Hidden creek

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Title:HiddenCreek
Author:KatharineNewlinBurt
ReleaseDate:February7,2004[eBook#10978]
Language:English
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HIDDENCREEK
BYKATHARINENEWLINBURT
AUTHOROF"THEBRANDINGIRON"AND"THEREDLADY"

1920


TOMAXWELLSTRUTHERS
BURTWHOBLAZEDTHETRAIL


CONTENTS
PARTONE:THEGOODOLDWORLD
I.SHEILA'SLEGACYII.SYLVESTERHUDSONCOMESFORHISPICTUREIII.THEFINEST
CITYINTHEWORLDIV.MOONSHINEV.INTERCESSIONVI.THEBAWLING-OUTVII.
DISH-WASHINGVIII.ARTISTSIX.ASINGEINGOFWINGSX.THEBEACONLIGHTXI.IN

THEPUBLICEYEXII.HUDSON'SQUEENXIII.SYLVESTERCELEBRATESXIV.THELIGHT
OFDAWNXV.FLAMES
PARTTWO:THESTARS
I.THEHILLII.ADVENTUREIII.JOURNEY'SENDIV.BEASTSV.NEIGHBORNEIGHBORVI.
AHISTORYANDALETTERVII.SANCTUARYVIII.DESERTIONIX.WORKANDASONGX.
WINTERXI.THEPACKXII.THEGOODOLDWORLDAGAINXIII.LONELINESSXIV.
SHEILAANDTHESTARS


HIDDENCREEK


PARTONE
THEGOODOLDWORLD


CHAPTERI
SHEILA'SLEGACY

Justbeforehisdeath,MarcusArundel,artistandfatherofSheila,borewitnessto
hisfaithinGodandman.Hehadbeenlyingapparentlyunconscious,hisslow,
difficultbreathdrawnatlongerandlongerintervals.Sheilawashuddledonthe
floorbesidehisbed,herhandpressinghisurgentlyinthepitifulattempt,
commontohumanlove,toholdbacktheresolutesoulfromthenextstepinits
adventure.Thenurse,whocameinbytheday,hadleftapaperofinstructionson
thetable.Hereacandleburnedunderayellowshade,throwingacircleofwarm,
unsteadylightontheheadofthegirl,onthetwohands,ontherumpledcoverlet,
onthedyingface.Thiscircleoflightseemedtocollectthesethings,tochoose
them,asthoughfortheexpressionofsomemeaning.Itfeltforthemasanartist
feelsforhiscompositionandgavetothemasymbolicvalue.Thetwohands

wereinthecenteroftheglow—thelong,pale,slackone,thesmall,desperate,
clingingone.Theconsciousandtheunconscious,lifeanddeath,humanityand
God—allthatismysteriousandtragicseemedtofindexpressionthereinthetwo
hands.
Sotheyhadbeenforsixhours,anditwouldsoonbemorning.Thelarge,bare
room,however,wasstillpossessedbynight,andthecityoutsidewasatits
lowestebboflife,almostsoundless.Againsttheskylightthewinterstarsseemed
tobepressing;theskywaslaidacrossthepanesofglasslikeapurpleclothin
whichsparksburned.
SuddenlyandwithstrengthArundelsatup.Sheilarosewithhim,drawinguphis
handinherstoherheart.
"Keeplookingatthestars,Sheila,"hesaidwiththrillingemphasis,andwidened
hiseyesatthevisiblehostofthem.Thenhelookeddownather;hiseyesshone
asthoughtheyhadcaughtareflectionfromthemyriadlights."Itisagoodold


world,"hesaidheartilyinawarmandhumanvoice,andhesmiledhissmileof
everydaygood-fellowship.
SheilathankedGodforhisreturn,andontheveryinstanthewasgone.
Hedroppedback,andtherewerenomoredifficultbreaths.
Sheila,alonethereinthegarretstudioabovethecity,criedtoherfatherand
shookhim,till,inveryterrorofherownfrenzyinthefaceofhisstillness,she
grewcalmandlaidherselfdownbesidehim,puthisdeadarmaroundher,
nestledherheadagainsthisshoulder.Shewasseventeenyearsold,leftaloneand
pennilessintheoldworldthathehadjustpronouncedsogood.Shelaythere
staringatthestarstilltheyfaded,andthecold,cleareyeofdaylookeddown
intotheroom.


