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A Mountain Woman
by
“He is at his best in a drawing-room,” said Jessica, “because there he deals with theory and not with action. And he has such beautiful theories that the women, who are all idealists, adore him.”
The next morning I awoke with a conviction that I had been idling too long. I went back to the city and brushed the dust from my desk. Then each morning, I, as Jessica put it, “formed public opinion” to the extent of one column a day in the columns of a certain enterprising morning journal.
Brainard said I had treated him shabbily to leave upon the heels of his coming. But a man who works for his bread and butter must put a limit to his holiday. It is different when you only work to add to your general picturesqueness. That is what I wrote Leroy, and it was the unkindest thing I ever said to him; and why I did it I do not know to this day. I was glad, though, when he failed to answer the letter. It gave me a more reasonable excuse for feeling out of patience with him.
The days that followed were very dull. It was hard to get back into the way of working. I was glad when Jessica came home to set up our little establishment and to join in the autumn gayeties. Brainard brought his wife to the city soon after, and went to housekeeping in an odd sort of a way.
“I couldn’t see anything in the place save curios,” Jessica reported, after her first call on them. “I suppose there is a cooking-stove somewhere, and maybe even a pantry with pots in it. But all I saw was Alaska totems and Navajo blankets. They have as many skins around on the floor and couches as would have satisfied an ancient Briton. And everybody was calling there. You know Mr. Brainard runs to curios in selecting his friends as well as his furniture. The parlors were full this afternoon of abnormal people, that is to say, with folks one reads about. I was the only one there who hadn’t done something. I guess it’s because I am too healthy.”
“How did Mrs. Brainard like such a motley crew?”
“She was wonderful–perfectly wonderful! Those insulting creatures were all studying her, and she knew it. But her dignity was perfect, and she looked as proud as a Sioux chief. She listened to every one, and they all thought her so bright.”
“Brainard must have been tremendously proud of her.”
“Oh, he was–of her and his Chilcat portières.”
Jessica was there often, but–well, I was busy. At length, however, I was forced to go. Jessica refused to make any further excuses for me. The rooms were filled with small celebrities.
“We are the only nonentities,” whispered Jessica, as she looked around; “it will make us quite distinguished.”
We went to speak to our hostess. She stood beside her husband, looking taller than ever; and her face was white. Her long red gown of clinging silk was so peculiar as to give one the impression that she was dressed in character. It was easy to tell that it was one of Leroy’s fancies. I hardly heard what she said, but I know she reproached me gently for not having been to see them. I had no further word with her till some one led her to the piano, and she paused to say,–
“That poet you spoke of to me–the one you said was a friend of yours–he is my friend now too, and I have learned to sing some of his songs. I am going to sing one now.” She seemed to have no timidity at all, but stood quietly, with a half smile, while a young man with a Russian name played a strange minor prelude. Then she sang, her voice a wonderful contralto, cold at times, and again lit up with gleams of passion. The music itself was fitful, now full of joy, now tender, and now sad: