CHAPTER I

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.

I regret that I am not able to indicate the exact stage of that process.  Two chairs were already filled with delicate inwrappings and white confusion; and the young lady herself, half-hidden in the silky threads of her yellow hair, had at one time borne a faint resemblance to a partly-husked ear of Indian corn.  But she was now clothed in that one long, formless garment that 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 Four Forks, had utterly disappeared.  The face above it was very pretty:  the foot below, albeit shapely, was not small.  “The flowers, as a general thing, don’t raise their heads much to look after me,” she had said with superb frankness to one of her lovers.

The expression of the “Rose” to-night was contentedly placid.  She walked slowly to the window, and, making the smallest possible peephole through the curtain, looked out.  The motionless figure of a horseman still lingered on the road, with an excess of devotion that only a coquette, or a woman very much in love, could tolerate.  The “Rose,” at that moment, was neither, and, after a reasonable pause, turned away, saying quite audibly that it was “too ridiculous for any thing.”  As she came back to her dressing-table, it was noticeable that she walked steadily and erect, without that slight affectation of lameness common to people with whom bare feet are only an episode.  Indeed, it was only four years ago, that without shoes or stockings, a long-limbed, colty girl, in a waistless calico gown, she had leaped from the tailboard of her father’s emigrant-wagon when it first drew up at Chemisal Ridge.  Certain wild habits of the “Rose” had outlived transplanting and cultivation.

A knock at the door surprised her.  In another moment she had leaped into bed, and with darkly-frowning eyes, from its secure recesses demanded “Who’s there?”

An apologetic murmur on the other side of the door was the response.

“Why, father! ­is that you?”

There were further murmurs, affirmative, deprecatory, and persistent.

“Wait,” said the “Rose.”  She got up, unlocked the door, leaped nimbly into bed again, and said, “Come.”

The door opened timidly.  The broad, stooping shoulders, and grizzled head, of a man past the middle age, appeared:  after a moment’s hesitation, a pair of large, diffident feet, shod with canvas slippers, concluded to follow.  When the apparition was complete, it closed the door softly, and stood there, ­a very shy ghost indeed, ­with apparently more than the usual spiritual indisposition to begin a conversation.  The “Rose” resented this impatiently, though, I fear, not altogether intelligibly.

“Do, father, I declare!”

“You was abed, Jinny,” said Mr. McClosky slowly, glancing, with a singular mixture of masculine awe and paternal pride, upon the two chairs and their contents, ­“you was abed and ondressed.”

“I was.”

“Surely,” said Mr. McClosky, seating himself on the extreme edge of the bed, and painfully tucking his feet away under it, ­“surely.”  After a pause, he rubbed a short, thick, stumpy beard, that bore a general resemblance to a badly-worn blacking-brush, with the palm of his hand, and went on, “You had a good time, Jinny?”

“Yes, father.”

“They was all there?”

“Yes, Rance and York and Ryder and Jack.”

“And Jack!” Mr. McClosky endeavored to throw an expression of arch inquiry into his small, tremulous eyes; but meeting the unabashed, widely-opened lid of his daughter, he winked rapidly, and blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Yes, Jack was there,” said Jenny, without change of color, or the least self-consciousness in her great gray eyes; “and he came home with me.”  She paused a moment, locking her two hands under her head, and assuming a more comfortable position on the pillow.  “He asked me that same question again, father, and I said, ‘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.  I suppose it’s all right, father, eh?” She emphasized the question with a slight kick through the bed-clothes, as the parental McClosky had fallen into an abstract revery.

“Yes, surely,” said Mr. McClosky, recovering himself with some confusion.  After a pause, he looked down at the bed-clothes, and, patting them tenderly, continued, “You couldn’t have done better, Jinny.  They isn’t a girl in Tuolumne ez could strike it ez rich as you hev ­even if they got the chance.”  He paused again, and then said, “Jinny?”

“Yes, father.”

“You’se in bed, and ondressed?”

“Yes.”

“You couldn’t,” said Mr. McClosky, glancing hopelessly at the two chairs, and slowly rubbing his chin, ­“you couldn’t dress yourself again could yer?”

“Why, father!”

“Kinder get yourself into them things again?” he added hastily.  “Not all of ’em, you know, but some of ’em.  Not if I helped you ­sorter stood by, and lent a hand now and then with a strap, or a buckle, or a necktie, or a shoestring?” he continued, still looking at the chairs, and evidently trying to boldly familiarize himself with their contents.

“Are you crazy, father?” demanded Jenny suddenly sitting up with a portentous switch of her yellow mane.  Mr. McClosky rubbed one side of his beard, which already had the appearance of having been quite worn away by that process, and faintly dodged the question.

“Jinny,” he said, tenderly stroking the bedclothes as he spoke, “this yer’s what’s the matter.  Thar is a stranger down stairs, ­a stranger to you, lovey, but a man ez I’ve knowed a long time.  He’s been here about an hour; and he’ll be here ontil fower o’clock, when the up-stage passes.  Now I wants ye, Jinny dear, to get up and come down stairs, and kinder help me pass the time with him.  It’s no use, Jinny,” he went on, gently raising his hand to deprecate any interruption, “it’s no use!  He won’t go to bed; he won’t play keerds; whiskey don’t take no effect on him.  Ever since I knowed him, he was the most onsatisfactory critter to hev round” ­

“What do you have him round for, then?” interrupted Miss Jinny sharply.

