Tales of the Argonauts

Bret Harte

Description

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

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819943914
• Langue: English

Extrait

TALES OF THE ARGONAUTS
By Bret Harte
THE ROSE OF TUOLUMNE
CHAPTER I
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. The lightswere out in Robinson's Hall, where there had been dancing andrevelry; and the moon, riding high, painted the black windows withsilver. The cavalcade, that an hour ago had shocked the sedatepines with song and laughter, were all dispersed. One enamouredswain had ridden east, another west, another north, another south;and the object of their adoration, left within her bower atChemisal Ridge, was calmly going to bed.
I regret that I am not able to indicate the exactstage of that process. Two chairs were already filled with delicateinwrappings and white confusion; and the young lady herself,half-hidden in the silky threads of her yellow hair, had at onetime borne a faint resemblance to a partly-husked ear of Indiancorn. But she was now clothed in that one long, formless garmentthat makes all women equal; and the round shoulders and neat waist,that an hour ago had been so fatal to the peace of mind of FourForks, had utterly disappeared. The face above it was very pretty:the foot below, albeit shapely, was not small. “The flowers, as ageneral thing, don't raise their heads MUCH to look after me, ” shehad said with superb frankness to one of her lovers.
The expression of the “Rose” to-night wascontentedly placid. She walked slowly to the window, and, makingthe smallest possible peephole through the curtain, looked out. Themotionless figure of a horseman still lingered on the road, with anexcess of devotion that only a coquette, or a woman very much inlove, could tolerate. The “Rose, ” at that moment, was neither,and, after a reasonable pause, turned away, saying quite audiblythat it was “too ridiculous for any thing. ” As she came back toher dressing-table, it was noticeable that she walked steadily anderect, without that slight affectation of lameness common to peoplewith whom bare feet are only an episode. Indeed, it was only fouryears ago, that without shoes or stockings, a long-limbed, coltygirl, in a waistless calico gown, she had leaped from the tailboardof her father's emigrant-wagon when it first drew up at ChemisalRidge. Certain wild habits of the “Rose” had outlived transplantingand cultivation.
A knock at the door surprised her. In another momentshe had leaped into bed, and with darkly-frowning eyes, from itssecure recesses demanded “Who's there? ”
An apologetic murmur on the other side of the doorwas the response.
“Why, father! — is that you? ”
There were further murmurs, affirmative,deprecatory, and persistent.
“Wait, ” said the “Rose. ” She got up, unlocked thedoor, leaped nimbly into bed again, and said, “Come. ”
The door opened timidly. The broad, stoopingshoulders, and grizzled head, of a man past the middle age,appeared: after a moment's hesitation, a pair of large, diffidentfeet, shod with canvas slippers, concluded to follow. When theapparition was complete, it closed the door softly, and stoodthere, — a very shy ghost indeed, — with apparently more than theusual spiritual indisposition to begin a conversation. The “Rose”resented this impatiently, though, I fear, not altogetherintelligibly.
“Do, father, I declare! ”
“You was abed, Jinny, ” said Mr. McClosky slowly,glancing, with a singular mixture of masculine awe and paternalpride, upon the two chairs and their contents, — “you was abed andondressed. ”
“I was. ”
“Surely, ” said Mr. McClosky, seating himself on theextreme edge of the bed, and painfully tucking his feet away underit, — “surely. ” After a pause, he rubbed a short, thick, stumpybeard, that bore a general resemblance to a badly-wornblacking-brush, with the palm of his hand, and went on, “You had agood time, Jinny? ”
“Yes, father. ”
“They was all there? ”
“Yes, Rance and York and Ryder and Jack. ”
“And Jack! ” Mr. McClosky endeavored to throw anexpression of arch inquiry into his small, tremulous eyes; butmeeting the unabashed, widely-opened lid of his daughter, he winkedrapidly, and blushed to the roots of his hair.
“Yes, Jack was there, ” said Jenny, without changeof color, or the least self-consciousness in her great gray eyes;“and he came home with me. ” She paused a moment, locking her twohands under her head, and assuming a more comfortable position onthe pillow. “He asked me that same question again, father, and Isaid, 'Yes. ' It's to be— soon. We're going to live at Four Forks,in his own house; and next winter we're going to Sacramento. Isuppose it's all right, father, eh? ” She emphasized the questionwith a slight kick through the bed-clothes, as the parentalMcClosky had fallen into an abstract revery.
“Yes, surely, ” said Mr. McClosky, recoveringhimself with some confusion. After a pause, he looked down at thebed-clothes, and, patting them tenderly, continued, “You couldn'thave done better, Jinny. They isn't a girl in Tuolumne ez couldstrike it ez rich as you hev— even if they got the chance. ” Hepaused again, and then said, “Jinny? ”
