Читать книгу Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch - Horace Annesley Vachell - Страница 12

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For three weeks we had advertised for a cook--in vain! And ranch life, in consequence, began to lose colour and coherence. Even the animals suffered: the dogs, the chickens, and in particular the tame piglet, who hung disconsolate about the kitchen door watching, and perchance praying, for the hired girl that was not.

"This," said Ajax, "spells demoralisation."

He alluded to the plates which lay face downward upon the dining-room table. We had agreed to wash up every other meal, saving time at the expense of decency. One plate did double duty, for we used the top for breakfast and the bottom for dinner. Before supper we scrubbed it thoroughly and began again.

"And this bread of yours," I retorted warmly--the plate labour-saving scheme was a happy thought of my own--"spells dyspepsia."

"True," he admitted forlornly. "I can make, but not bake bread. In a domestic crisis like this many things must be left underdone. We must find a cook. I propose that we ride to the village, and rope some aged virgin."

We discussed the propriety of such a raid with spirit. I contended that we might have reason to regret, at the end of another rope, so high-handed a proceeding.

"You are right," said Ajax. "That is the worst of this confounded ranch. Here, we enjoy neither the amenities of civilisation nor the freedom of the desert. However, it's always darkest before dawn, and I've a feeling in my bones that the present state of affairs cannot last. Something will turn up."

That afternoon Gloriana turned up.

We were sitting upon the verandah oppressed with the weight of beans, bacon, and soggy biscuit. As we smoked in silence our eyes rested gloomily upon the landscape--our domain. Before us lay an amber- coloured, sun-scorched plain; beyond were the foot-hills, bristling with chaparral, scrub-oaks, pines and cedars; beyond these again rose the grey peaks of the Santa Lucia range, pricking the eastern horizon. Over all hung the palpitating skies, eternally and exasperatingly blue, a-quiver with light and heat.

"Somebody's coming," said Ajax.

The country road, white with alkaline dust, crossed the ranch at right angles. Far away, to the left, was a faint blur upon the pink hills.

"It's no wagon," said Ajax idly, "and a vaquero would never ride in the dust. It must be a buggy."

Five minutes later we could distinguish a quaint figure sitting upright in an ancient buckboard whose wheels wobbled and creaked with almost human infirmity. A mule furnished the motive power.

"Is it a man or a woman?" said Ajax.

"Possibly," I replied, "a cook."

"She is about to pay us a visit. Yes, it's a woman, a bundle of bones, dust and alpaca crowned with a sombrero. A book-agent, I swear. Go and tell her we have never learned to read."

I demurred. Finally we spun a dollar to decide upon which of us lay the brutal duty of turning away the stranger within our gates. Fortune frowned on me, and I rose reluctantly from my chair.

"Air you the hired man?" said the woman in the buggy, as I looked askance into her face.

"I work here," I replied, "for my board--which is not of the best."

"Ye seem kinder thin. Say--air the lords to home?"

"The lords?"

"Yes, the lords. They tole me back ther," she jerked her head in the direction of the village, "that two English lords owned a big cattle- ranch right here; an' I thought, mebbee, that they'd like ter see-- me."

A pathetic accent of doubt quavered upon the personal pronoun.

"Ye kin tell 'em," she continued, "that I'm here. Yes, sir, I'm a book-agent, an' my book will interest them--sure."

Her eyes, soft blue eyes, bespoke hope; her lips quivered with tell- tale anxiety. Something inharmonious about the little woman, a queer lack of adjustment between voice and mouth, struck me as singular, but not unpleasing.

"It's called," she pleaded, in the tenderest tones, "A Golden Word from Mother. I sell it bound in cloth, sheep, or moroccy. It's perfectly lovely--in moroccy."

"One of the--er--lords," said I gravely, "is here. I'll call him. I think he can read."

This, according to our fraternal code, was rank treachery, yet I felt no traitor. Ajax obeyed my summons, and, sauntering across the sun-baked yard, lifted his hat to the visitor. She bowed politely, and blinked, with short-sighted eyes, at my brother's over-alls and tattered canvas shirt. I have seen Ajax, in Piccadilly, glorious in a frock-coat and varnished boots. I have seen him, as Gloriana saw him for the first time, in rags that might provoke the scorn of Lazarus. With the thermometer at a hundred in the shade, custom curtseys to convenience. Ajax boasted with reason that the loosening of a single safety-pin left him in condition for a plunge into the pool at the foot of the corral.

"I hope you're well, lord," said the little woman; "an' if ye ain't, why--what I've got here'll do ye more good than a doctor. I reckon ye hev a mother, an' naterally she thinks the world of ye. Well, sir, I bring ye a golden word from her very lips. Jest listen to this. I ain't much on the elocute, but I'm goin' ter do my best."

