Mr. Jack Hamlin's Mediation. Bret Harte
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stranger here with a lame horse. She told me so herself.”
Jane Mackinnon laughed shrilly.
“Did she tell you that the poor stranger was young and pretty-faced, with black moustarches? that his store clothes must have cost a fortin, saying nothing of his gold-lined, broadcloth sarrapper? Did she say that his horse was so lame that when I went to get another he wouldn’t WAIT for it? Did she tell you WHO he was?”
“No, she did not know,” said Rylands sternly, but with a whitening face.
“Well, I’ll tell you! The gambler, the shooter!—the man whose name is black enough to stain any woman he knows. Jim recognized him like a shot; he sez, the moment he clapped eyes on him at the door, ‘Dod blasted, if it ain’t Jack Hamlin!’”
Little as Mr. Rylands knew of the world, he had heard that name. But it was not THAT he was thinking of. He was thinking of the camp-fire in the wood, the handsome figure before it, the tethered horse. He was thinking of the lighted sitting-room, the fire, his wife’s bare shoulders, her slippers, stockings, and the dance. He saw it all,—a lightning-flash to his dull imagination. The room seemed to expand and then grow smaller, the figure of Jane to sway backwards and forwards before him. He murmured the name of God with lips that were voiceless, caught at the kitchen table to steady himself, held it till he felt his arms grow rigid, and then recovered himself,—white, cold, and sane.
“Speak a word of this to HER,” he said deliberately, “enter her room while I’m gone, even leave the kitchen before I come back, and I’ll throw you into the road. Tell that hired man, if he dares to breathe it to a soul I’ll strangle him.”
The unlooked-for rage of this quiet, God-fearing man, and dupe, as she believed, was terrible, but convincing. She shrank back into the corner as he coolly drew on his boots and waterproof, and without another word left the house.
He knew what he was going to do as well as if it had been ordained for him. He knew he would find the young man in the wood; for whatever were the truth of the other stories, he and the visitor were identical; he had seen him with his own eyes. He would confront him face to face and know all; and until then, he could not see his wife again. He walked on rapidly, but without feverishness or mental confusion. He saw his duty plainly,—if Ellen had “backslidden,” he must give her another trial. These were his articles of faith. He should not put her away; but she should nevermore be wife to him. It was HE who had tempted her, it was true; perhaps God would forgive her for that reason, but HE could never love her again.
The fury of the storm had somewhat abated as he reached the wood. The fire was still there, but no longer a leaping flame. A dull glow in the darkness of the forest aisles was all that indicated its position. Rylands at once plunged in that direction; he was near enough to see the red embers when he heard a sharp click, and a voice called:—
“Hold up!”
Mr. Hamlin was a light sleeper. The crackle of underbrush had been enough to disturb him. The voice was his; the click was the cocking of his revolver.
Rylands was no coward, but halted diplomatically.
“Now, then,” said Mr. Hamlin’s voice, “a little more this way, IN THE LIGHT, if you please!”
Rylands moved as directed, and saw Mr. Hamlin lying before the fire, resting easily on one hand, with his revolver in the other.
“Thank you!” said Jack. “Excuse my precautions, but it is night, and this is, for the present, my bedroom.”
“My name is Rylands; you called at my house this afternoon and saw my wife,” said Rylands slowly.
“I did,” said Hamlin. “It was mighty kind of you to return my call so soon, but I didn’t expect it.”
“I reckon not. But I know who you are, and that you are an old associate of hers, in the days of her sin and unregeneration. I want you to answer me, before God and man, what was your purpose in coming there to-day?”
“Look here! I don’t think it’s necessary to drag in strangers to hear my answer,” said Jack, lying down again, “but I came to borrow a horse.”
“Is that the truth?”
Jack got upon his feet very solemnly, put on his hat, drew down his waistcoat, and approached Mr. Rylands with his hands in his pockets.
“Mr. Rylands,” he said, with great suavity of manner, “this is the second time today that I have had the honor of having my word doubted by your family. Your wife was good enough to question my assertion that I didn’t know that she was living here, but that was a woman’s vanity. You have no such excuse. There is my horse yonder, lame, as you may see. I didn’t lame him for the sake of seeing your wife nor you.”
There was that in Mr. Hamlin’s audacity and perfect self-possession which, even while it irritated, never suggested deceit. He was too reckless of consequence to lie. Mr. Rylands was staggered and half convinced. Nevertheless, he hesitated.
“Dare you tell me everything that happened between my wife and you?”
“Dare you listen?” said Mr. Hamlin quietly.
Mr. Rylands turned a little white. After a moment he said:—
“Yes.”
“Good!” said Mr. Hamlin. “I like your grit, though I don’t mind telling you it’s the ONLY thing I like about you. Sit down. Well, I haven’t seen Nell Montgomery for three years until I met her as your wife, at your house. She was surprised as I was, and frightened as I wasn’t. She spent the whole interview in telling me the history of her marriage and her life with you, and nothing more. I cannot say that it was remarkably entertaining, or that she was as amusing as your wife as she was as Nell Montgomery, the variety actress. When she had finished, I came away.”
Mr. Rylands, who had seated himself, made a movement as if to rise. But Mr. Hamlin laid his hand on his knee.
“I asked you if you dared to listen. I have something myself to say of that interview. I found your wife wearing the old dresses that other men had given her, and she said she wore them because she thought it pleased you. I found that you, who are questioning my calling upon her, had already got the worst of her old chums to visit her without asking her consent; I found that instead of being the first one to lie for her and hide her, you were the first one to tell anybody her history, just because you thought it was to the glory of God generally, and of Joshua Rylands in particular.”
“A man’s motives are his own,” stammered Rylands.
“Sorry you didn’t see it when you questioned mine just now,” said Jack coolly.
“Then she complained to you?” said Rylands hesitatingly.
“I didn’t say that,” said Jack shortly.
“But you found her unhappy?”
“Damnably.”
“And you advised her”—said Rylands tentatively.
“I advised her to chuck you and try to get a better husband.” He paused, and then added, with a disgusted laugh, “but she didn’t tumble to it, for a d–d silly reason.”
“What reason?” said Rylands hurriedly.
“Said she LOVED you,” returned Jack, kicking a brand back into the fire. Mr. Rylands’s white cheeks flamed out suddenly like the brand. Seeing which, Jack turned upon him deliberately.
“Mr. Joshua Rylands, I’ve seen many fools in my time. I’ve seen men holding four aces backed down because they thought they KNEW the other man had a royal flush! I’ve seen a man sell his claim for a wild-cat share, with the gold lying a foot below him in the ground he walked on. I’ve seen a dead shot shoot wild because he THOUGHT he saw something in the other man’s eye. I’ve seen a heap of God-forsaken fools, but I never saw one before who claimed God as a pal. You’ve got a wife a d–d sight truer to you for what you call her ‘sin,’ than you’ve ever been to her, with all your d–d salvation! And as you couldn’t make her otherwise, though you’ve tried to hard enough, it seems to me that for