CHAPTERII

SYLVESTERHUDSONCOMESFORHISPICTURE

Backofhissallow,lantern-jawedface,SylvesterHudsonhidsuccessfully,
thoughwithoutintention,allthatwasinhimwhetherofgoodorill.Certainlyhe
didnotlookhishistory.Hewasstoop-shouldered,pensive-eyed,withlonghands
onwhichhewasalwaysturningandtwistingabigemerald.Hedressedquietly,
almostcorrectly,buttherewasalwayssomethingalittlewronginthecoloror
patternofhistie,andhewastoofondofbrownandgreenmixtureswhichdid
notbecomehissallowness.Hesmiledveryrarely,andwhenhedidsmile,his
longupperlipunfasteneditselfwithaneffortandshowedahorizontalwrinkle
halfwaybetweenthepointedendofhisnoseandtheirregular,nickedrowofhis
teeth.
Altogether,hewasagentle,bilious-lookingsortofman,whomighthavebeen
anythingfromacountrygentlemantoamoderatelyprosperousclerk.Asa
matteroffact,hewastheownerofadozensmall,nottoorespectable,hotels
throughtheWest,andhadanincomeofnearlyhalfamilliondollars.Helivedin
Millings,atowninacertainFar-WesternState,whereflourishedthemost
pretentiousandrespectableofhishotels.Ithadafamousbar,towhichrodethe
sheep-herders,thecowboys,theranchers,thedry-farmersofthesurrounding
country—yes,andsometimes,thirstiestofall,theworkmenfrommoredistant
oil-fields,adangerouscrew.Millingsatthattimehadnotyieldedtothe
generallyincreasing"dryness"oftheWest.Itwas"wet,"notwithstandingits
chokingalkalidust;andthedeeppoolofitswetnesslayinHudson'sbar,The
Aura.Itwasnamedforawomanwhohadbecomehiswife.
WhenHudsoncametoNewYorkhelookeduphisEasternpatrons,anditwas
oneofthesewho,knowingArundel'sneed,encouragedthehotel-keeperinhis
desiretosecurea"jim-dandypicture"forthelobbyofTheAuraandtookhim
forthepurposetoMarcus'sstudio.Onthatmorning,hardlyafortnightbeforethe

artist'sdeath,Sheilawasnotathome.
Marcus,inspiteofhimself,wasmanagedintoasale.Itwasofanenormous
canvas,coveredweaklyenoughbyathinreproductionofarangeoftheRockies
andasagebrushflat.Mr.Hudsoninhishollowvoicepronouncedit"classy."
"Say,"hesaid,"putalittlelifeintotheforegroundandthatwouldpleaseme.It's
whatI'mseekin'.Putinanautomobilemeetin'oneoftheseold-timeprairie
schooners—theoldWestsayin'howdytothenoo.Thatwillticklethetrade."
Mark,whowasfeelingweakandill,consentedwearily.Hesketchedinthe
proposedamendmentandHudsonapprovedwithoneofhiswrinkledsmiles.He
offeredasmallprice,atwhichArundelleaptlikeafamishedhound.
Whenhisvisitorshadgone,thepainterwentfeverishlytowork.Thedaybefore
hisdeath,Sheila,underhiswhispereddirections,putthelasttouchestothebody
ofthe"auto_m_obile."
"It'sghastly,"sighedthesickman,"butitwilldo—forMillings."Heturnedhis
backsadlyenoughtothecanvas,whichstoodforhimlikeamonumenttofallen
hope.Sheilapraiseditwithafalteringvoice,buthedidnotturnnorspeak.So
shecarriedthehugepictureoutofhissight.
Thenextday,atabouteleveno'clockinthemorning,Hudsoncalled.Hecame
withstiff,angularmotionsofhislong,thinlegs,upthefoursteep,shabbyflights
andstoppedatthetoptogethisbreath.
"Thepictureain'tworththeclimb,"hethought;andthen,struckbythepeculiar
stillnessofthegarretfloor,hefrowned."Damnedifthefellerain'tout!"Hetook
astrideforwardandknockedatArundel'sdoor.Therewasnoanswer.Heturned
theknobandsteppedintothestudio.
Ascreenstoodbetweenhimandonehalfoftheroom.Theotherhalfwasempty.
Theplacewasverycoldandstill.Itwasdeplorablybareandshabbyinthe
wintrymorninglight.Someonehadeatenameagerbreakfastfromatrayonthe
littletablenearthestove.Hudson'scanvasstoodagainstthewallfacinghim,and
itspresencegavehimafeelingofownership,ofarighttobethere.Heputhis
long,stiffhandsintohispocketsandstrolledforward.Hecameroundthecorner

ofthescreenandfoundhimselflookingatthedeadbodyofhishost.
Thenurse,thatmorning,hadcomeandgone.WithSheila'shelpshehad
preparedArundelforhisburial.Helayinalltheformaldetachmentofdeath,his


eyelidsdrawndecentlydownoverhiseyes,hislipsputcarefullytogether,his
hands,belowtheirwhitecuffsandblacksleeves,laidcarefullyupontheclean
smoothsheet.
Hudsondrewinahissingbreath,andatthesoundSheila,crumpledupin
exhaustedslumberonthefloorbesidethebed,awokeandliftedherface.
Itwasaheart-shapedface,athin,whiteheart,thepeakofherhaircuttinginto
thecenterofherforehead.Themouthstruckanoteoflifewithitsdull,softred.
Therewasnotlackinginthisyoungfacetheslightexaggerationsnecessaryto
romanticbeauty.Sheilahadastrange,arrestingsortofjaw,atrifleoveraccentuatedandoutofdrawing.Hereyeswerelong,flattened,narrow,thecolor
ofbubblesfilledwithsmoke,ofasurfacebrillianceandaninnermistiness—
indescribableeyes,clear,verymelting,wistfulandbeautifulundersootylashes
andslender,archedblackbrows.
Sheilaliftedthisstrange,romanticfaceonitslong,romanticthroatandlookedat
Hudson.Thenshegottoherfeet.Shewassoftandsilken,smoothandtender,
gleamingwhiteofskin.Shehadputonanoldblackdress,justascrapofa
flimsy,littleworn-outgown.Acertainslim,crushablequalityofherbodywas
accentuatedbythisflimsinessofcovering.Shelookedasthoughshecouldbe
drawnthrougharing—asthough,betweenyourhands,youcouldfoldherto
nothing.Athinlittlekittenofsilkyfurandsmallbonesmighthavethesamefeel
asSheila.
ShestoodupnowandlookedtragicallyandhelplesslyatHudsonandtriedto
speak.
Hebackedawayfromthebed,beckonedtoher,andmetherintheotherhalfof
theroomsothattheleatherscreenstoodbetweenthemandthedeadman.They
spokeinhushedvoices.

