SOME SOCIAL EXPERIENCES
One evening about the middle of February, Kenneth Hastings called at the Clayton home. After a few moments of general conversation, he turned to Mrs. Clayton and begged to be excused from his engagement to accompany them to Box Canyon.
"Oh, Mr. Kenneth," protested Edith.
"I am sorry, Edith," he said, turning to her, "but I leave to-morrow for England."
"For England!" ejaculated Esther in astonishment; for she knew that a visit to England had been remote from his thoughts the last time she had talked with him.
"Nothing wrong at home, I hope, Kenneth?" said John Clayton, kindly.
"My uncle cabled me that my parents were killed in an accident. It is imperative that I go at once."
He paused. John Clayton reached over and laid a hand on his arm. Mrs. Clayton spoke a few words of sympathy; but Esther Bright sat silent. How she had urged him to make his parents a visit! How he had rebuffed her, saying they cared nothing for him! She remembered his saying that he had always been starved for a mother's love. Too late now to give or to receive.
She felt Kenneth looking at her, expecting her to say some word. She seemed suddenly dumb. At last she heard him speak her name. He hesitated, then continued:
"I wish I had gone when you suggested it, Miss Bright."
He bowed his head upon his hand.
"I wish you had gone," she said, simply. "It might have been a comfort to you."
After awhile he spoke cheerfully of his return, and of what they would do.
"Don't let Miss Bright work too hard," he said, smiling gravely. "She does enough work for five men."
"I shall miss your help," was all she said. But she felt a sudden longing to comfort him. Into her face flashed a look of sympathy. He knew it was for him.
"It almost makes me homesick, Kenneth, to hear you talk of going home," said Mrs. Clayton. "England always will seem home to me," she added, turning to Esther.
"It is a beautiful country to call home," responded the New England girl. "I love England."
They talked till late, Kenneth receiving message after message from them to kindred and friends across the sea.
He rose to go, taking leave of Esther last of all. Then he turned to her with both hands extended. She placed her own in his. He drew her towards him, and without a word, turned and was gone.
Esther withdrew, and Edith and Carla soon followed, leaving John Clayton and his wife seated before the fireplace.
"Well, John!" said the wife.
"Well, my dear?" responded the husband, apparently surmising what was coming.
"Kenneth loves Miss Bright."
"Well, is this the first time you have suspected that?" As though he had always suspected it.
"No! But—"
"But what?"
"Is he worthy of her, John?"
"Don't be foolish, Mary. Kenneth is a true and honorable man. Yes—" pausing to listen to her expostulations,—"I know he used to drink some; but I never saw him intoxicated. He played cards as we do here, and when he was in the company of men who gambled, he gambled too."
"But morally, John. It's goodness that a woman cares most about. Is he all right morally?"
He drew his chair close to hers.
"I believe Kenneth to be clean morally. If he had been immoral here, I should have known of it. And yet he, like the other men, has been surrounded by temptation. What is gross does not appeal to him. I have never known him to speak lightly of any woman. For you and Edith he has the deepest respect; for Carla, he has the utmost compassion; and for Miss Bright, (bless her!) he has a reverence I have never seen any man show to any woman."
"Then he loves her, doesn't he?"
"He never told me so," he answered, smiling; "I doubt if he has told her."
"But after that good-by to-night," she persisted, "I know he loves her."
"I hope he does, Mary, and that she cares for him. I don't see how she could help it. I'd like to see them happy,—as happy as you and I are, Mary."
He leaned toward her, resting his cheek against hers.
"As happy as we are, Beloved. Twenty years married. Am I right? And lovers still."
"Yes, twenty happy years," she said, "twenty happy years. But, John, do you think Miss Bright would make Kenneth happy? Would she give up her philanthropic ideas to devote herself to one ordinary man?"
"Oh, that's what's troubling you now, is it?" he asked, laughing outright. Then he spoke seriously:
"I believe Miss Bright could and would make Kenneth supremely happy. You know she is domestic in her tastes, and I believe home would always be her first consideration. But she is such a broad, public spirited woman she would always be a public benefactor. And Kenneth is not an ordinary man. You know that well. He is superior. I do not know of any man for whom I have such a strong friendship."
"I like Kenneth, too," she admitted. "But I was just thinking."
He rose and covered the embers for the night.
"Better leave them alone," he suggested. "Their story is so beautiful I'd not like to have it spoiled."
"John!"
