The Indiscretion of Elsbeth Page #3

"The Indiscretion of Elsbeth" by Bret Harte is a nuanced short story that explores themes of love, trust, and societal expectations in the context of the American West. The narrative centers around Elsbeth, a young woman torn between her independent spirit and the conventions of her time. As she navigates the complexities of her relationships, particularly with a captivating but misunderstood suitor, the story delves into the challenges of maintaining personal integrity while grappling with the perceptions and judgments of those around her. Harte's rich prose and keen observation of character provide a compelling glimpse into the moral dilemmas faced by individuals in a rapidly changing society.

• Short story

								

understand."

"Well! I'm not positively aching to see cows, and you must be sick of
showing them. I think, too, I've about sized the whole show. Wouldn't
it be better if we sat down in that arbor--supposing it won't fall
down--and you told me all about the lot? It would save you a heap of
trouble and keep your pretty frock cleaner than trapesing round. Of
course," he said, with a quick transition to the gentlest courtesy, "if
you're conscientious about this thing we'll go on and not spare a cow.
Consider me in it with you for the whole morning."

She looked at him again, and then suddenly broke into a charming laugh.
It revealed a set of strong white teeth, as well as a certain barbaric
trace in its cadence which civilized restraint had not entirely
overlaid.

"I suppose she really is a peasant, in spite of that pretty frock," he
said to himself as he laughed too.

But her face presently took a shade of reserve, and with a gentle but
singular significance she said:

"I think you must see the dairy."

Hoffman's hat was in his hand with a vivacity that tumbled the brown
curls on his forehead. "By all means," he said instantly, and began
walking by her side in modest but easy silence. Now that he thought her
a conscientious peasant he was quiet and respectful.

Presently she lifted her eyes, which, despite her gravity, had not
entirely lost their previous mirthfulness, and said:

"But you Americans--in your rich and prosperous country, with your large
lands and your great harvests--you must know all about farming."

"Never was in a dairy in my life," said Hoffman gravely. "I'm from
the city of New York, where the cows give swill milk, and are kept in
cellars."

Her eyebrows contracted prettily in an effort to understand. Then she
apparently gave it up, and said with a slanting glint of mischief in her
eyes:

"Then you come here like the other Americans in hope to see the Grand
Duke and Duchess and the Princesses?"

"No. The fact is I almost tumbled into a lot of 'em--standing like wax
figures--the other side of the park lodge, the other day--and got away
as soon as I could. I think I prefer the cows."

Her head was slightly turned away. He had to content himself with
looking down upon the strong feet in their serviceable but smartly
buckled shoes that uplifted her upright figure as she moved beside him.

"Of course," he added with boyish but unmistakable courtesy, "if it's
part of your show to trot out the family, why I'm in that, too. I dare
say you could make them interesting."

"But why," she said with her head still slightly turned away toward
a figure--a sturdy-looking woman, which, for the first time, Hoffman
perceived was walking in a line with them as the chasseur had done--"why
did you come here at all?"

"The first time was a fool accident," he returned frankly. "I was making
a short cut through what I thought was a public park. The second time
was because I had been rude to a Police Inspector whom I found going
through my things, but who apologized--as I suppose--by getting me an
invitation from the Grand Duke to come here, and I thought it only the
square thing to both of 'em to accept it. But I'm mighty glad I came;
I wouldn't have missed YOU for a thousand dollars. You see I haven't
struck anyone I cared to talk to since." Here he suddenly remarked that
she hadn't looked at him, and that the delicate whiteness of her neck
was quite suffused with pink, and stopped instantly. Presently he said
quite easily:

"Who's the chorus?"

"The lady?"

"Yes. She's watching us as if she didn't quite approve, you know--just
as if she didn't catch on."

"She's the head housekeeper of the farm. Perhaps you would prefer to
have her show you the dairy; shall I call her?"

The figure in question was very short and stout, with voluminous
petticoats.

"Please don't; I'll stay without your setting that paperweight on me.
But here's the dairy. Don't let her come inside among those pans of
fresh milk with that smile, or there'll be trouble."

The young girl paused too, made a slight gesture with her hand, and the
figure passed on as they entered the dairy. It was beautifully clean and
fresh. With a persistence that he quickly recognized as mischievous and
ironical, and with his characteristic adaptability accepted with even
greater gravity and assumption of interest, she showed him all the
details. From thence they passed to the farmyard, where he hung with
breathless attention over the names of the cows and made her repeat
them. Although she was evidently familiar with the subject, he could see
that her zeal was fitful and impatient.

"Suppose we sit down," he said, pointing to an ostentatious rustic seat
in the center of the green.

"Sir down?" she repeated wonderingly. "What for?"

"To talk. We'll knock off and call it half a day."

"But if you are not looking at the farm you are, of course, going," she
said quickly.

"Am I? I don't think these particulars were in my invitation."

She again broke into a fit of laughter, and at the same time cast a
bright eye around the field.

"Come," he said gently, "there are no other sightseers waiting, and your
conscience is clear," and he moved toward the rustic seat.

"Certainly not--there," she added in a low voice.

They moved on slowly together to a copse of willows which overhung the
miniature stream.

"You are not staying long in Alstadt?" she said.

"No; I only came to see the old town that my ancestors came from."

They were walking so close together that her skirt brushed his trousers,
but she suddenly drew away from him, and looking him fixedly in the eye
said:

"Ah, you have relations here?"

"Yes, but they are dead two hundred years."

She laughed again with a slight expression of relief. They had entered
the copse and were walking in dense shadow when she suddenly stopped and
sat down upon a rustic bench. To his surprise he found that they were
quite alone.

"Tell me about these relatives," she said, slightly drawing aside her
skirt to make room for him on the seat.

He did not require a second invitation. He not only told her all about
his ancestral progenitors, but, I fear, even about those more recent and
more nearly related to him; about his own life, his vocation--he was a
clever newspaper correspondent with a roving commission--his ambitions,
his beliefs and his romance.

"And then, perhaps, of this visit--you will also make 'copy'?"

He smiled at her quick adaptation of his professional slang, but shook
his head.

"No," he said gravely. "No--this is YOU. The CHICAGO INTERVIEWER is big
pay and is rich, but it hasn't capital enough to buy you from me."
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes