IV
As they drove home in the chill, yellow evening, Idy turned to her lover, and asked abruptly, —
"Who was that felluh?"
"What felluh?"
"The young felluh with the sandy mustache, the one that stopped the team."
Parker's manner had been evasive from the first, but at this the evasiveness became a highly concentrated unconcern. He looked across the lake, and essayed a yawn with feeble success.
"There was a good many standin' around when I got there. What sort o' lookin' felluh was he?"
"I just told ye; with a sandy mustache, short, and middlin' heavy set."
"Sh-h-h!" said Parker, reaching for his gun. Idy stopped the horses.
A bronze ibis arose from the tules at the water's edge, and flapped slowly westward, its pointed wings and hanging feet dripping with the gold of the sunset. Parker laid down his gun.
"What did you want to shoot at that thing fer?" asked Idy. "They ain't fit to eat."
"The wings is pretty. I thought you might like another feather in your cap."
The girl gave him a look of radiant contempt, and he spoke again hurriedly, anxious to prevent a relapse in the conversation.
"You was sayin' somethin' to-day about signin' the pledge, Idy: I've been layin' off to sign the pledge this good while. The next time there's a meetin' of the W. X. Y. Z. women, you fetch on one o' their pledges, an' I'll put my fist to it."
"W. C. T. U.," corrected Idy, with emphasis.
"All right; W. C. T. me, if that suits you any better. It's a long time since I learned my letters, an' I get 'em mixed. But I've made up my mind on the teetotal business, and don't ye forget it."
"There ain't any danger of me forgettin' it," said the young woman significantly. "What ye goin' to do about that other business?" she added, turning her wide eyes upon him abruptly – "about gettin' even with that cheatin' Barden?"
They had driven into the purple shadow of the mountains, and Parker seemed to have left his enthusiasm behind him with the sunlight.
"I don't know," he said gloomily. "Do ye want me to kill 'im?"
"Kill him!" sneered the girl; "I want ye to get even with 'im! 'Tain't no great trick to kill a man; any fool can do that. I want ye to get ahead of 'im!"
She glowed upon him in angry magnificence.
"Idy," said her lover, sidling toward her tenderly, "when you flare up that a-way, you mustn't expect me to think about Barden. You look just pretty 'nough to eat!"
V
A week later Eben began grubbing out the vineyard. The weather turned suddenly warm, and the harvest was coming on rapidly. Parker Lowe had gone to Temecula with Mose Doolittle, who was about to purchase a machine, presumably feminine, which they both referred to familiarly as "she," and styled more formally "a second-hand steam-thrasher." It was Monday, and Idy was putting the week's washing through the wringer with a loud vocal accompaniment of gospel hymn.
Eben had worked steadily since sunrise. The vines were young, and the ground was not heavy, but the day was warm, and he wielded the mattock rapidly, stooping now and then to jerk out a refractory root with his hands. An hour before noon his daughter saw him coming through the apricot orchard, walking wearily, with his soiled handkerchief pressed to his lips. The girl's voice lost its song abruptly, and then broke out again in a low, faltering wail. She bounded across the warm plowed ground to his side.
"Pappy! O pappy!" she cried, breathing wildly, "what is it? Tell me, can't you, pappy?"
The little man smiled at her with his patient eyes, and shook his head. She put her hand under his elbow, and walked beside him, her arm across his shoulders, her tortured young face close to his. When they reached the kitchen door he sank down on the edge of the platform, resting his head on his hand. The girl took off his weather-beaten hat, and smoothed the wet hair from his forehead.
"O pappy! Poor, little, sweet old pappy!" she moaned, rubbing her cheek caressingly on his bowed head.
Eben took the handkerchief from his lips, and she started back, crying out piteously as she saw it stained with blood. He looked up at her, a gentle, tremulous smile twitching his beard.
"Don't – tell – your – maw," he said, putting out his hand feebly.
The words seemed to recall her. She went hurriedly into the house and close to the lounge where her mother was lying.
"Maw," she said quickly, "you must get up! Pappy's got a hem'ridge. I want you to help me to get 'im to bed, an' then I'm goin' fer a doctor."
