Plet: A Christmas Tale of the Wasatch, II

PLET: A CHRISTMAS TALE OF THE WASATCH.*

BY ALFRED LAMBOURNE, AUTHOR OF HOLLY AND EASTER LILLIES,' "pictures of an inland SEA." ETC.

PART TWO.

I.

A VISIT. Jo, who, you can plainly see, is to be my hero, was pure- minded; the coarse side of camp life had no charms for him. He ignored it entirely; or, when urged toward it by a chance com- panion, stood his ground firmly. He could not be moved ; until, at

last, it was understood by them all —the hard ones— that Jo was not of their kind. The saloon, the gambling den, the brothel, won no victory from him. He was one of those men who are some- times, nay often, met with in our mining camps; men who, though in the flush of their early strength and surrounded by vice and temptation, show by their every day lives the cleanness of their thoughts and desires. I do not mean that Jo was merely a goody-goody lad. His virtues were not of the negative order. He had strong and ardent passions; but they were not of the low or immoral. He was one of those diamonds in the rough, and needed but

• Copyright by Alfred Lambourne.

the polishing which the society of a refined woman would give him. Plet, I must return to her again, became known, by sight at

least (when the canyon was once more gteen and the hills around the camp were blue with lupines), to the occupants of many a sequestered dwelling. She was a good equestrienne, and a daring one, too, as even some of our wild riders admitted. In her harum- scarum jaunts she often went 'up the loneliest ravines and to the top of the wildest of ridges —wherever, in short, she could tease

her father into going, or wherever her horse's feet could climb. One of these half reckless excursions, in the month of July, was up to our lake. The day on which it occurred was a memorable one in the lives of Jo and me.

To Jo it was far more than memorable — it was a turning point. Of course, having been so instrumental in the saving of their lives, he had been most kindly and warmly thanked. Neither Plet nor her father had let the first opportunity go by on which it was possible to show their gratitude. Then a prouder lad than he could not have been found. It was apparent, also, that the father took an interest in Jo

a true and an unfeigned interest. It was shown in more ways than one. He treated the young man (and for all his genial manners, he was a shrewd and hard-headed man of business) in a way which showed plainly enough his estimate of him —that he had read his worth. Plet, too, was always gracious; adding some delicate tes- timonial to that of her father.Whenever we made a trip to the camp, which we did more frequently than before (we were trying to get fixtures for our claim), we never failed to receive an invita- tion to dine with the pair, or ^to pass an evening at their house. And rough-garbed as we' were, Jo putting aside a shyness that was somewhat habitual to him in the presence of women, we were glad to accept; and those were such hours of pleasure to us both as had not been ours to enjoy for many a month indeed. Jo waxed eloquent sometimes. I mean during those visits; so much so, that I was surprised to hear him. He had thoughts, I knew, but never before had I heard them come thus from his lips. On one occasion, how well I remember it, he described our lake and the hollow. Plet was delighted. She could almost see

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the place, she exclaimed. Her father, surely, must take her up there, when the snow had melted away and the hollow appeared as Jo had described it. If papa were willing we would see them

coming some day, and then she would pry into every nook and cor- ner. And stay at the place until sunset, too; and go down the slopes when the moon was in the sky. That was what brought it about, the visit of which I shall tell, and which made a turning point in the life of Jo. Our visit to their house, the one I have just referred to, was in the month of June, the latter part of it; so not long afterwards, my hero's quick eye detected two riders —Plet and her father and their horses' heads were turned toward our cabin. She was coming to keep her promise. When it happened, we were up on our claim, but, as you can imagine, we descended at once. We had looked forward with pleasure to the event. We lost no time on the way, either. We wanted to reach the cabin and set it in order a bit before the visitors arrived. But we had no need to hurry; there was plenty of time. We had but to walk down the zigzag trail half a mile or so; whilst they had to pick their way slowly and cautiously up the long, steep ledges. Full half an hour had passed before they came over the rim of the hollow and Jo had tied the horses to the gnarled old spruce that grew in front of our dwelling. was bewildered, entranced, lost in amazement at the Plet wildness of the scene around her. Her every other word was an ejaculation. She was as excited and gay as a child at a panto- mime. The huge, gloomy cliffs; the bleak, naked peaks; the clear, shining waters of the cold, dark lake — all the savageness of the place, and the appearance of great age in the mountain, as con- trasted with the summer sunshine that was pouring down; the beauty and perfume of the flowers — all were things that filled her heart with delight. Jo's eyes sparkled. He was all attention —wrapped up the in girl. Plet was sealing the destiny of the poor boy —leading him into the silken net. Any city-bred chap would have thought her beautiful, and

