by Bret Harte
CHAPTER II.
It was a peculiarity of the Carquinez Wood that it stood apart anddistinct in its gigantic individuality. Even where the integrity of itsown singular species was not entirely preserved, it admitted no inferiortrees. Nor was there any diminishing fringe on its outskirts; thesentinels that guarded the few gateways of the dim trails were asmonstrous as the serried ranks drawn up in the heart of the forest.Consequently, the red highway that skirted the eastern angle was bareand shadeless, until it slipped a league off into a watered valley andrefreshed itself under lesser sycamores and willows. It was here thenewly born city of Excelsior, still in its cradle, had, like an infantHercules, strangled the serpentine North Fork of the American river,and turned its life current into the ditches and flumes of the Excelsiormines.
Newest of the new houses that seemed to have accidentally formed itssingle, straggling street was the residence of the Rev. Winslow Wynn,not unfrequently known as "Father Wynn," pastor of the First Baptistchurch. The "pastorage," as it was cheerfully called, had the glaringdistinction of being built of brick, and was, as had been wickedlypointed out by idle scoffers, the only "fireproof" structure in town.This sarcasm was not, however, supposed to be particularly distastefulto "Father Wynn," who enjoyed the reputation of being "hail fellow, wellmet" with the rough mining element, who called them by their Christiannames, had been known to drink at the bar of the Polka Saloon whileengaged in the conversion of a prominent citizen, and was popularly saidto have no "gospel starch" about him. Certain conscious outcasts andtransgressors were touched at this apparent unbending of the spiritualauthority. The rigid tenets of Father Wynn's faith were lost in thesupposed catholicity of his humanity. "A preacher that can jine a manwhen he's histin' liquor into him, without jawin' about it, ought to beallowed to wrestle with sinners and splash about in as much cold wateras he likes," was the criticism of one of his converts. Nevertheless,it was true that Father Wynn was somewhat loud and intolerant in histolerance. It was true that he was a little more rough, a little morefrank, a little more hearty, a little more impulsive than his disciples.It was true that often the proclamation of his extreme liberality andbrotherly equality partook somewhat of an apology. It is true that a fewwho might have been most benefited by this kind of gospel regardedhim with a singular disdain. It is true that his liberality was of anornamental, insinuating quality, accompanied with but little sacrifice;his acceptance of a collection taken up in a gambling saloon for therebuilding of his church, destroyed by fire, gave him a popularitylarge enough, it must be confessed, to cover the sins of the gamblersthemselves, but it was not proven that HE had ever organized any formof relief. But it was true that local history somehow accepted him asan exponent of mining Christianity, without the least reference to theopinions of the Christian miners themselves.
The Rev. Mr. Wynn's liberal habits and opinions were not, however,shared by his only daughter, a motherless young lady of eighteen.Nellie Wynn was in the eye of Excelsior an unapproachable divinity,as inaccessible and cold as her father was impulsive and familiar. Anatmosphere of chaste and proud virginity made itself felt even inthe starched integrity of her spotless skirts, in her neatly glovedfinger-tips, in her clear amber eyes, in her imperious red lips, in hersensitive nostrils. Need it be said that the youth and middle age ofExcelsior were madly, because apparently hopelessly, in love with her?For the rest, she had been expensively educated, was profoundly ignorantin two languages, with a trained misunderstanding of music and painting,and a natural and faultless taste in dress.
The Rev. Mr. Wynn was engaged in a characteristic hearty parting withone of his latest converts, upon his own doorstep, with admirableal fresco effect. He had just clapped him on the shoulder. "Good-by,good-by, Charley, my boy, and keep in the right path; not up, or down,or round the gulch, you know--ha, ha!--but straight across lots tothe shining gate." He had raised his voice under the stimulus of a fewadmiring spectators, and backed his convert playfully against the wall."You see! we're goin' in to win, you bet. Good-by! I'd ask you to stepin and have a chat, but I've got my work to do, and so have you. Thegospel mustn't keep us from that, must it, Charley? Ha, ha!"
The convert (who elsewhere was a profane expressman, and had becomequite imbecile under Mr. Wynn's active heartiness and brotherlyhorse-play before spectators) managed, however, to feebly stammer with ablush something about "Miss Nellie."
