The two girls looked at each other awkwardly; Jessie did not attempt to conceal a slight pout.
“It looks as if they were anticipating us,” she said, with a half-forced smile. “I wonder, now, if there really has been any gossip? But no! They wouldn’t have stopped for that, unless—” She looked curiously at her sister.
“Unless what?” repeated Christie; “you are horribly mysterious this morning.”
“Am I? It’s nothing. But they’re wanting an answer. Of course you’ll decline.”
“And intimate we only care for their company! No! We’ll say we’re sorry they can’t come, and—accept their horses. We can do without an escort, we two.”
“Capital!” said Jessie, clapping her hands. “We’ll show them—”
“We’ll show them nothing,” interrupted Christie decidedly. “In our place there’s only the one thing to do. Where is this—Whiskey Dick?”
“In the parlor.”
“The parlor!” echoed Christie. “Whiskey Dick? What—is he—”
“Yes; he’s all right,” said Jessie confidently. “He’s been here before, but he stayed in the hall; he was so shy. I don’t think you saw him.”
“I should think not—Whiskey Dick!”
“Oh, you can call him Mr. Hall, if you like,” said Jessie, laughing. “His real name is Dick Hall. If you want to be funny, you can say Alky Hall, as the others do.”
Christie’s only reply to this levity was a look of superior resignation as she crossed the hall and entered the parlor.
Then ensued one of those surprising, mystifying, and utterly inexplicable changes that leave the masculine being so helpless in the hands of his feminine master. Before Christie opened the door her face underwent a rapid transformation: the gentle glow of a refined woman’s welcome suddenly beamed in her interested eyes; the impulsive courtesy of an expectant hostess eagerly seizing a long-looked-for opportunity broke in a smile upon her lips as she swept across the room, and stopped with her two white outstretched hands before Whiskey Dick.
It needed only the extravagant contrast presented by that gentleman to complete the tableau. Attired in a suit of shining black alpaca, the visitor had evidently prepared himself with some care for a possible interview. He was seated by the French window opening upon the veranda, as if to secure a retreat in case of an emergency. Scrupulously washed and shaven, some of the soap appeared to have lingered in his eyes and inflamed the lids, even while it lent a sleek and shining lustre, not unlike his coat, to his smooth black hair. Nevertheless, leaning back in his chair, he had allowed a large white handkerchief to depend gracefully from his fingers—a pose at once suggesting easy and elegant langour.
“How kind of you to give me an opportunity to make up for my misfortune when you last called! I was so sorry to have missed you. But it was entirely my fault! You were hurried, I think—you conversed with others in the hall—you—”
She stopped to assist him to pick up the handkerchief that had fallen, and the Panama hat that had rolled from his lap towards the window when he had started suddenly to his feet at the apparition of grace and beauty. As he still nervously retained the two hands he had grasped, this would have been a difficult feat, even had he not endeavored at the same moment, by a backward furtive kick, to propel the hat out of the window, at which she laughingly broke from his grasp and flew to the rescue.
“Don’t mind it, miss,” he said hurriedly. “It is not worth your demeaning yourself to touch it. Leave it outside thar, miss. I wouldn’t have toted it in, anyhow, if some of those high-falutin’ fellows hadn’t allowed, the other night, ez it were the reg’lar thing to do; as if, miss, any gentleman kalkilated to ever put on his hat in the house afore a lady!”
But Christie had already possessed herself of the unlucky object, and had placed it upon the table. This compelled Whiskey Dick to rise again, and as an act of careless good breeding to drop his handkerchief in it. He then leaned one elbow upon the piano, and, crossing one foot over the other, remained standing in an attitude he remembered to have seen in the pages of an illustrated paper as portraying the hero in some drawing-room scene. It was easy and effective, but seemed to be more favorable to revery than conversation. Indeed, he remembered that he had forgotten to consult the letterpress as to which it represented.
“I see you agree with me, that politeness is quite a matter of intention,” said Christie, “and not of mere fashion and rules. Now, for instance,” she continued, with a dazzling smile, “I suppose, according to the rules, I ought to give you a note to Mr. Munroe, accepting his offer. That is all that is required; but it seems so much nicer, don’t you think, to tell it to you for him, and have the pleasure of your company and a little chat at the same time.”
“That’s it, that’s just it, Miss Carr; you’ve hit it in the centre this time,” said Whiskey Dick, now quite convinced that his attitude was not intended for eloquence, and shifting back to his own seat, hat and all; “that’s tantamount to what I said to the boys just now. ‘You want an excuse,’ sez I, ‘for not goin’ out with the young ladies. So, accorden’ to rules, you writes a letter allowin’ buzziness and that sorter thing detains you. But wot’s the facts? You’re a gentleman, and as gentlemen you and George comes to the opinion that you’re rather playin’ it for all it’s worth in this yer house, you know—comin’ here night and day, off and on, reg’lar sociable and fam’ly like, and makin’ people talk about things they ain’t any call to talk about, and, what’s a darned sight more, You fellows ain’t got any right yet to allow ’em to talk about, d’ye see?” he paused, out of breath.
