40. CHAPTER XL.
MOONLESS NIGHTS.
When such intimate relations spring up between
a young man of twenty and a maiden of
sixteen, older people are apt to ask what it
means. It seems an established fact that such
relations cannot continue through life. In good
society there are two lawful termination—marriage
or separation. If the young man is honorable
and in a condition to marry, he will withdraw
his attentions at a certain stage in the intimacy,
when only a few sighs and perhaps a
few sleepless nights will result in consequence.
I regret to say that Bob did not exhibit the
high sense of rectitude which marked Mr.
Gray's conduct under similar circumstances.
The future was an unknown element which did
not enter into his (Bob's) calculations. Clytie
was a beautiful and innocent girl—sweet, tender,
and affectionate—and he loved her as he had
loved scores before. He had no dishonorable intentions;
of that he was the more certain since
he had no intentions at all. He thought only of
the present moment. It became a habit to seek
Clytie every evening, to walk with Clytie every
afternoon, to bask in the sunshine of Clytie's
smiles, that grew each day more tender and
more rare. By degrees their walks were prolonged;
by degrees they came home later in the
evening and parted at the door. By degrees
their neighbors began to observe this intimacy,
and, for the first time, the correct Clytie became a subect
of gossip.
Meantime, fortune favored Bob in other respects.
He suddenly found himself, without effort on his part,
in a position to command a large sum of money. The
company who owned the ground adjoining Mr. Gray's
claims discovered a rich lode and made liberal offers
to purchase the ground owned by Mr. Gray. Dr. Ducliesne
was part owner, and he wrote to Mr. Gray advising
him to sell. The ground was worth more to
the company owning the adjoining ground than it
could be to the present owners, as it could be worked
to advantage in connection with ground owned by the
company proposing to purchase. Mr. Gray, in reply,
transmitted a power of attorney to Dr. Duchesne to
sell. Mr. Gray also informed the doctor that he regarded
Bob as equal owner with himself in the claim,
since it was by such an arrangement that Bob had
been induced to accept banishment to Red Mountain.
Dr. Duchesne returned an answer to the effect that
the claim should be considered as belonging in equal
shares to the three, and if a sale should be consummated
the proceeds should be equally divided between
the three. The claim was subsequently sold for
twelve thousand dollars, one-third of which was deposited
in San Francisco, in Mr. Gray's name, but for
Bob's use and benefit. Dr. Duchesne, in consideration
of Bob's fatal facility of getting rid of money,
was requested to act as his banker, honoring his draft
only for reasonable supplies.
The beautiful green of spring was giving way to the
bronze hues of autumn when the transaction was consummated.
Bob was bound to Red Mountain only by his attachment
to Clytie. There were many reasons why be
should return to San Francisco. Mliss had disappeared,
and the presumption was fair that she had
been brutally murdered. Regina was reported as receiving
the attentions of Mr. Hopp, whom Bob did not
like, as a prospective brother-in-law. The Free and
Easy Club was becoming demoralized during the absence
of their president, and some of the prettiest of
the girls had been shaken in their allegiance by the
tempting prospects of a rival club. Hattie Brooks had
already informed her lover that, although she had
been true to him until the time of writing, she could
not be responsible for herself much longer. The pressure
for her affections was such that she felt she must
yield unless supported by the presence of the only
man she had ever truly loved. To this frank and
manly letter a postscript was attached informing her
recreant lover that she would go out of town one week
to escape temptation, as her powers of resistance were
exhausted. If on her return she did not find the idol
of her soul, or a letter announcing the speedy return
of said idol, she should be compelled to accept a substitute.
“Girls are but girls,” concluded this heroic
creature, “and endurance has its limits. Come, darling!
and see how happy I will make you.”
This letter revived Bob's waning affection for Miss
Brooks. He had left the city with a full determination
to out that “hoodlum crowd,” but the privations
of mountain life taught him their value. He had enjoyed
himself pretty well, on the whole, but being
good was getting tiresome. Clytie was a sweet girl,
but she lacked the social resources of the spirited girls
of the city. She was not educated up to their standard.
He now wished he had never met her; he wondered
if she would feel very bad when
he went away. It was almost a duty to return
to the city. The young gentleman who
had presumed to make love to Hattie Brook during
his absence needed to be attended to; then there
were the villains who had stolen Mliss. “Ab,” he
thought, “if it were Mliss instead of Clytie, Hattie
might go. One would never tire of Mliss.”
Bob decided therefore to return to the city. He was
half inclined to slip off without any private conference
with Clytie. He had not the kind of courage
which arises from hardness of heart. He might pound
a man within an inch of his life, but a woman's tears
upset him. And in this instance Clytie had a right to
weep. According to the rules of courtship in primitive
regions—any regions, in fact, but those of his
free-and-easy hoodlum circle—she had a right to expect
an offer of marriage. For four months he had
made her his day companion. For three of those four
months he had lavished upon her every token of affection.