"Ah, Nellie. She, too, is at her tasks--trimming her lamp--you know,the parable of the wise virgins," continued Father Wynn hastily,fearing that the convert might take the illustration literally. "There,there--good-by. Keep in the right path." And with a parting shove hedismissed Charley and entered his own house.
That "wise virgin," Nellie, had evidently finished with the lamp, andwas now going out to meet the bridegroom, as she was fully dressed andgloved, and had a pink parasol in her hand, as her father entered thesitting-room. His bluff heartiness seemed to fade away as he removedhis soft, broad-brimmed hat and glanced across the too fresh-lookingapartment. There was a smell of mortar still in the air, and a faintsuggestion that at any moment green grass might appear between theinterstices of the red-brick hearth. The room, yielding a little in thepoint of coldness, seemed to share Miss Nellie's fresh virginity, and,barring the pink parasol, set her off as in a vestal's cell.
"I supposed you wouldn't care to see Brace, the expressman, so I gotrid of him at the door," said her father, drawing one of the new chairstowards him slowly, and sitting down carefully, as if it were a hithertountried experiment.
Miss Nellie's face took a tint of interest. "Then he doesn't go with thecoach to Indian Spring to-day?"
"No; why?"
"I thought of going over myself to get the Burnham girls to come tochoir-meeting," replied Miss Nellie carelessly, "and he might have beencompany."
"He'd go now, if he knew you were going," said her father; "but it'sjust as well he shouldn't be needlessly encouraged. I rather think thatSheriff Dunn is a little jealous of him. By the way, the sheriff ismuch better. I called to cheer him up to-day" (Mr. Wynn had in facttumultuously accelerated the sick man's pulse), "and he talked of you,as usual. In fact, he said he had only two things to get well for. Onewas to catch and hang that woman Teresa, who shot him; the other--can'tyou guess the other?" he added archly, with a faint suggestion of hisother manner.
Miss Nellie coldly could not.
The Rev. Mr. Wynn's archness vanished. "Don't be a fool," he said dryly."He wants to marry you, and you know it."
"Most of the men here do," responded Miss Nellie, without the leasttrace of coquetry. "Is the wedding or the hanging to take place first,or together, so he can officiate at both?"
"His share in the Union Ditch is worth a hundred thousand dollars,"continued her father; "and if he isn't nominated for district judge thisfall, he's bound to go to the legislature, anyway. I don't think a girlwith your advantages and education can afford to throw away the chanceof shining in Sacramento, San Francisco, or, in good time, perhaps evenWashington."
Miss Nellie's eyes did not reflect entire disapproval of thissuggestion, although she replied with something of her father'spractical quality.
"Mr. Dunn is not out of his bed yet, and they say Teresa's got away toArizona, so there isn't any particular hurry."
"Perhaps not; but see here, Nellie, I've some important news for you.You know your young friend of the Carquinez Woods--Dorman, the botanist,eh? Well, Brace knows all about him. And what do you think he is?"
Miss Nellie took upon herself a few extra degrees of cold, and didn'tknow.
"An Injin! Yes, an out-and-out Cherokee. You see he calls himselfDorman--Low Dorman. That's only French for 'Sleeping Water,' his Injinname!--'Low Dorman.'"
"You mean 'L'Eau Dormante,'" said Nellie.
"That's what I said. The chief called him 'Sleeping Water' when he was aboy, and one of them French Canadian trappers translated it into Frenchwhen he brought him to California to school. But he's an Injin, sure. Nowonder he prefers to live in t
he woods."
"Well?" said Nellie.
"Well," echoed her father impatiently, "he's an Injin, I tell you, andyou can't of course have anything to do with him. He mustn't come hereagain."
"But you forget," said Nellie imperturbably, "that it was you whoinvited him here, and were so much exercised over him. You rememberyou introduced him to the Bishop and those Eastern clergymen as amagnificent specimen of a young Californian. You forget what an occasionyou made of his coming to church on Sunday, and how you made him come inhis buckskin shirt and walk down the street with you after service!"
"Yes, yes," said the Rev. Mr. Wynn, hurriedly.
"And," continued Nellie carelessly, "how you made us sing out of thesame book 'Children of our Father's Fold,' and how you preached at himuntil he actually got a color!"
