FullReads

“You’re quite out of the world here, then?” suggested Mrs. Sol.

“That’s it, just it! We’re out of the world,–out of rows, out of liquor, out of cards, out of bad company, out of temptation. Cussedness and foolishness hez got to follow us up here to find us, and there’s too many ready to climb down to them things to tempt ’em to come up to us.”

There was a little boyish conceit in his tone, as he stood there, not altogether unbecoming his fresh color and simplicity. Yet, when his eyes met those of Miss Euphemia, he colored, he hardly knew why, and the young lady herself blushed rosily.

When the neat cabin, with its decorated walls, and squirrel and wild-cat skins, was duly admired, the luncheon-basket of the Saunders party was re-enforced by provisions from Rand’s larder, and spread upon the ledge; the dimensions of the cabin not admitting four. Under the potent influence of a bottle, Sol became hilarious and professional. The “Pet” was induced to favor the company with a recitation, and, under the plea of teaching Rand, to perform the clog-dance with both gentlemen. Then there was an interval, in which Rand and Euphemia wandered a little way down the mountain-side to gather laurel, leaving Mr. Sol to his siesta on a rock, and Mrs. Sol to take some knitting from the basket, and sit beside him.

When Rand and his companion had disappeared, Mrs. Sol nudged her sleeping partner. “Do you think that WAS the brother?”

Sol yawned. “Sure of it. They’re as like as two peas, in looks.”

“Why didn’t you tell him so, then?”

“Will you tell me, my dear, why you stopped me when I began?”

“Because something was said about Ruth being here; and I supposed Ruth was a woman, and perhaps Pinkney’s wife, and knew you’d be putting your foot in it by talking of that other woman. I supposed it was for fear of that he denied knowing you.”

“Well, when HE–this Rand–told me he had a twin-brother, he looked so frightened that I knew he knew nothing of his brother’s doings with that woman, and I threw him off the scent. He’s a good fellow, but awfully green, and I didn’t want to worry him with tales. I like him, and I think Phemie does too.”

“Nonsense! He’s a conceited prig! Did you hear his sermon on the world and its temptations? I wonder if he thought temptation had come up to him in the person of us professionals out on a picnic. I think it was positively rude.”

“My dear woman, you’re always seeing slights and insults. I tell you he’s taken a shine to Phemie; and he’s as good as four seats and a bouquet to that child next Wednesday evening, to say nothing of the eclat of getting this St. Simeon–what do you call him?–Stalactites?”

“Stylites,” suggested Mrs. Sol.

“Stylites, off from his pillar here. I’ll have a paragraph in the paper, that the hermit crabs of Table Mountain–“

“Don’t be a fool, Sol!”

“The hermit twins of Table Mountain bespoke the chaste performance.”

“One of them being the protector of the well-known Mornie Nixon,” responded Mrs. Sol, viciously accenting the name with her knitting-needles.

“Rosy, you’re unjust. You’re prejudiced by the reports of the town. Mr. Pinkney’s interest in her may be a purely artistic one, although mistaken. She’ll never make a good variety-actress: she’s too heavy. And the boys don’t give her a fair show. No woman can make a debut in my version of ‘Somnambula,’ and have the front row in the pit say to her in the sleepwalking scene, ‘You’re out rather late, Mornie. Kinder forgot to put on your things, didn’t you? Mother sick, I suppose, and you’re goin’ for more gin? Hurry along, or you’ll ketch it when ye get home.’ Why, you couldn’t do it yourself, Rosy!”

To which Mrs. Sol’s illogical climax was, that, “bad as Rutherford might be, this Sunday-school superintendent, Rand, was worse.”