Mr. McClosky’s eyes fell.  “Ef he hedn’t kem out of his way to-night to do me a good turn, I wouldn’t ask ye, Jinny.  I wouldn’t, so help me!  But I thought, ez I couldn’t do any thing with him, you might come down, and sorter fetch him, Jinny, as you did the others.”

Miss Jenny shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“Is he old, or young?”

“He’s young enough, Jinny; but he knows a power of things.”

“What does he do?”

“Not much, I reckon.  He’s got money in the mill at Four Forks.  He travels round a good deal.  I’ve heard, Jinny that he’s a poet ­writes them rhymes, you know.”  Mr. McClosky here appealed submissively but directly to his daughter.  He remembered that she had frequently been in receipt of printed elegaic couplets known as “mottoes,” containing enclosures equally saccharine.

Miss Jenny slightly curled her pretty lip.  She had that fine contempt for the illusions of fancy which belongs to the perfectly healthy young animal.

“Not,” continued Mr. McClosky, rubbing his head reflectively, “not ez I’d advise ye, Jinny, to say any thing to him about poetry.  It ain’t twenty minutes ago ez I did.  I set the whiskey afore him in the parlor.  I wound up the music-box, and set it goin’.  Then I sez to him, sociable-like and free, ’Jest consider yourself in your own house, and repeat what you allow to be your finest 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 question with 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 good girl, Jinny,” he said, dropping on one knee the better to imprint a respectful kiss on her forehead.  But Jenny caught him by the wrists, and for a moment held him captive.  “Father,” said she, trying to fix his shy eyes with the clear, steady glance of her own, “all the girls that were there to-night had some one with them.  Mame Robinson had her aunt; Lucy Rance had her mother; Kate Pierson had her sister ­all, except me, had some other woman.  Father dear,” her lip trembled just a little, “I wish mother hadn’t died when I was so small.  I wish there was some other woman in the family besides me.  I ain’t lonely with you, father dear; but if there was only some one, you know, when the time comes for John and me” ­

Her voice here suddenly gave out, but not her brave eyes, that were still fixed earnestly upon his face.  Mr. McClosky, apparently tracing out a pattern on the bedquilt, essayed words of comfort.

“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 nearest relation to make the strike that you hev.  Ez to mothers, maybe, my dear you’re doin’ better without one.”  He rose suddenly, and walked toward the door.  When he reached it, he turned, and, in his old deprecating manner, said, “Don’t be long, Jinny,” smiled, and vanished from the head downward, his canvas slippers asserting themselves resolutely to the last.

When Mr. McClosky reached his parlor again, his troublesome guest was not there.  The decanter stood on the table untouched; three or four books lay upon the floor; a number of photographic views of the Sierras were scattered over the sofa; two sofa-pillows, a newspaper, and a Mexican blanket, lay on the carpet, as if the late occupant of the room had tried to read in a recumbent position.  A French window opening upon a veranda, which never before in the history of the house had been unfastened, now betrayed by its waving lace curtain the way that the fugitive had escaped.  Mr. McClosky heaved a sigh of despair.  He looked at the gorgeous carpet purchased in Sacramento at a fabulous price, at the crimson satin and rosewood furniture unparalleled in the history of Tuolumne, at the massively-framed pictures on the walls, and looked beyond it, through the open window, to the reckless man, who, fleeing these sybaritic allurements, was smoking a cigar upon the moonlit road.  This room, which had so often awed the youth of Tuolumne into filial respect, was evidently a failure.  It remained to be seen if the “Rose” herself had lost her fragrance.  “I reckon Jinny will fetch him yet,” said Mr. McClosky with parental faith.

He stepped from the window upon the veranda; but he had scarcely done this, before his figure was detected by the stranger, who at once crossed the road.  When within a few feet of McClosky, he stopped.  “You persistent old plantigrade!” he said in a low voice, audible only to the person addressed, and a face full of affected anxiety, “why don’t you go to bed?  Didn’t I tell you to go and leave me here alone?  In the name of all that’s idiotic and imbecile, why do you continue to shuffle about here?  Or are you trying to drive me crazy with your presence, as you have with that wretched music-box that I’ve just dropped under yonder tree?  It’s an hour and a half yet before the stage passes:  do you think, do you imagine for a single moment, that I can tolerate you until then, eh?  Why don’t you speak?  Are you asleep?  You don’t mean to say that you have the audacity to add somnambulism to your other weaknesses? you’re not low enough to repeat yourself under any such weak pretext as that, eh?”

A fit of nervous coughing ended this extraordinary exordium; and half sitting, half leaning against the veranda, Mr. McClosky’s guest turned his face, and part of a slight elegant figure, toward his host.  The lower portion of this upturned face wore an habitual expression of fastidious discontent, with an occasional line of physical suffering.  But the brow above was frank and critical; and a pair of dark, mirthful eyes, sat in playful judgment over the super-sensitive mouth and its suggestion.

“I allowed to go to bed, Ridgeway,” said Mr. McClosky meekly; “but my girl Jinny’s jist got back from a little tear up at Robinson’s, and ain’t inclined to turn in yet.  You know what girls is.  So I thought we three would jist have a social chat together to pass away the time.”

