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TALES OF THE ARGONAUTS

by Bret Harte

CONTENTS THE ROSE OF TUOLUMNE

A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. JOHN OAKHURST

WAN LEE, THE PAGAN

HOW OLD MAN PLUNKETT WENT HOME

THE FOOL OF FIVE FORKS BABY SYLVESTER AN EPISODE OF FIDDLETOWN A JERSEY CENTENARIAN THE ROSE OF TUOLUMNE CHAPTER I

It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. The lights were out in Robinson’s Hall, where there had been dancing and revelry; and the moon, riding high, painted the black windows with silver. The cavalcade, that an hour ago had shocked the sedate pines with song and laughter, were all dispersed. One enamoured swain had ridden east, another west, another north, another south; and the object of their adoration, left within her bower at Chemisal Ridge, was calmly going to bed.

I regret that I am not able to indicate the exact stage of that process. Two chairs were already filled with delicate inwrappings and white confusion; and the young lady herself, half-hidden in the silky threads of her yellow hair, had at one time borne a faint resemblance to a partly-husked ear of Indian corn. But she was now clothed in that one long, formless garment that makes all women equal; and the round shoulders and neat waist, that an hour ago had been so fatal to the peace of mind of Four Forks, had utterly disappeared. The face above it was very pretty: the foot below, albeit shapely, was not small. “The flowers, as a general thing, don’t raise their heads MUCH to look after me,” she had said with superb frankness to one of her lovers.

The expression of the “Rose” tonight was contentedly placid. She walked slowly to the window, and, making the smallest possible peephole through the curtain, looked out. The motionless figure of a horseman still lingered on the road, with an excess of devotion that only a coquette, or a woman very much in love, could tolerate. The “Rose,” at that moment, was neither, and, after a reasonable pause, turned away, saying quite audibly that it was “too ridiculous for any thing.” As she came back to her dressing-table, it was noticeable that she walked steadily and erect, without that slight affectation of lameness common to people with whom bare feet are only an episode. Indeed, it was only four years ago, that without shoes or stockings, a long-limbed, colty girl, in a waistless calico gown, she had leaped from the tailboard of her father’s emigrant-wagon when it first drew up at Chemisal Ridge. Certain wild habits of the “Rose” had outlived transplanting and cultivation.

A knock at the door surprised her. In another moment she had leaped into bed, and with darkly-frowning eyes, from its secure recesses demanded “Who’s there?”

An apologetic murmur on the other side of the door was the response.

“Why, father!—is that you?”

There were further murmurs, affirmative, deprecatory, and persistent.

“Wait,” said the “Rose.” She got up, unlocked the door, leaped nimbly into bed again, and said, “Come.”

The door opened timidly. The broad, stooping shoulders, and grizzled head, of a man past the middle age, appeared: after a moment’s hesitation, a pair of large, diffident feet, shod with canvas slippers, concluded to follow. When the apparition was complete, it closed the door softly, and stood there,—a very shy ghost indeed,—with apparently more than the usual spiritual indisposition to begin a conversation. The “Rose” resented this impatiently, though, I fear, not altogether intelligibly.

“Do, father, I declare!”

“You was abed, Jinny,” said Mr. McClosky slowly, glancing, with a singular mixture of masculine awe and paternal pride, upon the two chairs and their contents,—“you was abed and ondressed.”

“I was.”

“Surely,” said Mr. McClosky, seating himself on the extreme edge of the bed, and painfully tucking his feet away under it,—“surely.” After a pause, he rubbed a short, thick, stumpy beard, that bore a general resemblance to a badly-worn blacking-brush, with the palm of his hand, and went on, “You had a good time, Jinny?”

“Yes, father.”

“They was all there?”

“Yes, Rance and York and Ryder and Jack.”

“And Jack!” Mr. McClosky endeavored to throw an expression of arch inquiry into his small, tremulous eyes; but meeting the unabashed, widely-opened lid of his daughter, he winked rapidly, and blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Yes, Jack was there,” said Jenny, without change of color, or the least self-consciousness in her great gray eyes; “and he came home with me.” She paused a moment, locking her two hands under her head, and assuming a more comfortable position on the pillow. “He asked me that same question again, father, and I said, ‘Yes.’ It’s to be—soon. We’re going to live at Four Forks, in his own house; and next winter we’re going to Sacramento. I suppose it’s all right, father, eh?” She emphasized the question with a slight kick through the bedclothes, as the parental McClosky had fallen into an abstract revery.

“Yes, surely,” said Mr. McClosky, recovering himself with some confusion. After a pause, he looked down at the bedclothes, and, patting them tenderly, continued, “You couldn’t have done better, Jinny. They isn’t a girl in Tuolumne ez could strike it ez rich as you hev—even if they got the chance.” He paused again, and then said, “Jinny?”

“Yes, father.”

“You’se in bed, and ondressed?”

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t,” said Mr. McClosky, glancing hopelessly at the two chairs, and slowly rubbing his chin,—“you couldn’t dress yourself again could yer?”