have felt himself lucky to have been with her that day. But for Jo— think what it was for him! Yes; it was a critical day for Jo. II.

A REPAST. The visit to our home was timely; the wild strawberries were ripe, and everybody knows how luscious they are far sweeter — than the cultivated fruit. We must have been a spectacle, could anyone have seen ua that afternoon — all four of us —Plet and her father, Jo and I

gathering the berries. His fingers —her father's —were red-stained as any. He seemed to quite enjoy the pastime. And Plet cer- tainly did so. The merry laughter which from time to time re- sounded among the rocks, told that she evidently thought it fine sport indeed. Jo improvised a table, when we had gathered a large pailful of the fruit and gone back to the house, placing it under tha branches of the gnarled old spruce. P let's deft fingers soon fash- ioned some dishes (our rough culinary store had nothing available but two tin plates), making them from the leaves of the straw- berry plant, and in these the luscious fruit appeared more tempt- ing than ever —a dish fit for a prince. I am sure our visitors re- membered that repast for many a long day. Jo enjoyed it, to be sure, though I believe he hardly tasted of the fruit. He seemed oblivious of everything save to the face and voice of Plet. The father, surely, must have noticed this as well as I. How- ever, it seemed to give him no concern. If Jo's planet of love had risen, there appeared, as yet, no malignant shadow to cross it. The pair would have made a picture, I thought, when, an hour later, they stood by the lake; Plet was half resting on a huge

block of granite, and Jo — he had a large bunch of purple epilobi- — ums in his hand was leaning toward her. Plet's eyes were roguish; she looked at him archly, half pitying, half enjoying, I believe, his bashful confusion. For Jo was making an offer, in a most timid way, of the del- icate little flowers which he had just gathered from a ledge near the snow.

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Honest Jo! Jo, in his earth-stained garments, his big, heavy boots, his broad slouch hat; Jo, with his clear, frank eyes looking straight into hers, though his face was suffused with blushes^he was a king all the same Did I admire him so much, then? You must see that I did. And you, too, would have admired him; you could not have helped it, as he stood there that moment so manly and modest. Anyhow, Plet admired him; it was easy to see that. That very moment, if my sight served me true, Plet's heart was lost, and Jo was the finder. It was a charming picture; don't you think so? That big, manly fellow, and the slight, graceful girl, standing just where the stream from the lake began, and falling in love with each other. It was a picture that I, at least, don't want to forget.

The roguish expression went out of Plet's eyes, however, when a short time after we reached the farthest side of the lake, and Jo had bidden the girl look down, down, down, into the water's depths. And they became quite serious thereafter, too, when we showed her the "Dead Man's Corner." We told her how we had found the body, frozen in the hard-packed snow. It had been some poor fellow, no doubt (no one knew him at the camp), who had attempted to cross the ridge, and who had been caught in a winter slide.

As Plet had said we must, we had to show her every nook and corner of the hollow. The tin plates had to come forth, after all. Plet and her father remained for a meal, such a one as our skill and the stores of the cabin afforded. The plates did not seem to destroy their appetites, however, our guests eating as heartily from off them as we had done from china, many a time in their house. It is won-

derful what hunger a day's climbing over the mountains will give one. When our guests departed, Jo accompanied them down the roughest part of the trail; leading, though that was hardly neces- sary, Plet's horse safely over the steep, smooth ledges.

III.