"Ihadnonotion,MissArundel,that—that—of—this,"Hudsonbeganinadry,
jerkywhisper."Believeme,Iwouldn't'a'thoughtofintrudin'.Iorderedthe
picturetherefromyourfatherafortnightago,andthiswasthedayIwastocome
andgiveitalastlooking-overbeforeIcamethroughwiththecash,see?Ihadn't
heardhewassickeven,muchless"—heclearedhisthroat—"gonebeyond,"he
ended,quotingfromthe"MillingsGazette"obituarycolumn."Yougetme?"
"Yes,"saidSheila,inhervoicethatinsomemysteriouswaywasanother


expressionoftheclearmistinessofhereyesandthesupplenessofherbody.
"YouareMr.Hudson."Shetwistedherhandstogetherbehindherback.Shewas
shiveringwithcoldandnervousness."It'sdone,yousee.Fatherfinishedit."
HudsongavethecanvasanabsentglanceandmotionedSheilatoachairwitha
stiffgestureofhisarm.
"Yousetdown,"hesaid.
Sheobeyed,andhewalkedtoandfrobeforeher.
"Say,now,"hesaid,"I'lltakethepictureallright.ButI'dliketoknow,Miss
Arundel,ifyou'llexcuseme,howyou'refixed?"
"Fixed?"Sheilafaltered.
"Why,yes,ma'am—astofinances,Imean.You'vegotsomefunds,orsome
relationsorsomefriendstocallupon—?"
Sheiladrewupherheadatrifle,loweredhereyes,andbegantoplaitherthin
skirtacrossherkneewithsmall,delicatefingers.Hudsonstoppedinhiswalkto
watchthismechanicaloccupation.Shestruggleddumblywithheremotionand
managedtoanswerhimatlast.
"No,Mr.Hudson.Fatherisverypoor.Ihaven'tanyrelations.Wehavenofriends
herenoranywherenear.WelivedinEuropetillquitelately—afishingvillagein
Normandy.I—Ishallhavetogetsomework."
"Say!"Itwasanejaculationofpity,buttherewasanoteoftriumphinit,too;
perhapsthejoyofthegratifiedphilanthropist.

"Now,look-a-here,littlegirl,thepriceofthatpicturewilljustaboutcoveryour
expenses,eh?—boardand—er—funeral?"
Sheilanodded,herthroatworking,herlidspressingdowntears.
"Well,now,look-a-here.I'vegotamissusathome."
Sheilalookedupandthetearsfell.Shebrushedthemfromhercheeks.
"Amissus?"


"Yes'm—mywife.Andacoupleofgelsaboutyourage.Well,say,we'vegota
jobforyou."
Sheilaputherhandtoherheadasthoughshewouldstopawhirlingsensation
there.
"Youmeanyouhavesomeworkformeinyourhome?"
"You'vegotitfirsttime.Yes,ma'am.Surething.AtMillings,finestcityinthe
world.Afteryou'rethroughhere,youpackupyourdudsandyoucomeWest
withme.Makeafreshstart,eh?Why,it'llmakemeplumbcheerfultohaveagel
withmeonthatjourney…seemlikeI'dGirlieorBabealong.Theyjustcriedto
come,but,say,NooYork'snoplacefortheyoung."
"But,Mr.Hudson,myticket?I'msureIwon'thavethemoney—?"
"Advanceittoyouonyourpay,MissArundel."
"Butwhatisthework?"Sheilastillheldherhandagainstherforehead.
Hudsonlaughedhisshort,crackedcackle."Jestold-fashionedhouse-work,dishwashingandsuch.'Help'can'tbehadinMillings,andGirlieandBabekicklike
steerswhenMommaleads'emtothedish-pan.Notthatyou'dhavetodoitall,
youknow,justlendahandtoMomma.Maybeyou'retoofineforthat?"
"Oh,no.Ihavedonealltheworkhere.I'dbeglad.Only—"
Hecameclosertoherandheldupalong,threateningforefinger.Itwasaplayful
gesture,butSheilahadadistinctlittletremoroffear.Shelookedupintohis
small,brown,pensiveeyes,andherownwereheldasthoughtheirlookhadbeen
fastenedtohiswithrivets.
"Now,look-a-here,MissArundel,don'tyousay'only'tome.Nor'but.'Nor'if.'

