The Desborough Connections Page #9

"The Desborough Connections" by Bret Harte is a captivating short story that explores themes of social class, morality, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in the American West, the narrative revolves around the titular Desborough family, whose connections and enigmatic past intrigue locals and visitors alike. Through a blend of wit, irony, and vivid characterization, Harte delves into the intricacies of love, loyalty, and the consequences of choices made by the characters. The story reflects the author's hallmark style, showcasing his ability to capture the essence of frontier life while critiquing societal norms.

• Short story

								


"How very kind!" said the young girl, with a quick laugh. "But do you
know that it's about the only thing human, original, and striking that
has happened in this place since I've been here! And so unexpected,
considering how comfortably everything is ordered here beforehand."

"Yet you seemed to like that kind of thing very well, last evening,"
said the consul mischievously.

"That was last night," retorted Miss Desborough; "and you know the line,
'Colors seen by candlelight do not look the same by day.' But I'm going
to be very consistent to-day, for I intend to go over to that poor man's
cottage again, and see if I can be of any service. Will you go with me?"

"Certainly," said the consul, mystified by his companion's extraordinary
conduct, yet apparent coolness of purpose, and hoping for some further
explanation. Was she only an inexperienced flirt who had found herself
on the point of a serious entanglement she had not contemplated? Yet
even then he knew she was clever enough to extricate herself in some
other way than this abrupt and brutal tearing through the meshes. Or was
it possible that she really had any intelligence affecting her property?
He reflected that he knew very little of the Desboroughs, but on the
other hand he knew that Beverdale knew them much better, and was a
prudent man. He had no right to demand her confidence as a reward for
his secrecy; he must wait her pleasure. Perhaps she would still explain;
women seldom could resist the triumph of telling the secret that puzzled
others.

When they reached the village she halted before the low roof of Debs's
cottage. "I had better go in first," she said; "you can come in later,
and in the meantime you might go to the station for me and find out the
exact time that the express train leaves for the north."

"But," said the astonished consul, "I thought you were going to London?"

"No," said Miss Desborough quietly, "I am going to join some friends at
Harrogate."

"But that train goes much earlier than the train south, and--and I'm
afraid Lord Beverdale will not have returned so soon."

"How sad!" said Miss Desborough, with a faint smile, "but we must bear
up under it, and--I'll write him. I will be here until you return."

She turned away and entered the cottage. The granddaughter she had
already seen and her sister, the servant at the Priory, were both
chatting comfortably, but ceased as she entered, and both rose with
awkward respect. There was little to suggest that the body of their
grandfather, already in a rough oak shell, was lying upon trestles
beside them.

"You have carried out my orders, I see," said Miss Desborough, laying
down her parasol.

"Ay, miss; but it was main haard gettin' et dooan so soon, and et
cooast"--

"Never mind the cost. I've given you money enough, I think, and if I
haven't, I guess I can give you more."

"Ay, miss! Abbut the pa'son 'ead gi' un a funeral for nowt."

"But I understood you to say," said Miss Desborough, with an impatient
flash of eye, "that your grandfather wished to be buried with his
kindred in the north?"

"Ay, miss," said the girl apologetically, "an naw 'ees savit th' munny.
Abbut e'd bean tickled 'ad 'ee knowed it! Dear! dear! 'ee niver thowt et
'ud be gi'en by stranger an' not 'es ownt fammaly."

"For all that, you needn't tell anybody it was given by ME," said Miss
Desborough. "And you'll be sure to be ready to take the train this
afternoon--without delay." There was a certain peremptoriness in her
voice very unlike Miss Amelyn's, yet apparently much more effective with
the granddaughter.

"Ay, miss. Then, if tha'll excoose mea, I'll go streight to 'oory oop
sexten."

She bustled away. "Now," said Miss Desborough, turning to the other
girl, "I shall take the same train, and will probably see you on the
platform at York to give my final directions. That's all. Go and see if
the gentleman who came with me has returned from the station."

The girl obeyed. Left entirely alone, Miss Desborough glanced around
the room, and then went quietly up to the unlidded coffin. The repose of
death had softened the hard lines of the old man's mouth and brow into a
resemblance she now more than ever understood. She had stood thus only
a few years before, looking at the same face in a gorgeously inlaid
mahogany casket, smothered amidst costly flowers, and surrounded by
friends attired in all the luxurious trappings of woe; yet it was the
same face that was now rigidly upturned to the bare thatch and rafters
of that crumbling cottage, herself its only companion. She lifted her
delicate veil with both hands, and, stooping down, kissed the hard, cold
forehead, without a tremor. Then she dropped her veil again over her dry
eyes, readjusted it in the little, cheap, black-framed mirror that hung
against the wall, and opened the door as the granddaughter returned. The
gentleman was just coming from the station.

"Remember to look out for me at York," said Miss Desborough, extending
her gloved hand. "Good-by till then." The young girl respectfully
touched the ends of Miss Desborough's fingers, dropped a curtsy, and
Miss Desborough rejoined the consul.

"You have barely time to return to the Priory and see to your luggage,"
said the consul, "if you must go. But let me hope that you have changed
your mind."

"I have not changed my mind," said Miss Desborough quietly, "and my
baggage is already packed." After a pause, she said thoughtfully, "I've
been wondering"--

"What?" said the consul eagerly.

"I've been wondering if people brought up to speak in a certain dialect,
where certain words have their own significance and color, and are part
of their own lives and experience--if, even when they understand another
dialect, they really feel any sympathy with it, or the person who speaks
it?"

"Apropos of"--asked the consul.

"These people I've just left! I don't think I quite felt with them, and
I guess they didn't feel with me."

"But," said the consul laughingly, "you know that we Americans speak
with a decided dialect of our own, and attach the same occult meaning to
it. Yet, upon my word, I think that Lord Beverdale--or shall I say Lord
Algernon?--would not only understand that American word 'guess' as you
mean it, but would perfectly sympathize with you."

Miss Desborough's eyes sparkled even through her veil as she glanced at
her companion and said, "I GUESS NOT."

As the "tea" party had not yet returned, it fell to the consul to
accompany Miss Desborough and her maid to the station. But here he was
startled to find a collection of villagers upon the platform, gathered
round two young women in mourning, and an ominous-looking box.
He mingled for a moment with the crowd, and then returned to Miss
Desborough's side.

"Really," he said, with a concern that was scarcely assumed, "I ought

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