"Yes, Mary."
"I just thought of something!"
"Remarkable! What did you think of?"
"Kenneth will inherit a large fortune, won't he?"
"Of course."
"That might change his plans."
"I think not. He loves America, and the woman he loves is here. He will return. Come! Let's to sleep."
The going of Kenneth Hastings brought a shadow over the household. His departure was likewise the signal for frequent calls from Lord Kelwin. It grew more apparent that he felt a marked interest in the teacher. But whether she felt a corresponding interest in him, no one could have determined. A few times she went horseback riding with him. He assured her she was becoming an excellent horsewoman.
Lord Kelwin now became a constant attendant at the meetings of the club, on all of which occasions he was Esther's self-appointed escort.
Once he ventured a remark about how it happened that a woman of her rank and fortune and accomplishments should be teaching in a mining camp.
"My rank? My fortune? My accomplishments?" she repeated, mystified.
"Yes," he said, patronizingly, "a lady of rank and fortune. I have met several Americans of fortune,—great fortune,—in London and Paris—ah—I—"
"But I am not a woman of rank and fortune, Lord Kelwin. I am just a plain working woman."
He did not observe the amused smile about her eyes and mouth. "You are not likely to find women of rank and fortune in a mining camp."
"It's wonderful how much these American heiresses think of titles, don't you know, Miss Bright. Why, a man of rank can marry almost any American girl he pleases."
"Just so," she assented. "He wins a fortune to pay his debts, and squander otherwise; and she wins a title, dragged into the dust by a degenerate nobleman, plus enough unhappiness to make her miserable the rest of her life. An interesting business proposition, truly!"
"Why, really, Miss Bright,—ah—I—ah—I fear you grow sarcastic."
"Really! Did you discern any approach to sarcasm in my remarks? I am surprised!"
He was not prepared for the mockery in her voice, nor for something about her that made him feel that she was his superior. Before he could formulate a suitable reply, one quite in accord with his sentiments and feelings, she continued:
"We shall doubtless live to see a social evolution. The American man of genius, and force, and character is too intent on his great task of carving out a fortune, or winning professional or artistic distinction, to give his days and nights to social life.
"Now there are noblewomen of the Old World who are women of real distinction, vastly superior to many men of their class, and who have not been spoiled by too great wealth simply because their profligate brothers have squandered the family fortunes.
"Now it occurs to me that it might be a great thing for the progress of the human race, if the finest noblewomen of the Old World, who are women of intellect, and culture, and character, should seek in marriage our men of brains and character.
"The time has come when the American man of the highest type needs something more than a fashion plate or a tailor's model for his mate."
"And have you no American women who could match your paragons, your American tradesmen?" he asked, contemptuously.
"Oh, yes," she replied. "We have fine and noble American women. I was just thinking how the Old World could be invigorated by the infusion of fresh blood from the vital, progressive New World. Just think of a brainy, womanly Lady Somebody of England, refusing to ally herself with an inane, worthless nobleman of any country, and deliberately choosing a man of the people here, a man whose achievements have made him great! Is there not a college of heraldry somewhere that places intellect and character and achievement above rank and fortune?"
He could not fathom her.
"How queer you are, Miss Bright! Such marriages," he continued, in a tone of disgust, "would not be tolerated."
"Why not? They would be on a higher plane than the ones you boast of. You exploit the marriage of title and money. I suggest, as an advance upon that, the marriage of the highest type of the noblewoman of the Old World, with no fortune but her intellect, her character, and her fine breeding, with the highest type of noble manhood in America, a man large enough and great enough to direct the progress of the world."
"Ally the daughters of our nobility with plebeian Americans?—with working men?"
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because we despise people in trades," he said, contemptuously.
"But the tradesmen who make the fortunes are quite as good as their daughters, who barter themselves and their fathers' wealth for titles. You seem to approve of such alliances."
They had reached the veranda of the Clayton home. Esther Bright's hand was on the door knob, and her companion took his leave.
How radical she must seem to him!
As she entered her own room, she found a letter bearing a London postmark. It was the first letter she had received from Kenneth Hastings, and it was a long one. She read it through, and then reread it, and buried her face in her arms on the table. After awhile there came a knock on the door. It was Carla. She had been crying. Esther slipped an arm about her, and together they sat on the edge of the bed.
"What is the matter, Carla?" she asked gently.
"Oh, I am so unhappy!"
"Has anyone hurt your feelings, dear?"
