Ah, well! the girl was pretty--the daughter of his employer, who rumor said owned a controlling share in the company; why should he not make this chance preference lead to something, if only to ameliorate, in ways like this, his despicable position here. He knew the value of his own good looks, his superior education, and a certain recklessness which women liked; why should he not profit by them as well as the one woman who had brought him to this? He owed her *** nothing; if those among them who were not bad were only fools, there was no reason why he should not deceive them as they had him. There was all this small audacity and cynical purpose in his brown eyes as he deliberately fixed them on hers. And I grieve to say that these abominable sentiments seemed only to impart to them a certain attractive brilliancy, and a determination which the undetermining *** is apt to admire.
She blushed again, dropped her eyes, replied to his significant thanks with a few indistinct words, and drew away from the table with a sudden timidity that was half confession.
She did not approach him again during the meal, but seemed to have taken a sudden interest in the efficiency of the waiters, generally, which she had not shown before. I do not know whether this was merely an effort at concealment, or an awakened recognition of her duty; but, after the fashion of her ***,--and perhaps in contrast to his,--she was kinder that evening to the average man on account of HIM. He did not, however, notice it; nor did her absence interfere with his now healthy appetite; he finished his meal, and only when he rose to take his hat from the peg above him did he glance around the room. Their eyes met again. As he passed out, although it was dark, he put on his hat a little more smartly.
The air was clear and cold, but the outlines of the landscape had vanished. His companions, with the instinct of tired animals, were already ****** their way in knots of two or three, or in silent file, across the intervening space between the building and their dormitory. A few had already lit their pipes and were walking leisurely, but the majority were hurrying from the chill sea-breeze to the warmth and comfort of the long, well-lit room, lined with blanketed berths, and set with plain wooden chairs and tables. The young man lingered for a moment on the wooden platform outside the dining-shed,--partly to evade this only social gathering of his fellows as they retired for the night, and partly attracted by a strange fascination to the faint distant glow, beyond the point of land, which indicated the lights of San Francisco.
There was a slight rustle behind him! It was the young girl who, with a white woolen scarf thrown over her head and shoulders, had just left the room. She started when she saw him, and for an instant hesitated.
"You are going home, Miss Woodridge?" he said pleasantly.
"Yes," she returned, in a faint, embarrassed voice. "I thought I'd run on ahead of ma!""Will you allow me to accompany you?"
"It's only a step," she protested, indicating the light in the window of the superintendent's house, the most remote of the group of buildings, yet scarcely a quarter of a mile distant.
"But it's quite dark," he persisted smilingly.
She stepped from the platform to the ground; he instantly followed and ranged himself at a little distance from her side. She protested still feebly against his "troubling himself," but in another moment they were walking on quietly together.
Nevertheless, a few paces from the platform they came upon the upheaved clods of the fresh furrows, and their progress over them was slow and difficult.
"Shall I help you? Will you take my arm?" he said politely.
"No, thank you, Mr. Reddy."
So! she knew his name! He tried to look into her eyes, but the woolen scarf hid her head. After all, there was nothing strange in her knowing him; she probably had the names of the men before her in the dining-room, or on the books. After a pause he said:--"You quite startled me. One becomes such a mere working machine here that one quite forgets one's own name,--especially with the prefix of 'Mr.'""And if it don't happen to be one's real name either," said the girl, with an odd, timid audacity.
He looked up quickly--more attracted by her manner than her words;more amused than angry.
"But Reddy happens to be my real name."
"Oh!"
"What made you think it was not?"
The clods over which they were clambering were so uneven that sometimes the young girl was mounting one at the same moment that Reddy was descending from another. Her reply, half muffled in her shawl, was delivered over his head. "Oh, because pa says most of the men here don't give their real names--they don't care to be known afterward. Ashamed of their work, I reckon."His face flushed a moment, even in the darkness. He WAS ashamed of his work, and perhaps a little of the pitiful sport he was beginning. But oddly enough, the aggressive criticism only whetted his purpose. The girl was evidently quite able to take care of herself; why should he be over-chivalrous?
"It isn't very pleasant to be doing the work of a horse, an ox, or a machine, if you can do other things," he said half seriously.
"But you never used to do anything at all, did you?" she asked.
He hesitated. Here was a chance to give her an affecting history of his former exalted fortune and position, and perhaps even to stir her evidently romantic nature with some suggestion of his sacrifices to one of her own ***. Women liked that sort of thing.
It aroused at once their emulation and their condemnation of each other. He seized the opportunity, but--for some reason, he knew not why--awkwardly and clumsily, with a simulated pathos that was lachrymose, a self-assertion that was boastful, and a dramatic manner that was unreal. Suddenly the girl stopped him.