He had called her pet names, he had won her to
receive his caresses, he had awakened that dormant
passion which lies in every well-regulated girl's heart,
and now he proposed to abandon her. It would not
quite do to run away. It wouldn't do to say good-bye,
as if he had been content with the privileges of ordinary
acquantance. He must endure a parting interview,
he must steel himself against her just reproaches—in
a word he must play a role which his heart
told him was that of villain.
Clytie had never looked prettier than when she appeared
arrayed for the last walk. Her coquettish straw
hat, with its bows of pick ribbon, gave an air of jauntiness
to her softly pretty face. Her tender blue eyes
turned upon him their to derest glances. The rose
flush deepened in her soft round cheek as she met his
gaze and read in his eyes the admiration he could not
repress.
The night was serene and lovely. A fragrant breath
of air came from the pine forests to replace that burnt
out by the sun of a long July day. The moon tipped
with silver the lops of the hills, but the valley yet lay
in the deepening twilight. By mutual consent they
avoided the village, and followed a secluded path.
Clytie was loving and trusting. Though now sixteen,
Clytie's heart was at rest in a babe-like innocence.
Her mind had never been disturbed by thoughts of
other than an honest love. If her color changed, her
nerves fluttered, her eyes dropped, these were the evidences
of an affection she might coyly conceal, but of
which she was not ashamed.
Bob contrived at last to convey to his companion's
mind the idea that, as his mission to Red Mountain
was performed, he had no excuse for a longer stay.
His sister needed him at home. She had not written
to him to return in so many words, but he inferred
from her letters that she was unhappy. It was his
duty to go and see what was the matter.
Clytie listened in silence. She had not the quick
perception that takes in a situation at a glance. Bob
might go, but Bob certainly would return. Bob certainly
would not leave her long. He would ask her to
marry him when he should come back with his mother's
and sister's consent.
But Bob stopped short of this desirable denouement.
He paused in the walk, too, her hand in his,
and passed his arm round her waist. He drew her
head against his breast and kissed her soft round
cheek.
“Some day,” he said, in a tone that somehow
became sweet and low, “some day you'll come down
and pay Regie a visit. Regie will write and invite you.
You'll come, little Clytie?”
Little Clytie didn't know. The proposition seemed
to her a little vague. She would he glad to meet Regie—but—but—when
would Bob come back?
“Don't know,” answered Bob, feeling that the ice
was broken. “Some of these days, perhaps.”
“Perhaps! O, Bob!”
A long, deep sigh came from the depths of Clytie's
heart. Bob was going away. Perhaps he might return.
Perhaps amid the gayeties of the city he would forget
her. How could she live without him—live in Smith's
Pocket, where every one was talking of her and her
city lover?
The young girl freed herself from her companion's
arm and turned away. A glancing ray of moonlight
touched her white face and revealed its mute agony.
This form of appeal was one Bob was not used to. It
touched his heart—the sweet face was so changed
Her slender form, turned half from him, seemed to
quiver in the moonlight. Her graceful head bent, and
was buried in her shawl. Bob sprang forward and
caught her in his arms. He thought she was about to
fall.
“Dear little Clytie! Do you really love me? I'm a
brute to leave you! Shall I stay? Don't cry, daring.
I do love you.”
These and other incoherent expressions were offered
solely with a view to their consoling influence. They
were for the moment sincere. Bob thought he would
do anything to make her happy—anything to avoid
being a witness to her grief.
The simple girl suffered herself to be consoled. She
had not been taught the danger of such vague assurance
of love. She saw her lover's handsome face
bending over her, and felt the magnetism of his passionate
gaze. The tide of feeling turned. Hope that
had flown out from her heart fluttered back and imparted
a delicious sensation of rest. “He loves me,”
she thought—“he loves me! and he will make me his
wife.”
Bob did not return to the city the next day. Reported
new discoveries of rich quartz a few miles distant
served as an excuse among the miners to whom
he had communicated his intention of going. He
located claims and set men to work. More cautious in
his visits to Clytie, he still continued to see her nearly
every day. The gossips talked worse than ever. The
miners, with whom at first he had been a great favorite,
began to look upon him with distrust. Clytie was
the flower of the setllement, and it would go hard
with the wretch who should cause a stain to rest upon
her name. The trees about Smith's Pocket had strong
branches, and a rope was always handy. Such threats
came indirectly to his ears, but he gave them little
heed. Clytie preserved her serenity. She was more
gracious than ever to to the uillage beaux, and more
friendly with the village maidens. Her childlike innocence
of expression and her propriety of deportment
disarmed the most censorious. Thus the summer
passed, and in the autumn Bob was sommoned to
the city.
