The Harshaw Bride

by Mary Hallock Foote

　　[Mrs. Tom Daly, of Bisuka in the Northwest, writes to her invalid sisterspending the summer on the coast of Southern California.]IYou know I am always ready to sacrifice truth to politeness, if the truthis of that poor, stingy upstart variety everybody is familiar with and ifthe occasion warrants the expense. We all know politeness is not cheap, anymore than honesty is politic. But surely I mistook my occasion, one daylast winter--and now behold the price!We are to have a bride on our hands, or a bride-elect, for she isn'tmarried yet. The happy man to be is rustling for a home out here in thewilds of Idaho while she is waiting in the old country for success to crownhis efforts. How much success in her case is demanded one does not know.She is a little English girl, upper middle class, which Mrs. Perciferassures us is the class to belong to in England at the present day,--fromwhich we infer that it's her class; and the interesting reunion is totake place at our house--the young woman never having seen us in her lifebefore.She sailed, poor thing, this day week and will be forwarded to us by herconfiding friends in New York as soon as she arrives. Meantime she willhave heard from us from the Percifers: that is something.Really they were very nice to us in New York, last winter, thePercifers--though one must not plume one's self too much. It began asa business flirtation down town between the husbands, and then Tomconfidingly mentioned that he had a wife at his hotel. We unfortunate womenwere dragged into it forthwith, and more or less forced to live up to it.I cannot say there was anything riotous in the way she sustained her part.She was so very impersonal in fact, when we said good-by, that my naturaltendency to invite people to come and stay with us, on the spur of anymoment, was strangled in my throat. But one must say something by way of retaliation for hospitality one cannotreject. So I put it off on any friends of theirs who might have occasion tocommand us in the West. We should be so happy, and so forth. And, my dear,she has taken me up on it! She's not impersonal now. She is so glad--fordear Kitty's sake--that we are here, and she is sure we will be verygood to her--such a sweet girl, no one could help being--which rathercuts down the margin for our goodness. The poor child--I am quoting Mrs.Percifer--knows absolutely no one in the West but the man she is comingto marry (?)and can have no conception of the journey she has before her.She will be so comforted to find us at the end of it. And if anythingunforeseen should occur to delay Mr. Harshaw, the fiance, and prevent hismeeting her train, it will be a vast relief to Kitty's friends to know thatthe dear brave little girl is in good hands--ours, if you can conceive it!Please observe the coolness with which she treats his not meeting thattrain, after the girl has traversed half the globe to compass her share oftheir meeting.Well, it's not the American way; but perhaps it will be when bad times havehumbled us a little more, and the question is whether we can marry ourdaughters at all unless we can give them dowries, or professions to supporttheir husbands on, and "feelings" are a luxury only the rich can afford.I hope "Kitty" won't have any; but still more I hope that her young manwill arrive on schedule time, and that they can trot round the corner andbe married, with Tom and me for witnesses, as speedily as possible.* * * * *I've had such a blow! Tom, with an effort, has succeeded in rememberingthis Mr. Harshaw who is poor Kitty's fate. He must have been years in thiscountry,--long enough to have citizenized himself and become a member ofour first Idaho legislature (I don't believe you even know that we are aState!). Tom was on the supper committee of the ball the city gave them.They were a deplorable set of men; it was easy enough to remember the niceones. Tom says he is a "chump," if you know what that means. I tell himthat every man, married or single, is constitutionally horrid to any otherman who has had the luck to be chosen of a charming girl. But I'm afraidHarshaw wasn't one of the nice ones, or I should have remembered himmyself; we had them to dinner--all who were at all worth while.Poor Kitty! There is so little here to come for but the man.Well, my dear, here's a pretty kettle of fish! Kitty has arrived, and oneMr. Harshaw. Where the Mr. Harshaw is, quien sabe! It's awfully late.Poor Kitty has gone to bed, and has cried herself to sleep, I dare say, ifsleep she can. I never have heard of a girl being treated so.Tom and the other Mr. Harshaw are smoking in the dining-room, and Tom istalking endlessly--what about I can't imagine, unless he is giving thisyoung record-breaker his opinion of his extraordinary conduct. But I mustbegin at the beginning.Mrs. Percifer wired us from New York the day the bride-elect started, andshe was to wire us from Ogden, which she did. I went to the train to meether, and I told Tom to be on the watch for the bridegroom, who would comein from his ranch on the Snake River, by wagon or on horseback, acrosscountry from Ten Mile. To come by rail he'd have had to go round a hundredmiles or so, by Mountain Home. An American would have done it, of course,and have come in with her on the train; but the Percifers plainly expectedno such wild burst of enthusiasm from him.The train was late. I walked and walked the platform; some of the peoplewho were waiting went away, but I dared not leave my post. I fell towatching a spurt of dust away off across the river toward the mesa. Itrolled up fast, and presently I saw a man on horseback; then I didn't seehim; then he had crossed the bridge and was pounding down the track-sidetoward the depot. He pulled up and spoke to a trainman, and after that hewalked his horse as if he was satisfied.This is Harshaw, I thought, and a very pretty fellow, but not in theleast like an Idaho legislator. I can't say that I care for the sortof Englishman who is so prompt to swear allegiance to our flag; theynever do unless they want to go in for government land, or politics, orsomething that has nothing to do with any flag. But this youngster lookedridiculously young. I simply knew he was coming for that girl, and thathe had no ulterior motives whatever. He was ashy-white with dust--hair,eyebrows, eyelashes, and his fair little mustache all powdered with it;his corduroys, leggings, and hat all of a color. I saw no baggage, and Iwondered what he expected to be married in. He leaned on his horse dizzilya moment when he first got out of the saddle, and the poor beast stretchedhis fore legs, and rocked with the gusts of his panting, his sides goingin and out like a pair of bellows. The young fellow handed him over to aman to take to the stables, and I saw him give him a regular bridegroom'stip. He's all right, I said to myself, and Tom was horrid to call hima "chump." He beat himself off a bit, and went in and talked to theticket-agent. They looked at their watches."I don't think you'll have time to go uptown," said the ticket-man.Harshaw came out then, and he began to walk the platform, and to staredown the track toward Nampa; so I sat down. Presently he stopped, andraised his hat, and asked if I was Mrs. Daly, a friend of Mrs. Percifer ofLondon and New York.Not to be boastful, I said that I knew Mrs. Percifer."Then," said he, "we are here on the same errand, I think."I was there to meet Miss Kitty Comyn, I told him, and he said so was he,and might he have a little talk with me? He seemed excited and serious,very."Are you the Mr. Harshaw?" I asked, though I hadn't an idea, of course,that he could be anybody else."Not exactly," he said. "I'm his cousin, Cecil Harshaw.""Is Mr. Harshaw ill?"He looked foolish, and dropped his eyes. "No," said he. "He was well lastnight when I left him at the ranch." Last night! He had come a hundredmiles between dark of one day and noon of the next!"Your cousin takes a royal way of bringing home his bride--by proxy," Isaid."Ah, but it's partly my fault, you know"--he could not quell a suddenshamefaced laugh,--"if you'd kindly allow me to explain. I shall have tobe quite brutally frank; but Mrs. Percifer said"--Here he lugged in apropitiatory compliment, which sounded no more like Mrs. Percifer than itfitted me; but mistaking my smile of irony for one of encouragement, hebabbled on. I wish I could do justice to his "charmin'" accent and hisperfectly unstudied manner of speech, a mixture of British and Americancolloquialisms, not to say slang."It's like this, Mrs. Daly. A man oughtn't to be a dog-in-the-manger abouta girl, even if he has got her promise, you know. If he can't get a move onand marry her before her hair is gray, he ought to step out and give theother fellows a chance. I'm not speaking for myself, though I would havespoken three years ago if she hadn't been engaged to Micky--she's alwaysbeen engaged to him, one may say. And I accepted the fact; and when I cameover here and took a share in Micky's ranch I meant right by him, and Godknows I meant more than right by her. Wasn't it right to suppose she mustbe tremendously fond of him, to let him keep her on the string the way hehas? They've been engaged four years now. And was it any wonder I was madwith Micky, seeing how he was loafing along, fooling his money away, notlooking ahead and denying himself as a man ought who's got a nice girlwaiting for him? I'm quite frank, you see; but when you hear what an assI've made of myself, you'll not begrudge me the few excuses I have tooffer. All I tried to do was to give Micky a leg to help him over hisnatural difficulty--laziness, you know. He's not a bad sort at all, onlyhe's slow, and it's hard to get him to look things square in the face.It was for her sake, supposing her happiness was bound up in him, thatI undertook to boom the marriage a bit. But Micky won't boom worth a----. He's back on my hands now, and what in Heaven's name I'm to say toher"--His eloquence failed him here, and he came down to the level ofordinary conversation, with the remark, "It's a facer, by Jove!"I managed not to smile. If he'd undertaken, I said, to "boom" his cousin'smarriage to a girl he liked himself, he ought at least to get credit fordisinterestedness; but so few good acts were ever rewarded in this world! Iseemed to have heard that it was not very comfortable, though it might beheroic, to put one's hand between the tree and the bark."Ah," he said feelingly, "it's fierce! I never was so rattled in my life.But before you give me too much credit for disinterestedness, you know, Imust tell you that I'm thinking of--that--in short, I've a mind to speakfor myself now, if Micky doesn't come up to time."I simply looked at him, and he blushed, but went on more explicitly. "Hecould have married her, Mrs. Daly, any time these three years if he'd hadthe pluck to think so. He'd say, 'If we have a good season with the horses,I'll send for her in the fall.' We'd have our usual season, and then he'dsay, 'It won't do, Cecy.' And in the spring we are always as poor asjack-rabbits, and so he'd wait till the next fall. I got so mad with hisinfernal coolness, and the contrast of how things were and how she mustthink they were! Still, I knew he'd be good to her if he had her here, andhe'd save twice as much with her to provide for as he ever could alone. Iused to hear all her little news, poor girl. She had lost her father, andthere were tight times at home. The next word was that she was going for agoverness. Then I said, 'You ought to go over and get her, or else send forher sharp. You are as ready to marry her now as ever you will be.'"'I'm too confounded strapped,' said he. I told him I would fix all that ifhe would go, or write her to come. But the weeks went by, and he never madea move. And there were reasons, Mrs. Daly, why it was best that any one whocared for him should be on the ground. Then I made my kick. I don't believein kicking, as a rule; but if you do kick, kick hard, I say. 'If you don'tsend for her, Micky, I'll send for her myself,' I said."'What for?' said he."'For you,' said I, 'if you'll have the manliness to step up and claim her,and treat her as you ought. If not, she can see how things are, and maybeshe'll want a change. You may not think you are wronging her and deceivingher,' I said, 'but that's what you are; and if you won't make an end ofthis situation' (I haven't told you, and I can't tell you, the whole of it,Mrs. Daly), 'I will end it myself--for your sake and for her sake and formy own.' And I warned him that I should have a word to say to her if hedidn't occupy the field of vision quite promptly after she arrived. 