Selected Stories of Bret Harte by Bret Harte (sad books to read txt) 📕

wax figures—the other side of the park lodge, the other day—and got away as soon as I could. I think I prefer the cows.”

Her head was slightly turned away. He had to content himself with looking down upon the strong feet in their serviceable but smartly buckled shoes that uplifted her upright figure as she moved beside him.

“Of course,” he added with boyish but unmistakable courtesy, “if it's part of your show to trot out the family, why I'm in that, too. I dare say you could make them interesting.”

“But why,” she said with her head still slightly turned away toward a figure—a sturdy-looking woman, which, for the first time, Hoffman perceived was walking in a line with them as the chasseur had done—“why did you come here at all?”

“The first time was a fool accident,” he returned frankly. “I was making a short cut through what I thought was a public park. The second time was because I had been rude to a Police Inspector whom I found going through my things, but who apologized—as I suppose—by getting me an invitation from the Grand Duke to come here, and I thought it only the square thing to both of 'em to accept it. But I'm mighty glad I came; I wouldn't have missed YOU for a thousand dollars. You see I haven't struck anyone I cared to talk to since.” Here he suddenly remarked that she hadn't looked at him, and that the delicate whiteness of her neck was quite suffused with pink, and stopped instantly. Presently he said quite easily:

“Who's the chorus?”

“The lady?”

“Yes. She's watching us as if she didn't quite approve, you know—just as if she didn't catch on.”

“She's the head housekeeper of the farm. Perhaps you would prefer to have her show you the dairy; shall I call her?”

The figure in question was very short and stout, with voluminous petticoats.

“Please don't; I'll stay without your setting that paperweight on me. But here's the dairy. Don't let her come inside among those pans of fresh milk with that smile, or there'll be trouble.”

The young girl paused too, made a slight gesture with her hand, and the figure passed on as they entered the dairy. It was beautifully clean and fresh. With a persistence that he quickly recognized as mischievous and ironical, and with his characteristic adaptability accepted with even greater gravity and assumption of interest, she showed him all the details. From thence they passed to the farmyard, where he hung with breathless attention over the names of the cows and made her repeat them. Although she was evidently familiar with the subject, he could see that her zeal was fitful and impatient.

“Suppose we sit down,” he said, pointing to an ostentatious rustic seat in the center of the green.

“Sir down?” she repeated wonderingly. “What for?”

“To talk. We'll knock off and call it half a day.”

“But if you are not looking at the farm you are, of course, going,” she said quickly.

“Am I? I don't think these particulars were in my invitation.”

She again broke into a fit of laughter, and at the same time cast a bright eye around the field.

“Come,” he said gently, “there are no other sightseers waiting, and your conscience is clear,” and he moved toward the rustic seat.

“Certainly not—there,” she added in a low voice.

They moved on slowly together to a copse of willows which overhung the miniature stream.

“You are not staying long in Alstadt?” she said.

“No; I only came to see the old town that my ancestors came from.”

They were walking so close together that her skirt brushed his trousers, but she suddenly drew away from him, and looking him fixedly in the eye said:

“Ah, you have relations here?”

“Yes, but they are dead two hundred years.”

She laughed again with a slight expression of relief. They had entered the copse and were walking in dense shadow when she suddenly stopped and sat down upon a rustic bench. To his surprise he found that they were quite alone.

“Tell me about these relatives,” she said, slightly drawing aside her skirt to make room for him on the seat.

He did not require a second invitation. He not only told her all about his ancestral progenitors, but, I fear, even about those more recent and more nearly related to him; about his own life, his vocation—he was a clever newspaper correspondent with a roving commission—his ambitions, his beliefs and his romance.

“And then, perhaps, of this visit—you will also make 'copy'?”

He smiled at her quick adaptation of his professional slang, but shook his head.

“No,” he said gravely. “No—this is YOU. The CHICAGO INTERVIEWER is big pay and is rich, but it hasn't capital enough to buy you from me.”

He gently slid his hand toward hers and slipped his fingers softly around it. She made a slight movement of withdrawal, but even then—as if in forgetfulness or indifference—permitted her hand to rest unresponsively in his. It was scarcely an encouragement to gallantry, neither was it a rejection of an unconscious familiarity.

“But you haven't told me about yourself,” he said.

“Oh, I,” she returned, with her first approach to coquetry in a laugh and a sidelong glance, “of what importance is that to you? It is the Grand Duchess and Her Highness the Princess that you Americans seek to know. I am—what I am—as you see.”

“You bet,” said Hoffman with charming decision.

“I WHAT?”

“You ARE, you know, and that's good enough for me, but I don't even know your name.”

She laughed again, and after a pause, said: “Elsbeth.”

“But I couldn't call you by your first name on our first meeting, you know.”

“Then you Americans are really so very formal—eh?” she said slyly, looking at her imprisoned hand.

“Well, yes,” returned Hoffman, disengaging it. “I suppose we are respectful, or mean to be. But whom am I to inquire for? To write to?”

“You are neither to write nor inquire.”

“What?” She had moved in her seat so as to half-face him with eyes in which curiosity, mischief, and a certain seriousness alternated, but for the first time seemed conscious of his hand, and accented her words with a slight pressure.

“You are to return to your hotel presently, and say to your landlord: 'Pack up my luggage. I have finished with this old town and my ancestors,