“You mendacious old hypocrite!  She got back an hour ago,” said Ridgeway, “as that savage-looking escort of hers, who has been haunting the house ever since, can testify.  My belief is, that, like an enterprising idiot as you are, you’ve dragged that girl out of her bed, that we might mutually bore each other.”

Mr. McClosky was too much stunned by this evidence of Ridgeway’s apparently superhuman penetration to reply.  After enjoying his host’s confusion for a moment with his eyes, Ridgeway’s mouth asked grimly, ­

“And who is this girl, anyway?”

“Nancy’s.”

“Your wife’s?”

“Yes.  But look yar, Ridgeway,” said McClosky, laying one hand imploringly on Ridgeway’s sleeve, “not a word about her to Jinny.  She thinks her mother’s dead ­died in Missouri.  Eh!”

Ridgeway nearly rolled from the veranda in an excess of rage.  “Good God!  Do you mean to say that you have been concealing from her a fact that any day, any moment, may come to her ears?  That you’ve been letting her grow up in ignorance of something that by this time she might have outgrown and forgotten?  That you have been, like a besotted old ass, all these years slowly forging a thunderbolt that any one may crush her with?  That” ­but here Ridgeway’s cough took possession of his voice, and even put a moisture into his dark eyes, as he looked at McClosky’s aimless hand feebly employed upon his beard.

“But,” said McClosky, “look how she’s done!  She’s held her head as high as any of ’em.  She’s to be married in a month to the richest man in the county; and,” he added cunningly, “Jack Ashe ain’t the kind o’ man to sit by and hear any thing said of his wife or her relations, you bet!  But hush ­that’s her foot on the stairs.  She’s cummin’.”

She came.  I don’t think the French window ever held a finer view than when she put aside the curtains, and stepped out.  She had dressed herself simply and hurriedly, but with a woman’s knowledge of her best points; so that you got the long curves of her shapely limbs, the shorter curves of her round waist and shoulders, the long sweep of her yellow braids, the light of her gray eyes, and even the delicate rose of her complexion, without knowing how it was delivered to you.

The introduction by Mr. McClosky was brief.  When Ridgeway had got over the fact that it was two o’clock in the morning, and that the cheek of this Tuolumne goddess nearest him was as dewy and fresh as an infant’s, that she looked like Marguerite, without, probably, ever having heard of Goethe’s heroine, he talked, I dare say, very sensibly.  When Miss Jenny ­who from her childhood had been brought up among the sons of Anak, and who was accustomed to have the supremacy of our noble sex presented to her as a physical fact ­found herself in the presence of a new and strange power in the slight and elegant figure beside her, she was at first frightened and cold.  But finding that this power, against which the weapons of her own physical charms were of no avail, was a kindly one, albeit general, she fell to worshipping it, after the fashion of woman, and casting before it the fetishes and other idols of her youth.  She even confessed to it.  So that, in half an hour, Ridgeway was in possession of all the facts connected with her life, and a great many, I fear, of her fancies ­except one.  When Mr. McClosky found the young people thus amicably disposed, he calmly went to sleep.

It was a pleasant time to each.  To Miss Jenny it had the charm of novelty; and she abandoned herself to it, for that reason, much more freely and innocently than her companion, who knew something more of the inevitable logic of the position.  I do not think, however, he had any intention of love-making.  I do not think he was at all conscious of being in the attitude.  I am quite positive he would have shrunk from the suggestion of disloyalty to the one woman whom he admitted to himself he loved.  But, like most poets, he was much more true to an idea than a fact, and having a very lofty conception of womanhood, with a very sanguine nature, he saw in each new face the possibilities of a realization of his ideal.  It was, perhaps, an unfortunate thing for the women, particularly as he brought to each trial a surprising freshness, which was very deceptive, and quite distinct from the ‘blase’ familiarity of the man of gallantry.  It was this perennial virginity of the affections that most endeared him to the best women, who were prone to exercise toward him a chivalrous protection, ­as of one likely to go astray, unless looked after, ­and indulged in the dangerous combination of sentiment with the highest maternal instincts.  It was this quality which caused Jenny to recognize in him a certain boyishness that required her womanly care, and even induced her to offer to accompany him to the cross-roads when the time for his departure arrived.  With her superior knowledge of woodcraft and the locality, she would have kept him from being lost.  I wot not but that she would have protected him from bears or wolves, but chiefly, I think, from the feline fascinations of Mame Robinson and Lucy Rance, who might be lying in wait for this tender young poet.  Nor did she cease to be thankful that Providence had, so to speak, delivered him as a trust into her hands.

It was a lovely night.  The moon swung low, and languished softly on the snowy ridge beyond.  There were quaint odors in the still air; and a strange incense from the woods perfumed their young blood, and seemed to swoon in their pulses.  Small wonder that they lingered on the white road, that their feet climbed, unwillingly the little hill where they were to part, and that, when they at last reached it, even the saving grace of speech seemed to have forsaken them.

For there they stood alone.  There was no sound nor motion in earth, or woods, or heaven.  They might have been the one man and woman for whom this goodly earth that lay at their feet, rimmed with the deepest azure, was created.  And, seeing this, they turned toward each other with a sudden instinct, and their hands met, and then their lips in one long kiss.