'One ofus will meet her at the train,' said I, 'and the one who loves her will getthere first.'"Well, I'm here, and he was cooking himself a big supper when I left him atthe ranch. It was a simple test, Mrs. Daly. If he scorned to abide by it,he might at least have written and put her on her guard, for he knew I wasnot bluffing. He pawed up the ground a bit, but he never did a thing. ThenI cabled her just the question, Would she come? and she answered directlythat she would. So I wired her the money. I signed myself Harshaw, and Itold Micky what I'd done."And whether he is sulking over my interference, I can't say, but from thatmoment he has never opened his mouth to me on the subject. I haven't ablessed notion what he means to do; judging by what he has done, nothing, Ishould say. But it may be he's only waiting to give me the full strength ofthe situation, seeing it's one of my own contriving. There's a sort of rumjustice in it; but think of his daring to insult her so, for the sake ofpunishing me!"Now, what am I to say to her, Mrs. Daly? Am I to make a clean breast ofit, and let her know the true and peculiar state of the case, including thefact that I'm in love with her myself? Or would you let that wait, and tryto smooth things over for Micky, and get her to give him another chance?There was no sign of his moving last night; still, he may get here yet."The young man's spirits seemed to be rising as he neared the end of histale, perhaps because he could see that it looked pretty black for "Micky.""If one could only know what he does mean to do, it would be simpler,wouldn't it?"I agreed that it would. Then I made the only suggestion it occurred to meto offer in the case--that he should go to his hotel and get his luncheonor breakfast, for I doubted if he'd had any, and leave me to meet MissComyn, and say to her whatever a kind Providence might inspire me with. Myhusband would call for him and fetch him up to dinner, I said; and afterdinner, if Mr. Michael Harshaw had not arrived, or sent some satisfactorymessage, he could cast himself into the breach."And I'm sorry for you," I said; "for I don't think you will have an easytime of it.""She can't do worse than hate me, Mrs. Daly; and that's better than sendingme friendly little messages in her letters to Micky."I wish I could give you this story in his own words, or any idea of hisextraordinary, joyous naturalness, and his air of preposterous goodfaith--as if he had done the only thing conceivable in the case. It was asconvincing as a scene in comic opera."By the way," said he, "I didn't encumber myself with much luggage thistrip. I have nothing but the clothes I stand in."I made a reckless offer of my husband's evening things, which he asrecklessly accepted, not knowing if he could get into them; but I thoughthe did not look so badly as he was, in his sun-faded corduroys, the wholeof him from head to foot as pale as a plaster cast with dust, except hisbright blue eyes, which had hard, dark circles around them."The train is coming," I warned him."She is coming! A la bonne heure!" he cried, and was off on a run, andwhistled a car that was going up Main Street to the natatorium; and I knewthat in ten minutes he would be reveling in the plunge, while I should bemaking the best of this beautiful crisis of his inventing to Miss Comyn.* * * * *My dear, they are the prettiest pair! Providence, no doubt, designedthem for each other, if he had not made this unpardonable break. She hasa spirit of her own, has Miss Kitty, and if she cried up-stairs alonewith me,--tears of anger and mortification, it struck me, rather than ofheart-grief,--I will venture she shed no tears before him.As Mr. Michael Harshaw did not arrive, we gave Mr. Cecil his opportunity,as promised, of speech with his victim and judge. He talked to her in thelittle sitting-room after dinner--as long as she would listen to him,apparently. We heard her come flying out with a sort of passionatesuddenness, as if she had literally run away from his words. But he hadfollowed her, and for an instant I saw them together in the hall. Hispoor young face was literally burning; perhaps it was only sunburn, but Ifancied she had been giving him a metaphorical drubbing--"ragging," as Tomwould call it--worse than Lady Anne gave Richard.She was still in a fine Shakespearean temper when I carried her offup-stairs. Reserves were impossible between us; her right to any privacyin her own affairs had been given away from the start; that was one of thepleasing features of the situation."Marry him! marry him!" she cried. "That impertinent, meddlesome boy!That false, dishonorable"--"Go slow, dear," I said. "I don't think he's quite so bad as that.""And what do I want with him! And what do you think he tells me, Mrs.Daly? And whether there's any truth in him, how do I know? He declaresit was not Michael Harshaw who sent for me at all! The message, all themessages, were from him. In that case I have been decoyed over here tomarry a man who not only never asked me to come, but who stood by and letme be hoaxed in this shameful way, and now leaves me to be persecuted bythis one's ridiculous offers of marriage,--as if I belonged to all or anyof the Harshaws, whichever one came first! Michael may not even know thatI am here," she added in a lower key. "If Cecil Harshaw was capable ofdoing what he has done, by his own confession, it would be little more tointercept my answers to his forgeries."That was true, I said. It was quite possible the young man lied. She would,of course, give Mr. Michael Harshaw a chance to tell his story."I cannot believe," said the distracted girl, "that Michael would lendhimself, even passively, to such an abominable trick. Could any one believeit--of his worst enemy!"Impossible, I agreed. She must believe nothing till she had heard from herlover."But if Michael did not know it," she mused, with a piteous blush, "thenCecil Harshaw must have sent me that money himself--the insolence! Andafter that to ask me to marry him!"Men were fearfully primitive still, after all that we had done for them, Ireminded her, especially in their notions of love-making. Their intentionswere generally better than their methods. No great harm had been done,for that matter. A letter, if written that night, would reach Mr. MichaelHarshaw at his ranch not later than the next night. All these troublescould wait till the real Mr. Harshaw had been heard from. My husband wouldsee that her letter reached him promptly, and in the mean time Mr. Cecilneed not be told that we were proving his little story.I was forced to humor her own theory of her case; but I have no idea,myself, that Cecil Harshaw has not told the truth. He does not look likea liar, to begin with, and how silly to palm off an invention for to-daywhich to-morrow would expose!Tom is still talking and talking. I really must interfere and give Mr.Cecil a chance to go. It is quite too late to look for the other one. If hecomes at this hour, there is nothing he can do but go to bed.... Well, the young man has gone, and Tom is shutting up the house, and Ihope the bride is asleep, though I doubt it. Have I told you how charmingshe is? Not so discouragingly tall or so classic as the Du Maurier goddess,but "comfy," much more "comfy," to my mind. Her nose is rudimentary,rather, which doesn't prevent her having a mind of her own, though nosesare said to have it all to say as to force of character. Her upper lip hasthe most fascinating little pout; her chin is full and emotional--but theseare emotional times; and there is a beautiful finish about her throat andhands and wrists. She looks more dressed in a shirt-waist, in which shecame down to dinner, her trunk not having come, than some of us do in thebest we have. Her clothes are very fresh and recent, to a woman of Idaho;but she does not wear her pretty ears "cachees," I am glad to say. They arevery pretty, and one--the left one--is burned pure crimson from sittingnext the window of her section all the way from Omaha.But why do I write all this nonsense at twelve o'clock at night, when allI need say by way of description is that we want her to stay with us,indefinitely if necessary, and let her countrymen and lovers go to--theirranch on the Snake River!* * * * *What do you suppose those wretches were arguing about in the dining-roomlast night, over their whisky and soda? Sentiment was "not in it," as theywould say. They were talking up a scheme--a scheme that Tom has had in mindever since he first saw the Thousand Springs six years ago, when he had theSnake River placer-mining fever. It was of no use then, because electricaltransmission was in its infancy, its long-distance capacities undreamed of.But Harshaw was down there fishing last summer, and he was able to satisfythe only doubt Tom has had as to some natural feature of the scheme--Idon't know what; but Harshaw has settled it, and is as wild as Tom himselfabout the thing. Also he wants to put into it all the money he canrecover out of his cousin's ranch. (I shouldn't think the future of thatpartnership would be exactly happy!) And now they propose to take hold ofit together, and at once.Harshaw, who, it seems, is enough of an engineer to run a level, will godown with Tom and make the preliminary surveys. Tom will work up the plansand estimates, and prepare a report, which Harshaw will take to London,where his father has influence in the City, and the sanguine child seeshimself placing it in the twinkling of an eye.Tom made no secret with me of their scheme, and I fell upon him at once."You are not taking advantage of that innocent in your own house!" I said."Do you take him for an innocent? He has about as shrewd a businesshead--but he has no money, anyhow. I shall have to put up for the wholetrip."To be honest, that was just what I had feared; but it didn't sound wellto say so. Tom is always putting up for things that never come toanything--for us.He tried to propitiate me with the news that I was to go with them."And what do you propose to do with our guest?""Take her along. Why not? It's as hard a trip as any I know of, for thedistance. Her troubles won't keep her awake, nor spoil her appetite, afterthe first day's ride.""I don't know but you are right," I said; "but wild horses couldn't dragher if he goes. And how about the other Harshaw--the one she has promisedto marry?""She isn't going to marry him, is she? I should think she had gone aboutfar enough, to meet that fellow halfway."Even if she wasn't going to marry him, I said, it might be civil to tellhim so. She had listened to his accuser; she could hardly refuse to listento him."I think, myself, the dear boy has skipped the country," said Tom, who isunblushingly on Cecil's side. "If he hasn't, the letter will fetch him. Shewill have time to settle his hash before we start.""Before we start! And when do you propose to start?"--I shouldn't have beensurprised if he had said "to-morrow," but he considerately gives me untilThursday.The truth is, Lou, it is years and years since I have been on one of thesewild-goose chases with Tom. I have no more faith in this goose than in anyof the other ones, but who wants to be forever playing the part of Wisdom"that cries in the streets and no man regards her"? One might as well bemerry over one's folly, to say nothing of the folly of other people. Iconfess I am dying to go; but of course nothing can be decided till therecreant bridegroom has been heard from.This morning, when I went to Kitty's door for her letter, I found shehadn't written it. She made me come in while she "confessed," as she said."I couldn't submit to the facts last night," she faltered. "I had topretend that I thought he didn't know; but of course he does--he must. Iwrote him from home before I started, and again from New York. I can'tsuppose that Cecil would intercept my letters. He is not a stage villain.No; I must face the truth. But how can I ever tell it to mamma!""We will arrange all that by and by," I assured her (but I don't see myselfhow she can tell the truth about this transaction to anybody, her motherleast of all, who would be simply wild if she knew how the girl has beenbetrayed and insulted, among utter strangers); meantime I begged her topromise me that she would not waste--She interrupted me quickly. "I have wasted enough, I think. No; don't beafraid for me, Mrs. Daly, and for Heaven's sake don't pity me!"I had just written the above when Tom came in and informed me that the"regular candidate had arrived," and requested to know if we were to havethem both to dinner, or if the "dark horse" was to be told he needn't come."Of course he can't come!" I screamed; "let him keep himself as dark aspossible.""Then you needn't expect me," said Tom. "Cecy and I will dine at theLouvre." And I would give a good deal if I could dine there too, or anywhere but with this extraordinary pair of lovers.I went out to meet the real Harshaw, embarrassed with the guiltyconsciousness