Sally Dows

by Bret Harte

they met hersgave way, however, to a look that she thought was gently reproachful.Then he rose, stretched himself to his full height, and approaching thekitchen door leaned listlessly against the door-post.

  "I don't suppose you are ever lonely here?"

  "No, sir."

  "Of course not. You have yourself and husband. Nobody interferes withyou. You are contented and happy together."

  Mrs. Bunker did not say, what was the fact, that she had never beforeconnected the sole companionship of her husband with her happiness.Perhaps it had never occurred to her until that moment how little it hadto do with it. She only smiled gratefully at the change in her guest'sabstraction.

  "Do you often go to San Francisco?" he continued.

  "I have never been there at all. Some day I expect we will go there tolive."

  "I wouldn't advise you to," he said, looking at her gravely. "I don'tthink it will pay you. You'll never be happy there as here. You'll neverhave the independence and freedom you have here. You'll never beyour own mistress again. But how does it happen you never were in SanFrancisco?" he said suddenly.

  If he would not talk of himself, here at least was a chance for Mrs.Bunker to say something. She related how her family had emigrated fromKansas across the plains and had taken up a "location" at Contra Costa.How she didn't care for it, and how she came to marry the seafaring manwho brought her here--all with great simplicity and frankness and asunreservedly as to a superior being--albeit his attention wandered attimes, and a rare but melancholy smile that he had apparently evokedto meet her conversational advances became fixed occasionally. Even hisdark eyes, which had obliged Mrs. Bunker to put up her hair and buttonher collar, rested upon her without seeing her.

  "Then your husband's name is Bunker?" he said when she paused at last."That's one of those Nantucket Quaker names--sailors and whalers forgenerations--and yours, you say, was MacEwan. Well, Mrs. Bunker, YOURfamily came from Kentucky to Kansas only lately, though I suppose yourfather calls himself a Free-States man. You ought to know something offarming and cattle, for your ancestors were old Scotch Covenanters whoemigrated a hundred years ago, and were great stock raisers."

  All this seemed only the natural omniscience of a superior being. AndMrs. Bunker perhaps was not pained to learn that her husband's familywas of a lower degree than her own. But the stranger's knowledge did notend there. He talked of her husband's business--he explained the vastfishing resources of the bay and coast. He showed her how the largecolony of Italian fishermen were inimical to the interests of Californiaand to her husband--particularly as a native American trader. He toldher of the volcanic changes of the bay and coast line, of the formationof the rocky ledge on which she lived. He pointed out to her its valueto the Government for defensive purposes, and how it naturally commandedthe entrance of the Golden Gate far better than Fort Point, and that itought to be in its hands. If the Federal Government did not buy it ofher husband, certainly the State of California should. And here he fellinto an abstraction as deep and as gloomy as before. He walked to thewindow, paced the floor with his hand in his breast, went to the door,and finally stepped out of the cabin, moving along the ledge of rocks tothe shore, where he stood motionless.

  Mrs. Bunker had listened to him with parted lips and eyes of eloquentadmiration. She had never before heard anyone talk like THAT--she hadnot believed it possible that any one could have such knowledge. Perhapsshe could not understand all he said, but she would try to remember itafter he had gone. She could only think now how kind it was of him thatin all this mystery of his coming, and in the singular sadness that wasoppressing him, he should try to interest her. And thus looking at him,and wondering, an idea came to her.

  She went into her bedroom and took down her husband's heavy pilotovercoat and sou'wester, and handed them to her guest.

  "You'd better put them on if you're going to stand there," she said.

  "But I am not cold," he said wonderingly.

  "But you might be SEEN," she said simply. It was the first suggestionthat had passed between them that his presence there was a secret. Helooked at her intently, then he smiled and said, "I think you're right,for many reasons," put the pilot coat over his frock coat, removedhis hat with the gesture of a bow, handed it to her, and placed thesou'wester in its stead. Then for an instant he hesitated as if aboutto speak, but Mrs. Bunker, with a delicacy that she could not herselfcomprehend at the moment, hurried back to the cabin without giving himan opportunity.