And then out of the mysterious distance came the sound of voices, and the sharp clatter of hoofs and wheels, and Jenny slid away ­a white moonbeam ­from the hill.  For a moment she glimmered through the trees, and then, reaching the house, passed her sleeping father on the veranda, and, darting into her bedroom, locked the door, threw open the window, and, falling on her knees beside it, leaned her hot cheeks upon her hands, and listened.  In a few moments she was rewarded by the sharp clatter of hoofs on the stony road; but it was only a horseman, whose dark figure was swiftly lost in the shadows of the lower road.  At another time she might have recognized the man; but her eyes and ears were now all intent on something else.  It came presently with dancing lights, a musical rattle of harness, a cadence of hoof-beats, that set her heart to beating in unison ­and was gone.  A sudden sense of loneliness came over her; and tears gathered in her sweet eyes.

She arose, and looked around her.  There was the little bed, the dressing-table, the roses that she had worn last night, still fresh and blooming in the little vase.  Every thing was there; but every thing looked strange.  The roses should have been withered, for the party seemed so long ago.  She could hardly remember when she had worn this dress that lay upon the chair.  So she came back to the window, and sank down beside it, with her cheek a trifle paler, leaning on her hand, and her long braids reaching to the floor.  The stars paled slowly, like her cheek; yet with eyes that saw not, she still looked from her window for the coming dawn.

It came, with violet deepening into purple, with purple flushing into rose, with rose shining into silver, and glowing into gold.  The straggling line of black picket-fence below, that had faded away with the stars, came back with the sun.  What was that object moving by the fence?  Jenny raised her head, and looked intently.  It was a man endeavoring to climb the pickets, and falling backward with each attempt.  Suddenly she started to her feet, as if the rosy flushes of the dawn had crimsoned her from forehead to shoulders; then she stood, white as the wall, with her hands clasped upon her bosom; then, with a single bound, she reached the door, and, with flying braids and fluttering skirt, sprang down the stairs, and out to the garden walk.  When within a few feet of the fence, she uttered a cry, the first she had given, ­the cry of a mother over her stricken babe, of a tigress over her mangled cub; and in another moment she had leaped the fence, and knelt beside Ridgeway, with his fainting head upon her breast.

“My boy, my poor, poor boy! who has done this?”

Who, indeed?  His clothes were covered with dust; his waistcoat was torn open; and his handkerchief, wet with the blood it could not stanch, fell from a cruel stab beneath his shoulder.

“Ridgeway, my poor boy! tell me what has happened.”

Ridgeway slowly opened his heavy blue-veined lids, and gazed upon her.  Presently a gleam of mischief came into his dark eyes, a smile stole over his lips as he whispered slowly, ­

“It ­was ­your kiss ­did it, Jenny dear.  I had forgotten ­how high-priced the article was here.  Never mind, Jenny!” ­he feebly raised her hand to his white lips, ­“it was ­worth it,” and fainted away.

Jenny started to her feet, and looked wildly around her.  Then, with a sudden resolution, she stooped over the insensible man, and with one strong effort lifted him in her arms as if he had been a child.  When her father, a moment later, rubbed his eyes, and awoke from his sleep upon the veranda, it was to see a goddess, erect and triumphant, striding toward the house with the helpless body of a man lying across that breast where man had never lain before, ­a goddess, at whose imperious mandate he arose, and cast open the doors before her.  And then, when she had laid her unconscious burden on the sofa, the goddess fled; and a woman, helpless and trembling, stood before him, ­a woman that cried out that she had “killed him,” that she was “wicked, wicked!” and that, even saying so, staggered, and fell beside her late burden.  And all that Mr. McClosky could do was to feebly rub his beard, and say to himself vaguely and incoherently, that “Jinny had fetched him.”

CHAPTER II

Before noon the next day, it was generally believed throughout Four Forks that Ridgeway Dent had been attacked and wounded at Chemisal Ridge by a highwayman, who fled on the approach of the Wingdam coach.  It is to be presumed that this statement met with Ridgeway’s approval, as he did not contradict it, nor supplement it with any details.  His wound was severe, but not dangerous.  After the first excitement had subsided, there was, I think, a prevailing impression common to the provincial mind, that his misfortune was the result of the defective moral quality of his being a stranger, and was, in a vague sort of a way, a warning to others, and a lesson to him.  “Did you hear how that San Francisco feller was took down the other night?” was the average tone of introductory remark.  Indeed, there was a general suggestion that Ridgeway’s presence was one that no self-respecting, high-minded highwayman, honorably conservative of the best interests of Tuolumne County, could for a moment tolerate.

Except for the few words spoken on that eventful morning, Ridgeway was reticent of the past.  When Jenny strove to gather some details of the affray that might offer a clew to his unknown assailant, a subtle twinkle in his brown eyes was the only response.  When Mr. McClosky attempted the same process, the young gentleman threw abusive epithets, and, eventually slippers, teaspoons, and other lighter articles within the reach of an invalid, at the head of his questioner.  “I think he’s coming round, Jinny,” said Mr. McClosky:  “he laid for me this morning with a candlestick.”