"Oh, no. It is not that. It is the other. I wish I could die!"
Esther drew Carla to her.
"You still care for Mr. Clifton; is that it?"
"Yes," she answered, with a sob, "that is it. I am so unhappy!"
"Tell me all about it, Carla," said Esther, in a soothing tone. "Perhaps it will be a relief for you to tell me. When a load is shared it grows lighter."
"Well, you see, Papa and Mamma died, and I had no one but distant kindred. They gave me a home, and I became a sort of servant in the family. Mark Clifton was their nephew. He seemed to love me, and he was the only one who did. He talked often of the home we'd have when we are married, as I told you.
"I was sixteen when he came to America. Then he sent me money to come to him, saying we'd be married on my arrival here.
"But when I reached Gila, he said he could not disgrace his family by marrying me."
These words were followed by violent weeping. Then Esther comforted her as best she could, and tucked her in her own bed. At last Carla fell into a heavy sleep.
Again Esther opened Kenneth's letter, read it, and placed it in her Bible.
So days came and went,—homely days, days of simple duties, days of ministration to human need. And Esther Bright was happy.
One day as she lingered late at the schoolhouse, she was startled to see a young Apache, dressed as a cowboy, standing in the doorway. For an instant, she felt a sickening fear. Then her habit of self-control asserted itself. She motioned him to a seat, but he did not seem to understand. He spied her guitar, tried the strings, shook his head, and muttered words unintelligible to her.
The Indian was, apparently, about her own age, tall, muscular, and handsome. His long, glossy, black hair hung about his shoulders. On his head, was a light felt hat, similar to the ones worn by the cow-punchers. His trousers and jacket were of skins and cloth respectively. In a moment he looked up at her, from his seat on the floor, and jabbered something. Apparently, he approved of her. He touched her dress and jabbered something else. [You be my squaw.] "Nē-shē-äd-nlĕh´," he said, pointing southward towards the Apache reservation.
She told him, in poor Spanish, that she could not understand; but he apparently understood her, and looked pleased. Again he repeated the same words, using much gesticulation to help convey his meaning.
There was a step outside, and Robert Duncan appeared with Bobbie.
After greeting the teacher, Robert looked with unbounded astonishment at her unusual visitor. Apparently the Apache was there on a friendly visit. The Scotchman was about to pass on, when the teacher asked him to stay. He entered the room, and said something to the Indian, who answered, [The white woman is an angel.] "Indä-stzän´ ū´-sn-bē-ceng-kĕ´."
Robert seemed to catch his meaning, and answered in Spanish that the people called her the Angel of the Gila.
The Apache nodded his head approvingly, and said,[The white woman is the daughter of God.] "Indä-stzän´ ū´-sn-bē-tse´!"
He stepped up to the teacher, and took hold of her arm as if to draw her away with him. She shook her head, and pointed to Robert Duncan, who made signs to him that she was his squaw. At last the Indian withdrew, turning, from time to time, to look back at the vision that, apparently, had bewitched him.
Then Robert explained his own errand. He was seeking a mither for Bobbie. The bairn must have a mither. He had understood her interest in the bairn to be a corresponding interest in himself. He was muckle pleased, he said, to be singled out for any woman's favor. He was nae handsome man, he kenned that weel. He was ready tae marry her any time she telt him. Robert looked wonderfully pleased with himself, apparently confident of a successful wooing. His experience had been limited.
"You wish to marry me, Mr. Duncan?" Outwardly, she was serious.
"Yes, Miss, sen ye was sae willin', I thocht I maucht as weel tak ye, an' then I'd not be bothered wi' ither women.
"Have they troubled you?" she asked, with a look of amusement. "Have they been attentive to you?"
"Not as attentive as y'rsel'."
"In what way have I been attentive to you, Mr. Duncan?" she asked, looking still more amused.
"Ye've helpit me bairn, an' cleaned his claes, an' let him ca' ye mither. Ye'd no hae doon that wi'oot wishin' the faither, too."
His confidence was rather startling.
"But suppose I do not wish the father. What then?"
"Oh, that could never be," he said, "that could never be."
"You have made a mistake, Mr. Duncan," she said, quietly. "You will have to look elsewhere for a wife. Good afternoon."
Saying which, she turned the key in the door, and left him standing dumb with astonishment.
After she had gone some distance, he called after her: "Ye are makin' the mistak o' y'r life!"