“Yes, father. ”
“You'se in bed, and ondressed? ”
“Yes. ”
“You couldn't, ” said Mr. McClosky, glancinghopelessly at the two chairs, and slowly rubbing his chin, — “youcouldn't dress yourself again could yer? ”
“Why, father! ”
“Kinder get yourself into them things again? ” headded hastily. “Not all of 'em, you know, but some of 'em. Not if Ihelped you— sorter stood by, and lent a hand now and then with astrap, or a buckle, or a necktie, or a shoestring? ” he continued,still looking at the chairs, and evidently trying to boldlyfamiliarize himself with their contents.
“Are you crazy, father? ” demanded Jenny suddenlysitting up with a portentous switch of her yellow mane. Mr.McClosky rubbed one side of his beard, which already had theappearance of having been quite worn away by that process, andfaintly dodged the question.
“Jinny, ” he said, tenderly stroking the bedclothesas he spoke, “this yer's what's the matter. Thar is a stranger downstairs, — a stranger to you, lovey, but a man ez I've knowed a longtime. He's been here about an hour; and he'll be here ontil fowero'clock, when the up-stage passes. Now I wants ye, Jinny dear, toget up and come down stairs, and kinder help me pass the time withhim. It's no use, Jinny, ” he went on, gently raising his hand todeprecate any interruption, “it's no use! He won't go to bed; hewon't play keerds; whiskey don't take no effect on him. Ever sinceI knowed him, he was the most onsatisfactory critter to hevround”—
“What do you have him round for, then? ” interruptedMiss Jinny sharply.
Mr. McClosky's eyes fell. “Ef he hedn't kem out ofhis way to-night to do me a good turn, I wouldn't ask ye, Jinny. Iwouldn't, so help me! But I thought, ez I couldn't do any thingwith him, you might come down, and sorter fetch him, Jinny, as youdid the others. ”
Miss Jenny shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“Is he old, or young? ”
“He's young enough, Jinny; but he knows a power ofthings. ”
“What does he do? ”
“Not much, I reckon. He's got money in the mill atFour Forks. He travels round a good deal. I've heard, Jinny thathe's a poet— writes them rhymes, you know. ” Mr. McClosky hereappealed submissively but directly to his daughter. He rememberedthat she had frequently been in receipt of printed elegaic coupletsknown as “mottoes, ” containing enclosures equally saccharine.
Miss Jenny slightly curled her pretty lip. She hadthat fine contempt for the illusions of fancy which belongs to theperfectly healthy young animal.
“Not, ” continued Mr. McClosky, rubbing his headreflectively, “not ez I'd advise ye, Jinny, to say any thing to himabout poetry. It ain't twenty minutes ago ez I did. I set thewhiskey afore him in the parlor. I wound up the music-box, and setit goin'. Then I sez to him, sociable-like and free, 'Jest consideryourself in your own house, and repeat what you allow to be yourfinest production, ' and he raged. That man, Jinny, jest raged!Thar's no end of the names he called me. You see, Jinny, ”continued Mr. McClosky apologetically, “he's known me a long time.”
But his daughter had already dismissed the questionwith her usual directness. “I'll be down in a few moments, father,” she said after a pause, “but don't say any thing to him about it—don't say I was abed. ”
Mr. McClosky's face beamed. “You was allers a goodgirl, Jinny, ” he said, dropping on one knee the better to imprinta respectful kiss on her forehead. But Jenny caught him by thewrists, and for a moment held him captive. “Father, ” said she,trying to fix his shy eyes with the clear, steady glance of herown, “all the girls that were there to-night had some one withthem. Mame Robinson had her aunt; Lucy Rance had her mother; KatePierson had her sister— all, except me, had some other woman.Father dear, ” her lip trembled just a little, “I wish motherhadn't died when I was so small. I wish there was some other womanin the family besides me. I ain't lonely with you, father dear; butif there was only some one, you know, when the time comes for Johnand me”—
Her voice here suddenly gave out, but not her braveeyes, that were still fixed earnestly upon his face. Mr. McClosky,apparently tracing out a pattern on the bedquilt, essayed words ofcomfort.
“Thar ain't one of them gals ez you've named, Jinny,ez could do what you've done with a whole Noah's ark of relations,at their backs! Thar ain't 'one ez wouldn't sacrifice her nearestrelation to make the strike that you hev. Ez to mothers, maybe, mydear you're doin' better without one. ” He rose suddenly, andwalked toward the door. When he reached it, he turned, and, in hisold deprecating manner, said, “Don't be long, Jinny, ” smiled, andvanished from the head downward, his canvas slippers assertingthemselves resolutely to the last.
When Mr. McClosky reached his parlor again, histroublesome guest was not there. The decanter stood on the tableuntouched; three or four books lay upon the floor; a number ofphotographic views of the Si