of having allowed my sympathies to go astray; for though intheory I totally disapprove of Cecil Harshaw, personally I defy anybody notto like him. I will except prejudiced persons, like his cousin and the ladyhe is so bent on making, by hook or by crook, a Mrs. Harshaw.Mr. Harshaw the first (and last to arrive) has shaved his mustache quiterecently, I should say, and the nakedness of his upper lip is not becoming.I wonder if she ever saw him with his mouth bare? I wonder if she wouldhave accepted him if she had? He was so funny about his cousin, thepromoter; so absolutely unconscious of his own asinine position. He arguedvery sensibly that if, after waiting four years for him, she couldn't waitone day longer, she must have changed in her feelings very decidedly, andthat was a fact it behooved him to find out. Better now than later. I thinkhe has found out.Possibly he was nicer four years ago. Men get terribly down at heel,mentally, morally, and mannerly, poking off by themselves in theseout-of-the-way places. But she has been seeing people and steadily makinggrowth since she gave him her promise at eighteen. The promise itself hashelped to develop her. It must have been a knot of perpetual doubt andself-questioning. No one need tell me that she really loves him; if shedid, if she had, she could not take his treatment of her like this. Perhapsthe family circumstances constrained her. They may have thought Harshawhad a fortune in the future of his ranch, with its river boundary ofplacer-mines. English girls are obedient, and English mammas are practical,we read.She is practical, and she is beginning to look her situation in the face."I shall want you to help me find some way to return that money," she saidto me later, with an angry blush--"that money which Cecil Harshaw kindlyadvanced me for my journey. I shall hate every moment of my life till thatdebt is paid. But for the insult I never can repay him, never!"We are a large family at home--four girls besides me, and three boys;and boys are so expensive. I cannot ask mamma to help me; indeed, I washoping to help her. I should have gone for a governess if I had not beenduped into coming over here. Would there be any one in this town, doyou think, who might want a governess for her children? I have a few'accomplishments,' and though I've not been trained for a teacher, I amused to children, and they like me, when I want them to."I thought this a good idea for the future; it would take time to work itup. But for the present an inspiration came to me,--on the strength ofsomething Tom had said,--that he wished I could draw or paint, because hecould make an artist useful on this trip, he condescended to say, if hecould lay his hand on one. All the photographs of the Springs, it seems,have the disastrous effect of dwarfing their height and magnitude. Thereis a lagoon and a weedy island directly beneath them, and in the camerapictures taken from in front, the reeds and willows look gigantic in theforeground, and the Springs--out of all proportion--insignificant. Thiswould be fatal to our schemers' claims as to the volume of water they aresupposed to furnish for an electrical power plant to supply the Silver Citymines, one hundred miles away. Hence the demand of Science for Art, withher point of view."Just the thing for her," I thought. "She can draw and water-color, ofcourse; all English girls do." And I flew and proposed it to Tom. "Pay herwell for her pictures, and she'll make your Thousand Springs look like TenThousand." (That was only my little joke, dear; I am always afraid of yourconscience.) But the main thing is settled; we have found a way of inducingKitty to go. Tom was charmed with my intelligence, and Kitty, poor child,would go anywhere, in any conceivable company, to get even with CecilHarshaw on that hateful money transaction. When I told her she would haveto submit to his presence on the trip, she shrugged her shoulders."It's one of 'life's little ironies,'" she said."And," I added, "we shall have to pass the ranch that was to have been"--"Oh, well, that is another. I must get used to the humorous side of mysituation. One suffers most, perhaps, through thinking how other peoplewill think one suffers. If they would only give one credit for a littlecommon sense, to say nothing of pride!"You see, she will wear no willows for him. We shall get on beautifully,I've no doubt, even with the "irony" of the situation rubbed in, as itinevitably will be, in the course of this journey.Tom solemnly assures me that the other Harshaw's name is not Micky, but"Denis;" and he explains his having got into the legislature (quiteunnecessarily, so far as I am concerned) on the theory that he is too lazyeven to make enemies.I shall get the governess project started, so it can be working while weare away. If you know of anybody who would be likely to want her, and couldpay her decently, and would know how to treat a nursery governess who isevery bit a lady, but who is not above her business (I take for granted sheis not, though of course I don't know), do, pray, speak a word for her.I'll answer for it she is bright enough; better not mention that she ispretty. There must be a hundred chances for her there to one in Idaho. Weare hardly up to the resident-governess idea as yet. It is thought to bewanting in public spirit for parents not to patronize the local schools.If they are not good enough for the rich families, the poor families feelinjured, and want to know the reason why.To return to these Harshaws. Does it not strike you that the English aremore original, not to say queer, than we are; more indifferent to theopinions of others--certain others? They don't hesitate to do a thingbecause on the face of it it's perfectly insane. Witness the lengths theygo, these young fellows out here, for anything on earth they happen toset their crazy hearts upon. The young fancy bloods, I mean, who have thelove of sport developed through generations of tough old hard-riding,high-playing, deep-drinking ancestors; the "younger sons," who haveinherited the sense of having the ball at their feet, without havinginherited the ball. They are certainly great fun, but I should hate to beresponsible for them.I note what you say about my tendency to slang, and how it "seems to growupon me." It "seems" to, alas! for the simple reason, I fear, that itdoes. I can remember when I used carefully to corral all my slang words inapologetic quote-marks, as if they were range-cattle to be fenced out fromthe home herd--our mother-tongue which we brought with us from the East,and which you have preserved in all its conscientious purity. But I giveit up. I hardly know any longer, in regard to my own speech, which are mynative expressions and which are the wild and woolly ones adopted off therange. It will serve all human purposes of a woman irretrievably marriedinto the West. If the worst come to the worst, I can make a virtue ofnecessity and become a member of the "American Dialect Society"--a memberin good standing.* * * * *This is the morning of our glorious start. I am snatching a few words withyou while the men are packing the wagon, which stands before the door.What a sensation it would make drawn up in front of--Mrs. Percifer's, forinstance, in Park Avenue! Here no one turns the head to look at it.I told Tom he need make no concessions to the fact that he is to havetwo fairly well-dressed women along. We will go as they go, without anyfuss, or they may leave us at home. I despise those condescending,make-believe-rough-it trips, with which men flatter women into thinkingthemselves genuine campaigners. Consequently our outfit is a big, bonyranch-team and a Shuttler wagon with the double-sides in; spring seats, ofcourse, and the bottom well bedded down with tents and rolls of blankets.We don't go out of our way to be uncomfortable; that is the tenderfoot'spet weakness. The "kitchen-box" and the "grub-box" sit shoulder to shoulderin the back of the wagon. The stovepipe, tied with rope in sections, keepsup a lively clatter in concert with the jiggling of the tinware and thethumps and bumps of the camp-stove, which has swallowed its own feet, and,by the internal sounds, doesn't seem to have digested them.I spent last evening covering the canteens with canvas. The maiden wasquite cheerful, sorting her drawing-materials and packing her colors andsketch-blocks. She laughs at everything Tom says, whether she sees thepoint or not, and most when there is none to see. Tom will be cook, becausehe prefers his own messing to any of ours, and we can't spare room in thewagon for a regular camp chef. Mr. Harshaw is the "swamper," because hemakes himself useful doing things my lord doesn't like to do. And Kitty isnot Miss Co-myn, as we called it, but Miss "Cummin," as they call it,--"theComin' woman," Tom calls her. Mr. Billings, the teamster, completes ourparty.* * * * *Sept.--Never mind the date. This is to-morrow morning, and we are atWalter's Ferry. It seems a week since we left Bisuka. We started yesterdayon the flank of a dust-storm, and soon were with the main column, the windpursuing us and hurling the sweepings of the road into the backs of ournecks. The double-sides raised us out of the worst of the dust, else Ithink we should have been smothered. It was a test of our young lady'straveling manners. She kept her head down and her mouth shut; but when Ishrieked at her to ask how she was standing it, she plucked her dusty veilfrom between her lips and smiled for answer.We two have the back seat, Tom sits in front with Billings, and the"swamper" sits anywhere on the lumps and bumps which our baggagemakes, covered by the canvas wagon-sheet. He might have ridden hishorse--everybody supposed he would; but that would have separated him fromthe object of his existence; the object sternly ignoring him, and ridingfor miles with her face turned away, her hand to her hat, which the windpersistently snatched at. It was her wide-brimmed sketching-hat--rather adaring creation but monstrously becoming, and I had persuaded her to wearit, the morning being delusively clear, thinking we were to have one ofour midsummer scorchers that would have burned her fair English face to ablister.Mr. Harshaw thought she would be tired, wearing her hand continually in theair, and suggested various mechanical substitutes,--a string attached tothe hat-trimming, a scarf tied over her head; but a snubbing was all thereward he got for his sympathy."When this hand is tired I take the other one," she said airily.We lunched at Ten Mile, by the railroad track. Do you remember thatdesolate place? The Oregon Short Line used to leave us there at a littlestation called Kuna. There is no Kuna now; the station-house is gone; thestation-keeper's little children are buried between four stakes on the barehill--diphtheria, I think it was. Miss Kitty asked what the stakes werethere for. Tom didn't like to tell her, so he said some traveler had made a"cache" there of something he couldn't carry with him, and the stakes wereto mark the spot till his return."And will nobody disturb the cache?" asked Miss Kitty. I couldn't bearto hear them. "They are graves," I whispered. "Two little children--thestation-keeper's--all they had." And she asked no more questions.Mr. Harshaw had got possession of the canteen, and so was able to serve themaiden, both when she drank and when she held out her rosy fingers to besprinkled, he tilting a little water on them slowly--with such provokingslowness that she chid him; then he let it come in gulps, and she chidhim more, for spattering her shoes. She could play my Lady Disdain veryprettily, only she is something too much in earnest at present for the gameto be a pretty one to watch. I feel like calling her down from her pedestalof virgin wrath, if only for the sake of us peaceful old folk, who don'tcare to be made the stamping-ground for their little differences.The horses were longer at their lunch than we, and Miss Kitty requestedher traveling-bag. "And now," she said, "I will get rid of this fiend of ahat," whereas she had steadily protested for miles that she didn't mind itin the least. She took out of her bag a steamer-cap, and when she had putit on I could see that poor Harshaw dared not trust himself to look at her,her fair face exposed, and so very fair, in its tender, soft coloring,against that grim, wind-beaten waste of dust and sage.I shall skip the scenery on the road to Walter's Ferry, partly because wecouldn't see it for the dust; and if we had seen it, I would not waste itupon you, an army woman. But Walter's Ferry was a hard-looking place whenwe crawled in last night out of the howling, dirt-throwing wind.The little hand-raised poplars about the ferry-house were shivering andtugging and straining their thin necks in the gale, the