It was about this time that Miss Jenny, having sworn her father to secrecy regarding the manner in which Ridgeway had been carried into the house, conceived the idea of addressing the young man as “Mr. Dent,” and of apologizing for intruding whenever she entered the room in the discharge of her household duties.  It was about this time that she became more rigidly conscientious to those duties, and less general in her attentions.  It was at this time that the quality of the invalid’s diet improved, and that she consulted him less frequently about it.  It was about this time that she began to see more company, that the house was greatly frequented by her former admirers, with whom she rode, walked, and danced.  It was at about this time also, and when Ridgeway was able to be brought out on the veranda in a chair, that, with great archness of manner, she introduced to him Miss Lucy Ashe, the sister of her betrothed, a flashing brunette, and terrible heart-breaker of Four Forks.  And, in the midst of this gayety, she concluded that she would spend a week with the Robinsons, to whom she owed a visit.  She enjoyed herself greatly there, so much, indeed, that she became quite hollow-eyed, the result, as she explained to her father, of a too frequent indulgence in festivity.  “You see, father, I won’t have many chances after John and I are married:  you know how queer he is, and I must make the most of my time;” and she laughed an odd little laugh, which had lately become habitual to her.  “And how is Mr. Dent getting on?” Her father replied that he was getting on very well indeed, ­so well, in fact, that he was able to leave for San Francisco two days ago.  “He wanted to be remembered to you, Jinny, ­’remembered kindly,’ ­yes, they is the very words he used,” said Mr. McClosky, looking down, and consulting one of his large shoes for corroboration.  Miss Jenny was glad to hear that he was so much better.  Miss Jenny could not imagine any thing that pleased her more than to know that he was so strong as to be able to rejoin his friends again, who must love him so much, and be so anxious about him.  Her father thought she would be pleased, and, now that he was gone, there was really no necessity for her to hurry back.  Miss Jenny, in a high metallic voice, did not know that she had expressed any desire to stay, still if her presence had become distasteful at home, if her own father was desirous of getting rid of her, if, when she was so soon to leave his roof forever, he still begrudged her those few days remaining, if ­“My God, Jinny, so help me!” said Mr. McClosky, clutching despairingly at his beard, “I didn’t go for to say any thing of the kind.  I thought that you” ­“Never mind, father,” interrupted Jenny magnanimously, “you misunderstood me:  of course you did, you couldn’t help it ­you’re a man!” Mr. McClosky, sorely crushed, would have vaguely protested; but his daughter, having relieved herself, after the manner of her sex, with a mental personal application of an abstract statement, forgave him with a kiss.

Nevertheless, for two or three days after her return, Mr. McClosky followed his daughter about the house with yearning eyes, and occasionally with timid, diffident feet.  Sometimes he came upon her suddenly at her household tasks, with an excuse so palpably false, and a careless manner so outrageously studied, that she was fain to be embarrassed for him.  Later, he took to rambling about the house at night, and was often seen noiselessly passing and repassing through the hall after she had retired.  On one occasion, he was surprised, first by sleep, and then by the early-rising Jenny, as he lay on the rug outside her chamber-door.  “You treat me like a child, father,” said Jenny.  “I thought, Jinny,” said the father apologetically, ­“I thought I heard sounds as if you was takin’ on inside, and, listenin’ I fell asleep.” ­“You dear, old simple-minded baby!” said Jenny, looking past her father’s eyes, and lifting his grizzled locks one by one with meditative fingers:  “what should I be takin’ on for?  Look how much taller I am than you!” she said, suddenly lifting herself up to the extreme of her superb figure.  Then rubbing his head rapidly with both hands, as if she were anointing his hair with some rare unguent, she patted him on the back, and returned to her room.  The result of this and one or two other equally sympathetic interviews was to produce a change in Mr. McClosky’s manner, which was, if possible, still more discomposing.  He grew unjustifiably hilarious, cracked jokes with the servants, and repeated to Jenny humorous stories, with the attitude of facetiousness carefully preserved throughout the entire narration, and the point utterly ignored and forgotten.  Certain incidents reminded him of funny things, which invariably turned out to have not the slightest relevancy or application.  He occasionally brought home with him practical humorists, with a sanguine hope of setting them going, like the music-box, for his daughter’s edification.  He essayed the singing of melodies with great freedom of style, and singular limitation of note.  He sang “Come haste to the Wedding, Ye Lasses and Maidens,” of which he knew a single line, and that incorrectly, as being peculiarly apt and appropriate.  Yet away from the house and his daughter’s presence, he was silent and distraught.  His absence of mind was particularly noted by his workmen at the Empire Quartz Mill.  “Ef the old man don’t look out and wake up,” said his foreman, “he’ll hev them feet of his yet under the stamps.  When he ain’t givin’ his mind to ’em, they is altogether too promiskuss.”

A few nights later, Miss Jenny recognized her father’s hand in a timid tap at the door.  She opened it, and he stood before her, with a valise in his hand, equipped as for a journey.  “I takes the stage to-night, Jinny dear, from Four Forks to ’Frisco.  Maybe I may drop in on Jack afore I go.  I’ll be back in a week.  Good-by.”

“Good-by.”  He still held her hand.  Presently he drew her back into the room, closing the door carefully, and glancing around.  There was a look of profound cunning in his eye as he said slowly, ­

“Bear up, and keep dark, Jinny dear, and trust to the old man.  Various men has various ways.  Thar is ways as is common, and ways as is uncommon; ways as is easy, and ways as is oneasy.  Bear up, and keep dark.”  With this Delphic utterance he put his finger to his lips, and vanished.

