Mr. Jack Hamlin's Mediation. Bret Harte
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there’s more of it on the sleeve,” said Jack; “isn’t there?”
Mrs. Rylands looked reproachfully at Jack.
“That isn’t champagne; don’t you know what it is?”
“No!”
“It’s blood,” she said gravely; “when that Mexican cut poor Ned so bad,—don’t you remember? I held his head upon my arm while you bandaged him.” She heaved a little sigh, and then added, with a faint laugh, “That’s the worst thing about the clothes of a girl in the profession, they get spoiled or stained before they wear out.”
This large truth did not seem to impress Mr. Hamlin. “Why did you leave Santa Clara?” he said abruptly, in his previous critical tone.
“Because of the folks there. They were standoffish and ugly. You see, Josh”—
“Who?”
“Josh Rylands!—HIM! He told everybody who I was, even those who had never seen me in the bills,—how good I was to marry him, how he had faith in me and wasn’t ashamed,—until they didn’t believe we were married at all. So they looked another way when they met us, and didn’t call. And all the while I was glad they didn’t, but he wouldn’t believe it, and allowed I was pining on account of it.”
“And were you?”
“I swear to God, Jack, I’d have been content, and more, to have been just there with him, seein’ nobody, letting every one believe I was dead and gone, but he said it was wrong, and weak! Maybe it was,” she added, with a shy, interrogating look at Jack, of which, however, he took no notice. “Then when he found they wouldn’t call, what do you think he did?”
“Beat you, perhaps,” suggested Jack cheerfully.
“He never did a thing to me that wasn’t straight out, square, and kind,” she said, half indignantly, half hopelessly. “He thought if HIS kind of people wouldn’t see me, I might like to see my own sort. So without saying anything to me, he brought down, of all things! Tinkie Clifford, she that used to dance in the cheap variety shows at ‘Frisco, and her particular friend, Captain Sykes. It would have just killed you, Jack,” she said, with a sudden hysteric burst of laughter, “to have seen Josh, in his square, straight-out way, trying to be civil and help things along. But,” she went on, as suddenly relapsing into her former attitude of worried appeal, “I couldn’t stand it, and when she got to talking free and easy before Josh, and Captain Sykes to guzzling champagne, she and me had a row. She allowed I was putting on airs, and I made her walk, in spite of Josh.”
“And Josh seemed to like it,” said Hamlin carelessly. “Has he seen her since?”
“No; I reckon he’s cured of asking that kind of company for me. And then we came here. But I persuaded him not to begin by going round telling people who I was,—as he did the last time,—but to leave it to folks to find out if they wanted to, and he gave in. Then he let me fix up this house and furnish it my own way, and I did!”
“Do you mean to say that YOU fixed up that family vault of a sitting-room?” said Jack, in horror.
“Yes, I didn’t want any fancy furniture or looking-glasses, and such like, to attract folks, nor anything to look like the old times. I don’t think any of the boys would care to come here. And I got rid of a lot of sporting travelers, ‘wild-cat’ managers, and that kind of tramp in this way. But”—She hesitated, and her face fell again.
“But what?” said Jack.
“I don’t think that Josh likes it either. He brought home the other day ‘My Johnny is a Shoemakiyure,’ and wanted me to try it on the organ. But it reminded me how we used to get just sick of singing it on and off the boards, and I couldn’t touch it. He wanted me to go to the circus that was touring over at the cross roads, but it was the old Flanigin’s circus, you know, the one Gussie Riggs used to ride in, with its old clown and its old ringmaster and the old ‘wheezes,’ and I chucked it.”
“Look here,” said Jack, rising and surveying Mrs. Rylands critically. “If you go on at this gait, I’ll tell you what that man of yours will do. He’ll bolt with some of your old friends!”
She turned a quick, scared face upon him for an instant. But only for an instant. Her hysteric little laugh returned, at once, followed by her weary, worried look. “No, Jack, you don’t know him! If it was only that! He cares only for me in his own way,—and,” she stammered as she went on, “I’ve no luck in making him happy.”
She stopped. The wind shook the house and fired a volley of rain against the windows. She took advantage of it to draw a torn lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket behind, and keeping the tail of her eyes in a frightened fashion on Jack, applied the handkerchief furtively, first to her nose, and then to her eyes.
“Don’t do that,” said Jack fastidiously, “it’s wet enough outside.” Nevertheless, he stood up and gazed at her.
“Well,” he began.
She timidly drew nearer to him, and took a seat on the kitchen table, looking up wistfully into his eyes.
“Well,” resumed Jack argumentatively, “if he won’t ‘chuck’ you, why don’t you ‘chuck’ HIM?”
She turned quite white, and suddenly dropped her eyes. “Yes,” she said, almost inaudibly, “lots of girls would do that.”
“I don’t mean go back to your old life,” continued Jack. “I reckon you’ve had enough of that. But get into some business, you know, like other women. A bonnet shop, or a candy shop for children, see? I’ll help start you. I’ve got a couple of hundred, if not in my own pocket in somebody’s else, just burning to be used! And then you can look about you; and perhaps some square business man will turn up and you can marry him. You know you can’t live this way, nohow. It’s killing you; it ain’t fair on you, nor on Rylands either.”
“No,” she said quickly, “it ain’t fair on HIM. I know it, I know it isn’t, I know it isn’t,” she repeated, “only”—She stopped.
“Only what?” said Jack impatiently.
She did not speak. After a pause she picked up the rolling-pin from the table and began absently rolling it down her lap to her knee, as if pressing out the stained silk skirt. “Only,” she stammered, slowly rolling the pin handles in her open palms, “I—I can’t leave Josh.”
“Why can’t you?” said Jack quickly.
“Because—because—I,” she went on, with a quivering lip, working the rolling-pin heavily down her knee as if she were crushing her answer out of it,—“because—I—love him!”
There was a pause, a dash of rain against the window, and another dash from her eyes upon her hands, the rolling-pin, and the skirts she had gathered up hastily, as she cried, “O Jack! Jack! I never loved anybody like him! I never knew what love was! I never knew a man like him before! There never WAS one before!”
To this large, comprehensive, and passionate statement Mr. Jack Hamlin made no reply. An audacity so supreme had conquered his. He walked to the window, looked out upon the dark, rain-filmed pane that, however, reflected no equal change in his own dark eyes, and then returned and walked round the kitchen table. When he was at her back, without looking at her, he reached out his hand, took her passive one that lay on the table in his, grasped it heartily for a single moment, laid it gently down, and returned around the table, where he again confronted her cheerfully face to face.
“You’ll make the riffle yet,” he said quietly. “Just now I don’t see what I could do, or where I could chip in your little game; but if I DO, or you do, count me in and let me know. You know where to write,—my old address at Sacramento.” He walked to the corner, took up his still wet serape, threw it over his shoulders, and picked up his broad-brimmed riding-hat.
“You’re not going, Jack?” she said hesitatingly, as she rubbed her wet eyes into a consciousness of his movements. “You’ll wait to see HIM? He’ll be here in an hour.”
“I’ve