windows so loadedwith dust that we could barely see if there were lights inside. We hootedand we howled,--the men did,--and the ferry-keeper came out and stared atus in blank amazement that we should be wanting supper and beds. As if wecould have wanted anything else at that place except to cross the river,which we don't do. We go up on this side. We came down the hill merely tosleep at the ferry-house, the night being too bad for a road camp.The one guest-room at the Ferry that could be called private was given toKitty and me; but we used it as a sitting-room till bedtime, there beingnowhere else to go but into the common room where the teamsters congregate.We stood and looked at each other, in our common disguise of dust, andtried to find our feet and other members that came awake gradually afterthe long stupor of the ride. There was a heap of sage-brush on the hearthlaid ready for lighting. I touched a match to it, and Kitty dropped on herknees in front of its riotous warmth and glow. Suddenly she sprang up andstared about her, sniffing and catching her breath. I had noticed it too;it fairly took one by the throat, the gruesome odor."What is this beastly smell?" She spoke right out, as our beloved Englishdo. Tom came in at that moment, and she turned upon him as though he werethe author of our misery."What has happened in this horrid room? We can't stay here, you know!"The proposition admitted of no argument. She refused to draw another breathexcept through her pocket-handkerchief.By this time I had recognized the smell. "It's nothing but sage-brush," Icried; "the cleanest, sterilest thing that grows!""It may be clean," said Kitty, "but it smells like the bottomless pit.I must have a breath of fresh air." The only window in the room was afour-pane sash fixed solid in the top of the outside door. Tom said weshould have the sweepings of the Snake River valley in there in one secondif we opened that door. But we did, and the wind played havoc with ourfire, and half the country blew in, as he had said, and with it came Cecil,his head bent low, his arms full of rugs and dust-cloaks."You angel!" I cried, "have you been shaking those things?""He's given himself the hay-fever," said Tom, heartlessly watching himwhile he sneezed and sneezed, and wept dust into his handkerchief."Doesn't the man do those things?" Miss Kitty whispered."What, our next Populist governor? Not much!" Tom replied. Kitty of coursedid not understand; it was hopeless to begin upon that theme--of our laboraristocracy; so we sent the men away, and made ourselves as presentable aswe could for supper.I need not dwell upon it; it was the usual Walter's Ferry supper. Thelittle woman who cooked it--the third she had cooked that evening--servedit as well, plodding back and forth from the kitchen stove to thedining-room table, a little white-headed toddler clinging to her skirts,and whining to be put to bed. Out of regard for her look of generaldiscouragement we ate what we could of the food without yielding to thetemptation to joke about it, which was a cross to Tom at least."Do you know how the farmers sow their seed in the Snake River valley?" heasked Miss Kitty. She raised eyes of confiding inquiry to his face."They prepare the land in the usual way; then they go about five miles towindward of the ploughed field and let fly their seed; the wind does therest. It would be of no use, you see, to sow it on the spot where it'smeant to lie; they would have to go into the next county to look for theircrop, top-soil and all."Now whenever Tom makes a statement Miss Kitty looks first at me to see howI am taking it.* * * * *It is a fair, pale morning, as still as a picture, after last night'sorgy of wind and dust. The maiden is making her first sketch on Americansoil--of the rope-ferry, with the boat on this side. She is seated inperfect unconsciousness on an inverted pine box--empty, I trust--whichbears the startling announcement, in legible lettering on its side, that itholds "500 smokeless nitro-powder cartridges." Now she looks up disgusted,to see the boat swing off and slowly warp over to the other side. Thepicturesque blocks and cables in the foreground have hopelessly changedposition, and continue changing; but she consoles herself by makingmarginal notes of the passengers returning by the boat,--a six-horsefreight-team from Silver City, and a band of horses driven by two realisticcow-boys from anywhere. The driver of the freight-team has a young wildcataboard, half starved, haggard, and crazed with captivity. He stops, andpulls out his wretched pet. The cow-boys stop; everybody stops; they makea ring, while the dogs of the ferry-house are invited to step up andexamine for themselves. The little cat spits and rages at the end of itsblood-stained rope. It is not a pretty show, and I am provoked with our menfor not turning their backs upon it.* * * * *Sunday, at Broadlands. From Walter's Ferry, day before yesterday, weclimbed back upon the main road, which crosses the plateau of the Snake,cutting off a great bend of the river, to see it again far below in thebottom of the Grand Canon.The alkali growth is monotonous here; but there was a world of beautyand caprice in the forms of the seed-pods dried upon their stalks. Mostof these pretty little purses were empty. Their treasure went, like thesavings of a maiden aunt, when the idle wind got hold of it. There is analmost humorous ingenuity in the pains Nature has taken to secure thepropagation of some of the meanest of her plant-children. The mostworthless little vagabond seeds have wings or fans to fly with, orself-acting bomb-receptacles that burst and empty their contents (whichnobody wants) upon the liberal air, or claws or prickers to catch on withto anything that goes. And once they have caught on, they are harder to getrid of than a Canadian "quarter.""And do you call this a desert?" cries Miss Kitty. "Why, millions ofcreatures live here! Look at the footprints of all the little beasties.They must eat and drink.""That is the cheek of us humans," said Tom. "We call our forests solitudesbecause we have never shown up there before. Precious little we weremissed. This desert subsisted its own population, and asked no favorsof irrigation, till man came and overstocked it, and upset its domesticeconomies. When the sheep-men and the cattle-men came with their foreignmouths to fill, the wild natives had to scatter and forage for food, andtrot back and forth to the river for drink. They have to travel miles nowto one they went before. Hence all these desert thoroughfares."And he showed us in the dust the track of a lizard, a kangaroo-mouse, and ahorned toad. We could see for ourselves Bre'r Jack-rabbit and Sis' Gopherskipping away in the greasewood. The horses and cattle had their ownbroad-beaten roads converging from far away toward an occasional break inthe canon wall, where the thirsty tracks went down.We plodded along, and having with much deliberation taken the wrong road,we found ourselves about nightfall at the bottom of the canon, in a perfectcul-de-sac. The bluffs ahead of us crowded close to the river, stretchingtheir rocky knees straight down into deep water, and making no lap at allfor our wagon to go over. And now, with this sweet prospect before us, itcame on steadily to rain. The men made camp in the slippery darkness, whilewe sat in the wagon, warm and dry, and thanked our stars there were still afew things left that men could do without our aid or competition. Presentlya lantern flashed out, and spots of light shifted over them as theyslaved--pounding tent-pegs, and scraping stones away from places where ourblankets were to be spread, hacking and hewing among the wet willows, andgrappling with stovepipes and tent-poles; and the harder they worked thebetter their spirits seemed to be."I wish some of the people who used to know Cecil Harshaw in England couldsee him now," said Kitty."What did he do in England?" I asked."He didn't hammer stovepipes and carry kitchen-boxes and cut fire-wood, youknow.""Don't you like to see men use their muscle?" I asked her. "Very few ofthem are reflective to any purpose at his age.""Why, how old, or how young, do you take him to be?""I think you spoke of him as a boy, if I remember.""If I called him a boy, it was out of charity for his behavior. He's withinsix months of my own age.""And you don't call yourself a girl any longer!" I laughed."It's always 'girls' and 'men,'" she said. "If Cecil Harshaw is not a mannow, he never will be."I didn't know, I said, what the point at issue was between us. I thoughtCecil Harshaw was very much a man, as men go, and I saw nothing, frankly,so very far amiss with his behavior."It's very kind of you, Mrs. Daly, to defend him, I am sure. I suppose hecould do no less than propose to me, after he had brought me out to marry aman who didn't appear to be quite ready; and if it had to be done, it wasbest to do it quickly."So that was what she had been threshing out between whiles? I might havetried to answer her, but now the little tent among the willows began toglow with fire and candlelight, and a dark shape loomed against it. It wasCecil Harshaw, bareheaded, with an umbrella, coming to escort us in tosupper.I never saw such a pair of roses as Kitty wore in her cheeks that night,nor the girl herself in such a gale. Tom gave me a triumphant glance acrossthe table, as if to say, See how the medicine works! It was either thebeginning of the cure, or else it was a feverish reaction.I shall have to hurry over our little incidents: how the wagon couldn't goon by way of the shore, and had to flounder back over the rocks, and crawlout of the canon to the upper road; how Kitty and I set out vain-gloriouslyto walk to Broadlands by the river-trail, and Harshaw set out to walk withus; and how Kitty made it difficult for him to walk with both of us bystaving on ahead, with the step of a young Atalanta. I was so provoked withher that I let her take her pace and I took mine. Fancy a woman of my ageracing a girl of her build and constitution seven miles to Broadlands! PoorHarshaw was cruelly torn between us, but he manfully stuck to his duty. Hewould not abandon the old lady even for the pleasure of running after theyoung one, though I absolved him many times, and implored him to leave meto my fate. I take pride in recording his faithfulness, and I see now whyI have always liked him. He wears well, particularly when things are mostharassing.It certainly was hard upon him when I gave out completely, toiling throughthe sand, and sat down to rest on the door-stone of a placer-miner'scabin (cabin closed and miner gone), and nowhere through the hot, morningstillness could we catch a sound or a sight of the runaway. I could almosthear his heart beat, and his eyes and ears and all his keen young senseswere on a stretch after that ridiculous girl. But he kept up a show ofinterest in my remarks, and paid every patient attention to my feeblewants, without an idea of how long it might be my pleasure to sit there.It was not long, however it may have seemed to him, before we heardwagon-wheels booming down a little side-canon between the hills. The teamhad managed to drag the wagon up through a scrubby gulch that lookedlike no thoroughfare, but which opened into a very fair way out of ourdifficulties.When we had come within sight of Broadlands Ferry, all aboard except Kitty,and still not a sign nor a sound of her, our hearts began to soften towardthat willful girl.Tom requested Harshaw to jump out and see if he couldn't round up hiscountrywoman. But Harshaw rather haughtily resigned--in favor of a betterman, he said. Then Tom stood up in the wagon and gave the camp call,"Yee-ee-ip! yee-ip, ye-ip!" a brazen, barbarous hoot. Kitty clapped bothhands to her ears when she was first introduced to it, but it did not fetchher now. Tom "yee-iped" again, and as we listened there she was, strollingtoward us through the greasewood, with the face of a May morning! Shewouldn't give us the satisfaction of seeing her run, but her flushedcheeks, damp temples, and quick, sighing breath betrayed her. She hadbeen running fast enough."Kitty," I said severely, "there are rattlesnakes among those rocks.""Are there?" she answered serenely. "But I wasn't looking for rattlesnakes,you know. See what lovely things I did find! I've got the 'prospecting'fever already."She had filled her pockets with specimens of obsidian, jaspers, andchalcedonies, of colors most beautiful, with a deep-dyed opaqueness, ashell-fracture, and a satiny polish like jade. And she consulted us aboutthem very prettily--the little fraud! Of course she was instantly forgiven.But I notice that since our arrival at Broadlands, Harshaw has not troubledher with his attentions. They might be the most indifferent strangers, forall that his