Hidden Creek Part 5

"I can't altogether, Miss Sheila, for I reckon you wouldn't have run away from a true-blue, friendly fellow, would you?"

"Yes, Mr. Hudson, I would. Because, you see, I did. It was just a sort of panic. Too much moons.h.i.+ne."

"Yes, ma'am. Too much moons.h.i.+ne inside of d.i.c.kie. I hope"--he leaned toward her, and Sheila, the child, could not help but be flattered by his deference--"I hope you're not thinking that d.i.c.kie's unfortunate habit is my fault. I'm his father and I own that saloon. But, all the same, it's not my fault nor The Aura's fault either. I never did spoil d.i.c.kie. And I'm a sober man myself. He's just naturally ornery, no account. He always was. I believe he's kind of lacking in the upper story."

"Oh, _no_, Mr. Hudson!"

The protest was so emphatic that Sylvester pulled his cigar out of his mouth, brushed away the smoke, and looked searchingly at Sheila. She was sitting very straight. Against the crimson plush of an enormous chair-back her small figure looked extravagantly delicate and her little pointed fingers on the arms, startlingly white and fine. A color flamed in her cheeks, her eyes and lips were possessed by the remorseful earnestness of her appeal.

"Well, say, if _you_ think not!" Sylvester narrowed his eyes and thrust the cigar back into a hole made by his mouth for its reception; "you're the first person that hasn't kind of agreed with me on that point. I can't see why he took to the whiskey, anyway. Moderation's my motto and always was. It's the motto of The Aura. There ain't a bar east nor west of the Rockies, Miss Sheila, believe _me_, that has the reputation for decency and moderation that my Aura has. She's cla.s.sy, she's stylish--well, sir--she's exquisite"--he p.r.o.nounced it ex-_squis_it--"I don't mind sayin' so. She's a saloon in a million. And she's famous. You can hear talk of The Aura in the best clubs, the most se-lect bars of Chicago and Noo York and San Francisco. She's mighty near perfect. Well, say, there was an Englishman in there one night two summers ago. He was some Englishman, too, an earl, that was him. Been all over the world, east, west, and in between. Had a gla.s.s in his eye--one of those fellers.

Do you know what he told me, Miss Sheila? Can you guess?"

"That The Aura was cla.s.sy?" suggested Sheila bravely.

"More'n that," Sylvester leaned farther toward her and emphasized his words with the long forefinger.

"'It's all but perfect'--that's what he said--'it only needs one thing to make it quite perfect!'"

"What was the thing?"

But Hudson did not heed her question. "Believe me or not, Miss Sheila, that saloon--"

"But I do believe you," said Sheila with her enchanting smile. "And that's just the trouble with d.i.c.kie, isn't it? Your saloon is--must be--the most fascinating place in Millings. Why, Mr. Hudson, ever since I came here, I've been longing to go into it myself!"

She got up after this speech and went to stand near the stove. Not that she was cold--the small room, which looked even smaller on account of its huge flaming furniture and the enormous roses on its carpet and wall-paper, was as hot as a furnace--but because she was abashed by her own speech and by his curious reception of it. The dark blood of his body had risen to his face; he had opened his eyes wide upon her, had sunk back again and begun to smoke with short, excited puffs.

Sheila thought that he was shocked and she was very close to tears. She blinked at the stove and moved her fingers uncertainly. "Nice girls," she thought, "never want to go into saloons!"

Then Sylvester spoke. "You're a girl in a million, Miss Sheila!" he said. His voice was more cracked than usual. Sheila transferred her blinking, almost tearful look from the stove to him. "You're a heap too good for dish-was.h.i.+ng," said Sylvester.

For some reason the girl's heart began to beat unevenly. She had a feeling of excitement and suspense. It was as if, after walking for many hours through a wood where there was a lurking presence of danger, she had heard a nearing step. She kept her eyes upon Sylvester. In his there was that mysterious look of appraisal, of vision. He seemed nervous, rolled his cigar and moved his feet.

"Are you satisfied with your work, Miss Sheila?"

Sheila a.s.sembled her courage. "I know you'll think me a beast, Mr.

Hudson, after all your kindness--and it isn't that I don't like the work.

But I've a feeling--no, it's more than a feeling!--I _know_ that your wife doesn't need me. And I know she doesn't want me. She doesn't like to have me here. I've been unhappy about that ever since I came. And it's been getting worse. Yesterday she said she couldn't bear to have me whistling round her kitchen. Mr. Hudson"--Sheila's voice broke childishly--"I can't help whistling. It's a habit. I couldn't work at all if I didn't whistle. I wouldn't have told you, but since you asked me--"

Sylvester held up his long hand. Its emerald glittered.

"That's all right," he said. "I wanted to learn the truth about it.

Perhaps you've noticed, Miss Sheila, that I'm not a very happy man at home."

"You mean--?"

"I mean," said Sylvester heavily--"_Momma_."

Sheila overcame a horrible inclination to laugh.

"I'm so sorry," she said uncertainly. She was acutely embarra.s.sed, but did not know how to escape. And she _was_ sorry for him, for certainly it seemed to her that a man married to Momma had just cause for unhappiness.

"I ought to be ashamed of myself for bringing you here, Miss Sheila. You see, that's me. I'm so all-fired soft-hearted that I just don't think.

I'm all feelings. My heart's stronger than my head, as the palmists say."

He rose and came over to Sheila; standing beside her and smiling so that the wrinkle stood out sharply across his unwilling lip. "Did you ever go to one of those fellows?" he asked.

"Palmists?"

"Yes, ma'am. Well, now, say, did they ever tell you that you were going to be the pride and joy of old Pap Hudson? Give me your little paw, girl!"

Sheila's hand obeyed rather unwillingly her irresolute, polite will.

Hudson's came quickly to meet it, spread it out flat in his own long palm, and examined the small rigid surface.

"Well, now, Miss Sheila, I can read something there."

"What can you read?"

"You're goin' to be famous. You're goin' to make Millings famous. Girl, you're goin' to be a picture that will live in the hearts of fellows and keep 'em warm when they're herding winter nights. The thought of you is goin' to keep 'em straight and pull 'em back here. You 're goin' to be a--a sort of a beacon light."

He was holding her slim hand with its small, crushable bones in an excited grip. He was bending forward, not looking at the palm, but at her. Sheila pulled back, wincing a little.

"What do you mean, Mr. Hudson? How could I be all that?"

Sylvester let her go. He began to pace the room. He stopped and looked at her, almost wistfully.

"You really think that I've been kind of nice to you?" he asked.

"Indeed, you have!"

"I'm not a happy man and I've got to be sort of distrustful. I haven't got much faith in the thankfulness of people. I've got fooled too often."

"Try me," said Sheila quickly.

He looked at her with a long and searching look. Then he sighed.

"Some day maybe I will. Run away to bed now."

Sheila felt as if she had been pushed away from a half-opened door.

She drew herself up and walked across the huge flowers of the carpet.

But before going out she turned back. Sylvester quickly banished a sly smile.

"You won't be angry with d.i.c.kie?" she asked.

"Not if it's going to deal you any misery, little girl."

"You're _very_ kind to me."

He put up his hand. "That's all right, Miss Sheila," he said. "That's all right. It's a real pleasure and comfort to me to have you here and I'll try to shape things so they'll suit you--and Momma too. Trust _me_. But don't you ask me to put any faith in d.i.c.kie's upper story. I've climbed up there too often. I'll give up my plan to go round there to-morrow and--" He paused grimly.

"And bawl him out?" suggested Sheila with one of her Puckish impulses.