Naryoneofthosewords,ifyouplease.Say,I'vegotdaughtersofmyownandI
canmanagegels.Iknowhow.Doyouknowmynickname?Well—say—it's
'Pap.'PapHudson.I'mtheadoptingkind.Sortofpaternal,Iguess.Kidsanddogs
followmeinthestreets.Youwantarecommend?JustcallupMr.Hazeldeanon
thetelephone.He'sthemanthatfetchedmeheretobuythatpictureoffPoppa."
"Oh,"saidSheila,daughterofMarkwholookedatstars,"ofcourseIshouldn't


thinkofaskingforarecommendation.You'vebeenonlytookind—"
Heputhishandonhershoulderinitsthincoveringandpattedit,wonderingat
thesilken,coolfeelingagainsthispalm.
"Kind,MissArundel?Pshaw!Mymiddlename's'Kind'andthat'sthetruth.
Why,howdoesthesonggo—''Tislove,'tislovethatmakestheworldgo
round'—love'sjustanotherwordforkindness,ain'tit?Andit'snotsuchabad
oldworldeither,eh?"
Withoutknowingit,withthesortofgoodluckthatoftenattendstheenterprises
ofsuchmen,Hudsonhadusedaspell.Hehadquoted,almostliterally,her
father'slastwordsandshefeltthatitwasamessagefromtheothersideofdeath.
Shetwistedaboutinherchair,tookhishandfromhershoulder,anddrewit,stiff
andsallow,toheryounglips.
"Oh,"shesobbed,"you'rekind!Itisagoodworldiftherearesuchmenasyou!"
WhenSylvesterHudsonwentdownthestairsaminuteortwoafterSheila's
impetuousoutbreak,hissallowfacewasdeeplyflushed.Hestoppedtotellthe
IrishwomanwhorentedthegarretfloortotheArundels,thatSheila'sfuturewas
inhiscare.Duringthiscolloquy,purebusinessonhissideandmixedbusiness
andsentimentonMrs.Halligan's,Sylvesterdidnotoncelookthelandladyinthe
eye.Hisowneyesskippedhers,nowacross,nowunder,nowover.Thereare
somephilanthropistswhoareovercomewithsuchbashfulnessinthefaceof
theirowngooddeeds.But,sittingbackaloneinhistaxicabonhiswaytothe
stationtobuySheila'stickettoMillings,Sylvesterturnedhisemeraldrapidly

aboutonhisfingerandwhistledtohimself.Andcrypticallyheexpressedhis
glowofgratifiedfatherliness.
"Assmoothassilk,"saidSylvesteraloud.


CHAPTERIII
THEFINESTCITYINTHEWORLD

SoSheilaArundelleftthegarretwherethestarspressedclose,andwentwith
SylvesterHudsonoutintotheworld.Itwas,thatmorning,aworldofsawing
wind,offlyingpapersanddust-dervishes,aworld,tomeetwhichpeoplebent
theirshrinkingfacesanddrewtheirbodiestogetherasagainstthelashingofa
whip.SheilathoughtshehadneverseenNewYorksodrabandsoulless;ithurt
hertoleaveitundersodesolateanaspect.
"Cheerylittleoldtown,isn'tit?"saidSylvester."Gee!Millingsis
God'scountryallright."
OnthejourneyheputSheilaintoacompartment,suppliedherwithmagazines
andleftherforthemostparttoherself—forwhichisolationshewasgrateful.
Withhercompartmentdoorajar,shecouldseehiminhissection,whenhewas
notinthesmoking-car,orrathershecouldseehisleanlegs,hislong,darkhands,
andthetopofhissleekhead.Therestwasanoutspreadnewspaper.Occasionally
hewouldcomeintothecompartmenttoreadaloudsomebitofinformation
whichhethoughtmightinteresther.Onceitwastheprowessofarecordbreakinghen;againitwasajokeaboutamother-in-law;anothertimeitwasthe
Hilliardmurdercase,ascandalofNewYorkhigh-life,thepsychologyofwhich
intriguedSylvester.
"Isn'titqueer,though,MissArundel,thatsuchthingshappenintheslumsand
theyhappeninthesmartset,buttheydon'thappennearsooftenwithjustplain
folkslikeyouandme!Isn'tthis,now,arealTenderloinTale—SouthAmerican
wifeandAmericanhusbandandalltheirloveaffairs,andthenonedayherup
andshootinghim!Money,"quothSylvester,"suremakeslovepopular.Nowfor

thatlittlero-mance,poorfolkswouldhardlystopaday'swork,butjustbecause
theHilliardsherehavepo-sitionandspon-dulix,why,they'llrunacoupleof


columnsabout'emforaweek.What'syouropiniononthesubject,Miss
Arundel?"
Hewascontinuallyaskingthis,andpoorSheila,strange,bewildered,oppressed
byhisintrusionintoheruprootedlife,wouldgropewildlythroughheroddsand
endsofthoughtandfindthatonmostofthesubjectsthatinterestedhim,shehad
noopinionsatall.
"YoumustthinkI'mdreadfullystupid,Mr.Hudson,"shefalteredonceaftera
particularlydeplorablefailure.
"Oh,you'reakid,MissSheila,that'sallyourtrouble.AndIreckonyou'rehalf
asleep,eh?Kindofbroughtuponpicturesandcountrywalks,in—what'sthe
nameoftheforeignpart?—Normandy?Nofriendsofyourownage?Nobeaux?"
Sheilashookherhead,smiling.Herflexiblesmilewasascharmingasachild's.
Itdawnedonthegravityofherfacewithaneffectofspringmoonlight.Init
therewassomeofthemischiefoffairyland.
"Whatyouneedis—Millings,"prescribedSylvester."GirlieandBabewillwake
youup.Yes,andtheboys.You'llmakeahitinMillings."Hecontemplatedher
foraninstantwithhisheadononeside."Weain'tgotanythinglikeyouin
Millings."
Sheila,lookingoutatthewideNebraskanprairiesthatslippedendlesslypasther
windowhourbyhourthatday,feltthatshewouldnotmakeahitatMillings.She
wasafraidofMillings.HerterrorofBabeandGirliewasprofound.Shehad
livedandgrownup,asitwere,underherfather'selbow.Heradorationofhim
hadstoodbetweenherandexperience.Sheknewnothingofhumanityexcept
MarcusArundel.Andhewashardlytypical—ashy,proud,head-in-the-airsort
ofman,whowouldhavebeengreatlylovedifhehadnotshrunkmorbidlyfrom
humancontacts.Sheila'sIrishmotherhadwooedandwonhimandhadmadea