manner implies. And if she is not pleased with the change, sheought to be, for she has made her wishes plain.IICamp at the Thousand Springs. A little grass peninsula running out betweenthe river and a narrow lagoon, a part of Decker's ranch, two miles by waterbelow the Springs and half a mile from Decker's Ferry, set all about witha hedge of rose, willow, and wild-currant bushes, sword-grass, and tallreeds,--the grasses enormous, like Japanese decorations,--crossing thedarks of the opposite shore and the lights of the river and sky. Our tentsare pitched, our blankets spread in the sun, our wagon is soaking its tiredfeet in the river. Tom and Harshaw are up-stream somewhere, fishing forsupper. Billings is bargaining with Old Man Decker for the "keep" of histeam. Kitty and I are enjoying ourselves. There is a rip in one of the backseams of my jacket, Kitty tells me, but even that cannot move me.I say we are enjoying ourselves; but my young guest has developed a newmood of late which gives poignancy to my growing tenderness for the girl.She has kept up wonderfully, with the aid of her bit of a temper, for whichI like her none the less. How she will stand this idleness, monotony, andintimacy, with the accent of beauty pressing home, I cannot say. I ratherfear for her.The screws have been tightened on her lately by something that befell atthe Harshaw ranch. Our road lay past the place, and Harshaw had to stop forhis surveying instruments, also to pack a bag, he said,--with apologies forkeeping us waiting.I think we were all a little nervous as we neared the house. Very few womencould have spelled the word "home" out of those rough masculine premises. Iwondered if Kitty was not offering up a prayer of thanksgiving for the lifeshe had been delivered from.Harshaw jumped down, and, stooping under the wire fence, ran across thealfalfa stubble to the house as fast as he could for the welcome of abeautiful young setter dog--Maisie he called her--that came wildly out tomeet him. A woman--not a nice-looking woman--stood at the door and watchedhim, and even at our distance from them there was something strange intheir recognition.Kitty began to talk and laugh with forced coolness. Tom turned the horsessharply, so that the wagon's shadow lay on the roadside, away from thehouse. "Get out, hadn't you better?" he suggested, in the tone of acommand. We got out, and Kitty asked for her sketching-bag."Kitty," I whispered, pointing to the house, "draw that, and send it toyour mother. She will never ask again why you didn't care to live there.""That has nothing to do with it," she retorted coldly. "I would have livedthere, or anywhere, with the right person."There was no such person. I couldn't help saying it.She is very handsome when she looks down, proud and a trifle sullen whenyou "touch her on the raw," as the men say."But there is such a person, Kitty," I ventured. I had ventured, itseemed, too far."You are my hostess. Your house is my only home. Don't be his accomplice!"I thought it rather well said.Now that woman's clothes were hanging on the line (and very common-lookingclothes they were), so she could not have been a casual guest. Moreover,she was pacing the hard ground in front of the house, and staring at uswith a truculent yet uneasy air. Curiosity was strong, and a sort of angerpossessed me against the place and everybody connected with it.When Cecil came out, looking very hot and confused for him, who is alwaysso fresh and gay, I inquired, rather shortly perhaps, "Who is yourvisitor?""I have no visitor," he answered me, as cool as you please. But there wasa protest in his eye. I was determined not to spare him or any of theHarshaws."Your housekeeper, then?""I have no housekeeper.""Who is the lady stopping at your house?""I have no house.""Your cousin's house, then?""If you refer to the person I was talking to--she is my cousin'shousekeeper, I suppose."Tom gave me a look, and I thought it time to let the subject drop. This wasin Kitty's presence, though apparently she neither saw nor heard. I walkedon ahead of the wagon, so angry that I was almost sick. Instantly Harshawjoined me, with a much nicer, brighter look upon his face."Mrs. Daly," he said, "I want to beg your pardon. I could not answer yourquestion before Miss Comyn. The lady, as you were pleased to call her, isMrs. Harshaw, my cousin--Micky's wife, you understand.""Since when?""Day before yesterday, she tells me. They were married at Bliss.""Well, I should say it was 'Bliss' for Kitty Comyn that she is not Mrs.Harshaw--too," I was about to add, but that would be going rather far. "Andwhat did you want to bring that girl over here for?""Mrs. Daly, I have told you,--I thought she loved him.""And what of his love for her?""Good heavens! you don't suppose Micky cares for that old thing he hasmarried! That was what I was trying to save him from. He'd have had to bethe deuce of a lot worse than he is to deserve that."Had it occurred to him, I put it to Cecil Harshaw, to ask himself what thesaving of his precious cousin might have cost the girl who was to have beenoffered up to that end?"You leave out one small feature of the case," said Harshaw, with a sickand burning look that made me drop my eyes, old woman as I am. "I love hermyself so well that, by Heaven! if she had wanted Micky or any other man,she should have had him, if that was what her heart was set upon. But Ididn't believe it was. I wanted her to know the truth, and, hang it! Icouldn't write it to her. I couldn't peach on Micky; but I wanted to smashthings. I wanted something to happen. Maybe I didn't do the right thing,but I had to do something."I couldn't tell him just what I thought of him at that moment, but I didsay to him that he had some very simple ideas for an end-of-the-centuryyoung Englishman. At which he smiled sweetly, and said it was one of hissimple ideas that Kitty need not be informed who or what her successor was,or how promptly she had been succeeded."But just now you said you wanted her to know the truth.""Not the whole truth. Great Scott! she knows enough. No need to rub it in.""She knows just enough about this to misunderstand, perhaps. In justiceto yourself--she heard you beating about the bush--do you want her tomisunderstand you?""Oh, hang me! I don't expect her to understand me, or even tolerate me,yet. Mine is a waiting race, Mrs. Daly.""Very well; you can wait," I said. "But news like this will not wait. Shewill be obliged to hear it; you don't know how or where she may hear it.Better let her hear it first in as decent a way as possible.""But there is no decent way. How can I explain to you, or you to her,such a measly affair as this? It began with a question of money he owedthat woman on the ranch. He bought it of her,--and a cruel bad bargain itwas,--and he never could make his last payment. She has threatened him,and played the fool with him when he'd let her, and bored him no end. Hisgovernor would have helped him out; but, you see, Micky has been a ratherexpensive boy, and he has given the old gentleman to understand that theplace is paid for,--to account for money sent him at various times for thatostensible purpose,--and on that basis the bargain was struck, betweenour governors, for my interest in the ranch. My father bought me in, on aclear title, as Uncle George represented it, in perfect good faith. I'venever said a word, on the old gentleman's account; and Micky has neverdared undeceive his father, who is the soul of honor in business, as ineverything else. I am sorry to bore you with family affairs; but it'srather rum the way Micky's fate has caught up with him, through his oneweakness of laziness, and perhaps lying a little, when he was obliged to.How this affair came about so suddenly I can't say. Didn't like to ask hertoo many questions; and Micky, poor devil, faded from view directly he sawus coming. But at a venture: she had heard he was going to be married, andcame down here to make trouble when he should arrive with his bride; but hecame back alone, disgusted with life, and found her here. It was easier tomarry her than--pay her, we'll say. She has been something over-generous,perhaps. She would rather have had him, any time, than her money, and nowwas the time. She took advantage of a weak moment.""A weak and a spiteful moment," I kindly added. "Now if he hastens the newsto England, and the Percifers hear of it in New York, how pleasant forKitty to have all her friends hear that he is married and she is not!""Great Heavens!" said the young fellow, "if she would let me hasten thenews--that she is married to me!""Why don't you appeal to her pride and her spirit now while they are in thedust? Why do you bother with sentiment now?"I liked him so much at that moment that I would have had him have Kitty, nomatter what way he got her."Yes," he said; "why not take advantage of her, as everybody else hasdone?""Some people's scrupulousness comes rather late," I said."To those who don't understand," he had the brazenness to say. "What isdone is done. It's a rough beginning--awfully rough on her. The end mustatone somehow. If I don't win her I shall be punished enough; but if I do,it will be because she loves me. And pray God"--He stopped, with that look.It is a number of years since a young man has looked at me in that way, buta woman does not forget.It was rather difficult telling to Kitty the story of her old lover'smarriage, as I took it on myself to do. Not that she winced perceptibly;but I fear she has taken the thing home, and is dwelling on it--certainfeatures of it--in a way that can do no good. From a word she lets slip nowand then, I gather that she is brooding over that fancy of hers that CecilHarshaw offered himself by way of reparation, as she was falling betweentwo stools,--her own home and her lover's,--to save her from the ground.As since that rainy night in the wagon she has never distinctly referredto this theory of his conduct, I have no excuse for bringing it up, evento attack it. In fact, I dare not; she is in too complicated a mood. And,after all, why should I want her to marry either of them? Why should the"hungry generations" tread her down? She is nice enough to stay as she is.Another thing happened on our way here which may perversely have helped toconfirm her in this pretty notion of Harshaw's disinterestedness.At a place by the river where the current is bad (there are many suchplaces, and, in fact, the whole of the Snake River is a perfect hoodoo)Harshaw stopped one day to drink. The wagon had struck a streak of heavysand, and we were all walking. We stood and watched him, because he drankwith such deep enjoyment, stooping bareheaded on his hands and knees, andputting his hot face to the water. Suddenly he made a clutch at his breastpocket: his Norfolk jacket was unbuttoned. He had lost something, and theriver had got it. He ran along the bank, trying to recover it with a stick,and, not succeeding, he plopped in just as he was, with his boots on. Wesaw him drop into deep water and swim for it, a little black object, whichhe caught, and held in his teeth. Then he turned his face to the shore; andprecious near he came to never reaching it! We women had been looking on,smiling, like idiot dolls, till we saw Tom racing down the bank, throwingoff his coat as he ran. Then we took a sort of dumb fright, and tried tofollow; but it was all over in a second, before we saw it, still lessrealized it--his struggle, swimming for dear life, and not gaining an inch;the stick held out to him in the nick of time, just as he passed a spotwhere the beast of a current that had him swooped inshore.I am sorry to say that my husband's first words to the man he may be saidto have saved from death were, "You young fool, what did you do that for?""For this," Harshaw panted, slapping his wet breast."For a pocket-book! Great Sign! What had you in it? I wouldn't have donethat for the whole of the Snake River valley.""Nor I," laughed Harshaw."Nor the Bruneau to boot.""Nor I.""What did you do it for, then?""For this," Harshaw repeated."For a piece of pasteboard with a girl's face on it, or some such toy, I'llbe sworn!"Harshaw did not deny the soft impeachment."I didn't know you had a girl, Harshaw," Tom began seductively."Well, I haven't, you know," said Harshaw. "There was one I wanted badlyenough, a few years ago," he added with engaging frankness."When was it you first began to pine for her? About the period of seconddentition?""Oh, betimes; and betimes I was disappointed.""Well, unless it was for the girl herself, I'd keep out of that SnakeRiver," my husband advised.Kitty's face wore a slightly strained expression of perfect vacancy."Do you know who Harshaw's 'girl' was?" I asked her the other night, aswe were undressing,--without an idea that she wouldn't see where the jokecame in. She was standing, with her hair down, between the canvas curtainsof our tent. It looks straight out toward the Sand Springs Fall, and Kittyworships there awhile every night before she goes to bed."No," she said. "I was never much with Cecil Harshaw. It is the familiesthat have always known each other." The simple child! She hadn't understoodhim, or would she not understand? Which was it? I can't make out whethershe is really simple or not. She is too clever to be so very simple; yetthe cleverness of a young girl's mind, centred on a few ideas, is mainlyin spots. But now I think she has brought this incident to bear upon thatprecious theory of hers, that Harshaw offered himself from a sense of duty.Great good may it do her!The Sand Springs Fall, a perfect gem, is directly opposite our camp, facingwest across the lagoon. We can feast our eyes upon it at all hours of theday and night. Tom has told Kitty, in the way of business, that he has nouse for that fall. She may draw it or not, as she likes. She does drawit; she draws it, and water-colors it, and chalks it in colored crayons,and India-inks it, loading on the Chinese white; and she charcoals it, inmoonlight effects, on a gray-blue paper. But do it whatever way she will,she never can do it."Oh, you exquisite, hopeless thing! Why can't I let you alone!" she cries;"and why can't you let me alone!""It is rather hard, the way the thing doubles up on you," says Tom."The real fall, right side up, is bad enough; but when it comes to thereflection of it, standing on its head in the lagoon, I should lie rightdown myself. I wouldn't pull another pound."