"Yes," said her father; "but it wasn't known then he was an Injin, andthey are frightfully unpopular with those Southwestern men among whom welabor. Indeed, I am quite convinced that when Brace said 'the only goodIndian was a dead one' his expression, though extravagant, perhaps,really voiced the sentiments of the majority. It would be only kindnessto the unfortunate creature to warn him from exposing himself to theirrude but conscientious antagonism."
"Perhaps you'd better tell him, then, in your own popular way, whichthey all seem to understand so well," responded the daughter. Mr. Wynncast a quick glance at her, but there was no trace of irony in herface--nothing but a half-bored indifference as she walked toward thewindow.
"I will go with you to the coach-office," said her father, who generallygave these simple paternal duties the pronounced character of a publicChristian example.
"It's hardly worth while," replied Miss Nellie. "I've to stop at theWatsons', at the foot of the hill, and ask after the baby; so I shall goon to the Crossing and pick up the coach when it passes. Good-by."
Nevertheless, as soon as Nellie had departed, the Rev. Mr. Wynnproceeded to the coach-office, and publicly grasping the hand of YubaBill, the driver, commended his daughter to his care in the name of theuniversal brotherhood of man and the Christian fraternity. Carried awayby his heartiness, he forgot his previous caution, and confided tothe expressman Miss Nellie's regrets that she was not to have thatgentleman's company. The result was that Miss Nellie found the coachwith its passengers awaiting her with uplifted hats and wreathed smilesat the Crossing, and the box seat (from which an unfortunate stranger,who had expensively paid for it, had been summarily ejected) at herservice beside Yuba Bill, who had thrown away his cigar and donned a newpair of buckskin gloves to do her honor. But a more serious result tothe young beauty was the effect of the Rev. Mr. Wynn's confidences uponthe impulsive heart of Jack Brace, the expressman. It has been alreadyintimated that it was his "day off." Unable to summarily reassume hisusual functions beside the driver without some practical reason, andashamed to go so palpably as a mere passenger, he was forced to letthe coach proceed without him. Discomfited for the moment, he was not,however, beaten. He had lost the blissful journey by her side, whichwould have been his professional right, but--she was going to IndianSpring! could he not anticipate her there? Might they not meet in themost accidental manner? And what might not come from that meeting awayfrom the prying eyes of their own town? Mr. Brace did not hesitate, butsaddling his fleet Buckskin, by the time the stage-coach had passed theCrossing in the high-road he had mounted the hill and was dashing alongthe "cutoff" in the same direction, a full mile in advance. Arriving atIndian Spring, he left his horse at a Mexican posada on the confines ofthe settlement, and from the piled debris of a tunnel excavation awaitedthe slow arrival of the coach. On mature reflection he could give noreason why he had not boldly awaited it at the express office, excepta certain bashful consciousness of his own folly, and a belief that itmight be glaringly apparent to the bystanders. When the coach arrivedand he had overcome this consciousness, it was too late. Yuba Bill haddischarged his passengers for Indian Spring and driven away. MissNellie was in the settlement, but where? As time passed he became moredesperate and bolder. He walked recklessly up and down the main street,glancing in at the open doors of shops, and even in the windows ofprivate dwellings. It might have seemed a poor compliment to MissNellie, but it was an evidence of his complete preoccupation, when thesight of a female face at a window, even though it was plain or perhapspainted, caused his heart to bound, or the glancing of a skirt in thedistance quickened his feet and his pulses. Had Jack contented himselfwith remaining at Excelsior he might have vaguely regretted, but as soonbecome as vaguely accustomed to, Miss Nellie's absence. But it was notuntil his hitherto quiet and passive love took this first step of actionthat it fully declared itself. When he had made the tour of the towna dozen times unsuccessfully, he had perfectly made up his mind thatmarriage with Nellie or the speedy death of several people, includingpossibly himself, was the only alternative. He regretted he had notaccompanied her; he regretted he had not demanded where she was going;he contemplated a course of future action that two hours ago wouldhave filled him with bashful terror. There was clearly but one thing todo--to declare his passion the instant he met her, and return with herto Excelsior an accepted suitor, or not to return at all.
Suddenly he was vexatiously conscious of hearing his name lazily called,and looking up found that he was on the outskirts of the town, andinterrogated by two horsemen.