We listened patiently as she declaimed half a page of wretched prose. Her voice rose and fell in a sing-song cadence, but certain modulations of tone lent charm to the absurd words. When she finished her eyes were full of tears.

"That is very nice indeed," said Ajax softly. "I should like to buy your book."

Her hands trembled.

"I sell it in cloth at--one dollar; in sheep at--one, six bits; in reel moroccy, with gold toolin' at--two an' a half."

"We must certainly secure a copy in gold and morocco."

Her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

"Two copies," I suggested rashly: "one for you, Ajax; one for me."

"Ye kin take yer copy in cloth," said the little woman, compassionately, "sein' as ye're only workin' for yer board."

"In gold and morocco," I replied firmly. "The hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world. A golden word from mother cannot be fittingly bound in fustian."

"Ye must hev had awful nice mothers, both of ye," she said simply. "Do I sell many books? No, sir. Farmer-folks in Californy ain't got the money ter spend in readin' matter. They're in big luck these times if they kin pay the interest on their mortgages. With wheat at eighty cents a cental, an' barley not wuth the haulin', it seems most an impertinence to ask grangers ter buy books."

"Do you make twenty dollars a month at the business?"

She shook her head sorrowfully.

"This is September," said Ajax, "and within six weeks the rains will begin. What will you do then?"

She regarded him wistfully, but made no reply.

"Your mule," continued Ajax, "is about played out--poor beast. Will you stay here this winter, and keep house for us? I daresay you cook very nicely; and next spring, if you feel like it, you can start out bookselling again."

"My cookin' is sech as white folks kin eat, but----"

"We will pay you twenty dollars a month."

"The wages air more'n enough, but----"

"And the work will be light."

"I ain't scar't o' work," she retorted valiantly, "but----"

"It's settled, then," said Ajax, in his masterful way. "If you'll get down, I'll unhitch the mule and put him in the barn. My brother will show you the house."

She descended, protesting, but we could not catch the words that fell from her lips.

"You must tell us your name," said Ajax

"It's Gloriana," she faltered.

"Gloriana? Gloriana--what?"

"Jes--Gloriana."

* * * * *

"She is a type," said Ajax, a few days later.

"A type of what?"

"Of the women who suffer and are not strong There are many such in this Western country. I'd like to hear her story. Is she married or single? old or young? crazy or sane?"

"Gloriana," I answered, "satisfies our appetites but not our curiosity."

As time passed, her reticence upon all personal matters became exasperating. At the end of the first month she demanded and received her salary. Moreover, refusing our escort, she tramped three dusty miles to the village post-office, and returned penniless but jubilant. At supper Ajax said--"It's more blessed to give than to receive--eh, Gloriana?"

She compressed her lips, but her eyes were sparkling. After supper Ajax commented upon her improved appearance in her presence. He confessed himself at a loss to account for this singular rejuvenescence.

Expecting company, Gloriana?"

"Mebbee-an' mebbee not."

"You brought home a large parcel," said Ajax. "A precious parcel. Why, you held it as a woman holds her first baby."

She smiled, and bade us good-night.

"I've no call ter stan' aroun' gassin'," she assured us. "I've work ter do--a plenty of it, too."

During the month of October she spent all her leisure hours locked up in her own room; and, waiting upon us at meals, quoted freely that famous book--A Golden Word from Mother. We often heard her singing softly to herself, keeping time to the click of her needle. When pay-day came she demanded leave of absence. The village, she told us, was sadly behind the times, and with our permission she proposed to drive her mule and buckboard to the county seat--San Lorenzo.

"I've business of importance," she said proudly, "ter transack."

She returned the following evening with a larger parcel than the first.

"I've bought a bonnet," she confessed shyly, "an' trimmins."

We prevailed upon her to show us these purchases: white satin ribbon, jet, and a feather that might have graced the hat of the Master of Ravenswood. The "locating" of this splendid plume was no easy task.

"Maxims," sighed Gloriana, "is mostly rubbish. Now, fine feathers--an' ther ain't a finer feather than this in San Lorenzy county--don't make fine birds. A sparrer is always a sparrer, an' can't look like an ostridge noway. But, good land! feathers is my weakness."

She burned much oil that night, and on the morrow the phoenix that sprang from the flames was proudly displayed.

"I bought more'n a bonnet yesterday," she said, with her head on one side, and a slyly complacent smile upon her lips. "Yes, sir, stuff ter make a dress--a party dress, the finest kind o' goods."

Ajax stared helplessly at me. The mystery that encompassed this woman was positively indecent.