It was ten o’clock when he reached Four Forks.  A few minutes later, he stood on the threshold of that dwelling described by the Four Forks “Sentinel” as “the palatial residence of John Ashe,” and known to the local satirist as the “ash-box.”  “Hevin’ to lay by two hours, John,” he said to his prospective son-in-law, as he took his hand at the door, “a few words of social converse, not on business, but strictly private, seems to be about as nat’ral a thing as a man can do.”  This introduction, evidently the result of some study, and plainly committed to memory, seemed so satisfactory to Mr. McClosky, that he repeated it again, after John Ashe had led him into his private office, where, depositing his valise in the middle of the floor, and sitting down before it, he began carefully to avoid the eye of his host.  John Ashe, a tall, dark, handsome Kentuckian, with whom even the trifles of life were evidently full of serious import, waited with a kind of chivalrous respect the further speech of his guest.  Being utterly devoid of any sense of the ridiculous, he always accepted Mr. McClosky as a grave fact, singular only from his own want of experience of the class.

“Ores is running light now,” said Mr. McClosky with easy indifference.

John Ashe returned that he had noticed the same fact in the receipts of the mill at Four Forks.

Mr. McClosky rubbed his beard, and looked at his valise, as if for sympathy and suggestion.

“You don’t reckon on having any trouble with any of them chaps as you cut out with Jinny?”

John Ashe, rather haughtily, had never thought of that.  “I saw Rance hanging round your house the other night, when I took your daughter home; but he gave me a wide berth,” he added carelessly.

“Surely,” said Mr. McClosky, with a peculiar winking of the eye.  After a pause, he took a fresh departure from his valise.

“A few words, John, ez between man and man, ez between my daughter’s father and her husband who expects to be, is about the thing, I take it, as is fair and square.  I kem here to say them.  They’re about Jinny, my gal.”

Ashe’s grave face brightened, to Mr. McClosky’s evident discomposure.

“Maybe I should have said about her mother; but, the same bein’ a stranger to you, I says naterally, ‘Jinny.’”

Ashe nodded courteously.  Mr. McClosky, with his eyes on his valise, went on, ­

“It is sixteen year ago as I married Mrs. McClosky in the State of Missouri.  She let on, at the time, to be a widder, ­a widder with one child.  When I say let on, I mean to imply that I subsekently found out that she was not a widder, nor a wife; and the father of the child was, so to speak, onbeknowst.  Thet child was Jinny ­my gal.”

With his eyes on his valise, and quietly ignoring the wholly-crimsoned face and swiftly-darkening brow of his host, he continued, ­

“Many little things sorter tended to make our home in Missouri onpleasant.  A disposition to smash furniture, and heave knives around; an inclination to howl when drunk, and that frequent; a habitooal use of vulgar language, and a tendency to cuss the casooal visitor, ­seemed to pint,” added Mr. McClosky with submissive hesitation “that ­she ­was ­so to speak ­quite onsuited to the marriage relation in its holiest aspeck.”

“Damnation!  Why didn’t” ­burst out John Ashe, erect and furious.

“At the end of two year,” continued Mr. McClosky, still intent on the valise, “I allowed I’d get a diworce.  Et about thet time, however, Providence sends a circus into thet town, and a feller ez rode three horses to onct.  Hevin’ allez a taste for athletic sports, she left town with this feller, leavin’ me and Jinny behind.  I sent word to her, thet, if she would give Jinny to me, we’d call it quits.  And she did.”

“Tell me,” gasped Ashe, “did you ask your daughter to keep this from me? or did she do it of her own accord?”

“She doesn’t know it,” said Mr. McClosky.  “She thinks I’m her father, and that her mother’s dead.”

“Then, sir, this is your” ­

“I don’t know,” said Mr. McClosky slowly, “ez I’ve asked any one to marry my Jinny.  I don’t know ez I’ve persood that ez a biziness, or even taken it up as a healthful recreation.”

John Ashe paced the room furiously.  Mr. McClosky’s eyes left the valise, and followed him curiously.  “Where is this woman?” demanded Ashe suddenly.  McClosky’s eyes sought the valise again.

“She went to Kansas; from Kansas she went into Texas; from Texas she eventooally came to Californy.  Being here, I’ve purvided her with money, when her business was slack, through a friend.”

John Ashe groaned.  “She’s gettin’ rather old and shaky for hosses, and now does the tight-rope business and flying trapeze.  Never hevin’ seen her perform,” continued Mr. McClosky with conscientious caution, “I can’t say how she gets on.  On the bills she looks well.  Thar is a poster,” said Mr. McClosky glancing at Ashe, and opening his valise, ­“thar is a poster givin’ her performance at Marysville next month.”  Mr. McClosky slowly unfolded a large yellow-and-blue printed poster, profusely illustrated.  “She calls herself ’Mams’elle J. Miglawski, the great Russian Trapéziste.’”

John Ashe tore it from his hand.  “Of course,” he said, suddenly facing Mr. McClosky, “you don’t expect me to go on with this?”

Mr. McClosky took up the poster, carefully refolded it, and returned it to his valise.  “When you break off with Jinny,” he said quietly, “I don’t want any thing said ’bout this.  She doesn’t know it.  She’s a woman, and I reckon you’re a white man.”

“But what am I to say?  How am I to go back of my word?”

“Write her a note.  Say something hez come to your knowledge (don’t say what) that makes you break it off.  You needn’t be afeard Jinny’ll ever ask you what.”

