Devil's Ford - Bret Harte (reading books for 4 year olds .TXT) 📗
- Author: Bret Harte
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Book online «Devil's Ford - Bret Harte (reading books for 4 year olds .TXT) 📗». Author Bret Harte
“She is not silly, conceited, nor countrified,” said George, slowly raising his beautiful eyes to the young girl half reproachfully. “It is I who am all that. No, she is right, and you know it.”
Much as Christie admired and valued her sister’s charms, she thought this was really going too far. What had Jessie ever done— what was Jessie—to provoke and remain insensible to such a blind devotion as this? And really, looking at him now, he was not so VERY YOUNG for Jessie; whether his unfortunate passion had brought out all his latent manliness, or whether he had hitherto kept his serious nature in the background, certainly he was not a boy. And certainly his was not a passion that he could be laughed out of. It was getting very tiresome. She wished she had not met him—at least until she had had some clearer understanding with her sister. He was still walking beside her, with his hand on her bridle rein, partly to lead her horse over some boulders in the trail, and partly to conceal his first embarrassment. When they had fairly reached the woods, he stopped.
“I am going to say good-by, Miss Carr.”
“Are you not coming further? We must be near Indian Spring, now; Mr. Hall and—and Jessie—cannot be far away. You will keep me company until we meet them?”
“No,” he replied quietly. “I only stopped you to say good-by. I am going away.”
“Not from Devil’s Ford?” she asked, in half-incredulous astonishment. “At least, not for long?”
“I am not coming back,” he replied.
“But this is very abrupt,” she said hurriedly, feeling that in some ridiculous way she had precipitated an equally ridiculous catastrophe. “Surely you are not going away in this fashion, without saying good-by to Jessie and—and father?”
“I shall see your father, of course—and you will give my regards to Miss Jessie.”
He evidently was in earnest. Was there ever anything so perfectly preposterous? She became indignant.
“Of course,” she said coldly, “I won’t detain you; your business must be urgent, and I forgot—at least I had forgotten until to-day—that you have other duties more important than that of squire of dames. I am afraid this forgetfulness made me think you would not part from us in quite such a business fashion. I presume, if you had not met me just now, we should none of us have seen you again?”
He did not reply.
“Will you say good-by, Miss Carr?”
He held out his hand.
“One moment, Mr. Kearney. If I have said anything which you think justifies this very abrupt leave-taking, I beg you will forgive and forget it—or, at least, let it have no more weight with you than the idle words of any woman. I only spoke generally. You know—I— I might be mistaken.”
His eyes, which had dilated when she began to speak, darkened; his color, which had quickly come, as quickly sank when she had ended.
“Don’t say that, Miss Carr. It is not like you, and—it is useless. You know what I meant a moment ago. I read it in your reply. You meant that I, like others, had deceived myself. Did you not?”
She could not meet those honest eyes with less than equal honesty. She knew that Jessie did not love him—would not marry him— whatever coquetry she might have shown.
“I did not mean to offend you,” she said hesitatingly; “I only half suspected it when I spoke.”
“And you wish to spare me the avowal?” he said bitterly.
“To me, perhaps, yes, by anticipating it. I could not tell what ideas you might have gathered from some indiscreet frankness of Jessie—or my father,” she added, with almost equal bitterness.
“I have never spoken to either,” he replied quickly. He stopped, and added, after a moment’s mortifying reflection, “I’ve been brought up in the woods, Miss Carr, and I suppose I have followed my feelings, instead of the etiquette of society.”
Christie was too relieved at the rehabilitation of Jessie’s truthfulness to notice the full significance of his speech.
“Good-by,” he said again, holding out his hand.
“Good-by!”
She extended her own, ungloved, with a frank smile. He held it for a moment, with his eyes fixed upon hers. Then suddenly, as if obeying an uncontrollable impulse, he crushed it like a flower again and again against his burning lips, and darted away.
Christie sank back in her saddle with a little cry, half of pain and half of frightened surprise. Had the poor boy suddenly gone mad, or was this vicarious farewell a part of the courtship of Devil’s Ford? She looked at her little hand, which had reddened under the pressure, and suddenly felt the flush extending to her cheeks and the roots of her hair. This was intolerable.
“Christie!”
It was her sister emerging from the wood to seek her. In another moment she was at her side.
“We thought you were following,” said Jessie. “Good heavens! how you look! What has happened?”
“Nothing. I met Mr. Kearney a moment ago on the trail. He is going away, and—and—” She stopped, furious and flushing.
“And,” said Jessie, with a burst of merriment, “he told you at last he loved you. Oh, Christie!”
The abrupt departure of George Kearney from Devil’s Ford excited but little interest in the community, and was soon forgotten. It was generally attributed to differences between himself and his partners on the question of further outlay of their earnings on mining improvements—he and Philip Carr alone representing a sanguine minority whose faith in the future of the mine accepted any risks. It was alleged by some that he had sold out to his brother; it was believed by others that he had simply gone to Sacramento to borrow money on his share, in order to continue the improvements on his own responsibility. The partners themselves were uncommunicative; even Whiskey Dick, who since his remarkable social elevation had become less oracular, much to his own astonishment, contributed nothing to the gossip except a suggestion that as the fiery temper of George Kearney brooked no opposition, even from his brother, it was better they should separate before the estrangement became serious.
