hear my answer,” said Jack, lying down again, “but I came to borrow a horse.”
“Is that the truth?”
Jack got upon his feet very solemnly, put on his hat, drew down his waistcoat, and approached Mr. Rylands with his hands in his pockets.
“Mr. Rylands,” he said, with great suavity of manner, “this is the second time today that I have had the honor of having my word doubted by your family. Your wife was good enough to question my assertion that I didn’t know that she was living here, but that was a woman’s vanity. You have no such excuse. There is my horse yonder, lame, as you may see. I didn’t lame him for the sake of seeing your wife nor you.”
There was that in Mr. Hamlin’s audacity and perfect self-possession which, even while it irritated, never suggested deceit. He was too reckless of consequence to lie. Mr. Rylands was staggered and half convinced. Nevertheless, he hesitated.
“Dare you tell me everything that happened between my wife and you?”
“Dare you listen?” said Mr. Hamlin quietly.
Mr. Rylands turned a little white. After a moment he said:—
“Yes.”
“Good!” said Mr. Hamlin. “I like your grit, though I don’t mind telling you it’s the ONLY thing I like about you. Sit down. Well, I haven’t seen Nell Montgomery for three years until I met her as your wife, at your house. She was surprised as I was, and frightened as I wasn’t. She spent the whole interview in telling me the history of her marriage and her life with you, and nothing more. I cannot say that it was remarkably entertaining, or that she was as amusing as your wife as she was as Nell Montgomery, the variety actress. When she had finished, I came away.”
Mr. Rylands, who had seated himself, made a movement as if to rise. But Mr. Hamlin laid his hand on his knee.
“I asked you if you dared to listen. I have something myself to say of that interview. I found your wife wearing the old dresses that other men had given her, and she said she wore them because she thought it pleased you. I found that you, who are questioning my calling upon her, had already got the worst of her old chums to visit her without asking her consent; I found that instead of being the first one to lie for her and hide her, you were the first one to tell anybody her history, just because you thought it was to the glory of God generally, and of Joshua Rylands in particular.”
“A man’s motives are his own,” stammered Rylands.
“Sorry you didn’t see it when you questioned mine just now,” said Jack coolly.
“Then she complained to you?” said Rylands hesitatingly.
“I didn’t say that,” said Jack shortly.
“But you found her unhappy?”
“Damnably.”
“And you advised her”—said Rylands tentatively.
“I advised her to chuck you and try to get a better husband.” He paused, and then added, with a disgusted laugh, “but she didn’t tumble to it, for a d–d silly reason.”
“What reason?” said Rylands hurriedly.
“Said she LOVED you,” returned Jack, kicking a brand back into the fire. Mr. Rylands’s white cheeks flamed out suddenly like the brand. Seeing which, Jack turned upon him deliberately.
“Mr. Joshua Rylands, I’ve seen many fools in my time. I’ve seen men holding four aces backed down because they thought they KNEW the other man had a royal flush! I’ve seen a man sell his claim for a wild-cat share, with the gold lying a foot below him in the ground he walked on. I’ve seen a dead shot shoot wild because he THOUGHT he saw something in the other man’s eye. I’ve seen a heap of God-forsaken fools, but I never saw one before who claimed God as a pal. You’ve got a wife a d–d sight truer to you for what you call her ‘sin,’ than you’ve ever been to her, with all your d–d salvation! And as you couldn’t make her otherwise, though you’ve tried to hard enough, it seems to me that for square downright chuckle-headedness, you can take the cake! Good-night! Now, run away and play! You’re making me tired.”
“One moment,” said Mr. Rylands awkwardly and hurriedly. “I may have wronged you; I was mistaken. Won’t you come back with me and accept my—our—hospitality?”
“Not much,” said Jack. “I left your house because I thought it better for you and her that no one should know of my being there.”
“But you were already recognized,” said Mr. Rylands. “It was Jane who lied about you, and your return with me will confute her slanders.”
“Who?” asked Jack.
“Jane, our hired girl.”
Mr. Hamlin uttered an indescribable laugh.
“That’s just as well! You simply tell Jane you SAW me; that I was greatly shocked at what she said, but that I forgive her. I don’t think she’ll say any more.”
Strange to add, Mr. Hamlin’s surmise was correct. Mr. Rylands found Jane still in the kitchen alone, terrified, remorseful, yet ever after silent on the subject. Stranger still, the hired man became equally uncommunicative. Mrs. Rylands, attributing her husband’s absence only to care of the stock, had gone to bed in a feverish condition, and Mr. Rylands did not deem it prudent to tell her of his interview. The next day she sent for the doctor, and it was deemed necessary for her to keep her bed for a few days. Her husband was singularly attentive and considerate during that time, and it was probable that Mrs. Rylands seized that opportunity to tell him the secret she spoke of the night before. Whatever it was,—for it was not generally known for a few months later,—it seemed to draw them closer together, imparted a protecting dignity to Joshua Rylands, which took the place of his former selfish austerity, gave them a future to talk of confidentially, hopefully, and sometimes foolishly, which took the place of their more foolish past, and when the roll of calico came from the cross roads, it contained also a quantity of fine linen, laces, small caps, and other trifles, somewhat in contrast to the more homely materials ordered.
And when three months were past, the sitting-room was often lit up and made cheerful, particularly on that supreme occasion when, with a great deal of enthusiasm, all the women of the countryside flocked to see Mrs. Rylands and her first baby. And a more considerate and devoted couple than the father and mother they had never known.
THE MAN AT THE SEMAPHORE
In the early days of the Californian immigration, on the extremest point of the sandy peninsula, where the bay of San Francisco debouches into the Pacific, there stood a semaphore telegraph. Tossing its black arms against the sky,—with its back to the Golden Gate and that vast expanse of sea whose nearest shore was Japan,—it signified to another semaphore further inland the “rigs” of incoming vessels, by certain uncouth signs, which were again passed on to Telegraph Hill, San Francisco, where they reappeared on a third semaphore, and read to the initiated “schooner,” “brig” “ship,” or “steamer.” But all homesick San Francisco had learned the last sign, and on certain days of the month every eye was turned to welcome those gaunt arms widely extended at right angles, which meant “sidewheel steamer” (the only steamer which carried the mails) and “letters from home.” In the joyful reception accorded to that herald of glad tidings, very few thought of the lonely watcher on the sand dunes who dispatched them, or even knew of that desolate Station.
For desolate