The woman got up, and followed her daughter eagerly.
"Why, Eben!" she said, when they reached the kitchen door. Her voice was almost womanly; and a real anxiety seemed to have penetrated her hysterical egoism.
They got him to bed tenderly, and propped him up among the white pillows. His knotted hands lay on the coverlet, gray and bloodless under the stains of hard work. Idy bent over him, tucking him in with little pats and crooning moans of sympathy. When she had finished, she dropped her wet cheek against his beard.
"I'm goin' fer the doctor, pappy," she whispered; "I won't be gone but a little while," – then rushed down the path to the stable, and flung the harness on the pinto.
The buggy was standing in the shed, and she caught the shafts and dragged it out with superabundant energy, as if her anxiety found relief in the exertion. A few minutes later she drove out between the rows of pallid young eucalyptus-trees that led to the road, leaning eagerly forward, her young face white and set beneath the row of knobby protuberances that represented the morning stage of her much cherished bang. It was thus that she drove into Elsmore, the rattling of the old buggy and the spots of lather on the pinto's sides exciting a ripple of curiosity, which furnished its own solution in the fact that it was "that there Starkweather girl," who was generally conceded to be "a great one."
She stopped her panting horse before the doctor's office, and sprang out.
"Are you the doctor?" she asked breathlessly, standing on the threshold, with one hand on each side of the casing.
A man in his shirt-sleeves, who was writing at the desk, turned and looked at her. It was the same man who had prevented the runaway. He began to smile, but the girl's stricken face stopped him.
"Dr. Patterson has gone to the tin-mine," he said, getting up and coming forward; "he will not be home till to-morrow."
Idy grasped the casing so tightly that her knuckles shone white and polished.
"My fawther's got a hem'ridge," she said, swallowing after the words. "I don't know what on earth to do."
"A hemorrhage!" said the young man with kindly sympathy. "Well, now, don't be too much alarmed, Miss – "
"Starkweather," quavered Idy.
"Starkweather? Oh, it's Mr. Starkweather. Why, he's a friend of mine. And so you're his daughter. Well, you mustn't be too much alarmed. I've had a great many hemorrhages myself, and I'm good for twenty years yet." He had taken his coat from a nail at the back of the room, and was putting it on hurriedly. "Prop him up in bed, and don't let him talk, and give him a spoonful of salt-and-water now and then. My horse is standing outside, and I'll go right down to Maravilla and fetch a doctor. I'll come up on the other side of the lake, and get there almost as soon as you do – let me help you into your buggy. And drive right on home, and don't worry."
He had put on his hat, and they stood on the sidewalk together.
Idy made a little impulsive stoop toward him, as if she would have taken him in her arms.
"Oh!" she gasped, her eyes swimming, and her chin working painfully; "I just think you're the very best man I ever saw in all my life!"
A moment later she saw him driving a tall black horse toward the lake at a speed that brought her the first sigh of relief she had known, and made her put up her hand suddenly to her forehead.
"Good gracious me!" she exclaimed under her breath – "if I didn't forget to take down my crimps!"
Two or three times as she drove home through the warm odors of the harvest noon her anxiety was invaded by the recollection of this man, to whose promptness and decision her own vigorous nature responded with a strong sense of liking; and this liking did not suffer any abatement when he came into her father's sick-room with the doctor, and the invalid looked at the stranger, and then at her, with a faint, troubled smile.
"Don't try to speak, Mr. Starkweather," said the visitor cheerfully; "I've made your daughter's acquaintance already. We want you to give your entire attention to getting well, and let us do the talking."
He went out of the room, and strolled about the place while the doctor made his call, and when it was over he went around to the kitchen, where Idy was kindling a fire, and said: —
"Doctor Patterson thinks your father will be all right in a day or so, Miss Starkweather. Be careful to keep him quiet. I'm going to drive around to the station, so the doctor can catch the evening train, and save my driving him down to Maravilla; and I'll go on over to Elsmore and get this prescription filled, and bring the medicine back to you. Is there anything else you'd like from town – a piece of meat to make beef-tea, or anything?"