It was Miss Christie’s turn to move about. In changing her seat to the piano-stool, so as to be nearer her visitor, she brushed down some loose music, which Whiskey Dick hastened to pick up.
“Pray don’t mind it,” she said, “pray don’t, really—let it be—” But Whiskey Dick, feeling himself on safe ground in this attention, persisted to the bitter end of a disintegrated and well-worn “Travatore.” “So that is what Mr. Munroe said,” she remarked quietly.
“Not just then, in course, but it’s what’s bin on his mind and in his talk for days off and on,” returned Dick, with a knowing smile and a nod of mysterious confidence. “Bless your soul, Miss Carr, folks like you and me don’t need to have them things explained. That’s what I said to him, sez I. ‘Don’t send no note, but just go up there and hev it out fair and square, and say what you do mean.’ But they would hev the note, and I kalkilated to bring it. But when I set my eyes on you, and heard you express yourself as you did just now, I sez to myself, sez I, ‘Dick, yer’s a young lady, and a fash’nable lady at that, ez don’t go foolin’ round on rules and etiketts’—excuse my freedom, Miss Carr—‘and you and her’, sez I, ‘kin just discuss this yer matter in a sociable, off-hand, fash’nable way.’ They’re a good lot o’ boys, Miss Carr, a square lot—white men all of ’em; but they’re a little soft and green, may be, from livin’ in these yer pine woods along o’ the other sap. They just worship the ground you and your sister tread on—certain! of course! of course!” he added hurriedly, recognizing Christie’s half-conscious, deprecating gesture with more exaggerated deprecation. “I understand. But what I wanter say is that they’d be willin’ to be that ground, and lie down and let you walk over them—so to speak, Miss Carr, so to speak—if it would keep the hem of your gown from gettin’ soiled in the mud o’ the camp. But it wouldn’t do for them to make a reg’lar curderoy road o’ themselves for the houl camp to trapse over, on the mere chance of your some time passin’ that way, would it now?”
“Won’t you let me offer you some refreshment, Mr. Hall?” said Christie, rising, with a slight color. “I’m really ashamed of my forgetfulness again, but I’m afraid it’s partly your fault for entertaining me to the exclusion of yourself. No, thank you, let me fetch it for you.”
She turned to a handsome sideboard near the door, and presently faced him again with a decanter of whiskey and a glass in her hand, and a return of the bewitching smile she had worn on entering.
“But perhaps you don’t take whiskey?” suggested the arch deceiver, with a sudden affected but pretty perplexity of eye, brow, and lips.
For the first time in his life Whiskey Dick hesitated between two forms of intoxication. But he was still nervous and uneasy; habit triumphed, and he took the whiskey. He, however, wiped his lips with a slight wave of his handkerchief, to support a certain easy elegance which he firmly believed relieved the act of any vulgar quality.
“Yes, ma’am,” he continued, after an exhilarated pause. “Ez I said afore, this yer’s a matter you and me can discuss after the fashion o’ society. My idea is that these yer boys should kinder let up on you and Miss Jessie for a while, and do a little more permiskus attention round the Ford. There’s one or two families yer with grown-up gals ez oughter be squared; that is—the boys mighter put in a few fancy touches among them—kinder take ’em buggy riding—or to church—once in a while—just to take the pizen outer their tongues, and make a kind o’ bluff to the parents, d’ye see? That would sorter divert their own minds; and even if it didn’t, it would kinder get ’em accustomed agin to the old style and their own kind. I want to warn ye agin an idea that might occur to you in a giniral way. I don’t say you hev the idea, but it’s kind o’ nat’ral you might be thinkin’ of it some time, and I thought I’d warn you agin it.”
“I think we understand each other too well to differ much, Mr. Hall,” said Christie, still smiling; “but what is the idea?”
The delicate compliment to their confidential relations and the slight stimulus of liquor had tremulously exalted Whiskey Dick. Affecting to look cautiously out of the window and around the room, he ventured to draw nearer the young woman with a half-paternal, half-timid familiarity.
“It might have occurred to you,” he said, laying his handkerchief as if to veil mere vulgar contact, on Christie’s shoulder, “that it would be a good thing on your side to invite down some of your high-toned gentlemen friends from ’Frisco to visit you and escort you round. It seems quite nat’ral like, and I don’t say it ain’t, but—the boys wouldn’t stand for it.”