"An' shoes," she concluded. "I bought me a pair, hand sewn, with French tips--very dressy."

Later, inspired by tobacco, we agreed that the problem was solved. Our head vaquero, Uncle Jake, gaunt as a coyote at Christmas, and quite as hungry, had fallen a victim to Gloriana's flesh-pots. He lived in an old adobe near the big corral, boarded himself and a couple of Mexicans upon tortillas, frijoles and bacon, and was famous throughout the countryside as a confirmed bachelor and woman hater. We entertained a high regard for this veteran, because he seldom got drunk, and always drove cattle slowly. To him the sly Gloriana served Anglo-Saxon viands: pies, "jell'" (compounded according to a famous Wisconsin recipe), and hot biscuit, light as the laughter of children! What misogynist can withstand such arts? I remembered that at the fall calf-branding Uncle Jake had expressed his approval of our cordon bleu in no measured terms.

"You've noted," he said, "that a greaser jest naterally hates ter handle mares. He rides a horse, an' he's right. The best o' mares will kick. Now, Glory Anne can't help bein' a woman, but I swear she's bin mighty well broke. She works right up into the collar--quiet an' steady, an' keeps her tongue, whar it belongs, shet up in her mouth. I've seen a sight o' wimmen I thot less of than Glory Anne."

I repeated these words to Ajax. He admitted their significance, in connection with bonnets and furbelows, and we both went to bed with a sound of marriage-bells in our ears. We slept soundly, convinced that neither Gloriana nor Uncle Jake would leave our service, and at breakfast the next morning discoursed at length upon the subject of wedding presents.

"What would you suggest, Gloriana," said Ajax, "as suitable for a middle-aged bridegroom?"

She considered the question thoughtfully, a delightful smile upon her lips.

"Ther's nothin' more interestin' than marryin', excep' mebbee the courtin'," she replied softly, "an' a gift is, so ter speak, a message o' love an' tenderness from one human heart t' another. With poor folks, who ain't experts in the use o' words, a gift means more 'n tongue kin tell. I'm sot myself on makin' things. Every stitch I put into a piece o' fancy work fer--a friend makes me feel the happier. Sech sewin' is a reel labour o' love, an' I kinder hate ter hurry over it, because, as I was sayin', it means so much that I'd like ter say, but bein' ignorant don't know how. A present fer a middle-aged bridegroom? Well, now, if 'twas me, I'd make him a nice comfortable bed-spread, with the best an' prettiest o' stitchin."

We both laughed. Uncle Jake under a gorgeous counterpane would make a graven image smile. Gloriana laughed with us.

"It'd be most too dainty fer some," she said, with a surprising sense of humour. "But I was thinkin' ye wanted a gift fer one o' yer high- toned relations in the old country. No? Well, take yer time: a gift ain't lightly chosen."

"I shall tackle Uncle Jake," said Ajax, as he rode over the ranch. "Gloriana is too discreet, but she bought that bonnet for her own wedding."

Uncle Jake, however, was cunning of fence.

"I don't feel lonesome," he declared. "Ye see I'm a cattle man, an' I like the travelled trails. I ain't huntin' no quicksands. Many a feller has mired down tryin' a new crossin'. No, sir, I calkilate ter remain single."

"He's very foxy," commented Ajax, "but he means business. It really bothers me that they won't confide in us."

The November rains were unusually heavy that year, and confined us to the house. Gloriana had borrowed a sewing-machine from a neighbour, and worked harder than ever, inflaming her eyes and our curiosity. We speculated daily upon her past, present and future, having little else to distract us in a life that was duller than a Chinese comedy. We waxed fat in idleness, but the cook grew lean.

"You're are losing flesh, Gloriana," said I, noting her sunken cheeks and glittering eyes.

"In a good cause," she replied fervently. "Anyways, ther ain't a happier woman than me in the state of Californy! Well, I'm most thro' with my sewing, an' I'd like ter show ye both what I've done, but----"

"We've have been waiting for this, Gloriana," said Ajax, tartly. "As a member of the family you have not treated my brother and myself fairly. This mysterious work of yours is not only wearing you to skin and bone, it is consuming us with curiosity."

"Ye're jokin', Mr. Ajax."

"This is no joking matter, Gloriana."

She blushed, and glanced indecisively at two solemn faces.

"Ye've bin more 'n good ter me," she said slowly, "but a secret is a secret till it's told. I hate ter tell my secret, an'--an' yer both young unmarried men. It's really embarrassin'."

"Your secret is no secret," said my brutal brother. "Somebody, Gloriana, is about to get married--eh?"

"Good land! How did ye come ter guess that?"

"Uncle Jake has not said a word."

"Well--why should he?"

