Ah, there you be, you two! Now sit ye right down, dears; DO. You must be tired out; and you, Phemie, love, draw up by your poor father. Therethats right. Youll be better soon.
There was certainly no visible sign of suffering or exhaustion on the part of either father or daughter, nor the slightest apparent earthly reason why they should be expected to exhibit any. But, as already intimated, it was part of Mrs. Harkutts generous idiosyncrasy to look upon all humanity as suffering and toiling; to be petted, humored, condoled with, and fed. It had, in the course of years, imparted a singularly caressing sadness to her voice, and given her the habit of ending her sentences with a melancholy cooing and an unintelligible murmur of agreement. It was undoubtedly sincere and sympathetic, but at times inappropriate and distressing. It had lost her the friendship of the one humorist of Tasajara, whose best jokes she had received with such heartfelt commiseration and such pained appreciation of the evident labor involved as to reduce him to silence.
Accustomed as Mr. Harkutt was to his wifes peculiarity, he was not above assuming a certain slightly fatigued attitude befitting it. Yes, he said, with a vague sigh, wheres Clemmie?
Lyin down since dinner; she reckoned she wouldnt get up to supper, she returned soothingly. Phemies goin to take her up some sass and tea. The poor dear child wants a change.
She wants to go to Frisco, and so do I, pop, said Phemie, leaning her elbow half over her fathers plate. Come, pop, say do,just for a week.
Only for a week, murmured the commiserating Mrs. Harkutt.
Perhaps, responded Harkutt, with gloomy sarcasm, ye wouldnt mind tellin me how youre goin to get there, and where the moneys comin from to take you? Theres no teamin over Tasajara till the rain stops, and no money comin in till the ranchmen can move their stuff. There aint a hundred dollars in all Tasajara; at least there aint been the first red cent of it paid across my counter for a fortnit! Perhaps if you do go you wouldnt mind takin me and the store along with ye, and leavin us there.
Yes, dear, said Mrs. Harkutt, with sympathetic but shameless tergiversation. Dont bother your poor father, Phemie, love; dont you see hes just tired out? And youre not eatin anything, dad.
As Mr. Harkutt was uneasily conscious that he had been eating heartily in spite of his financial difficulties, he turned the subject abruptly. Wheres John Milton?
Mrs. Harkutt shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed meditatively on the floor before the fire and in the chimney corner for her only son, baptized under that historic title. He was here a minit ago, she said doubtfully. I really cant think where hes gone. But, assuringly, it aint far.
Hes skipped with one o those story-books hes borrowed, said Phemie. Hes always doin it. Like as not hes reading with a candle in the wood-shed. Well all be burnt up some night.
But hes got through his chores, interposed Mrs. Harkutt deprecatingly.
Yes, continued Harkutt, aggrievedly, but instead of goin to bed, or addin up bills, or takin count o stock, or even doin sums or suthin useful, hes ruinin his eyes and wastin his time over trash. He rose and walked slowly into the sitting-room, followed by his daughter and a murmur of commiseration from his wife. But Mrs. Harkutts ministration for the present did not pass beyond her domain, the kitchen.
I reckon ye aint expectin anybody tonight, Phemie? said Mr. Harkutt, sinking into a chair, and placing his slippered feet against the wall.
No, said Phemie, unless something possesses that sappy little Parmlee to make one of his visitations. John Milton says that out on the road it blows so you cant stand up. Its just like that idiot Parmlee to be blown in here, and not have strength of mind enough to get away again.
Mr. Harkutt smiled. It was that arch yet approving, severe yet satisfied smile with which the deceived male parent usually receives any depreciation of the ordinary young man by his daughters. Euphemia was no giddy thing to be carried away by young mens attentions,not she! Sitting back comfortably in his rocking-chair, he said, Play something.
The young girl went to the closet and took from the top shelf an excessively ornamented accordion,the opulent gift of a reckless admirer. It was so inordinately decorated, so gorgeous in the blaze of papier mache, mother-of-pearl, and tortoise-shell on keys and keyboard, and so ostentatiously radiant in the pink silk of its bellows that it seemed to overawe the plainly furnished room with its splendors. You ought to keep it on the table in a glass vase, Phemie, said her father admiringly.
And have HIM think I worshiped it! Not me, indeed! Hes conceited enough already, she returned, saucily.
Mr. Harkutt again smiled his approbation, then deliberately closed his eyes and threw his head back in comfortable anticipation of the coming strains.
It is to be regretted that in brilliancy, finish, and even cheerfulness of quality they were not up to the suggestions of the keys and keyboard. The most discreet and cautious effort on the part of the young performer seemed only to produce startlingly unexpected, but instantly suppressed complaints from the instrument, accompanied by impatient interjections of No, no, from the girl herself. Nevertheless, with her pretty eyebrows knitted in some charming distress of memory, her little mouth half open between an apologetic smile and the exertion of working the bellows, with her white, rounded arms partly lifted up and waving before her, she was pleasantly distracting to the eye. Gradually, as the scattered strains were marshaled into something like an air, she began to sing also, glossing over the instrumental weaknesses, filling in certain dropped notes and omissions, and otherwise assisting the ineffectual accordion with a youthful but not unmusical voice. The song was a lugubrious religious chant; under its influence the house seemed to sink into greater quiet, permitting in the intervals the murmur of the swollen creek to appear more distinct, and even the far moaning of the wind on the plain to become faintly audible. At last, having fairly mastered the instrument, Phemie got into the full swing of the chant. Unconstrained by any criticism, carried away by the sound of her own voice, and perhaps a youthful love for mere uproar, or possibly desirous to drown her fathers voice, which had unexpectedly joined in with a discomposing bass, the conjoined utterances seemed to threaten the frail structure of their dwelling, even as the gale had distended the store behind them. When they ceased at last it was in an accession of dripping from the apparently stirred leaves outside. And then a voice, evidently from the moist depths of the abyss below, called out,
Hullo, there!
Phemie put down the accordion, said, Whos that now? went to the window, lazily leaned her elbows on the sill, and peered into the darkness. Nothing was to be seen; the open space of dimly outlined landscape had that blank, uncommunicative impenetrability with which Nature always confronts and surprises us at such moments. It seemed to Phemie that she was the only human being present. Yet after the feeling had passed she fancied she heard the wash of the current against some object in the stream, half stationary and half resisting.
Is any one down there? Is that you, Mr. Parmlee? she called.
There was a pause. Some invisible auditor said to another, Its a young lady. Then the first voice rose again in a more deferential tone: Are we anywhere near Sidon?