JO FALLEN IN LOVE. After the day of Plet's visit, a change come over my Jo. He

had fits of abstraction— was, although he had never been a rattle- brain talker, too quiet even for him, and showed, quite often, a desire to be alone. That is a sign, is it not, that one is in trouble, or else in

love ? Love was what had seized upon poor Jo !

Our claim kept us busy its promise was greater than ever. ;

We worked at it early and late. He had little time for day- dreaming, and yet I could not help but notice the change. In our claim we One generally keeps talked but seldom. silent while holding the when wielding the hammer or drill, or pick; but even there, we had a pleasant word for one another, I — mean at every pause in the work something to cheer us up a bit. Now he would work for hours at a time without speaking, unless it was a word or two concerning our immediate task. He was weighing something in his mind; deciding on a course to pursue. In the evening time, when our work for the day was done, I noticed it most. Jo, who had been so light-hearted and sunny, would sit there thoughtful and even sad, fixing his gaze on vacan- cy. If I spoke to him he would answer with a start. He was very much changed. The visits of Plet and her father; the hours we had passed at their house; the girl's bright face and gentle manner, had awakened a new life in my partner. And a blessing, say I, when love comes to one with a nature so pure and so true. Though just then, perhaps, it was somewhat of a torture to him, too. He toiled in our claim as though the finding of wealth was a duty; a task that must be accomplished whether or no — something that must be done at once. For how could he, a poor young fellow, ask for the hand of such as Plet, who all her life had been used to luxury and ease ? Jo evidently thought it impossible. So I understood them — those moods of his; nor was I sur- prised at them. I quietly pretended not to observe. Sometimes I would see him standing down there —by the moss-covered rocks at

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the head of the fall —where she had stood that day when he offered the flowers. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of him, too, on the ridge top, where he had climbed when he thought I did not notice, that he might watch until the lights were lit in the

distant camp, just for the sake, so I believe, of seeing one appear at Plet's window, for, beyond a doubt, Jo had fallen in love.

IV.

OUR LUCK. And, beyond a doubt, soon afterward, Jo and I were rich. Yes, beyond a doubt, for the narrow fissure we had been fol- lowing for all the weary months suddenly ended in a broad vein of the richest carbonates. Tens of thousands of dollars were ours in the black, gritty stuff. How did it effect Jo and I ? You are bound to ask it. You think it must have been a sensation, perhaps. Well, it is hard to tell. As I said before, Jo, for the past few weeks, had worked determinedly, as though it must be; now, when he saw that we

had struck it, he heaved a deep sigh, and stood like one who has just let fall a heavy burden from his shoulders. And to me — well, I guess it came as a surprise. I was not

prepared for it. Although I had worked with the same chance for success as Jo, of course, I never seemed fully to realize it. And not having an object in view, as he had, I never once thought what I should do with my money, if I suddenly became rich. But there it was, there for us both. It was late afternoon, near the quitting time, when we made

the strike. We picked out a pan full of earth and carried it with us to the mouth of the tunnel. We felt that we must go out into the free, fresh air to look at our prize. We gazed at the precious stuff with serious faces; were quiet. I remember now that we talked in a low tone of voice — like one that speaks in a sick room, or where there lies one dead. Then all at once we shouted. We raised our voices in loud halloos. We shouted until we were hoarse, until the cliffs around hurled back the sounds we sent. We seemed to have gone stark mad. And then we danced. Yes, actually danced — danced on the little, flat space at the mouth of the tunnel; Jo's eyes sparkling all

the while— flashing fire; and his short, yellow curls all tossing in

the mountain winds- Any one seeing us would have thought we were raving (as indeed we were); or, that he beheld two genii of the mountains, so fantas- tic our actions. And we kept up the dance until our breath gave out, at least mine, and then Jo danced alone —danced until he, too, was ex- hausted, and was forced to take a seat by my side. In our joy —the delirium that came upon us — everything seemed to be made of silver —the white, dazzling sunshine, the flashing lake wavelets, the glitter in the shining rocks, the far- sailing clouds, all were molten silver. Silver, silver, silver. Yes; everything then seemed to be of silver.