"Well, I wouldn't mind much if you would bring me a piece of beef," said Idy, pausing with a stick of redwood kindling across her knee. Then she dropped it, and came forward. "We're ever so much obliged to ye – pappy 'n' all of us. Seem 's if you always turn up. I think you've been just awful good and kind – an' us strangers, too."
"Oh, you're not strangers," laughed the young man, lifting his hat; "I've known your father ever since he came."
He went around the house, and got into the cart with the doctor. "Starkweather's a crank," he said, as they drove off, "but he's the kind of crank that makes you wish you were one yourself. When I see a man like that going off with consumption, and a lot of loafers getting so fat they crowd each other off the store boxes, I wonder what Providence is thinking of."
"He works too hard," growled the doctor, with the savagery of science. "What can Providence do with a man who grubs greasewood when he ought to be in bed!"
It was moonlight when the stranger returned, and handed the packages to Idy at the kitchen door.
"Pappy's asleep," she whispered, in answer to his inquiries; "he seems to be restin' easy."
"Is there no one about the place but yourself and mother, Miss Starkweather?"
Idy shook her head.
"Well, then, if you don't mind, I think I will put my horse in the barn, and sleep in the shed here, on the hay. If you should need any one in the night, you can call me. I haven't an idea but that your father will be all right, but it's a little more comfortable to have some one within call."
"Well," said Idy, dropping her hands at her sides, and looking at him in admiring bewilderment, "if you ain't just – Have you had anythin' to eat?" she broke off, with sudden hospitality.
"Oh yes, thank you; I had dinner at Elsmore," laughed the young man, backing out into the shadow. "Good-night."
Half a minute later she followed him down the walk, carrying a heavy blanket over her arm. He had led his horse to the water-trough, and the moonlight shone full upon him as he stood with one arm thrown over the glossy creature's neck.
"I brought you this here blanket, Mr. – "
"Barden," supplied the young man, carelessly.
Idy sank back against the corral fence as if she were stunned.
"Barden!" she repeated helplessly. "Is your name Barden?"
"Yes."
She stood breathless a moment, and then burst out: —
"An' you're him! you– an' doin' this way, after the way you've done – an' him sick – an' me talkin' to ye – an' – an' – everything!"
The two torrents of hate and gratitude had met, and were whirling her about wildly.
The young man pushed his hat back on his head, and stared at her in sturdy, unflinching amazement.
"My dear young lady, what on earth do you mean?" he asked quietly.
"I mean that I didn't know that you was him– the man that sold my father this place, an' lied to him about the vineyard – told him they was raisin-grapes, an' they wasn't – an' you knowed he was a temp'rance man, a prohibitionist. An' him tryin' to grub 'em out, an' gettin' sick – an' bein' so patient, an' never hurtin' nobody – " she ended in a wild, angry sob that seemed to swallow up her voice.
"Miss Starkweather," said the young fellow steadily, "I certainly did sell this place to your father, and if I told him anything about the vineyard I most certainly told him they were raisin-grapes; and upon my soul I thought they were. Aren't they?"
"No," sobbed Idy, "they ain't; they're wine-grapes! He was grubbin' 'em out to-day. That's what hurt 'im – I'm afraid he'll die!"
"You mustn't be afraid of that. Dr. Patterson says he will get better. But we must see that he doesn't do any more grubbing. When Slater gave me this for sale," he went on, as if he were reflecting aloud, "he said there were ten acres of vineyard. I can't swear that he told me what the vines were, or that I asked him. But it never occurred to me that any man – even an Englishman – would plant ten acres of wine-grapes when there wasn't a winery within fifty miles of him."
VI
Parker Lowe borrowed one of Mose Doolittle's mules Monday evening, and rode from Temecula to Jake Levison's saloon at Maravilla. It was understood when he left the thresher's camp that he would probably "make a night of it," and Mose gave him a word of friendly warning and advice.
"You want to remember, Park, that the old man is down on the flowing bowl; an' from what I've heard of the family I think it'll pay you to keep yourself solid with the old man."