merrymidsummermadnessinhislife,asbriefasadream.Sheilawasallthat
remainedofit.But,forallherquietness,theshadowofhisbrokenheartupon
herspirit,shewasaPuck.Shecouldmakelaughterandmischiefforhimandfor
herself—notforanyoneelseyet;shewastooshy.Butthatmightcome.Only,
Pucklaughterisalittleunearthly,alittledelicate.TheearofMillingsmightnot
beattuned….Justnow,Sheilafeltthatshewouldneverlaughagain.Sylvester's
humorcertainlydidnotmoveher.Shealmostchokedtryingtoswallow


becominglythemother-in-lawanecdote.
ButSylvester'stalk,hisquestions,evenhisjokes,werenotwhatmostoppressed
her.Sometimes,lookingup,shewouldfindhimstaringatheroverthetopofhis
newspaperasthoughhewerespeculatingaboutsomething,weighingher,
judgingherbysomeinnermeasurement.Itwasratherlikethewayherfather
hadlookedamodelovertoseeifshewouldfithisdream.
AtsuchmomentsSylvester'ssmallbrowneyesweretheeyesofanartist,ofa
visionary.Theyembarrassedherpainfully.Whatwasit,afterall,thathe
expectedofher?Foranexpectationofsomekindhemostcertainlyhad,andit
couldhardlyhavetodowithherskillinwashingdishes.
SheaskedhimafewsmallquestionsastheydrewneartoMillings.The
strangenessofthecountrytheywerenowrunningthroughexcitedherandfired
hercourage—theseorange-coloredcliffs,thesepurplebuttes,thesestrange
twistingcañonswiththeirfiercegreenstreams.
"PleasetellmeaboutMrs.Hudsonandyourdaughters?"sheasked.
ThiswasafewhoursbeforetheyweretocometoMillings.Theyhadchanged
trainsatabig,bare,glaringcityseveralhoursbeforeandwerenowinasmall,
grittycarwithimitation-leatherseats.Theywererunningthroughagorge,and
belowandaheadSheilacouldseethebrownplainwithitspatchesofsnowand,
likealargegroupofredtoyhouses,thetownofMillings,farawaybut
astonishinglydistinctintheclearair.

Sylvester,consideringherquestion,turnedhisemeraldslowly.
"Thegirlsareallright,MissSheila.They'relookers.IguessI'vespoiled'em
some.They'llbecrazyoveryou—sortofanoopetinthehouse,eh?I'vewired
to'em.Theymustbehoppin'upanddownlikeapopperfullofcorn."
"AndMrs.Hudson?"
Sylvestergrinned—thewrinklecuttinglonganddeepacrosshislip.
"Well,ma'am,sheain'tthehoppin'kind."
AfewminuteslaterSheiladiscoveredthatemphaticallyshewasnotthehopping
kind.Agreat,bonywomanwithawide,flat,handsomeface,shecamealongthe


stationplatform,kissedSylvesterwithhardlipsandstaredatSheila…thestony
stareofherkind.
"BaberantheForddown,Sylly,"shesaidintheharshestvoiceSheilahadever
heard."Where'sthegirl'strunk?"
Sylvester'ssallowfacereddened.HeturnedquicklytoSheila.
"Runovertothecaryonder,MissSheila,andgetusedtoBabe,whileIkindof
taketheedgeoffMomma."
Sheiladidnotrun.Shewalkedinapeculiarlight-footedmannerwhichgaveher
thelookofaprouddeer.
"Momma"wastakenfirmlytothebaggage-room,where,itwouldseem,the
edgewasremovedwithdifficulty,forSheilawaitedinthemotorwithBabefor
halfanhour.
Babehopped.ShehoppedoutofherseatatthewheelandshookSheila'shand
andtoldherto"jumprightin."
"Sitbymeonthewayhome,Sheila."Babehadatremendousvoice."Andleave
theoldfolkstogossiponthebackseat.Gee!you'redifferentfromwhatI
thoughtyou'dbe.Ain'tyousmall,though?You'vegotnoform.Say,Millings
willdolotsforyou.Isn'tPapacharacter,though?Weren'tyoutickledthewayhe
tookyouup?YourPoppawasapainter,wasn'the?Canyoumakeapictureof