("Lay down," he said; but I thought you wouldn't stand it. Tom wouldnever spoil a cherished bit of dialect because of shocking anybody with hisgrammar.)Kitty throws herself back in the dry salt-grass with which the whole ofour little peninsula is bedded. The willows and brakes are our curtains,through which the rising moon looks in at us, and the setting sun; the sunrises long before we see him, above the dark-blue mountains beyond theshore."Won't somebody repeat'There is sweet music here that softlier lies?'"Kitty asks, letting her eyelashes fall on her sun-flushed cheeks. Her face,as I saw it, sitting behind her in the grass, was so pretty--upside downlike the reflection of the waterfall, its colors all the more wonderfullyblended.We did not all speak at once. Then Harshaw said, to break the silence, "Iwill read it to you, if you don't mind.""Oh, have you the book?" Kitty asked in surprise.He went to his tent and returned with a book, and sitting on the grasswhere she could hear but could not see him, he began. I trembled for him;but before he had got to the second stanza I was relieved: he could readaloud."Now there is a man one could live on a Snake River ranch with," I feltlike saying to Kitty. Not that I am sure that I want her to.When he had finished,"O rest ye, brother mariners; we will not wander more!"Tom remarked, after a suitable silence, that it was all well enough forHarshaw, who would be in London in six weeks, to say, "We will not wandermore!" But how about the rest of us?Kitty sat straight up at that."Will Mr. Harshaw be in London six weeks from now?" The question was almosta cry."Will you?" she demanded, turning upon him as if this was the last injuryhe could do her."I suppose so," he said."And you will see my mother, and all of them?""I think so--if you wish."She rose up, as if she could bear no more. Harshaw waited an instant, andthen followed her; but she motioned him back, and went away to have it outwith herself alone.I took up the book Harshaw had left on the grass. It was "Copp'sManual"--"For the use of Prospectors," etc.* * * * *After all, it is not so sure that Harshaw will go to London. There has beenan engineer on the ground since last summer, when all this water was free.He has located a vast deal of it, perhaps the whole. Tom says he can holdonly just as much as he can use; I hope there will be no difference ofopinion on that point. There generally is a difference of opinion on pointsof location when the thing located is proved to have any value. The priorlocator has gone East, they tell us at the ranch, on a business visit,presumably to raise capital for his scheme; which, as I understand it,is to force the water of the springs up on the dry plains above, forirrigation (the fetich of the country), by means of a pneumatic pumpingarrangement. His ladders and pipes, and all his hopeful apparatus, areclinging now like cobwebs to the face of the bluff, against that flashing,creaming broadside of the springs at their greatest height and fall. I waspitying the poor man and his folly, but Tom says the plan is perfectlyfeasible.The wall of the river canon is built up in stories of basalt rock, eachstory defined by a horizontal fissure, out of which these mysterious watersgush, white and cold, taking glorious colors in the sunlight from the richunder-painting of the rock. There is an awfulness about it, too, as if thatsheer front of rock were the retaining-wall of a reservoir as deep as thebluffs are high, which had sprung a leak in a thousand places, and mightthe next instant burst and ingulf the lagoon, and wipe out the prettyisland between itself and the river. Winter and summer the volume of waternever varies, and the rate of discharge is always the same, and the wateris never cold, though I have just said it is. It looks cold until the rockswarm it with their gemlike tints, like a bride's jewels gleaming throughher veil. Back of the bluffs, where it might be supposed to come from,there is nothing for a hundred miles but drought and desert plains. I don'tcare for any of their theories concerning its source. It is better as itis--the miracle of the smitten rock.You can fancy what wild presumption it must seem that a mere man shouldthink to reverse those torrents and make them climb the bluff or cram theminto an iron pipe and send them like paid laborers to hoist and pump andgrind, and light the streets at Silver City, a hundred miles away. And howthe cataracts will shout while these two pigmies compare their rival claimsto ownership--in a force that with one stroke could lay them as flat aslast year's leaves in the bottom of a mill-race!The particular fall my schemer has located for his own--other claims to bediscussed hereafter--is called the "Snow Bank." He says he doesn't want theearth: this one cataract is enough for him. To look at the whole frontageof the springs and listen to their roar, one would think there might bewater enough for them both, poor children! Hardly what you'd call two bitesof a cherry!If the springs were the half of a broken diamond bracelet, the Snow Bankwould be its brightest gem, lying separate in the case--perhaps the onethat was the clasp. It is half hidden by the shoulder of a great barrenbluff which, at a certain angle of the sun, throws a blue shadow over it.At other times the fall is almost too bright in its foaming whiteness forthe eye to endure.Kitty is painting it with this shadow half across it; but the light shinesupon it at its source. Tom is doubtful if she is showing the fall to thebest advantage for his purpose, but he is obliging enough to let the artisttry it in her own way first."Go up there," she says, "and stand at the head of the spring, if you wantto show by comparison how big it is, or how small you are."He goes, and gets in position, and Kitty makes some pencil-marks on themargin of her sketch. Then she waves her hands to tell him, across theshouting current, that she is done with him. She has been so quick thathe thinks he must have mistaken her gesture. Then Harshaw makes thetrain-conductor's signal for the train to move on."You see," she says to Harshaw and me, who are looking over her shoulder,"that would be the size of him in my sketch." She points to the marginalpencil-mark, which is not longer than the nib of a stub-pen. "I can't makea little black dot like that look like a man.""In this particular sketch, for his purpose, he'd rather look like a dotthan a man, I dare say," said Harshaw."Well, shall I put him in? I can make a note of it on the margin: 'Thisblack dot is Mr. Daly, standing at the spring-head. He is six feet'"--"But he isn't, you know," Harshaw says. "He's five feet ten--if he's that.""Ten and a half," I hasten to amend.Our lunch that day had been left in the boat. We went down and ate itunder the mountain birches at a spot where the Snow Bank empties into thelagoon--not our lagoon, as we called it, between our camp and the lovelySand Springs Fall, but the upper one, made by the springs themselves,before their waters reach the river. In front of us, half embraced by thelagoon and half by the river, lay a little island-ranch of about ten acres,not cut up in crops, but all over green in pasture. A small cabin, proppingup a large hop-vine, showed against a mass of birch and cottonwood on theriver side of the island."What a place for a honeymoon!" said I."There is material there for half of a honeymoon," said Tom--"not badmaterial, either.""Oh, yes," I said; "we have seen her--that is, we have seen her sunbonnet.""Kitty, you've got a rival," I exclaimed: for there in the sunny centre ofthe island, planted with obvious design right in front of the Snow Bank,our Snow Bank, was an artist's big white umbrella."Why should I not have, in a place like this?" she said. "If the schemersarrive by twos, why not two of my modest craft? We shall leave it as wefind it; we don't intend to carry it away in our pockets." She stopped, andblushed disdainfully. "I forgot," she murmured, "my own mercenary designs.""I have not heard of these mercenary designs of yours. What are they, mayI ask?" Harshaw had turned on his side on the grass, and half rose on oneelbow as he looked at her."That is strange," mocked Kitty, with supreme coldness. "You have alwaysbeen so interested in my affairs!""I always shall be," he replied seriously, with supreme gentleness."I ought to be so grateful.""But unfortunately you are not.""I should be grateful--if you would move a little farther to the right, ifyou please. That young person in the pink sunbonnet is coming down to waterher horses again."Harshaw calmly took himself out of her way altogether, lighted his pipe,and went down close to the water, and sat there on a stone, and presently,as we could hear, entered into easy conversation with the pink sunbonnet,the face of which leaned toward him over the pony's neck as he stooped todrink. The splashed waters became still, and softly the whole picture--pinksunbonnet, clay-bank pony, pale and shivery willows, and deep bluesky--developed on the negative of the clear lagoon.There was no use in saying how pretty it was, so we resorted to the othernote, of disparagement. I remarked that I should not think a pink sunbonnetwould be ravishingly becoming to the average Snake River complexion, as Ihad seen it."That sunbonnet is becoming, you bet!" Tom remarked. "Wait till you seethe face inside it.""Have you seen it?""Quite frequently. Do you think Harshaw would sit there talking with her,as he does by the hour, if that sunbonnet was not becoming?""As he does by the hour! And why have we not heard of her before?" Irequested to be told."Business, my dear. She is a feature of the scheme--quite an important one.She represents the hitch which is sure to develop early in the history ofevery live enterprise.""Indeed?" I said. And if Harshaw talked with her on business, I didn't seewhat his talking had to do with the face inside her bonnet."I don't say that it's always on business," Tom threw in significantly."Who is the lady in the pink sunbonnet, and what is your business withher?" I demanded."I question the propriety of speaking of her in just that tone," said Tom,"inasmuch as she happens to be a lady--somewhat off the conventional lines.She waters her own stock and milks her own cow, because the old Indian girlwho lives with her is laid up at present with a fever. Her father was anartist--one of the great unappreciated"--"So that was her father painting the Snow Bank?" I interrupted."Her father is dead, my dear, as you would have learned if you had listenedto my story. But he lived here a good many years before he died. He hadmade a queer marriage, old man Decker tells me, and quarreled with theworld on account of it. He came here with his disputed bride. She wassomebody else's wife first, I believe, and there was a trifling informalityabout the matrimonial exchange; but it came out all right. They bothdied, and a sweeter, fresher little thing than the daughter! Adamant,though--bed-rock, so far as we are concerned.""What do you want that belongs to her?" I asked. "Her island, perhaps?""Only right of way across it. But 'that's a detail.' She is the owner ofsomething else we do want--this piece of