Mr Jack Hamlins Mediation | Page 3

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MR. JACK HAMLIN'S MEDIATION
by Bret Harte

CONTENTS
MR. JACK HAMLIN'S MEDIATION
THE MAN AT THE SEMAPHORE
AN ESMERALDA OF ROCKY CANYON
DICK SPINDLER'S FAMILY CHRISTMAS
WHEN THE WATERS WERE UP AT "JULES'"
THE BOOM IN THE "CALAVERAS CLARION"

THE SECRET OF SOBRIENTE'S WELL
LIBERTY JONES'S DISCOVERY

MR. JACK HAMLIN'S MEDIATION

At nightfall it began to rain. The wind arose too, and also began to
buffet a small, struggling, nondescript figure, creeping along the trail
over the rocky upland meadow towards Rylands's rancho. At times its
head was hidden in what appeared to be wings thrown upward from its
shoulders; at times its broad-brimmed hat was cocked jauntily on one
side, and again the brim was fixed over the face like a visor. At one
moment a drifting misshapen mass of drapery, at the next its vague
garments, beaten back hard against the figure, revealed outlines far too
delicate for that rude enwrapping. For it was Mrs. Rylands herself, in
her husband's hat and her "hired man's" old blue army overcoat,
returning from the post-office two miles away. The wind continued its
aggression until she reached the front door of her newly plastered
farmhouse, and then a heavier blast shook the pines above the
low-pitched, shingled roof, and sent a shower of arrowy drops after her
like a Parthian parting, as she entered. She threw aside the overcoat and
hat, and somewhat inconsistently entered the sitting-room, to walk to
the window and look back upon the path she had just traversed. The
wind and the rain swept down a slope, half meadow, half clearing,--a
mile away,--to a fringe of sycamores. A mile further lay the stage road,
where, three hours later, her husband would alight on his return from
Sacramento. It would be a long wet walk for Joshua Rylands, as their
only horse had been borrowed by a neighbor.
In that fading light Mrs. Rylands's oval cheek was shining still from the
raindrops, but there was something in the expression of her worried
face that might have as readily suggested tears. She was strikingly
handsome, yet quite as incongruous an ornament to her surroundings as
she had been to her outer wrappings a moment ago. Even the clothes
she now stood in hinted an inadaptibility to the weather--the house--the

position she occupied in it. A figured silk dress, spoiled rather than
overworn, was still of a quality inconsistent with her evident habits,
and the lace-edged petticoat that peeped beneath it was draggled with
mud and unaccustomed usage. Her glossy black hair, which had been
tossed into curls in some foreign fashion, was now wind-blown into a
burlesque of it. This incongruity was still further accented by the
appearance of the room she had entered. It was coldly and severely
furnished, making the chill of the yet damp white plaster unpleasantly
obvious. A black harmonium organ stood in one corner, set out with
black and white hymn-books; a trestle-like table contained a large Bible;
half a dozen black, horsehair-cushioned chairs stood, geometrically
distant, against the walls, from which hung four engravings of
"Paradise Lost" in black mourning frames; some dried ferns and
autumn leaves stood in a vase on the mantelpiece, as if the chill of the
room had prematurely blighted them. The coldly glittering grate below
was also decorated with withered sprays, as if an attempt had been
made to burn them, but was frustrated through damp. Suddenly recalled
to a sense of her wet boots and the new carpet, she hurriedly turned
away, crossed the hall into the dining-room, and thence passed into the
kitchen. The "hired girl," a large-boned Missourian, a daughter of a
neighboring woodman, was peeling potatoes at the table. Mrs. Rylands
drew a chair before the kitchen stove, and put her wet feet on the hob.
"I'll bet a cooky, Mess Rylands, you've done forgot the vanillar," said
the girl, with a certain domestic and confidential familiarity.
Mrs. Rylands started guiltily. She made a miserable feint of looking in
her lap and on the table. "I'm afraid