The Bell-Ringer of Angel's Page #3

"The Bell-Ringer of Angel's" is a short story by Bret Harte that revolves around the life of a mysterious bell-ringer in the mining town of Angel's Camp. Set against the backdrop of the California Gold Rush, the story explores themes of love, identity, and community. The protagonist, whose bell-ringing serves as a harbinger of events, becomes intertwined with the lives of the townspeople, revealing their dreams and struggles. Harte's vivid storytelling captures the spirit of the West while delving into the complexities of human relationships in a rapidly changing environment.

• Short story

								

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CHAPTER II.

A week later Madison Wayne was seated alone in his cabin. His supper
table had just been cleared by his Chinese coolie, as it was getting
late, and the setting sun, which for half an hour had been persistently
making a vivid beacon of his windows for the benefit of wayfarers along
the river bank, had at last sunk behind the cottonwoods. His head was
resting on his hand; the book he had been reading when the light faded
was lying open on the table before him. In this attitude he became aware
of a hesitating step on the gravel outside his open door. He had been
so absorbed that the approach of any figure along the only highway--the
river bank--had escaped his observation. Looking up, he discovered
that Mr. Alexander McGee was standing in the doorway, his hand resting
lightly on the jamb. A sudden color suffused Wayne's cheek; his hand
reached for his book, which he drew towards him hurriedly, yet half
automatically, as he might have grasped some defensive weapon.

The Bell-ringer of Angel's noticed the act, but not the blush, and
nodded approvingly. "Don't let me disturb ye. I was only meanderin'
by and reckoned I'd say 'How do?' in passin'." He leaned gently back
against the door-post, to do which comfortably he was first obliged to
shift the revolver on his hip. The sight of the weapon brought a slight
contraction to the brows of Wayne, but he gravely said: "Won't you come
in?"

"It ain't your prayin' time?" said McGee politely.

"No."

"Nor you ain't gettin' up lessons outer the Book?" he continued
thoughtfully.

"No."

"Cos it don't seem, so to speak, you see, the square thing to be
botherin' a man when he might be doin' suthin' else, don't you see? You
understand what I mean?"

It was his known peculiarity that he always seemed to be suffering from
an inability to lucid expression, and the fear of being misunderstood in
regard to the most patent or equally the most unimportant details of his
speech. All of which, however, was in very remarkable contrast to his
perfectly clear and penetrating eyes.

Wayne gravely assured him that he was not interrupting him in any way.

"I often thought--that is, I had an idea, you understand what I mean--of
stoppin' in passing. You and me, you see, are sorter alike; we don't
seem to jibe in with the gin'ral gait o' the camp. You understand what I
mean? We ain't in the game, eh? You see what I'm after?"

Madison Wayne glanced half mechanically at McGee's revolver. McGee's
clear eyes at once took in the glance.

"That's it! You understand? You with them books of yours, and me with
my shootin' iron--we're sort o' different from the rest, and ought to be
kinder like partners. You understand what I mean? We keep this camp in
check. We hold a full hand, and don't stand no bluffing."

"If you mean there is some effect in Christian example and the life of a
God-fearing man"--began Madison gravely.

"That's it! God-fearin' or revolver-fearin', it amounts to the same when
you come down to the hard pan and bed-rock," interrupted McGee. "I ain't
expectin' you to think much of my style, but I go a heap on yours, even
if I can't play your game. And I sez to my wife, 'Safie'--her that trots
around with me sometimes--I sez, 'Safie, I oughter know that man, and
shall. And I WANT YOU to know him.' Hol' on," he added quickly, as
Madison rose with a flushed face and a perturbed gesture. "Ye don't
understand! I see wot's in your mind--don't you see? When I married
my wife and brought her down here, knowin' this yer camp, I sez: 'No
flirtin', no foolin', no philanderin' here, my dear! You're young and
don't know the ways o' men. The first man I see you talking with, I
shoot. You needn't fear, my dear, for accidents. I kin shoot all round
you, under your arm, across your shoulders, over your head and between
your fingers, my dear, and never start skin or fringe or ruffle. But I
don't miss HIM. You sorter understand what I mean,' sez I,'so don't!' Ye
noticed how my wife is respected, Mr. Wayne? Queen Victoria sittin' on
her throne ain't in it with my Safie. But when I see YOU not herdin'
with that cattle, never liftin' your eyes to me or Safie as we pass,
never hangin' round the saloons and jokin', nor winkin', nor slingin'
muddy stories about women, but prayin' and readin' Scripter stories,
here along with your brother, I sez to myself, I sez, 'Sandy, ye kin
take off your revolver and hang up your shot gun when HE'S around. For
'twixt HIM and your wife ain't no revolver, but the fear of God and hell
and damnation and the world to come!' You understand what I mean, don't
ye? Ye sorter follow my lead, eh? Ye can see what I'm shootin' round,
don't ye? So I want you to come up neighborly like, and drop in to see
my wife."

Madison Wayne's face became set and hard again, but he advanced towards
McGee with the book against his breast, and his finger between the
leaves. "I already know your wife, Mr. McGee! I saw her before YOU ever
met her. I was engaged to her; I loved her, and--as far as man may
love the wife of another and keep the commands of this book--I love her
still!"

To his surprise, McGee, whose calm eyes had never dimmed or blenched,
after regarding him curiously, took the volume from him, laid it on the
table, opened it, turned its leaves critically, said earnestly, "That's
the law here, is it?" and then held out his hand.

"Shake!"

Madison Wayne hesitated--and then grasped his hand.

"Ef I had known this," continued McGee, "I reckon I wouldn't have
been so hard on Safie and so partikler. She's better than I took her
for--havin' had you for a beau! You understand what I mean. You follow
me--don't ye? I allus kinder wondered why she took me, but sens you've
told me that YOU used to spark her, in your God-fearin' way, I reckon it
kinder prepared her for ME. You understand? Now you come up, won't ye?"

"I will call some evening with my brother," said Wayne embarrassedly.

"With which?" demanded McGee.

"My brother Arthur. We usually spend the evenings together."

McGee paused, leaned against the doorpost, and, fixing his clear eyes on
Wayne, said: "Ef it's all the same to you, I'd rather you did not bring
him. You understand what I mean? You follow me; no other man but you and
me. I ain't sayin' anything agin' your brother, but you see how it is,
don't you? Just me and you."

"Very well, I will come," said Wayne gloomily. But as McGee backed out
of the door, he followed him, hesitatingly. Then, with an effort he
seemed to recover himself, and said almost harshly: "I ought to tell you
another thing--that I have seen and spoken to Mrs. McGee since she
came to the Bar. She fell into the water last week, and I swam out and
dragged her ashore. We talked and spoke of the past."
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