even when he was convalescent and strong enough to be helped into the parlor and garden, he preferred to remain propped up in Sophy’s little bedroom. It was evident, however, that this predilection was connected with no suggestion nor reminiscence of Sophy herself. It was true that he had once asked her if it didn’t make her “feel like home.” The decided negative from Sophy seemed to mildly surprise him. “That’s odd,” he said; “now all these fixings and things,” pointing to the flowers in a vase, the little hanging shelf of books, the knickknacks on the mantel-shelf, and the few feminine ornaments that still remained, “look rather like home to me.”
So the days slipped by, and although Mr. Hamlin was soon able to walk short distances, leaning on Sophy’s arm, in the evening twilight, along the river bank, he was still missed from the haunts of dissipated men. A good many people wondered, and others, chiefly of the more irrepressible sex, were singularly concerned. Apparently one of these, one sultry afternoon, stopped before the shadowed window of a photographer’s; she was a handsome, well-dressed woman, yet bearing a certain countrylike simplicity that was unlike the restless smartness of the more urban promenaders who passed her. Nevertheless she had halted before Mr. Hamlin’s picture, which Sophy had not yet dared to bring home and present to him, and was gazing at it with rapt and breathless attention. Suddenly she shook down her veil and entered the shop. Could the proprietor kindly tell her if that portrait was the work of a local artist?
The proprietor was both proud and pleased to say that IT WAS! It was the work of a Miss Brown, a young girl student; in fact, a mere schoolgirl one might say. He could show her others of her pictures.
Thanks. But could he tell her if this portrait was from life?
No doubt; the young lady had a studio, and he himself had sent her sitters.
And perhaps this was the portrait of one that he had sent her?
No; but she was very popular and becoming quite the fashion. Very probably this gentleman, who, he understood, was quite a public character, had heard of her, and selected her on that account.
The lady’s face flushed slightly. The photographer continued. The picture was not for sale; it was only there on exhibition; in fact it was to be returned to-morrow.
To the sitter?
He couldn’t say. It was to go back to the studio. Perhaps the sitter would be there.
And this studio? Could she have its address?
The man wrote a few lines on his card. Perhaps the lady would be kind enough to say that he had sent her. The lady, thanking him, partly lifted her veil to show a charming smile, and gracefully withdrew. The photographer was pleased. Miss Brown had evidently got another sitter, and, from that momentary glimpse of her face, it would be a picture as beautiful and attractive as the man’s. But what was the odd idea that struck him? She certainly reminded him of some one! There was the same heavy hair, only this lady’s was golden, and she was older and more mature. And he remained for a moment with knitted brows musing over his counter.
Meantime the fair stranger was making her way towards the river suburb. When she reached Aunt Chloe’s cottage, she paused, with the unfamiliar curiosity of a newcomer, over its quaint and incongruous exterior. She hesitated a moment also when Aunt Chloe appeared in the doorway, and, with a puzzled survey of her features, went upstairs to announce a visitor. There was the sound of hurried shutting of doors, of the moving of furniture, quick footsteps across the floor, and then a girlish laugh that startled her. She ascended the stairs breathlessly to Aunt Chloe’s summons, found the negress on the landing, and knocked at a door which bore a card marked “Studio.” The door opened; she entered; there were two sudden outcries that might have come from one voice.
“Sophonisba!”
“Marianne!”
“Hush.”
The woman had seized Sophy by the wrist and dragged her to the window. There was a haggard look of desperation in her face akin to that which Hamlin had once seen in her sister’s eyes on the boat, as she said huskily: “I did not know YOU were here. I came to see the woman who had painted Mr. Hamlin’s portrait. I did not know it was YOU. Listen! Quick! answer me one question. Tell me—I implore you—for the sake of the mother who bore us both!—tell me—is this the man for whom you left home?”
“No! No! A hundred times no!”
Then there was a silence. Mr. Hamlin from the bedroom heard no more.
An hour later, when the two women opened the studio door, pale but composed, they were met by the anxious and tearful face of Aunt Chloe.
“Lawdy Gawd, Missy,—but dey done gone!—bofe of ‘em!”
“Who is gone?” demanded Sophy, as the woman beside her trembled and grew paler still.
“Marse Jack and dat fool nigger, Hannibal.”
“Mr. Hamlin gone?” repeated Sophy incredulously. “When? Where?”
“Jess now—on de down boat. Sudden business. Didn’t like to disturb yo’ and yo’ friend. Said he’d write.”
“But he was ill—almost helpless,” gasped Sophy.
“Dat’s why he took dat old nigger. Lawdy, Missy, bress yo’ heart. Dey both knows aich udder, shuah! It’s all right. Dar now, dar dey are; listen.”
She held up her hand. A