THE MINER’S PARTNER.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.
Showle and Bynnes—dry goods and general store—were well known for a hundred miles around Cincinnati, in which city they were located, no house standing higher for solvency, promptness, and for that indefinable but yet easily understood quality, smartness. With the tenacity with which business men in the United States cling to their work, never contemplating the luxury of retirement and ease, which to them would be penance, Mr Bynnes, who was much advanced in years, would probably have continued in the store as long as he lived, but for his purchase of some land fully a thousand miles away. He had never seen this property, having bought it upon the representation of an agent in whom he had confidence; but believing that its value would be much enhanced by his personal supervision, he at once decided to go out and reside upon it. Mr Bynnes was near seventy years of age; his new acquisition was in a wild, bleak, unsettled part of the country; but such considerations did not weigh with him for a moment; the property required his presence, so he resolved to go there, ‘right away.’
This change involved the taking of a fresh partner by Mr Showle, as the business was too large for one person to manage; while, as a new warehouse, apart from the original store, was being built, it was clear that in time a third partner must be added, or a manager employed. As Mr Showle had a decided aversion to managers, or to the allowing any one to have potential authority in the business who was not vitally interested in it, there was no doubt that the addition would be in the form of a partner. For the present, however, but one was taken in, although there was a rumour that Mr Bynnes had recommended a relative of his own, who would appear shortly as a third in the firm.
The new partner, Mr Ben Creelock, was a brusque, somewhat hot-tempered man, although he must have been approaching fifty years of age; but he was well enough liked by the employees of the firm, when once they were used to him. (The reader will please to notice that in United States’ matters of business, ‘employees’ is the proper word.) The new partner was a very liberal master, considerate and kindly where he saw any anxiety to please, though apt to be passionate when he thought he detected a skulker or ‘loafer.’ He had not been used to a store, as he frankly owned; but he was naturally quick and shrewd, and devoted himself to the business with so much zeal, that in a few months Mr Showle declared himself highly satisfied with the new partner. Consequently, the business went on smoothly; and while Mr Creelock made no secret of the fact that for years past he had been a miner, he gave promise of making a first-rate storekeeper.
It would be affectation to suppose that the reader has not identified the new partner as Ben, the miner of Fandango Gulch. They were the same. The gold-hunter, carrying out an idea he had long entertained, had left his wild life, and had settled in Cincinnati, with a determination to spend the remainder of his days among peaceful, law-abiding people. His bankers had introduced him to Mr Showle; and as he was only anxious to find a permanent, respectable employment for himself and his capital, the business preliminaries did not occupy much time.
He was a bachelor; but from certain indications, which are as quickly observed in transatlantic society as they are nearer home, it seemed probable that he did not intend to remain so. The governess at the nearest school to the store—the ‘schoolmarm,’ as she would be regularly and quite respectfully called there—was a woman who when young must have been more than pretty; and although her bloom had somewhat faded now, and her eyes were more pensive than brilliant, she yet was by many persons thought to be more than pretty still. The years that had brought her to mature thirty-five, and had robbed her of her freshness, had brought also a quiet thoughtfulness which to some was not less beautiful. So, among others, thought Mr Benjamin Creelock.
He had first noticed her as she went, quiet and solitary, to and from her duties; and on inquiring who she was, heard comments in her favour, which increased the interest he had felt when he first saw her. But Ben, rough hardy miner as he had been, was timid in the presence of women, as is not uncommon with rough hardy men of any grade; and although he continued to meet Miss Ruth Alken every day, he might have gone on so long without mustering up sufficient courage or ingenuity to effect an introduction, that his old bachelorship would have become irremediable; but a happy chance befriended him.
Having no acquaintances in Cincinnati, he was glad to vary his somewhat scanty evening resources by frequent visits at Mr Showle’s house. The senior partner was a married man with a family, and kept up an old-fashioned habit of quiet social gatherings at home. Here Mr Ben was always welcome, not only as being a partner in the store, but because his tales of the mines, the mountains, the prairies—of Indians, buffaloes, and Vigilance Committees, were interesting, not only to the seniors of the party, but to the younger members also; and Ben was often surrounded by a circle of bright-eyed girls and active striplings, who hung on his words as to a new series of Arabian Nights. To the dwellers in orderly cities in the States, stories which interest us in England, of life and adventure in the Far West, are positively fascinating—more so indeed than are such narratives to the residents of London.
One night, on his arrival at Mr Showle’s, his host, who was speaking to a lady as Ben entered, turned and said: ‘I don’t think, Mr Creelock, you have met Miss Alken before. She is our schoolmarm, and a very esteemed friend.’
So then, without a moment’s notice, without having a single idea prepared, he found himself face to face with, and holding the hand of the lady he had been secretly watching and admiring for months. Perhaps Ben did better by blundering into a conversation with Miss Alken, than he would have done by preparing an elaborate speech after his standard of eloquence. At all events, the lady was pleased with his narratives, and took a special interest—or so Ben thought—in the details of mining life.