"He's as close as a clam--the old sinner. So we can congratulate you, Gloriana?"

"Ye kin indeed."

We shook hands, and she led the way to her own room. There, spread upon her bed, lay some dainty garments, exquisitely fashioned,--a regular trousseau! Even to our inexperienced eyes the beauty of the workmanship was amazing.

"A woman," she murmured, "likes ter look at sech things. An' I do think these air good enough."

"Good enough!" we repeated. "They're fit for a queen."

"An' a queen is goin' ter wear 'em," said Gloriana proudly--"a queen o' beauty."

We stared blankly at each other. Had Cupid robbed his victim of her wits?

"They air fer Miss Miriam Standish, who was queen o' beauty at the San Lorenzy carnival. Miss Standish is the granddaughter of Doctor Standish. Ye've heard o' him--of course?"

She glanced keenly at Ajax, who rose to the occasion with an alacrity that I trust the recording angel appreciated.

"Of course," he said hastily. "Doctor Standish is a man of mark; as a physician, he----"

"He ain't a physician," said Gloriana. "He's a doctor o' divinity--a learned, godly man."

"And his granddaughter is about to marry----"

"Mr. Hubert Leadbetter. I should say Professor Leadbetter, who keeps the biggest drug-store in town."

We had bought drugs from the Professor, and were happily able to testify to his personal charms. Gloriana beamed.

"Ther ain't a finer young man in the land, Mr. Ajax: he's jest as good as his own sarsaparilla."

"You are going to attend the wedding?" said I, thinking of the wonderful bonnet.

"If you please," said Gloriana. "I jest couldn't stay away. Why, I've made things fer Miriam Standish ever since she was born. That is how I learned ter sew as few women kin sew."

Ajax touched one of the garments lightly, as became a bachelor.

"This work will bring you many shekels, Gloriana. I had no idea you were such a needlewoman."

"What!" she cried, her face crimson. "Do you think I'd take money from Miriam Standish? Why----"

She stopped short in confusion, and covered her poor face with trembling hands.

"I beg your pardon," said Ajax gravely, "I wouldn't hurt your feelings, Gloriana, for the world."

She looked up, irresolutely.

"I reckon I've said too much or too little," she said slowly. "Ye're both gen'lemen, an' ye've bin awful kind ter me. I kin trust ye with my secret, an' I'm goin' ter do it. The Standishes, are New England folk--high-toned an' mighty particler. It's as easy fer them ter be virtuous as ter eat punkin pie fer breakfast. I come from Wisconsin, where we think more of our bodies than our souls; an' 'twas in Wisconsin that I first met Dr. Standish. He had a call to the town, wher I lived with--with my sister. She, my sister, was a real pretty girl then, but of a prettiness that soon fades. An' she hired out as cook ter the Doctor. He was a good man, an' a kind one, but she paid back his kindness by runnin' off with his only son."

"Surely," said Ajax gently, "the son was also to blame?"

"No, sir, my sister was ter blame, an' she knew it. We was common folk, Mr. Ajax, what they would call in the South--white trash, an' the Standishes was real quality. My sister knew that, an' refused to marry the young man, tho' he asked her on his bended knees. Then he died, an'--an' my sister died, an' nothin' was left but the sorrow an' the shame, an'--Miriam."

The name fell softly on a silence that we respected. Presently she continued--

"Doctor Standish offered to take the child, an' I dared not keep her. His terms were awful hard, but just: the scandal'd broke up his home, an' his heart. He tole me he'd take Miriam ter Californy, an' that she must never know the story of her mother's sin. That was right, Mr. Ajax--eh?"

"I don't know, Gloriana. Go on."

"I promised him never ter speak to the child, an' I've kept my word; but he let me make her things. That was kind of him--very kind."

"Very kind, indeed," said Ajax.

"I followed 'em ter Californy, an' worked out, an' sold books an' peddled fruit, but I've kep' track o' little Miriam."

"You have never spoken to her, you say?"

"Never. Doctor Standish kin trust me. He's posted me, too. He tole me o' the wedding. I got word the night I first went ter the village, an' that's why--" she smiled through her tears--"that's why I wore my teeth. They cost me twenty dollars, an' I keep 'em fer high days an' holidays."

Ajax began to pace up and down the room. I heard him swearing to himself, and his fists were clenched. I felt certain that he was about to interfere in matters that did not concern us.

"Miss Standish should be told the truth," said he at last.

"No, no," she exclaimed. "I'm a wicked woman to wish ter kiss her. I done wrong in telling the secret, but yer sympathy jest twisted it outer me. Promise me, Mr. Ajax, that ye'll never give me away."

We pledged our word, and left her.