"I'm a-goin' up to the drug-store to get some liniment for Dave Montgomery's lame shoulder," returned Parker, with a knowing wink at his companion, as he flung himself into the saddle; "but I hain't signed no pledge yet – not by a jugful," he called back, as the mule jolted lazily down the road.
It was a warm night, and half a dozen loafers were seated on empty beer-kegs in front of Levison's door when Parker rode up. Levison got up, and began to disengage himself from the blacksmith's story as he saw the newcomer dismount; but the blacksmith raised his voice insistently.
"'There don't no dude tell me how to pare a hoof,' says I; 'I'll do it my way, or I don't do it;' an' I done it, an' him kickin' like a steer all the time" —
"Who?" asked one of the other men.
"Barden."
"What was he doin' down here?"
"He came down for Doc Patterson. That teetotal wreck on the west side o' the lake took a hem'ridge – I furget his name, somethin'-weather: pretty dry weather, judgin' from what I hear."
"Starkweather?"
"Yes, Starkweather; I guess he's pretty low."
Parker started back to the post where his mule was tied. Then he turned and looked into the saloon. Levison had gone in and was wiping off the counter expectantly.
"It won't take but a minute," he apologized to himself.
It took a good many minutes, however, and by the time the minutes lengthened into hours Parker had ceased to apologize to himself, and insisted upon taking the by-standers into his confidence.
"I'm – I'm goin' to sign the pledge," he said, with an unsteady wink, "an' then I'm goin' to get merried, – yes, sir, boys; rattlin' nice girl, too, – 'way up girl, temperance girl. But there's many a cup 'twixt the slip and the lip – ain't there, boys? Yes, sir, 'twixt the cup and the slip – yes, sir – yes, sir – ee." Then his reflections driveled off into stupor, and he sat on an empty keg with the conical crown of his old felt hat pointed forward, and his hands hanging limply between his knees.
When Levison was ready to leave he stirred Parker up with his foot, and helped him to mount his mule. The patient creature turned its head homeward.
It was after daybreak when Parker rode into the Starkweather ranch, and presented himself at the kitchen door. The night air had sobered him, but it had done nothing more. Idy was standing by the stove with her back toward him. She turned when she heard his step.
"Why, Park!" she said, with a start; then she put up her hand. "Don't make a noise. Pappy's sick."
He came toward her hesitatingly.
"So I heard down at Maravilla last night, Idy."
Her face darkened.
"And you been all night gettin' here?"
He bent over her coaxingly.
"Well, you see, Idy" —
The girl pushed him away with both hands, and darted back out of reach.
"Parker Lowe," she said, with a gasp, "you've been drinkin'!"
Parker hung his head sullenly.
"No, I hain't," he muttered; "not to speak of. Whose horse is that out 'n the corral?"
The girl looked at him witheringly.
"I don't know as it's any of your pertic'lar business, but I don't mind tellin' you that horse b'longs to a gentleman!"
"A gentleman," sneered Parker.
"Yes, a gentleman; if you don't know what that is you'd better look in the dictionary. You won't find out by lookin' in the lookin'-glass, I can tell you that."
"Oh, come now, Idy, you hadn't ought to be so mad; I hadn't signed the pledge yet."
He took a step toward her. The girl put out her hands warningly, and then clasped her arms about herself with a shudder.
"Don't you come near me, Parker Lowe," she gasped. "What do I care about the pledge! Didn't you tell me you'd stop drinkin'? Won't a man that tells lies with his tongue tell 'em with his fingers? Do you suppose I'd marry a man that 'u'd come to me smellin' of whiskey, an' him lyin' sick in there? Can't you see that he's worth ten thousand such folks as you an' me? I don't want a man that can't see that! I'm done with you, Parker Lowe," – her voice broke into a dry sob; "I want you to go away and stay away! It ain't the drinkin' – it's him– can't you understand?"
And Parker, as he climbed toward his lonesome cabin, understood.
