do!”
The simple act either exceeded the limits of her forbearance, or decided the course of her subsequent behavior. She instantly stepped back a single pace, and drew her left foot slowly and deliberately after her; then she fixed her eyes and uplifted eyebrows upon the daring hand, and, taking it by the ends of her thumb and forefinger, lifted it, and dropped it in mid-air. She then folded her arms. It was the indignant gesture with which “Alice,” the Pride of Dumballin Village, received the loathsome advances of the bloated aristocrat, Sir Parkyns Parkyn, and had at Marysville, a few nights before, brought down the house.
This effect was, I think, however, lost upon Rand. The slight color that rose to his cheek as he looked down upon his clay-soiled hands was due to the belief that he had really contaminated her outward superfine person. But his color quickly passed: his frank, boyish smile returned, as he said, “It’ll rub off. Lord, don’t mind that! Thar, now—come on!”
The young woman bit her lip. Then nature triumphed; and she laughed, although a little scornfully. And then Providence assisted her with the sudden presentation of two figures, a man and woman, slowly climbing up over the mountain verge, not far from them. With a cry of “There’s Sol, now!” she forgot her dignity and her confusion, and ran towards them.
Rand stood looking after her neat figure, less concerned in the advent of the strangers than in her sudden caprice. He was not so young and inexperienced but that he noted certain ambiguities in her dress and manner: he was by no means impressed by her dignity. But he could not help watching her as she appeared to be volubly recounting her late interview to her companions; and, still unconscious of any impropriety or obtrusiveness, he lounged down lazily towards her. Her humor had evidently changed; for she turned an honest, pleased face upon him, as she girlishly attempted to drag the strangers forward.
The man was plump and short; unlike the natives of the locality, he was closely cropped and shaven, as if to keep down the strong blue-blackness of his beard and hair, which nevertheless asserted itself over his round cheeks and upper lip like a tattooing of Indian ink. The woman at his side was reserved and indistinctive, with that appearance of being an unenthusiastic family servant peculiar to some men’s wives. When Rand was within a few feet of him, he started, struck a theatrical attitude, and, shading his eyes with his hand, cried, “What, do me eyes deceive me!” burst into a hearty laugh, darted forward, seized Rand’s hand, and shook it briskly.
“Pinkney, Pinkney, my boy! how are you? And this is your little ‘prop’? your quarter-section, your country-seat, that we’ve been trespassing on, eh? A nice little spot, cool, sequestered, remote,—a trifle unimproved; carriage-road as yet unfinished. Ha, ha! But to think of our making a discovery of this inaccessible mountain, climbing it, sir, for two mortal hours, christening it ‘Sol’s Peak,’ getting up a flag-pole, unfurling our standard to the breeze, sir, and then, by Gad, winding up by finding Pinkney, the festive Pinkney, living on it at home!”
Completely surprised, but still perfectly good-humored, Rand shook the stranger’s right hand warmly, and received on his broad shoulders a welcoming thwack from the left, without question. “She don’t mind her friends making free with ME evidently,” said Rand to himself, as he tried to suggest that fact to the young lady in a meaning glance.
The stranger noted his glance, and suddenly passed his hand thoughtfully over his shaven cheeks. “No,” he said—“yes, surely, I forget—yes, I see; of course you don’t! Rosy,” turning to his wife, “of course Pinkney doesn’t know Phemie, eh?”
“No, nor ME either, Sol,” said that lady warningly.
“Certainly!” continued Sol. “It’s his misfortune. You weren’t with me at Gold Hill.—Allow me,” he said, turning to Rand, “to present Mrs. Sol Saunders, wife of the undersigned, and Miss Euphemia Neville, otherwise known as the ‘Marysville Pet,’ the best variety actress known on the provincial boards. Played Ophelia at Marysville, Friday; domestic drama at Gold Hill, Saturday; Sunday night, four songs in character, different dress each time, and a clog-dance. The best clog-dance on the Pacific Slope,” he added in a stage aside. “The minstrels are crazy to get her in ‘Frisco. But money can’t buy her—prefers the legitimate drama to this sort of thing.” Here he took a few steps of a jig, to which the “Marysville Pet” beat time with her feet, and concluded with a laugh and a wink—the combined expression of an artist’s admiration for her ability, and a man of the world’s scepticism of feminine ambition.
Miss Euphemia responded to the formal introduction by extending her hand frankly with a re-assuring smile to Rand, and an utter obliviousness of her former hauteur. Rand shook it warmly, and then dropped carelessly on a rock beside them.
“And you never told me you lived up here in the attic, you rascal!” continued Sol with a laugh.
“No,” replied Rand simply. “How could I? I never saw you before, that I remember.”
Miss Euphemia stared at Sol. Mrs. Sol looked up in her lord’s face, and folded her arms in a resigned expression. Sol rose to his feet again, and shaded his eyes with his hand, but this time quite seriously, and gazed at Rand’s smiling face.
“Good Lord! Do you mean to say your name isn’t Pinkney?” he asked, with a half embarrassed laugh.
“It IS Pinkney,” said Rand; “but I never met you before.”
“Didn’t you come to see a young lady that joined my troupe at Gold Hill last month, and say you’d meet me at Keeler’s Ferry in a day or two?”
“No-o-o,” said Rand, with a good-humored laugh. “I haven’t left this mountain for two months.”
He might have added more; but his attention was directed to Miss Euphemia, who during this short dialogue, having stuffed alternately her handkerchief, the corner of her mantle, and her gloves, into her mouth, restrained herself no longer, but gave way to an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “O Sol!” she gasped explanatorily, as she threw herself alternately against him, Mrs. Sol, and a bowlder, “you’ll kill me yet! O Lord! first we take possession of this man’s property, then we claim HIM.” The contemplation of this humorous climax affected her so that she was fain at last to walk away, and confide the rest of her speech to space.
Sol joined in the laugh until his wife plucked his sleeve, and whispered something in his ear. In an instant his face became at once mysterious and demure. “I owe you an apology,” he said, turning to Rand, but in a voice ostentatiously pitched high enough for Miss Euphemia to overhear: “I see I have made a mistake. A resemblance—only a mere resemblance, as I look at you now—led me astray. Of course you don’t know any young lady in the profession?”
“Of course he doesn’t, Sol,” said Miss Euphemia. “I could have told you that. He didn’t even know ME!”
The voice and mock-heroic attitude of the speaker was enough to relieve the general embarrassment with a laugh. Rand, now pleasantly conscious of only Miss Euphemia’s presence, again offered the hospitality of his cabin, with the polite recognition of her friends in the sentence, “and you might as well come along too.”
“But won’t we incommode the lady of the house?” said Mrs. Sol politely.
“What lady of the house”? said Rand almost angrily.
“Why, Ruth, you know!”
It was Rand’s turn to become hilarious. “Ruth,” he said, “is short for Rutherford, my brother.” His laugh, however, was echoed only by Euphemia.
“Then you have a brother?” said Mrs. Sol benignly.
“Yes,”