She left early; and as soon as possible after her departure, Ben asked Mr Showle what he knew of her, where she was ‘raised,’ and so forth, after the style in fashion in the West. Mr Showle did not give much information in reply to these queries, merely saying that his late partner, Mr Bynnes, had taken a great interest in her, and by his influence, had procured for her the situation she now held. Her friends, he believed, had resided in one of the New England States.
This was about all Mr Creelock learned in reference to the ‘schoolmarm.’ It was quite enough, however; for in the States, people do not make needlessly minute inquiries about the relatives, and still less about the ancestors of those they come in contact or fall in love with.
Feeling that a man who is a long way on in the ‘forties’ has not much time to spare, Ben soon made his admiration of Miss Ruth known to that lady, who, timid and retiring as she was always, was even shyer—more frightened, it seemed to Ben—on the revelation being made, than he had expected. But a middle-aged man, who had served a long apprenticeship in the mines of California and Colorado, was not likely to be easily checked when once he had broken the ice; and so Ben persevered, until it became at last an understood thing that he was engaged to the schoolmarm, and that as soon as the new partner arrived, and was fairly initiated in the business, so that Mr Showle might have some assistance, the pair were to be married, and take a trip east, to see Ruth’s native village and what friends she had remaining.
Miss Alken had expressed a great wish not to live in Cincinnati after they were married; and Ben, who had been so long used to a far wilder and lonelier life than any Ohio or Kentucky village could furnish, cared not how quiet his home might be. So he entered into treaty for purchasing and enlarging a pretty little homestead at a village some eight or ten miles from the city—an hour’s drive for the fast trotter he meant to buy. He sometimes wondered at this whim on Miss Alken’s part, as not in accordance with her usual manner, so calm, and so easily pleased. There was another little odd way she had, too, which attracted his notice; for several times he fancied she was about to say something to him of special importance; but nothing had ever come of it, so he decided at last that it was only her manner.
Just now, it was announced that the new partner—the distant relation of Mr Bynnes, previously mentioned—was really coming, the delay in his joining the firm having arisen from a severe illness under which he had been labouring. In brief, he did come; and the new warehouse having just been completed, he was put in charge of it. It so happened that his arrival in Cincinnati took place during the temporary absence on business of Mr Ben Creelock. Ben returned later-on on the very day of the other’s arrival, but missed him at the time; and as he had much to do on his return, while the new-comer was immersed in his duties, they did not meet on the first day.
We need hardly stop to explain that Ben saw Miss Alken on the day of his return; but he was alarmed to see how unwell she looked. There was a dark, swollen look about her eyes, which seemed to tell of weeping or sleeplessness. But she smiled when he spoke of it, and declared she was quite well. Ben was only half satisfied, and decided that she required a change, that her duties were too heavy for her, and therefore—as the new partner had come—she had better give in her notice to the school; and he would arrange for their marriage, so that the desired change of air and the release from her duties would be at once secured. This he determined should not be delayed; he would begin the very next day by mentioning the matter to Mr Showle.
Like nearly everybody in business there, Mr Creelock dined at a hotel; it saved trouble, and saved the expense of servants; the latter being no trifling item in Cincinnati. On the day after his return, he went at mid-day to the Ocean House, his favourite hotel, to dine. He took his seat at his accustomed table. The reader probably knows that it is the usual custom in the States for the hotels to be furnished with a number of small tables, accommodating from two to four persons each; and at one particular table in the Ocean House, Mr Ben was wont to seat himself. He took his usual place and began his dinner; as he did so, a stranger seated himself in the chair opposite to him. Ben glanced involuntarily at the new-comer; but the latter’s head was turned away, while speaking to an attendant, so Ben did not see his face. Being a matter of no consequence, he went on with his dinner, and the stranger proceeded with his meal.
In a little time, Ben had occasion for a sauce cruet, and reached out his hand mechanically to where it had been a moment before. The bottle was gone; but the stranger saw his movement, and with some indistinct syllables, pushed it towards him. Ben lifted his head and parted his lips to thank him, the stranger smiling pleasantly as Ben moved. But not a sound proceeded from the lips of the latter. Had he been struck suddenly dumb—had he gazed upon the head of the Gorgon, he could not have been more petrified by amazement, by terror, by a chaos of uncontrollable emotions; for the man before him, separated only by the breadth of the narrow table—the man into whose eyes he was looking straight and close—the man who was smiling pleasantly in anticipation of his thanks, was the man who had been his most implacable foe—was none other than the man whom he had last seen lying stark and apparently dead on the banks of a mining pool in Colorado—was Rube Steele!
There was no doubt about it; there was no room for speculating upon a strong accidental resemblance. The man was Rube Steele, his partner at the mine, and no one else.
‘I see you have the New York Beacon there,’ said the stranger, nodding, with another easy smile, to the journal which Ben had been reading. ‘Your own paper, I reckon, as they do not keep it on file here. I should be much obliged, stranger, by a sight of it.’