me?I'vegotasteadythatwouldbejustwildifyoucould."
Sheilasatwithhandsclenchedinhershabbymuffandsmiledhermoonlight
smile.Shewasgiddywiththeintoxicating,headyair,withthebrilliantsunset
light,withBabe'sloudcordiality.ShewanteddesperatelytolikeBabe;she
wantedevenmoredesperatelytobeliked.Shewasinanunimaginablepanic,
now.
Babewasasplendidyounganimal,handsomeandroundandrosy,herbody
crowdedintoabright-bluebraided,fur-trimmedcoat,herfacecrowdedintoa
tight,much-ornamentedveil,herheadwithheavychestnuthair,crowdedintoa
cherry-colored,velvetturbanroundwhichseemedtobewrappedthetailof
somelargewildbeast.Herhandswerereadytoburstfromyellowbuckskin
gloves;herfeet,withhigh,thickinsteps,fromtheirtight,thin,buttonedboots,


evenherlegsshonepinkandplumpbelowhershortskirt,throughsilkstockings
thatwerethreatenedattheseams.Andtheblueofhereyes,theredofher
cheeks,thewhiteofherteeth,hadthelookofbeinguncontainable,toobrilliant
andfulltostaywheretheybelonged.Thewholecreatureflashedandglowedand
distendedherself.Hervoicewasariotofuncontrolledvitality,and,asthoughto
useupalittleofallthissuperfluousenergy,shewasviolentlychewinggum.
Exceptforanoccasionalslightsmackingsound,itdidnotmateriallyinterfere
withspeech.
"There'sPoppanow,"shesaidatlast."Say,Poppa,youtwositintheback,will
you?SheilaandIarehavingafinetime.But,Poppa,youoldtin-horn,whatdid
youmeanbysayinginyourwirethatshewasahuskygirl?Why,she'sgotthe
buildofasagebrushmosquito!Look-a-here,Sheila."Babebyamiraclegother
plumphandinandoutofapocketandhandedatelegramtohernewfriend.
"ReadthatandlearntoknowPoppa!"
SylvesterlaughedrathersheepishlyasSheilaread:
Ambringinghomeartist'sA1pictureforTheAuraandartist'sA1daughter.

Huskygirl.WillhelpMomma.
"Well,"saidSylvesterapologetically,"she'soneofthewirykind,aren'tyou,
MissSheila?"
Sheilawasstrugglingwithanattackofhystericalmirth.Shenoddedandputher
muffbeforehermouthtohideanuncontrollablequiveringofherlips.
"Momma"hadnotspoken.Herfacewasalloneeventoneofred,hernostrils
openedandshut,herlipsweretight.Sylvester,however,wasinagenialhumor.
Heleanedforwardwithhisarmsfoldedalongthebackofthefrontseatand
pointedoutthebeautiesofMillings.HeshowedSheilatheGarage,thePostOffice,andtheTradingCompany,andsuddenlypressinghershoulderwithhis
hand,hecrackedoutsharply:
"There'sTheAura,girl!"
Hiseyeswereagainthoseoftheartistandthevisionary.Theyglowed.
Sheilaturnedherhead.Theywerepassingthedoubledoorofthesaloonand
wentslowlyalongthefrontofthehotel.


ItstoodonthatcornerwherethemainbusinessstreetintersectswiththeBest
ResidenceStreet.Itsmainentranceopenedintotheflattenedcornerofthe
buildingwheretheroofrosetoafantasticfaçade.Fortherest,thehotelwasof
yellowish-brick,half-surroundedbyawoodenporchwhereatmilderseasonsof
theyearindeepwickerchairsmenandwomenwerealwaysrockingwiththeair
ofpeopleengagedinseriousandnotunimportantwork.Atsuchfriendlier
seasons,too,bythecurbwasalwaysaweary-lookingFordcarfromwhich
grotesquelyarrayed"travelers"fromnear-bytownsandcitiesweredescending
coveredwithalkalidust—faces,chiffonveils,spottedsilkdresses,highwhite
kidboots,danglingpursesandall,theirmendust-powderedtoawrinkled
samenessofaspect.Atthistimeoftheyeartheporchwasdeserted,andtheonly
carinsightwasHudson'sown,whichwriggledandslippeditswaycourageously
alongtherutted,dirtysnow.
AroundthecornernexttothehotelstoodHudson'shome.Itwasalargehouseof

torturedarchitecture,cupolasandtwistedsupportsandstrange,overlapping
scallopsofwood,paintedwavygreen,pinkishredandyellow.Itswindowswere
ofeverysizeandshapeandappearedinunreasonable,impossibleplaces—
openingenormousmouthsontinybalconieswithtwistedpostsandscalloped
railings,likeembroiderypatterns,oneontopoftheotheruptoafinalabsurdity
ofabirdcagewhichfoundroomforitselfbetweentwocupolasundertheroof.
UpthestepsoftheporchMrs.Hudsonmountedgrimly,followedbyBabe.
Sylvesterstayedtotinkerwiththecar,andSheila,afteradoubtful,tremulous
moment,wentslowlyuptheicypathafterthetwowomen.
Shestumbledalittleontheloweststepand,inrecoveringherself,shehappened
toturnherhead.Andso,betweentwoslenderaspentreesthatgrewsidebyside
likewhite,captivenymphsinHudson'syard,shesawamountain-top.Thesun
hadset.Therewasacrystal,turquoisetranslucencybehindtheexquisitesnowy
peak,whichseemedtostandtherefacingGod,forgetfuloftheworldbehindit,
remoteandreverentandmostsereneinthelightofHisglory.Andjustabove
wheretheturquoisefadedtopurepalegreen,abigwhitestartrembled.Sheila's
heartstoppedinherbreast.Shestoodonthestepanddrewbreath,throwingback
herveil.Aflushcreptupintoherface.Shefeltthatshehadbeentravelingall
herlifetowardhermeetingwiththismountainandthisstar.Shefeltradiantand
comforted.
"Howbeautiful!"shewhispered.