  Nor did she again intrude upon his meditations. Hidden in his disguise,which to her eyes did not, however, seem to conceal his characteristicfigure, he wandered for nearly an hour under the bluff and along theshore, returning at last almost mechanically to the cabin, where,oblivious of his surroundings, he reseated himself in silence bythe table with his cheek resting on his hand. Presently, her quick,experienced ear detected the sound of oars in their row-locks; she couldplainly see from her kitchen window a small boat with two strangersseated at the stern being pulled to the shore. With the same strangeinstinct of delicacy, she determined not to go out lest her presencemight embarrass her guest's reception of his friends. But as she turnedtowards the living room she found he had already risen and was removinghis hat and pilot coat. She was struck, however, by the circumstancethat not only did he exhibit no feeling of relief at his deliverance,but that a half-cynical, half-savage expression had taken the place ofhis former melancholy. As he went to the door, the two gentlemen hastilyclambered up the rocks to greet him.

  "Jim reckoned it was you hangin' round the rocks, but I couldn't tell atthat distance. Seemed you borrowed a hat and coat. Well--it's all fixed,and we've no time to lose. There's a coasting steamer just dropping downbelow the Heads, and it will take you aboard. But I can tell you you'vekicked up a h-ll of a row over there." He stopped, evidently at somesign from her guest. The rest of the man's speech followed in a hurriedwhisper, which was stopped again by the voice she knew. "No. Certainlynot." The next moment his tall figure was darkening the door of thekitchen; his hand was outstretched. "Good-by, Mrs. Bunker, and manythanks for your hospitality. My friends here," he turned grimly to themen behind him, "think I ought to ask you to keep this a secret evenfrom your husband. I DON'T! They also think that I ought to offer youmoney for your kindness. I DON'T! But if you will honor me by keepingthis ring in remembrance of it"--he took a heavy seal ring from hisfinger--"it's the only bit of jewelry I have about me--I'll be veryglad. Good-by!" She felt for a moment the firm, soft pressure of hislong, thin fingers around her own, and then--he was gone. The sound ofretreating oars grew fainter and fainter and was lost. The same reserveof delicacy which now appeared to her as a duty kept her from going tothe window to watch the destination of the boat. No, he should go as hecame, without her supervision or knowledge.

  Nor did she feel lonely afterwards. On the contrary, the silence andsolitude of the isolated domain had a new charm. They kept the memory ofher experience intact, and enabled her to refill it with his presence.She could see his tall figure again pausing before her cabin, withoutthe incongruous association of another personality; she could hear hisvoice again, unmingled with one more familiar. For the first time, theregular absence of her husband seemed an essential good fortune insteadof an accident of their life. For the experience belonged to HER, andnot to him and her together. He could not understand it; he would haveacted differently and spoiled it. She should not tell him anything ofit, in spite of the stranger's suggestion, which, of course, he had onlymade because he didn't know Zephas as well as she did. For Mrs. Bunkerwas getting on rapidly; it was her first admission of the conjugalknowledge that one's husband is inferior to the outside estimate ofhim. The next step--the belief that he was deceiving HER as he wasTHEM--would be comparatively easy.

  Nor should she show him the ring. The stranger had certainly never saidanything about that! It was a heavy ring, with a helmeted head carved onits red carnelian stone, and what looked like strange letters around it.It fitted her third finger perfectly; but
HIS fingers were small, andhe had taken it from his little finger. She should keep it herself. Ofcourse, if it had been money, she would have given it to Zephas; but thestranger knew that she wouldn't take money. How firmly he had said that"I don't!" She felt the warm blood fly to her fresh young face at thethought of it. He had understood her. She might be living in apoor cabin, doing all the housework herself, and her husband only afisherman, but he had treated her like a lady.

  And so the afternoon passed. The outlying fog began to roll in at theGolden Gate, obliterating the headland and stretching a fleecy baracross the channel as if shutting out from vulgar eyes the way that hehad gone. Night fell, but