ground,"--he looked about him andwaved his hand,--"and all this above us, where our power-plant must stand.And our business is to persuade her to sign the lease, or, if she won'tlease, to sell it when we are ready to buy. We have to make sure of thatpiece of ground. This place is so confoundedly cut up with scenery andnonsense, there's not a spot available for our plant but this. We'll bridgethe lagoon and make a landing on that point of birches over there.""You will! And do you suppose she will sign a lease to empower you to wipeher off the face of the earth--abolish her and her pretty island at onefell swoop?""She knows nothing yet about our designs upon her toy island. We haven'tapproached her on that. We could manage without it at a pinch.""So good of you!" I murmured."But we can't manage without a place to put our power-house.""She'll have to sign her own death-warrant, of course. If you get a footingfor your power-house you'll want the island next. I never heard of suchgrasping profanation.""Well, if Cecy could see his way to fall in love with her,--I wouldn't askhim to woo her in cold blood,--it would be a monstrous convenient way tosettle it.""Why do you say such things before her?" I asked Tom when we were alone."They are not pretty things to say, in the first place.""Have you noticed how she is always snubbing him? I thought it timesomebody should try the counter-snub. He's not solely dependent for thejoys of life on the crumbs of her society.""Do you suppose she cares whom he talks to, or whom he spends his timewith?""Perhaps she doesn't care. I should like to give her a chance to see if shecares, that's all."Tom's location notice being plain for all eyes to read, the mistress ofthe island naturally inquired what he wanted with the Snow Bank; and he,thinking she would see at once the value to her ranch of such a neighboringenterprise, frankly told her of his scheme. Nothing of its scientificinterest, its difficulties, its commercial value, even its benefit toherself, appealed to the little islander. To her it was simply an attemptto alter and ruin the spot she loved best on earth; to steal her beautifulwaterfall and carry it away in an ugly iron pipe. Whether the thing couldbe done, she did not ask herself; the design was enough. Never would shelend herself, or anything that was hers, to such an impious desecration!This was her position, which any child might have taken in defense of abeloved toy; but she was holding it with all a woman's force and constancy.I was glad of it, I said to Tom, and I hoped she would stand them offfor all she was worth. But I am not really glad. What woman could lovea waterfall better than her husband's success? There are hundreds ofwaterfalls in the world, but only this one scheme for Tom.But anent this hitch, it teases me a little, I confess, on Kitty's account,when Cecil meanders over to the island at all hours of the day. To be sure,it relieves Kitty of his company; but is she so glad, after all, to berelieved?It was last Friday, after one of Harshaw's entirely frank but perfectlyunexplained absences, that he came into camp and inquired if there was anyclam-broth left in the kitchen. I referred him to the cook. Finding therewas, he returned to me and asked if he might take a tin of it to MissMalcolm for her patient."Who is Miss Malcolm?" I asked. But of course who could she be but the ladyof the island, where he spends the greater part of his time? He was welcometo the clam-broth, or anything else he thought would be acceptable in thatquarter, I said. And how was the patient?"Oh, she's quite bad all the time. She doesn't get about. I wonder ifyou'd mind, Mrs. Daly, if I asked you to look in on her some day? The oldcreature's in a sad way, it seems to me."Of course I didn't mind, if Miss Malcolm did not. Harshaw seemed to feelauthorized to assure me of that fact. So I went first with Tom, and then Iwent again alone, leaving Harshaw in the boat with Kitty.Miss Malcolm's maid or man servant, or both--for she does the work of both,and looks in her bed (dressed in a flannel bed-sack, her head tied up inan old blue knitted "fascinator") less like a woman than anything I everbeheld--appears to have had a mild form of grippe fever, and having neverbeen sick in her life before, she thought she was nearing her end. Mysimple treatment, the basis of which was quinine and whiskey, seemed tostrike old Tamar favorably; and after the second visit there was no need tocome again to see her. But by this time I was deep in the good books of hermistress, who knows too little of illness herself to appreciate how littlehas been done, by me at least, or how very little needed to be done afterrestoring the old woman's confidence in her power to live. (The last time Isaw her she still wore the blue fascinator, but with a man's hat on top ofit; she was waddling toward the cow-corral with half a haystack, it lookedlike, poised on a hay-fork above her head. She was certainly a credit toher doctor, if not to her corsetiere, she and the haystack being much ofa figure.)Miss Malcolm's innocent gratitude is most embarrassing, really painful,under the circumstances, and the poor child cannot let the circumstancesalone. She imagines I am always thinking about Tom's scheme. It is evidentthat she is; and not being exactly a woman of the world, out of thefullness of her heart her mouth speaketh. That would be all right if shewould speak to somebody else. I don't want to take advantage of hergratitude, as she seems determined I shall do."You must think me a very strained, sentimental creature," she said to methe last time, "to care so much for a few old rocks and a little piece offoamy water."I didn't think so at all, I told her. If I had lived there all my life, Ishould feel about the place just as she did.Here she began to blush and distress herself. "But think how kind you haveall been to me! Mr. Harshaw was here every day, after he found how ill poorTamar was. He did so many things: he lifted her, for one thing, and thatI couldn't have done to save her life. And your two visits have simplycured her! And here I am making myself a stumbling-block and ruining yourhusband's plans!"I said he was quite capable of taking care of himself."Does your husband want all the water?" she persisted. "Do I understandthat he must have it all?"I supposed she was talking of the Snow Bank, and since she was determinedwe should discuss the affair in this social way, I said he would haveto have a great deal; and I told her about the distance the power wouldhave to be sent, and about the mines and the smelters, and all the restof it, for it was no use to belittle the scheme. I had got startedunintentionally, and I saw by her face that I had made an impression. Itis a small-featured, rather set, colorless face, not so pretty as Tompretended, but very delicate and pure; but now it became suddenly the faceof a fierce little bigot, and enthusiast to boot."It shall never go through,--not that scheme--not if"--Then sheremembered to whom she was talking, and set her lips together, and twogreat shiny drops stood in her eyes."Don't, don't, you child!" I said. "Don't worry about their old scheme! Ifit must come it will come; but as a rule, a scheme, my dear, is the lastthing that ever does go through. There's plenty of time.""But I can't give in," she said. "No; I must try to hinder it all Ican. I will be honest with you. I like you all; of all the strangers whohave come here I never liked any people better. But your husband--mustnot--set his heart on all that water! It doesn't belong to him.""Does it belong to you, dear?""The sight of it belongs to me," she said. "I will not have the placeall littered up with their pipes and power-plants. Look out there! Look atthat! Has any one the right to come here and spoil such a lovely thing asthat?"--This is what it is to be the daughter of an artist."And how about the other despoiler," I asked--"the young man with thepneumatic pipe?""The 'pneumatic pipe'!" she repeated."'Pump,' I mean. Is he to be allowed all over the place to do as hepleases? His scaling-ladders are littering up the bluffs--not that theyincommode the bluffs any; but if I lived here, I should want to brush themaway as I would sweep the cobwebs from my walls.""I do not own the bluffs," she said in a distant, tremulous voice.But the true answer to my question, as I surmise, was the sudden, helplessflush which rose, wave upon wave, covering her poor little face, blottingout all expression but that of painful girlish shame. Here, if I'm notmistaken, will be found the heart of the difficulty. Miss Malcolm'ssympathies are evidently with compressed air rather than with electricaltransmission. I shall tell Tom he need waste no more arguments on her. Lethim first compound with his rival of the pump.* * * * *I suppose there is just such a low, big moon as this looking in upon youwhere you sit, you little dot of a woman, lost in the piazza perspectivesof the Coronado; and you might think small things of our presenthabitation--a little tent among the bushes, with wind-blown weeds againstthe moon, shifting their shadow-patterns over our canvas walls. But you'dnot think small things of our Sand Springs Fall by night, that glimmers onthe dark cliff opposite--cliff, and mist-like cataract, and the low moonthrowing the shadow of the bluff across it, all repeated in the stiller,darker picture of the lagoon. I shall not inflict much of this sort ofthing upon you; but the senseless beauty of it all gives one a heartache.Why should it be here, where you and I shall never see it together--whereI shall leave it soon, never to see it again? Tom says we are comingback--when the great scheme is under way. Ah, the scheme, the scheme! Itlooks very far away to-night, and so do some other schemes that I had setmy heart on unaware, foolish old woman that I am. As if there was only oneway in this--world for young men and women to be happy!Harshaw brought me your sweet letter yesterday. It was stage-day, and hewent up over the bluffs to the ferry mail-box at the cross-roads, where theroad to Shoshone Falls branches from the road to Bliss.I read to Kitty what you wrote me about the Garretts and their children,and the going to New York and then to Paris. (Thank you so much, dear, foryour prompt interest in my little bride that isn't to be!) She had twoletters of her own which she had read by herself, and afterward I thoughtshe had been crying; but with her it is best not to press the note ofsympathy. Neither does she like me to handle her affairs with gloves on,so to speak. So I plunged into the business in a matter-of-fact tone, andshe replied in the same. Her objection is to going east to New York, andthen to the other side. "I had rather stay in California," she said, "oranywhere in the West." Naturally; westward lies the way of escape fromsocial complications.She is afraid of the Percifers, and of meeting people she knows in Paris.But an offer like this was exceptional in this part of the world, Ireminded her. A nurse for the boy, a maid, and only two little girls ofeight and ten on her hands; and such nice people as the Garretts, who havebeen all over the world!"Well," she said, "I should certainly like to get away from here as soon aspossible. From here, not from you!" she added, looking me in the face.Her eyes were full of tears. We clasped hands on that."What is it? Has anything else happened?" I asked; for I knew by her looksthat something had."Oh, dear!" she sighed, "I should so like to take myself and my troublesseriously once in a while. No sooner do I try, but something perfectlyfarcical is sure to happen. If I tell you this, promise me you won't laugh.It's indecent for me to laugh; mamma would never forgive me. The old dear!I'm so fond of him!"The "old dear," it seems, is Micky's father--a very superior sort of fatherfor such a son to have, but accidents will happen in the best-regulatedfamilies. He is a gallant widower of fair estate, one of those splendid oldclub-men of London; a very expensive article of old gentleman, with fineold-fashioned manners and morals, and a few stray impulses left, it wouldseem by what follows. According to the father's code, the son has notconducted himself in his engagement to Kitty Comyn as a gentleman should.Thereupon the head of the house goes to Miss Kitty's mother and makes theamende honorable by offering his hand and heart and fortune to his son'sinsulted bride! The mother is touched and pleased not a little by thisprompt espousal of her daughter's cause; and having wiped away all tearsfrom her eyes, this gallant old gentleman is coming over to America, forthe first time in his life, to make his proposal to the bride herself! Heis not so old, to get down to particulars; sixty-three doesn't look soold to some of us as it does to