Sylvesterhadjoinedher.
"Finestcityintheworld!"hesaid.


CHAPTERIV
MOONSHINE

DickieHudsonpushedfromhimtothefulllengthofhisarmtheledgerofThe
AuraHotel,tiltedhischairbackfromthedesk,and,leaningfarovertooneside,
settheneedleonaphonographrecord,pressedthestarter,andabsorbedhimself
inrollingandlightingacigarette.Thisaccomplished,heputhishandsbehind
hisheadand,wreathedinaromatic,bluishsmoke,gavehimselfuptocomplete
enjoymentofthemusic.
Itwasasongfromsomepopularlightopera.Averyhighsopranoandamusical
tenorduet,sentimental,humoresque:
"There,dryyoureyes,
Isympathize
Justasamotherwould—
Givemeyourhand,
Iunderstand,we'reofftoslumberland
Likeafather,likeamother,likeasister,likeabrother."
Listeningtothismelody,DickieHudson'sfaceunderthegaslightexpresseda
raptandspiritualdelight,tender,romantic,melancholy.
Hewasaslight,undersizedyouth,verypale,veryfair,withthefaceofadelicate
boy.Hehadlarge,near-sightedblueeyesinwhichlurkedawistful,deprecatory
smile,asmallchinrunningfromwidecheek-bonestoapoint.Hislipswere
sensitiveandundecided,hisnoseunformed,hishairsoftandeasilyruffled.
Therewerehardbluemarksunderthelong-lashedeyes,anunhealthypallorto
hischeeks,aslightunsteadinessofhisfingers.
Dickieheldapositionofminorimportanceinthehotel,andhispale,innocent


facewasalmostasfamiliartoitspatronsastothoseofthesaloonnextdoor—
morefamiliartoboththanitwastoHudson's"residence."Sometimesforweeks
Dickiedidnotstrainthescantwelcomeofhis"folks."To-night,however,hewas
resolvedtotemptit.Afterlisteningtotherecord,hestrolledovertothesaloon.
Dickiewascurious.HesharedMillings'sinterestinthe"youngladyfromNoo

York."Shynessfoughtwithasenseofadventure,untilto-night,anightfullyten
nightsafterSheila'sarrival,thecourageheimbibedatthebarofTheAuragave
himthenecessaryimpetus.Hepulledhimselfupfromhiselbow,removedhis
footfromtherail,straightenedhisspottedtie,andpushedthroughtheswinging
doorsoutintothenight.
Itwasamoonlitnight,asstillandpureasanangelofannunciation—anightthat
carriedtall,silverliliesinitshands.Abovethesmall,sleepytownwereliftedthe
circlingrimofmountainsandthewebofblazingstars.Sylvester'sson,aftera
fewcrunchingstepsalongtheicypavement,stoppedwithhishandagainstthe
wall,andstood,notquitesteadily,hisfacelifted.Thewhitenesssankthroughhis
taintedbodyandbraintotheundefiledchild-soul.Thestarsblazedawfullyfor
Dickie,andthemountainswereawfullywhiteandhigh,andtheairshattered
againsthisspiritlikeacrystalsword.Hestoodforaninstantasthoughona
singlepointofsolidearthandlookedgiddilybeyondearthlybarriers.
Hislipsbegantomove.Hewastryingtoputthatmystery,thatemotion,into
words…"It'swhite,"hemurmured,"andsharp—burning—like—like"—his
fancyfumbled—"liketheinsideofacoldflame."Heshookhishead.Thatdid
notdescribethemarvelousqualityofthenight.Andyet—iftheworldhadgone
uptoheaveninasingle,streamingpointoficyfireandafellowstoodinit,
frozen,sweptupoutofafellow'sbody….Againheshookhisheadandhiseyes
werepossessedbythewistful,apologeticsmile.Hewishedhewerenot
tormentedbythisqueerneedofdescribinghissensations.Herememberedvery
vividlyoneofthemanyoccasionswhenithadrousedhisfather'sanger.Dickie,
standingwithhishandagainstthecoldbricksofTheAura,smiledwithhislips,
nothappily,butwithacertainamusement,thinkingofhowSylvester'shandhad
crackedagainsthischeekandsentallhisthoughtsflyinglikebrokenchina.He
hadbeenapologizingforhisslownessoveranerrand—somethingaboutleaves,
ithadbeen—theleavesofthoseaspensintheyard—hehadtoldhisfatherthat
theyhadbeenlittlegreenflames—hehadstoppedtolookatthem.
"Youdamnfool!"Sylvesterhadsaidashestruck.