John Ashe hesitated.  He felt he had been cruelly wronged.  No gentleman, no Ashe, could go on further in this affair.  It was preposterous to think of it.  But somehow he felt at the moment very unlike a gentleman, or an Ashe, and was quite sure he should break down under Jenny’s steady eyes.  But then ­he could write to her.

“So ores is about as light here as on the Ridge.  Well, I reckon they’ll come up before the rains.  Good-night.”  Mr. McClosky took the hand that his host mechanically extended, shook it gravely, and was gone.

When Mr. McClosky, a week later, stepped again upon his own veranda, he saw through the French window the figure of a man in his parlor.  Under his hospitable roof, the sight was not unusual; but, for an instant, a subtle sense of disappointment thrilled him.  When he saw it was not the face of Ashe turned toward him, he was relieved; but when he saw the tawny beard, and quick, passionate eyes of Henry Rance, he felt a new sense of apprehension, so that he fell to rubbing his beard almost upon his very threshold.

Jenny ran into the hall, and seized her father with a little cry of joy.  “Father,” said Jenny in a hurried whisper, “don’t mind him,” indicating Rance with a toss of her yellow braids:  “he’s going soon.  And I think, father, I’ve done him wrong.  But it’s all over with John and me now.  Read that note, and see how he’s insulted me.”  Her lip quivered; but she went on, “It’s Ridgeway that he means, father; and I believe it was his hand struck Ridgeway down, or that he knows who did.  But hush now! not a word.”

She gave him a feverish kiss, and glided back into the parlor, leaving Mr. McClosky, perplexed and irresolute, with the note in his hand.  He glanced at it hurriedly, and saw that it was couched in almost the very words he had suggested.  But a sudden, apprehensive recollection came over him.  He listened; and, with an exclamation of dismay, he seized his hat, and ran out of the house, but too late.  At the same moment a quick, nervous footstep was heard upon the veranda; the French window flew open, and, with a light laugh of greeting, Ridgeway stepped into the room.

Jenny’s finer ear first caught the step.  Jenny’s swifter feelings had sounded the depths of hope, of joy, of despair, before he entered the room.  Jenny’s pale face was the only one that met his, self-possessed and self-reliant, when he stood before them.  An angry flush suffused even the pink roots of Rance’s beard as he rose to his feet.  An ominous fire sprang into Ridgeway’s eyes, and a spasm of hate and scorn passed over the lower part of his face, and left the mouth and jaw immobile and rigid.

Yet he was the first to speak.  “I owe you an apology,” he said to Jenny, with a suave scorn that brought the indignant blood back to her cheek, “for this intrusion; but I ask no pardon for withdrawing from the only spot where that man dare confront me with safety.”

With an exclamation of rage, Rance sprang toward him.  But as quickly Jenny stood between them, erect and menacing.  “There must be no quarrel here,” she said to Rance.  “While I protect your right as my guest, don’t oblige me to remind you of mine as your hostess.”  She turned with a half-deprecatory air to Ridgeway; but he was gone.  So was her father.  Only Rance remained with a look of ill-concealed triumph on his face.

Without looking at him, she passed toward the door.  When she reached it, she turned.  “You asked me a question an hour ago.  Come to me in the garden, at nine o’clock tonight, and I will answer you.  But promise me, first, to keep away from Mr. Dent.  Give me your word not to seek him ­to avoid him, if he seeks you.  Do you promise?  It is well.”

He would have taken her hand; but she waved him away.  In another moment he heard the swift rustle of her dress in the hall, the sound of her feet upon the stair, the sharp closing of her bedroom door, and all was quiet.

And even thus quietly the day wore away; and the night rose slowly from the valley, and overshadowed the mountains with purple wings that fanned the still air into a breeze, until the moon followed it, and lulled every thing to rest as with the laying-on of white and benedictory hands.  It was a lovely night; but Henry Rance, waiting impatiently beneath a sycamore at the foot of the garden, saw no beauty in earth or air or sky.  A thousand suspicions common to a jealous nature, a vague superstition of the spot, filled his mind with distrust and doubt.  “If this should be a trick to keep my hands off that insolent pup!” he muttered.  But, even as the thought passed his tongue, a white figure slid from the shrubbery near the house, glided along the line of picket-fence, and then stopped, midway, motionless in the moonlight.

It was she.  But he scarcely recognized her in the white drapery that covered her head and shoulders and breast.  He approached her with a hurried whisper.  “Let us withdraw from the moonlight.  Everybody can see us here.”

“We have nothing to say that cannot be said in the moonlight, Henry Rance,” she replied, coldly receding from his proffered hand.  She trembled for a moment, as if with a chill, and then suddenly turned upon him.  “Hold up your head, and let me look at you!  I’ve known only what men are:  let me see what a traitor looks like!”

He recoiled more from her wild face than her words.  He saw from the first that her hollow cheeks and hollow eyes were blazing with fever.  He was no coward; but he would have fled.

“You are ill, Jenny,” he said:  “you had best return to the house.  Another time” ­

“Stop!” she cried hoarsely.  “Move from this spot, and I’ll call for help!  Attempt to leave me now, and I’ll proclaim you the assassin that you are!”

“It was a fair fight,” he said doggedly.

“Was it a fair fight to creep behind an unarmed and unsuspecting man?  Was it a fair fight to try to throw suspicion on some one else?  Was it a fair fight to deceive me?  Liar and coward that you are!”