Ben stretched his hand to the journal, and passed it to the speaker without removing his eyes from his face for an instant; and with the slightest gesture or change of position on the part of the stranger, perpetually recurred the thought: ‘Now he knows me! Now for the plunge!’ But the other moved not from his seat. He took the paper with another easy smile and nod, then, first saying a few words about the great heat of the weather, at once commenced its perusal.
It was worse than any horrible dream or nightmare under which Ben had ever suffered. The certainty that this pleasant civil stranger was Rube Steele, became stronger and stronger, for not only was his whole aspect and his every feature sufficient proof of his identity, but his voice alone would have been enough to convince Ben, had his face been wholly hidden. The tone and certain little peculiarities in his speech, of which every man has some—easily to be recognised by those who know him well, although indescribable in themselves—were there, just as Ben had heard and noticed them, hundreds of times in days gone by, in the voice and manner of his former partner. And yet—and yet he sat opposite to him now, smiling amicably, and without, so far as Ben could see, the faintest recognition of the man with whom he had lived so long in close intimacy—an intimacy which had found its end in a deadly struggle.
The meal was concluded leisurely, and apparently with complete satisfaction on the part of the stranger; but Ben had been unable to swallow a mouthful from the moment he recognised him. Then Rube—if Rube it were—rose, nodded civilly, bade him ‘good-evening,’ as is the western fashion, after early morning is past, and left. By an enormous effort, Ben, on his return to the store, mastered himself sufficiently to avoid questioning on the part of Mr Showle, who nevertheless told him that he was looking somewhat scared.
Ben turned the conversation from his looks, a diversion he was able to effect the more easily as Mr Showle was particularly anxious for him to come round to his house that evening to meet Mr Morede, the new partner, who was certain to be there, and who was most desirous of seeing Mr Creelock. ‘He wants,’ concluded the old merchant, ‘to hear all about the West and the mines. I thought he had once been there himself; but seems not, and he wants to hear all about them.’
Ben returned a dubious answer. He could not pledge himself to go to the merchant’s house that night, as he really felt too unwell. His nerves—articles of which he had not previously had the slightest idea that he was the possessor—had received such a shock, that he felt he was not fit for general company—that the slightest incident would jar and upset them.
He called at the house where Miss Alken boarded, to explain that he should not be at the merchant’s that night, for he knew she was going there; and when he saw her, he was struck by the increased haggardness of her aspect.
‘Say, Ruth, what is the matter?’ began Ben. ‘If you have heard no bad news, and have nothing to upset your mind, it is time we had Doctor Burt to see you; that is so.’
Miss Alken hesitated a moment, and then said: ‘Mr Creelock—well, Ben, then!’—as the ex-miner made a gesture of impatience; ‘I have indeed something on my mind, which I ought to have told you earlier, and which I see I had better tell now.—Nay; do not look so alarmed. It is nothing which ought to give me pain, or yourself, yet it does distress me. Shall I go on?’
‘Go on!’ echoed Ben; ‘of course you must go on. And you know, Ruth, that if it is in the power of man or money to relieve you, I am the man—and ought to be the man—who will do it.’
Miss Alken smiled faintly, then proceeded: ‘I had thought to keep back the information until you had met the person most concerned in it; but as I learn now there will be another delay, and as the suspense is terrible to me, I will hesitate no longer. The new partner in Showle and Bynnes—Mr Morede—is my brother. My half-brother, I should say,’ continued Ruth. ‘I had hoped, until his arrival actually took place, that he would not come; for he has been uncertain and unreliable all his life. But he has kept to his purpose now, it seems. He has been the bane of our family. His recklessness and extravagance brought down our home, from which, eventually, his quarrelsome and revengeful spirit forced him to fly to save his life. I suffered, as did my sisters; and but for the kindness of Mr Bynnes, who was distantly akin to my mother, it would have been worse for us. Very strangely, however, Mr Bynnes never quite lost his liking for Morede, and has, I believe, supplied part of the capital necessary to make him a partner here. But stranger still, although he has reduced me, with the rest of the family, to poverty, I believe my brother, as we have always called him, is, in his way, really fond of me. Yet I dreaded his presence here, as being certain in some sort to bring evil with it I cannot tell how, but I dread it. Yet, now I have seen him, he appears changed. It may be that added years have given him reflection and steadiness; yet I do not think it is that. There is something utterly inexplicable in him, which of course no stranger could see. He is entirely silent about his life of late years, although willing enough to speak of early days at home. He has heard me speak of you, and says he knows he shall like you, and is anxious to know you. And all this is so very different from what I remember of him, that I hope he is changed.’
‘Changed! Of course he is, Ruth!’ exclaimed Ben. ‘As they say in the old country, he has sown his wild-oats. Don’t think that because a boy has once been bad, he is never to be good; or once wild, that he will never be steady. I shall like him for his own sake, and for yours too, Ruth, I am quite certain. I cannot see him to-night, for a reason I have; but to-morrow I will meet him, and reckon I shall have gained a fresh friend in Ruth’s brother.’