"Got down to walk, and the coach got away from you, Jack, eh?"
A little ashamed of his preoccupation, Brace stammered something about"collections." He did not recognize the men, but his own face, name,and business were familiar to everybody for fifty miles along thestage-road.
"Well, you can settle a bet for us, I reckon. Bill Dacre thar bet mefive dollars and the drinks that a young gal we met at the edge of theCarquinez Woods, dressed in a long brown duster and half muffled up in ahood, was the daughter of Father Wynn of Excelsior. I did not get a fairlook at her, but it stands to reason that a high-toned young lady likeNellie Wynn don't go trap'sing along the wood like a Pike County tramp.I took the bet. May be you know if she's here or in Excelsior?"
Mr. Brace felt himself turning pale with eagerness and excitement. Butthe near prospect of seeing her presently gave him back his caution, andhe answered truthfully that he had left her in Excelsior, and that inhis two hours' sojourn in Indian Spring he had not met her once. "But,"he added, with a Californian's reverence for the sanctity of a bet, "Ireckon you'd better make it a stand-off for twenty-four hours, and I'llfind out and let you know." Which, it is only fair to say, he honestlyintended to do.
With a hurried nod of parting, he continued in the direction of theWoods. When he had satisfied himself that the strangers had enteredthe settlement, and would not follow him for further explanation,he quickened his pace. In half an hour he passed between two of thegigantic sentinels that guarded the entrance to a trail. Here he pausedto collect his thoughts. The Woods were vast in extent, the trail dimand uncertain--at times apparently breaking off, or intersecting anothertrail as faint as itself. Believing that Miss Nellie had diverged fromthe highway only as a momentary excursion into the shade, and that shewould not dare to penetrate its more sombre and unknown recesses, hekept within sight of the skirting plain. By degrees the sedate influenceof the silent vaults seemed to depress him. The ardor of the chase beganto flag. Under the calm of their dim roof the fever of his veins beganto subside; his pace slackened; he reasoned more deliberately. It was byno means probable that the young woman in a brown duster was Nellie;it was not her habitual traveling dress; it was not like her to walkunattended in the road; there was nothing in her tastes and habits totake her into this gloomy forest, allowing that she had even enteredit; and on this absolute question of her identity the two witnesses weredivided. He stopped irresolutely, and cast a last, long, half-despairinglook around him. Hitherto he had given that part of the wood nearest theplain his greatest attention. His glance now sought its darker recesses.Suddenly he became breathless. Was it a beam of sunlight that hadpierced the groined
roof above, and now rested against the trunk of oneof the dimmer, more secluded giants? No, it was moving; even as he gazedit slipped away, glanced against another tree, passed across one of thevaulted aisles, and then was lost again. Brief as was the glimpse, hewas not mistaken--it was the figure of a woman.
In another moment he was on her track, and soon had the satisfaction ofseeing her reappear at a lesser distance. But the continual interventionof the massive trunks made the chase by no means an easy one, and as hecould not keep her always in sight he was unable to follow or understandthe one intelligent direction which she seemed to invariably keep.Nevertheless, he gained upon her breathlessly, and, thanks to thebark-strewn floor, noiselessly. He was near enough to distinguish andrecognize the dress she wore, a pale yellow, that he had admired when hefirst saw her. It was Nellie, unmistakably; if it were she of the brownduster, she had discarded it, perhaps for greater freedom. He was nearenough to call out now, but a sudden nervous timidity overcame him; hislips grew dry. What should he say to her? How account for his presence?"Miss Nellie, one moment!" he gasped. She darted forward and--vanished.
At this moment he was not more than a dozen yards from her. He rushedto where she had been standing, but her disappearance was perfect andcomplete. He made a circuit of the group of trees within whose radiusshe had last appeared, but there was neither trace of her, nor asuggestion of her mode of escape. He called aloud to her; the vacantWoods let his helpless voice die in their unresponsive depths. He gazedinto the air and down at the bark-strewn carpet at his feet. Like mostof his vocation, he was sparing of speech, and epigrammatic after hisfashion. Comprehending in one swift but despairing flash of intelligencethe existence of some fateful power beyond his own weak endeavor, heaccepted its logical result with characteristic grimness, threw his hatupon the ground, put his hands in his pockets, and said--
"Well, I'm d--d!"