"Youdamnfool!"Once,whenastrangeraskedfive-year-oldDickiehisname,he
hadansweredinnocently"Dickie-damn-fool!"
"They'llprobablyputitonmytombstone,"Dickieconcluded,and,stungbythe
cold,heshrankintohiscoatandstumbledroundthecornerofthestreet.The
reekofspiritstrailedbehindhimthroughthepuritylikeasoiledrag.
Number18CottonwoodAvenuewasbrilliantlylighted.Girliewasplayingthe
piano,Babe'svoice,"sassingPoppa,"wasaudiblefromoneendtotheotherof
theemptystreet.Herlaughterslappedtheair.Dickiehesitated.Hewasafraidof
themall—ofSylvester'spensive,small,browneyesandhard,longhands,of
Babe'sbodilyvigor,ofGirlie'smildcontemptuouslook,ofhismother'sgloomy,
furtivetenderness.Dickiefeltasortofachingandcompassionatedreadofthe
rough,awkwardcaressofherbigredhandagainsthischeek.Ashehesitated,the
dooropened—ablazeoflight,yellowasoldgold,streamedintotheblue
brillianceofthemoon.Itwasblottedoutandafigurecamequicklydownthe
steps.Ithadanairofhurryandescape.Asmall,slimfigure,itcamealongthe
pathandthroughthegate;then,afterjustaninstantofhesitation,itturnedaway
fromDickieandspedupthewidestreet.
Dickienameditatonce."That'sthegirl,"hesaid;andpossessedbyhiscuriosity
andbythesenseofadventurewhichwhiskeyhadfortified,hebegantowalk
rapidlyinthesamedirection.Outthere,wheretheshortstreetended,beganthe
steepsideofamesa.Thesnowontheroadthatwasgradedalongitsfrontwas
packedbytherunnersoffreightingsleighs,butitwasrough.Hecouldnot
believethegirlmeanttogoforawalkalone.Andyet,wouldshebeoutvisiting
already,she,astranger?Attheendofthestreetthesmall,determinedfiguredid
notstop;itwenton,alittlemoreslowly,butasdecidedlyasever,uptheslope.
Onthehard,frozencrust,herfeetmadehardlyasound.Abovetheleveltopof
thewhitehill,thepeakthatlookedremotefromHudson'syardbecame
immediate.Itseemedtopeer—toleanforward,brightasasilverhelmetagainst

thepurplesky.Dickiecouldseethat"thegirl"walkedwithherheadtiltedback
asthoughshewerelookingatthesky.Perhapsitwasthesheerbeautyofthe
winternightthathadbroughtherout.Followingslowlyupthehill,hefelta
senseofnearness,ofwarmth;hisaching,lifelonglonelinesswasremotely
comfortedbecauseagirl,skimmingaheadofhim,hadtiltedherchinupsothat
shecouldseethestars.Shereachedthetopofthemesaseveralminutesbefore
hedidanddisappeared.Shewasnow,heknew,ontheedgeofagreatplateau,in
summercoveredwiththegreenishsilverofsagebrush,nowanunbroken,


glitteringexpanse.Hestoodstilltogethisbreathandlistentotheverylight
crunchofhersteps.Hecouldhearacoyotewailingoffthereinthefoothills,and
therushingnoiseofthesmallmountainriverthathurleditselfdownupon
Millings,ranthroughitatfrenziedspeed,andmadeforthecanonontheother
sideofthevalley.BelowhimMillingstwinkledwithafewsparselights,andhe
could,evenfromhere,distinguishtheclatterofBabe'svoice.Butwhenhecame
tothetop,Millingsdroppedawayfromthereachofhissenses.Herewas
dazzlingspace,theamazingpresenceofthemountains,thepressureofthestarry
sky.Faroffalreadyacrosstheflat,thatsmall,darkfiguremoved.Shehadleft
theroad,whichranparallelwiththemountainrange,andwaswalkingoverthe
hard,sparklingcrust.Itsupportedherweight,butDickiewasnotsurethatit
woulddothesameforhis.Hetrieditcarefully.Itheld,andhefollowedthefaint
trackofsmallfeet.Itdidnotoccurtohim,dazedashewasbythefumesof
whiskeyandtheheadyair,thatthesightofamaninswiftpursuitofher
lonelinessmightfrightenSheila.Forsomereasonheimaginedthatshewould
knowthathewasSylvester'sson,andthathewaspossessedonlybythemost
sociableandprotectiveimpulses.
Hewas,besides,possessedbyafatefulfeelingthatitwasintendedthatouthere
inthebrilliantnightheshouldmeetherandtalktoher.Theadventurousheartof
Dickiewasaflame.

Whenthehurryingfigurestoppedandturnedquickly,hedidnotpause,but
ratherhastenedhissteps.Hesawherlifthermuffuptoherheart,sawherwaver,
thenmoveresolutelytowardhim.Shecamethustwoorthreesteps,whena
treacherouspitfallinthesnowopenedunderherfrightenedfeetandshewent
downalmostshoulderdeep.Dickieranforward.
Bendingoverher,hesawherwhite,heart-shapedface,anditsredmouthas
startlingasaJuneroseouthereinthesnow.Andhesaw,too,thepanicofher
shiningeyes.
"MissArundel"—hisvoicecamethinandtender,feelingitswaydoubtfullyas
thoughitwastooheavyareality—"letmehelpyou.YouareMissArundel,
aren'tyou?I'mDickie—DickieHudson,PapHudson'sson.Youhadn'toughtto
bescared.Isawyoucomingoutaloneandtookafteryou.Ithoughtyoumight
finditkindoflonesomeuphereontheflatatnightinallthemoonlight—
hearingthecoyotesandall.And,look-a-here,youmighthavehadatimegetting
outofthesnow.Oncetafellowbreaksthroughitsuremeansaflounderingtime