He made a stealthy step toward her with evil eyes, and a wickeder hand that crept within his breast.  She saw the motion; but it only stung her to newer fury.

“Strike!” she said with blazing eyes, throwing her hands open before him.  “Strike!  Are you afraid of the woman who dares you?  Or do you keep your knife for the backs of unsuspecting men?  Strike, I tell you!  No?  Look, then!” With a sudden movement, she tore from her head and shoulders the thick lace shawl that had concealed her figure, and stood before him.  “Look!” she cried passionately, pointing to the bosom and shoulders of her white dress, darkly streaked with faded stains and ominous discoloration, ­“look!  This is the dress I wore that morning when I found him lying here, ­here, ­bleeding from your cowardly knife.  Look!  Do you see?  This is his blood, ­my darling boy’s blood! ­one drop of which, dead and faded as it is, is more precious to me than the whole living pulse of any other man.  Look!  I come to you to-night, christened with his blood, and dare you to strike, ­dare you to strike him again through me, and mingle my blood with his.  Strike, I implore you!  Strike! if you have any pity on me, for God’s sake!  Strike! if you are a man!  Look!  Here lay his head on my shoulder; here I held him to my breast, where never ­so help me my God! ­another man ­Ah!” ­

She reeled against the fence, and something that had flashed in Rance’s hand dropped at her feet; for another flash and report rolled him over in the dust; and across his writhing body two men strode, and caught her ere she fell.

“She has only fainted,” said Mr. McClosky.  “Jinny dear, my girl, speak to me!”

“What is this on her dress?” said Ridgeway, kneeling beside her, and lifting his set and colorless face.  At the sound of his voice, the color came faintly back to her cheek:  she opened her eyes, and smiled.

“It’s only your blood, dear boy,” she said; “but look a little deeper, and you’ll find my own.”

She put up her two yearning hands, and drew his face and lips down to her own.  When Ridgeway raised his head again, her eyes were closed; but her mouth still smiled as with the memory of a kiss.

They bore her to the house, still breathing, but unconscious.  That night the road was filled with clattering horsemen; and the summoned skill of the countryside for leagues away gathered at her couch.  The wound, they said, was not essentially dangerous; but they had grave fears of the shock to a system that already seemed suffering from some strange and unaccountable nervous exhaustion.  The best medical skill of Tuolumne happened to be young and observing, and waited patiently an opportunity to account for it.  He was presently rewarded.

For toward morning she rallied, and looked feebly around.  Then she beckoned her father toward her, and whispered, “Where is he?”

“They took him away, Jinny dear, in a cart.  He won’t trouble you agin.”  He stopped; for Miss Jenny had raised herself on her elbow, and was levelling her black brows at him.  But two kicks from the young surgeon, and a significant motion towards the door, sent Mr. McClosky away muttering.  “How should I know that ‘he’ meant Ridgeway?” he said apologetically, as he went and returned with the young gentleman.  The surgeon, who was still holding her pulse, smiled, and thought that ­with a little care ­and attention ­the stimulants ­might be ­diminished ­and –­he ­might leave ­the patient for some hours with perfect safety.  He would give further directions to Mr. McClosky ­down stairs.

It was with great archness of manner, that, half an hour later, Mr. McClosky entered the room with a preparatory cough; and it was with some disappointment that he found Ridgeway standing quietly by the window, and his daughter apparently fallen into a light doze.  He was still more concerned, when, after Ridgeway had retired, noticing a pleasant smile playing about her lips, he said softly: ­

“You was thinking of some one, Jinny?”

“Yes, father,” the gray eyes met his steadily, ­“of poor John Ashe!”

Her recovery was swift.  Nature, that had seemed to stand jealously aloof from her in her mental anguish, was kind to the physical hurt of her favorite child.  The superb physique, which had been her charm and her trial, now stood her in good stead.  The healing balsam of the pine, the balm of resinous gums, and the rare medicaments of Sierran altitudes, touched her as it might have touched the wounded doe; so that in two weeks she was able to walk about.  And when, at the end of the month, Ridgeway returned from a flying visit to San Francisco, and jumped from the Wingdam coach at four o’clock in the morning, the Rose of Tuolumne, with the dewy petals of either cheek fresh as when first unfolded to his kiss, confronted him on the road.

With a common instinct, their young feet both climbed the little hill now sacred to their thought.  When they reached its summit, they were both, I think, a little disappointed.  There is a fragrance in the unfolding of a passion, that escapes the perfect flower.  Jenny thought the night was not as beautiful; Ridgeway, that the long ride had blunted his perceptions.  But they had the frankness to confess it to each other, with the rare delight of such a confession, and the comparison of details which they thought each had forgotten.  And with this, and an occasional pitying reference to the blank period when they had not known each other, hand in hand they reached the house.

Mr. McClosky was awaiting them impatiently upon the veranda.  When Miss Jenny had slipped up stairs to replace a collar that stood somewhat suspiciously awry, Mr. McClosky drew Ridgeway solemnly aside.  He held a large theatre poster in one hand, and an open newspaper in the other.

“I allus said,” he remarked slowly, with the air of merely renewing a suspended conversation, ­“I allus said that riding three horses to onct wasn’t exactly in her line.  It would seem that it ain’t.  From remarks in this yer paper, it would appear that she tried it on at Marysville last week, and broke her neck.”