In spite of her self-possession, Christie’s eyes suddenly darkened, and she involuntarily drew herself up. But Whiskey Dick, guiltily attributing the movement to his own indiscreet gesture, said, “Excuse me, miss,” recovered himself by lightly dusting her shoulder with his handkerchief, as if to remove the impression, and her smile returned.
“They wouldn’t stand for it,” said Dick, “and there’d be some shooting! Not afore you, miss—not afore you, in course! But they’d adjourn to the woods some morning with them city folks, and hev it out with rifles at a hundred yards. Or, seein’ ez they’re city folks, the boys would do the square thing with pistols at twelve paces. They’re good boys, as I said afore; but they’re quick and tetchy—George, being the youngest, nat’rally is the tetchiest. You know how it is, Miss Carr; his pretty, gal-like face and little moustaches haz cost him half a dozen scrimmages already. He’z had a fight for every hair that’s growed in his moustache since he kem here.”
“Say no more, Mr. Hall!” said Christie, rising and pressing her hands lightly on Dick’s tremulous fingers. “If I ever had any such idea, I should abandon it now; you are quite right in this as in your other opinions. I shall never cease to be thankful to Mr. Munroe and Mr. Kearney that they intrusted this delicate matter to your hands.”
“Well,” said the gratified and reddening visitor, “it ain’t perhaps the square thing to them or myself to say that they reckoned to have me discuss their delicate affairs for them, but—”
“I understand,” interrupted Christie. “They simply gave you the letter as a friend. It was my good fortune to find you a sympathizing and liberal man of the world.” The delighted Dick, with conscious vanity beaming from every feature of his shining face, lightly waved the compliment aside with his handkerchief, as she continued, “But I am forgetting the message. We accept the horses. Of course we could do without an escort; but forgive my speaking so frankly, are you engaged this afternoon?”
“Excuse me, miss, I don’t take—” stammered Dick, scarcely believing his ears.
“Could you give us your company as an escort?” repeated Christie with a smile.
Was he awake or dreaming, or was this some trick of liquor in his often distorted fancy? He, Whiskey Dick! the butt of his friends, the chartered oracle of the barrooms, even in whose wretched vanity there was always the haunting suspicion that he was despised and scorned; he, who had dared so much in speech, and achieved so little in fact! he, whose habitual weakness had even led him into the wildest indiscretion here; he—now offered a reward for that indiscretion! He, Whiskey Dick, the solicited escort of these two beautiful and peerless girls! What would they say at the Ford? What would his friends think? It would be all over the Ford the next day. His past would be vindicated, his future secured. He grew erect at the thought. It was almost in other voice, and with no trace of his previous exaggeration, that he said, “With pleasure.”
“Then, if you will bring the horses at once, we shall be ready when you return.”
In another instant he had vanished, as if afraid to trust the reality of his good fortune to the dangers of delay. At the end of half an hour he reappeared, leading the two horses, himself mounted on a half-broken mustang. A pair of large, jingling silver spurs and a stiff sombrero, borrowed with the mustang from some mysterious source, were donned to do honor to the occasion.
The young girls were not yet ready, but he was shown by the Chinese servant into the parlor to wait for them. The decanter of whiskey and glasses were still invitingly there. He was hot, trembling, and flushed with triumph. He walked to the table and laid his hand on the decanter, when an odd thought flashed upon him. He would not drink this time. No, it should not be said that he, the selected escort of the elite of Devil’s Ford, had to fill himself up with whiskey before they started. The boys might turn to each other in their astonishment, as he proudly passed with his fair companions, and say, “It’s Whiskey Dick,” but he’d be d—d if they should add, “and full as ever.” No, sir! Nor when he was riding beside these real ladies, and leaning over them at some confidential moment, should they even know it from his breath! No. . . . Yet a thimbleful, taken straight, only a thimbleful, wouldn’t be much, and might help to pull him together. He again reached his trembling hand for the decanter, hesitated, and then, turning his back upon it, resolutely walked to the open window. Almost at the same instant he found himself face to face with Christie on the veranda.
She looked into his bloodshot eyes, and cast a swift glance at the decanter.
“Won’t you take something before you go?” she said sweetly.
“I—reckon—not, jest now,” stammered Whiskey Dick, with a heroic effort.
“You’re right,” said Christie. “I see you are like me. It’s too hot for anything fiery. Come with me.”
She led him into the dining-room, and pouring out a glass of iced tea handed it to him. Poor Dick was not prepared for this terrible culmination. Whiskey Dick and iced tea! But under pretence of seeing if it was properly flavored, Christie raised it to her own lips.
“Try it, to please me.”
He drained the goblet.
“Now, then,” said Christie gayly, “let’s find Jessie, and be off!”