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The Bell-Ringer Of Angel’s
by
This and much more with the volubility of relieved feelings. When he stopped, out of breath, Madison said, “I have had a visitor since you left–Mr. McGee.”
“And his wife?” asked Arthur quickly. Madison flushed slightly. “No; but he asked me to go and see her.”
“That’s HER doin’, then,” returned Arthur, with a laugh. “She’s always lookin’ round the corners of her eyes at me when she passes. Why, John Rogers was joking me about her only yesterday, and said McGee would blow a hole through me some of these days if I didn’t look out! Of course,” he added, affectedly curling his moustache, “that’s nonsense! But you know how they talk, and she’s too pretty for that fellow McGee.”
“She has found a careful helpmeet in her husband,” said Madison sternly, “and it’s neither seemly nor Christian in you, Arthur, to repeat the idle, profane gossip of the Bar. I knew her before her marriage, and if she was not a professing Christian, she was, and is, a pure, good woman! Let us have no more of this.”
Whether impressed by the tone of his brother’s voice, or only affected by his own mercurial nature, Arthur changed the subject to further voluble reminiscences of his trip to Angel’s. Yet he did not seem embarrassed nor disconcerted when his brother, in the midst of his speech, placed the candle and the Bible on the table, with two chairs before it. He listened to Madison’s monotonous reading of the evening exercise with equally monotonous respect. Then they both arose, without looking at each other, but with equally set and stolid faces, and knelt down before their respective chairs, clasping the back with both hands, and occasionally drawing the hard, wooden frames against their breasts convulsively, as if it were a penitential act. It was the elder brother who that night prayed aloud. It was his voice that rose higher by degrees above the low roof and encompassing walls, the level river camp lights that trembled through the window, the dark belt of riverside trees, and the light on the promontory’s crest–up to the tranquil, passionless stars themselves.
With those confidences to his Maker this chronicle does not lie–obtrusive and ostentatious though they were in tone and attitude. Enough that they were a general arraignment of humanity, the Bar, himself, and his brother, and indeed much that the same Maker had created and permitted. That through this hopeless denunciation still lingered some human feeling and tenderness might have been shown by the fact that at its close his hands trembled and his face was bedewed by tears. And his brother was so deeply affected that he resolved hereafter to avoid all evening prayers.
CHAPTER III.
It was a week later that Madison Wayne and Mr. McGee were seen, to the astonishment of the Bar, leisurely walking together in the direction of the promontory. Here they disappeared, entering a damp fringe of willows and laurels that seemed to mark its limits, and gradually ascending some thickly-wooded trail, until they reached its crest, which, to Madison’s surprise, was cleared and open, and showed an acre or two of rude cultivation. Here, too, stood the McGees’ conjugal home–a small, four-roomed house, but so peculiar and foreign in aspect that it at once challenged even Madison’s abstracted attention. It was a tiny Swiss chalet, built in sections, and originally packed in cases, one of the early importations from Europe to California after the gold discovery, when the country was supposed to be a woodless wilderness. Mr. McGee explained, with his usual laborious care, how he had bought it at Marysville, not only for its picturesqueness, but because in its unsuggestive packing-cases it offered no indication to the curious miners, and could be put up by himself and a single uncommunicative Chinaman, without any one else being aware of its existence. There was, indeed, something quaint in this fragment of Old World handicraft, with its smooth-jointed paneling, in two colors, its little lozenge fretwork, its lapped roof, overhanging eaves, and miniature gallery. Inartistic as Madison was–like most men of rigidly rectangular mind and principle–and accustomed to the bleak and economic sufficiency of the Californian miner’s cabin, he was touched strangely by its novel grace and freshness. It reminded him of HER; he had a new respect for this rough, sinful man who had thus idealized his wife in her dwelling. Already a few Madeira vines and a Cherokee rose clambered up the gallery. And here Mrs. McGee was sitting.