“Why, father!”

“Kinder get yourself into them things again?” he added hastily. “Not all of ‘em, you know, but some of ‘em. Not if I helped you— sorter stood by, and lent a hand now and then with a strap, or a buckle, or a necktie, or a shoestring?” he continued, still looking at the chairs, and evidently trying to boldly familiarize himself with their contents.

“Are you crazy, father?” demanded Jenny suddenly sitting up with a portentous switch of her yellow mane. Mr. McClosky rubbed one side of his beard, which already had the appearance of having been quite worn away by that process, and faintly dodged the question.

“Jinny,” he said, tenderly stroking the bedclothes as he spoke, “this yer’s what’s the matter. Thar is a stranger down stairs,—a stranger to you, lovey, but a man ez I’ve knowed a long time. He’s been here about an hour; and he’ll be here ontil fower o’clock, when the up-stage passes. Now I wants ye, Jinny dear, to get up and come down stairs, and kinder help me pass the time with him. It’s no use, Jinny,” he went on, gently raising his hand to deprecate any interruption, “it’s no use! He won’t go to bed; he won’t play keerds; whiskey don’t take no effect on him. Ever since I knowed him, he was the most onsatisfactory critter to hev round”—

“What do you have him round for, then?” interrupted Miss Jinny sharply.

Mr. McClosky’s eyes fell. “Ef he hedn’t kem out of his way tonight to do me a good turn, I wouldn’t ask ye, Jinny. I wouldn’t, so help me! But I thought, ez I couldn’t do any thing with him, you might come down, and sorter fetch him, Jinny, as you did the others.”

Miss Jenny shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“Is he old, or young?”

“He’s young enough, Jinny; but he knows a power of things.”

“What does he do?”

“Not much, I reckon. He’s got money in the mill at Four Forks. He travels round a good deal. I’ve heard, Jinny that he’s a poet— writes them rhymes, you know.” Mr. McClosky here appealed submissively but directly to his daughter. He remembered that she had frequently been in receipt of printed elegaic couplets known as “mottoes,” containing enclosures equally saccharine.

Miss Jenny slightly curled her pretty lip. She had that fine contempt for the illusions of fancy which belongs to the perfectly healthy young animal.

“Not,” continued Mr. McClosky, rubbing his head reflectively, “not ez I’d advise ye, Jinny, to say any thing to him about poetry. It ain’t twenty minutes ago ez I did. I set the whiskey afore him in the parlor. I wound up the music-box, and set it goin’. Then I sez to him, sociable-like and free, ‘Jest consider yourself in your own house, and repeat what you allow to be your finest production,’ and he raged. That man, Jinny, jest raged! Thar’s no end of the names he called me. You see, Jinny,” continued Mr. McClosky apologetically, “he’s known me a long time.”

But his daughter had already dismissed the question with her usual directness. “I’ll be down in a few moments, father,” she said after a pause, “but don’t say any thing to him about it—don’t say I was abed.”

Mr. McClosky’s face beamed. “You was allers a good girl, Jinny,” he said, dropping on one knee the better to imprint a respectful kiss on her forehead. But Jenny caught him by the wrists, and for a moment held him captive. “Father,” said she, trying to fix his shy eyes with the clear, steady glance of her own, “all the girls that were there tonight had some one with them. Mame Robinson had her aunt; Lucy Rance had her mother; Kate Pierson had her sister— all, except me, had some other woman. Father dear,” her lip trembled just a little, “I wish mother hadn’t died when I was so small. I wish there was some other woman in the family besides me. I ain’t lonely with you, father dear; but if there was only some one, you know, when the time comes for John and me”—

Her voice here suddenly gave out, but not her brave eyes, that were still fixed earnestly upon his face. Mr. McClosky, apparently tracing out a pattern on the bedquilt, essayed words of comfort.

“Thar ain’t one of them gals ez you’ve named, Jinny, ez could do what you’ve done with a whole Noah’s ark of relations, at their backs! Thar ain’t ‘one ez wouldn’t sacrifice her nearest relation to make the strike that you hev. Ez to mothers, maybe, my dear you’re doin’ better without one.” He rose suddenly, and walked toward the door. When he reached it, he turned, and, in his old deprecating manner, said, “Don’t be long, Jinny,” smiled, and vanished from the head downward, his canvas slippers asserting themselves resolutely to the last.

When Mr. McClosky reached his parlor again, his troublesome guest was not there. The decanter stood on the table untouched; three or four books lay upon the floor; a number of photographic views of the Sierras were scattered over the sofa; two sofa-pillows, a newspaper, and a Mexican blanket, lay on the carpet, as if the late occupant of the room had tried to read in a recumbent position. A French window opening upon a veranda, which never before in the history of the house had been unfastened, now betrayed by its waving lace curtain the way that the fugitive had escaped. Mr. McClosky heaved a sigh of despair. He looked at the gorgeous carpet purchased in Sacramento