THE COMPLICITY OF ENOCH EMBODY
I
The afternoon train wound through the waving barley-fields of the Temecula Valley and shrieked its approach to the town of Muscatel. It was a mixed train, and half a dozen passengers alighted from the rear coach to stretch their legs while the freight was being unloaded.
Enoch Embody stood on the platform with the mail-bag in his hand, and listened to their time-worn pleasantries concerning the population of the city and the probable cause of the failure of the electric cars to connect with the train.
Enoch was an orthodox Friend. There was a hint of orthodoxy all over his thin, shaven countenance, except at the corners of his mouth, where it melted into the laxest liberality.
A swarthy young man, with a deep scar across his cheek, swung himself from the platform of the smoking-car, and came toward him.
"Is there a stopping-place in this burg?" he called out gayly.
"Thee'll find a hotel up the street on thy right," said Enoch.
The stranger looked at him curiously.
"By gum, you're a Quaker," he broke out, slapping Enoch's thin, high shoulder. "I haven't heard a 'thee' or a 'thou' since I was a kid. It's good for earache. Wait till I get my grip."
He darted into the little group of men and boys, who were listening with the grim appreciation of the rural American to the badinage of the conductor and the station agent, and emerged with a satchel and a roll of blankets.
"Now, uncle, I'm ready. Shall we take the elevated up to the city?" he asked, smiling with gay goodfellowship up into Enoch's mild, austere face.
The old man threw the mail-bag across his shoulder.
"I'll take thee as far as the store. Thee can see most of the city from there."
The young fellow laughed noisily, and hooked his arm through his companion's gaunt elbow. Enoch glanced down at the grimy, broken-nailed, disreputable hand on his arm, and a faint flush showed itself under the silvery stubble on his cheeks.
"By gum, this town's a daisy," said the stranger, sniffing the honey-laden breeze appreciatively and glancing out over the sea of wild flowers that waved and shimmered under the California sun; "nice quiet little place – eh?"
"Thee hears all the noise there is," answered Enoch gravely.
The young fellow gave a yell of delight and bent over as if the shaft of Enoch's wit had struck him in some vital part. Then he disengaged his arm and writhed in an agony of mirth.
"Holy Moses!" he gasped, "that's good. Hit 'im again, uncle."
Enoch stood still and looked at him, a mild, contemptuous sympathy twinkling in his blue eyes.
"Is thee looking for a quiet place?" he asked.
The newcomer reduced his hilarity to an intermittent chuckle, and resumed his affectionate grasp on Enoch's arm.
"That's about the size of it, uncle. I've knocked around a good deal, and I'm suffering from religious prostration. I'm looking for a nice, quiet, healthy place to take a rest – to recooperate my morals, so to speak. Good climate, good water, good society. Everything they don't have in – some places. What's the city tax on first-class residence property close in?"
"I think thee'll find it within thy means," said Enoch dryly. "Has thee a family?"
"Well, you might say – yes," rejoined the stranger, "that is, I'm married. My wife's not very well. I want to build a seven by nine residence on a fashionable street and send for her. I'm going to draw up the plans and specifications and bid on the contract myself, and I think by rustling the foreman I can get everything but the telephone and the hot water in before she gets here. Relic of the ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay?" he asked, pointing to a vacant store building across the grass-grown street; "or bought up by the government, maybe, to keep out competition in the post-office business – hello, is this where you hang out?"
Enoch turned into the combined store and post-office, and the stranger stood on the platform, bestowing his tobacco-stained smile generously upon the bystanders.
"Thee'll find the hotel a little further up the street," said Enoch; "there may be no one about; I think I saw Isaac and Esther Penthorn driving toward Maravilla this afternoon. But they'll be back before dark. Thee can make thyself at home."
"You're right I can," assented the newcomer with emphasis; "I see you've caught on to my disposition. Isaac and Esther will find me as domestic as a lame cat. Be it ever so homely there's no place like hum. By-by, uncle; see you later."
He went up the street, walking as jauntily as his burden would permit, and Enoch looked after with a lean, whimsical smile.
"Thee seems to have a good deal of cheek," he reflected, as he emptied the mail-bag, "but thee's certainly cheerful."