How suddenly the world was changed —to us who had been so poor ! Now wealth lay before us, all ours. The long struggle was over. There was no mistake in that — meant tens of strife it

thousands — figures, perhaps, that even in our enthusiasm we dared

not mention. Oh, Fortuns had turned her wheel Fighting the stubborn rock; toiling up the steep grade; car- rying the necessary supplies from the distant camp; the heat; the cold — all the privations endured had brought their reward. We were among the fortunate few. After awhile we began to think rationally. What should we do, now we had found it, we asked ourselves. We discussed the qustion until twilight, forgetting that we were .hungry; forgetting everything but the good luck which had come upon us. My plans were few. Of what particular use, after all, was the find to me, save that I should have to labor no more —the hard labor I had been doing ? was safe in that respecfc ? That That I

I could do as I liked ? That was about all. At sixty, it doesn't do a man who is alone in the world so very much benefit to have more than is needful for his everyday wants. With Jo it was different. He was young, and life was before him. There was so much that he could do. What dreams came into his head that night, I suppose it would be hard to tell; provid- ing he slept at all, which I think was doubtful.

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I didn't ask him next morning, either. I knew what lay near- est his heart; about what he was thinking — of his chances with her. They were the same thoughts that had kept him silent be- fore, that took him down by the mossy rocks at the torrent head, and to the ridge top to watch for the gleam of light in the distant -camp. Jo's unuttered thoughts were of Plet.

V.

JO'S HAPPINESS.

So the time passed. Almost a year had gone by since we had met the pair on that dreadful night. It had brought wealth to us both, and more than wealth to Jo — the affection of a loving girl. Thenceforward there was a heart to beat in unison with his, in sorrow or in joy. ' Jo had grown bold (yeu can guess why), and now pressed his suit. It was amusing to take note of his tactics; his mingled shy-

ness and courage; his diffidence in the presence of Plet, the very moment their conversation might have assumed a tete-a-tete char- acter; and his resoluteness in spite of all. He was still all respect, yet the knowledge that he possessed, that he was no longer a poor boy, one who could offer to a wife none other than the life of privation he saw quietly endured by the miners' wives, but that wealth was even then at his door, made him brave, gave him a de- cision of manner and a confidence of success, where before he had not dared to aspire. Hope and boldness are to a lover as wings to an eagle. But I am not going to dwell on their love-making. There were all sorts of little episodes between them that I am going to omit. Plet had fallen in love with Jo as quickly and as surely as he had fallen in love with her. The long and the short of it was that ere the snow blew again, Plet was a promised bride. That was the reason for Jo's happiness, and it was reason enough. I felt to say, "God bless you, dear boy, and God bless you, sweet girl; God bless you both." It was a good pair of discerning eyes that Plet's father pos- sessed which enabled him to see so quickly the worth of the suitor.

and a true and generous heart in his bosom that he acknowledged that worth so readily. Perhaps, I don't know, Jo might have told him of our luck; but even if he had, I do not believe the father was influenced by it. He had seen what Jo was at once. Of course, we should have to remain there some time yet, I mean up at the claim, until we should either have developed the property or found a purchaser. This might take yet several months to accomplish. Each hour that we labored our highest expectations were realized.

dreamy had become the autumn days. The haze- Still and

laden air was motionless; gorgeous hues rested upon the frost- touched foliage, and of a tawny richness of color were the lessened streams. Tints of orange and madder had crept among the leaves of the stunted oaks, a transparent amber mellowed the lowly biich, whilst a myriad shades — carnation to rose—decked the maples thick clustering in the ravines.Far above, on the mountain tops, where the lingering lines and spots of snow could hardly be dis- tinguished from the gleaming of polished slopes, wherever a bunch of height-loving foliage could find a place to grow, was the seal of the waning year. The Indian summer was come once more, with all its train of beauty, its pomp of woods and glorious skies. (To be concluded in next number.)