Mr. Carr did not disguise his annoyance at the loss of his young disciple and firm ally. But an unlucky allusion to his previous remarks on Kearney’s attentions to Jessie, and a querulous regret that he had permitted a disruption of their social intimacy, brought such an ominous and frigid opposition, not only from Christie, but even the frivolous Jessie herself, that Carr sank back in a crushed and terrified silence. “I only meant to say,” he stammered after a pause, in which he, however, resumed his aggrieved manner, “that FAIRFAX seems to come here still, and HE is not such a particular friend of mine.”
“But she is—and has your interest entirely at heart,” said Jessie, stoutly, “and he only comes here to tell us how things are going on at the works.”
“And criticise your father, I suppose,” said Mr. Carr, with an attempt at jocularity that did not, however, disguise an irritated suspiciousness. “He really seems to have supplanted ME as he has poor Kearney in your estimation.”
“Now, father,” said Jessie, suddenly seizing him by the shoulders in affected indignation, but really to conceal a certain embarrassment that sprang quite as much from her sister’s quietly observant eye as her father’s speech, “you promised to let this ridiculous discussion drop. You will make me and Christie so nervous that we will not dare to open the door to a visitor, until he declares his innocence of any matrimonial intentions. You don’t want to give color to the gossip that agreement with your views about the improvements is necessary to getting on with us.”
“Who dares talk such rubbish?” said Carr, reddening; “is that the kind of gossip that Fairfax brings here?”
“Hardly, when it’s known that he don’t quite agree with you, and DOES come here. That’s the best denial of the gossip.”
Christie, who had of late loftily ignored these discussions, waited until her father had taken his departure.
“Then that is the reason why you still see Mr. Munroe, after what you said,” she remarked quietly to Jessie.
Jessie, who would have liked to escape with her father, was obliged to pause on the threshold of the door, with a pretty assumption of blank forgetfulness in her blue eyes and lifted eyebrows.
“Said what? when?” she asked vacantly.
“When—when Mr. Kearney that day—in the woods—went away,” said Christie, faintly coloring.
“Oh! THAT day,” said Jessie briskly; “the day he just gloved your hand with kisses, and then fled wildly into the forest to conceal his emotion.”
“The day he behaved very foolishly,” said Christie, with reproachful calmness, that did not, however, prevent a suspicion of indignant moisture in her eyes—“when you explained”—
“That it wasn’t meant for ME,” interrupted Jessie.
“That it was to you that MR. MUNROE’S attentions were directed. And then we agreed that it was better to prevent any further advances of this kind by avoiding any familiar relations with either of them.”
“Yes,” said Jessie, “I remember; but you’re not confounding my seeing Fairfax occasionally now with that sort of thing. HE doesn’t kiss my hand like anything,” she added, as if in abstract reflection.
“Nor run away, either,” suggested the trodden worm, turning.
There was an ominous silence.
“Do you know we are nearly out of coffee?” said Jessie choking, but moving towards the door with Spartan-like calmness.
“Yes. And something must be done this very day about the washing,” said Christie, with suppressed emotion, going towards the opposite entrance.
Tears stood in each other’s eyes with this terrible exchange of domestic confidences. Nevertheless, after a moment’s pause, they deliberately turned again, and, facing each other with frightful calmness, left the room by purposeless and deliberate exits other than those they had contemplated—a crushing abnegation of self, that, to some extent, relieved their surcharged feelings.
Meantime the material prosperity of Devil’s Ford increased, if a prosperity based upon no visible foundation but the confidences and hopes of its inhabitants could be called material. Few, if any, stopped to consider that the improvements, buildings, and business were simply the outlay of capital brought from elsewhere, and as yet the settlement or town, as it was now called, had neither produced nor exported capital of itself equal to half the amount expended. It was true that some land was cultivated on the further slope, some mills erected and lumber furnished from the inexhaustible forest; but the consumers were the inhabitants themselves, who paid for their produce in borrowed capital or unlimited credit. It was never discovered that while all roads led to Devil’s Ford, Devil’s Ford led to nowhere. The difficulties overcome in getting things into the settlement were never surmounted for getting things out of it. The lumber was practically valueless for export to other settlements across the mountain roads, which were equally rich in timber. The theory so enthusiastically held by the original locators, that Devil’s Ford was a vast sink that had, through ages, exhausted and absorbed the trickling wealth of the adjacent hills and valleys, was suffering an ironical corroboration.
One morning it was known that work was stopped at the Devil’s Ford Ditch—temporarily only, it was alleged, and many of the old workmen simply had their labor for the present transferred to excavating the river banks, and the collection of vast heaps of “pay gravel.” Specimens from these mounds, taken from different localities, and at different levels, were sent
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