Miss Kitty. He is in fine health, I doubtnot, and magnificently preserved. Kitty's mother is not at all averse, asI gather, to this way of settling her child's difficulties. She ratherpleadingly assures Kitty that Mr. Harshaw senior has solemnly sworn thatthis is no unpleasant duty he feels called on to perform; not only hishonor, but his affections are profoundly enlisted in this proposal. Kittyhas had for years a sacred place in his regard; and from thinking of her asa daughter absolutely after his own heart, it is but a step to think of herin a still nearer--the nearest--relation. He begs her mother to prepare herfor no perfunctory offer of marriage, but one that warms with every day'sdelay till he can take the dear child under his lifelong protection. Not topunish or to redress does he come, but to secure for himself and posteritya treasure which his son had trampled under foot. Somehow we did not feellike laughing, after all. Kitty, I think, is a little frightened. Shecannot reach her mother, even with a cable dispatch, before this secondchampion will arrive."He's an awfully grand old fellow, you know. I could never talk to him as Ido to the boys. If he thinks it his duty to marry me, I don't know if I canhelp myself. Poor Uncle George! I've always called him 'uncle' like his ownnieces, who are all my friends. I never thought that I should be 'poor-ing'Uncle George! But he can't have heard yet of Micky's marriage. Fancy hisgoing down to the ranch to stay with Micky and that woman! And then for agirl like me to toss him aside, after such a journey and such kindness! Idon't know how I shall ever have courage to do it. There are fine women inLondon who would jump at the chance of being Mrs. Harshaw--not Mrs. Micky,nor Mrs. Stephen, nor Mrs. Sidney, but Mrs. Harshaw, you understand?" Iunderstood."And now," she said, producing the second letter, "you will laugh! Andyou may!"The envelope contained a notification, in due form, of the arrival from NewYork, charges not paid, of some five hundred pounds of second-class freightconsigned to Mrs. Harshaw, Harshaw's ranch, Glenn's Ferry (via Bisuka)."These things belong to me," said Kitty. "They cost me the last bit ofmoney I had that was my own. Mrs. Percifer, who is so clever at managing,persuaded me I should need them directly on the ranch--curtains and rugsand china, and heaven knows what! She nearly killed me, dragging me aboutthose enormous New York shops. She said it would be far and away cheaperand better to buy them there. I didn't mind about anything, I was so scaredand homesick; I did whatever she said. She saw to getting them off, Isuppose. That must have been her idea, directing them to Mrs. Harshaw. Shethought there would be no Kitty Comyn, no me, when these got here. Andthere isn't; this is not the Kitty Comyn who left England--six weeks, isit?--or six years ago!""How did the letter reach you?" I asked. We examined the envelope. It borethe postmark, not of Bisuka, but of Glenn's Ferry, which is the nearestpost-office to the Harshaw ranch. Micky's wife had doubtless opened theletter, and Micky, perceiving where the error lay, had reinclosed, but someone else had directed it--the postmaster, probably, at his request--toKitty, at our camp. That was rather a nice little touch in Micky, that lastabout the direction."Come, he is honest, at the least," I said, "whether Mrs. Micky would havescrupled or not. She could claim the things if she chose.""She is quite welcome," said Kitty. "I don't know what in the world I shalldo with them. There'll be boxes and bales and barrels--enough to bury meand all my troubles. I might build me a funeral pyre!"We fell into each other's arms and screamed with laughter."Kitty, we'll have an auction," I cried. "There's nothing succeeds likean auction out here. We'll sell the things at boom prices--we'll selleverything.""But the bride," said Kitty; "you will have to keep the bride." And withouta moment's warning, from laughing till she wept, she began to weep inearnest. I haven't seen her cry so since she came to us, not even thatmiserable first night. She struggled with herself, and seemed dreadfullyashamed, and angry with me that I should have seen her cry. Did she supposeI thought she was crying because she wasn't going to be a bride, after all?* * * * *"Oh, Mrs. Daly, I feel so ill!" were Kitty's first words to me when I wokethis morning. I looked her over and questioned her, and concluded that asleepless night, with not very pleasant thoughts for company, might be heldresponsible for a good share of her wretchedness."What were you lying awake about? Your new champion, Uncle George?" I askedher.She owned that it was. "Don't you see, Mrs. Daly, mamma doesn't leave roomfor the possibility of my refusing him. And if I do refuse him, he'llsimply take me back to England, and then, between him and mamma, and all ofthem, I don't know what may happen.""Kitty," I said, "no girl who has just escaped from one unhappy engagementis going to walk straight into another with her eyes wide open. I won'tbelieve you could be so foolish as that.""You don't understand," she said, "what the pressure will be at home--inall love and kindness, of course. And you don't know Uncle George. He isso sure that I need him, he'll force me to take him. He'll take me back toEngland in any case.""And would you not like to go, Kitty?""Ah, wouldn't I! But not in that way."She sat up in her flannel camp-gown, and began to braid up her loosenedhair."Kitty," I commanded, "lie down. You are not to get up till luncheon.""I have a plan," she said, "and I must see Cecil Harshaw; he must help mecarry it out. There is no one else who can.""You have all day to see him in.""Not all day, Mrs. Daly. He must be ready to start to-morrow. Uncle Georgewill reach Bisuka on the fifteenth, not later. Cecil must meet him there;first, to prepare him for Micky's new arrangement, and second, to persuadehim that he does not owe me an offer of marriage in consequence. Cecilwill know how to manage it; he must know! I will not have any more of theHarshaws offering themselves as substitutes. It will be very strange if Icannot exist without them somehow."It struck me that the poor child's boast was a little premature, as sheseemed to be making rather free use of one of the substitutes still, asa shield against the others; but it was of a piece with the rest of thecomedy. I kept her in bed till she had had a cup of tea; afterward sheslept a little, and about noon she dressed herself and gave Cecil hisaudience. But first, at her request, I had possessed him with the mainfacts and given him an inkling of what was expected of him. His facechanged; he looked as he did after his steeplechase the day I saw himfirst,--except that he was cleaner,--grave, excited, and resolved. He hadtaken the bit in his teeth. When substitute meets substitute in a causelike this! I would have left them to have their little talk by themselves,but Kitty signified peremptorily that she wished me to stay, with aflushed, appealing look that softened the nervous tension of her manner."I would do anything on earth for you, Kitty," Cecil said most gently andfervently; "but don't ask me to give advice--to Uncle George of all men--ona question of this kind--unless you will allow me to be perfectly frank.""It's a family question," said Kitty, ignoring his proviso."I think it would get to be a personal question very soon between UncleGeorge and me. No; I meddled in one family question not very long ago.""It's very strange," said Kitty restlessly, "if you can't help me outof this in some way. I cannot be so disrespectful to him, the dear oldgentleman! He ought not to be put in such a position, or I either. Howwould you like it if it were your father?"Cecil reddened handsomely at this home thrust. "I'd have a deuce of a timeto stop him if he took the notion, you know; it's not exactly a son's or anephew's business. There is only one way in which I can help you, Kitty.You must know that."He had struck a different key, and his face was all one blush to correspondwith the new note in his voice. I think I never saw a manlier, moregenerous warmth of ardor and humility, or listened to words so simplyuttered in such telling tones."What way is that?" asked Kitty coldly."Forgive me! I could tell him that you are engaged to me.""That would be a nice way--to tell him a falsehood! I should hope I hadbeen humiliated enough"--She snatched her handkerchief from her belt and pressed it to her burningface. I rose again to go. "Sit still, pray!" she murmured."It need not be a falsehood, Kitty. Let it be anything you like. You maytrust me not to take advantage. A nominal engagement, if you choose, justto meet this exigency; or"--"That would be cheating," cried Kitty."The cheat would bear a little harder on me than on any one else, I think.""You are too good!" Kitty smiled disdainfully. "First you offer yourself tome as a cure, and now as a preventive.""Kitty, I think you ought at least to take him seriously," I remonstrated."By all that's sacred, you'll find it's serious with me!" Cecil ejaculated."Since when?" retorted Kitty. "How many weeks ago is it that I came outhere by your contrivance to marry your cousin? Is that the way a man showshis seriousness? You sacrificed more to marry me to Micky than some menwould to win a girl themselves.""I did, and for that very reason," said Cecil."I should like to see you prove it!""Kitty, excuse me," I interrupted. "I should like to ask Mr. Harshaw onequestion, if he does not mind. Do you happen to have that picture aboutyou, Mr. Harshaw?"I thought I was looking at him very kindly, not at all like an inquisitor,but his face was set and stern. I doubt if he perceived or looked for myintention."'That picture,' Mrs. Daly?" he repeated."The photograph of a young lady that you jumped into the river tosave--don't you remember?"Cecil smiled slightly, and glanced at Kitty. "Did I say it was a photographof a lady?""No; you did not. But do you deny that it was?""Certainly not, Mrs. Daly. I have the picture with me; I always have it.""And do you think that looks like seriousness? To be making suchprotestations to one girl with the portrait of another in your coat pocket?We have none of us forgotten, I think, that little conversation by theriver."He saw my meaning now, and thanked me with a radiant look. "Here is thepicture, Mrs. Daly. Whose portrait did you think it was? Surely you mighthave known, Kitty! This is the girl I wanted years ago and have wanted eversince; but she belonged to another man, and the man was my friend. I triedto save that man from insulting her and dishonoring himself, because Ithought she loved him. Or, if he couldn't be saved, I wanted to expose himand save her. And I risked my own honor to do it, and a great fool I wasfor my pains. But this is the last time I shall make a fool of myself foryour sake, Kitty."I rose now in earnest, and I would not be stayed. In point of fact, nobodytried to stay me. Kitty was looking at her own face with eyes as dim as thelittle water-stained photograph she held. And Cecil was on his knees besideher, whispering, "I stole it from Micky's room at the ranch. That was noplace for it, anyhow. May I not have one of my own, Kitty?"I think he will get one--of his own Kitty.* * * * *Our rival schemer, Mr. Norman Fleet, has arrived, and electricaltransmission has shaken hands with compressed air. The millennium must beon the way, for never did two men want so nearly the same thing, and yetagree to take each what the other does not need.Mr. Fleet does not "want the earth," either, nor all the waters thereof;but the most astonishing thing is, he doesn't want the Snow Bank! He notonly doesn't want it himself, but is perfectly willing that Tom should haveit. In fact, do what we will, it seems to be impossible for us to tread onthe tail of that young man's coat. But having heard a little bird whisperthat he is in love, and successfully so, I am not so surprised at hisamiability. Neither am I altogether unprepared, if the little bird'swhisper be true, for the fact that Miss Malcolm is becoming reconciled toTom's designs upon her beloved scenery. For the sake of consistency, andthat pure devotion to the Beautiful, so rare in this sordid age, I couldhave wished that she had not weakened so suddenly; but for Tom's sake I amvery glad. She is clay in the hands of the potter, now that she knows myhusband does not want "all the water," and that his success does not meanthe failure of Mr. Norman Fleet.Harshaw will take the Snow Bank scheme when he takes Kitty back to London.If he promotes it, I tell Tom, after the fashion in which he "boomed"Kitty's marriage to his cousin, we're not likely to see either him or theSnow Bank again. But "Harshaw is all right," Tom says; and I believe thatthe luck is with him.