The Reformation of James Reddy Page #6

"The Reformation of James Reddy" is a short story by Bret Harte that explores themes of redemption and transformation in a Western setting. The narrative follows the character of James Reddy, a man with a dubious reputation who undergoes a significant change in his behavior and perspective. Through a series of events and encounters with other characters, Reddy grapples with his past mistakes and seeks to redefine himself. Harte's storytelling combines humor and social commentary, highlighting the complexities of human nature and the possibility of change against a backdrop of frontier life.

• Short story

								

seats. A few worshipers turned round to look at him. Among them were the
daughters of a neighboring miller, who were slightly exercised over the
unusual advent of a good-looking stranger with certain exterior signs of
elegance. Their excitement was communicated by some mysterious instinct
to their neighbor, Nelly Woodridge. She also turned and caught his
eye. But to all appearances she not only showed no signs of her usual
agitation at his presence, but did not seem to even recognize him.
In the acerbity of his pique he was for a moment gratified at what he
believed to be the expression of her wounded pride, but his uneasiness
quickly returned, and at the conclusion of the service he slipped out of
the church with one or two of the more restless in the congregation.
As he passed through the aisle he heard the escort of the miller's
daughters, in response to a whispered inquiry, say distinctly: "Only
the head-waiter over at the company's rancho." Whatever hesitating idea
Reddy might have had of waiting at the church door for the appearance
of Nelly vanished before the brutal truth. His brow darkened, and with
flushed cheeks he turned his back upon the building and plunged into the
woods. This time there was no hesitation in his resolve; he would
leave the rancho at the expiration of his engagement. Even in a higher
occupation he felt he could never live down his reputation there.

In his morose abstraction he did not know how long or how aimlessly he
had wandered among the mossy live-oaks, his head and shoulders often
imperiled by the downcurving of some huge knotted limb; his feet
straying blindly from the faint track over the thickly matted carpet
of chickweed which hid their roots. But it was nearly an hour before he
emerged upon a wide, open, wooded slope, and, from the distant view of
field and shore, knew that he was at Oak Grove, the site of Woodridge's
projected hotel. And there, surely, at a little distance, was
the Woodridges' wagon and team tied up to a sapling, while the
superintendent and his wife were slowly climbing the slope, and
apparently examining the prospect. Without waiting to see if Nelly was
with them, Reddy instantly turned to avoid meeting them. But he had not
proceeded a hundred yards before he came upon that young lady, who
had evidently strayed from the party, and who was now unconsciously
advancing toward him. A rencontre was inevitable.

She started slightly, and then stopped, with all her old agitation and
embarrassment. But, to his own surprise, he was also embarrassed and
even tongue-tied.

She spoke first.

"You were at church. I didn't quite know you in--in--these clothes."

In her own finery she had undergone such a change to Reddy's
consciousness that he, for the first time in their acquaintance, now
addressed her as on his own level, and as if she had no understanding of
his own feelings.

"Oh," he said, with easy bitterness, "OTHERS did, if you did not. They
all detected the 'head-waiter' at the Union Company's rancho. Even if I
had accepted your kindness in offering me a seat in your wagon it would
have made no difference." He was glad to put this construction on
his previous refusal, for in the new relations which seemed to be
established by their Sunday clothes he was obliged to soften the
churlishness of that refusal also.

"I don't think you'd look nice setting the table in kid gloves," she
said, glancing quickly at his finery as if accepting it as the real
issue; "but you can wear what you like at other times. I never found
fault with your working clothes."

There was such a pleasant suggestion in her emphasis that his ill-humor
softened. Her eyes wandered over the opposite grove, where her
unconscious parents had just disappeared.

"Papa's very keen about the hotel," she continued, "and is going to
have the workmen break ground to-morrow. He says he'll have it up in two
months and ready to open, if he has to make the men work double time.
When you're manager, you won't mind what folks say."

There was no excuse for his further hesitation. He must speak out, but
he did it in a half-hearted way.

"But if I simply go away--WITHOUT being manager--I won't hear their
criticism either."

"What do you mean?" she said quickly.

"I've--I've been thinking of--of going back to San Francisco," he
stammered awkwardly.

A slight flush of contemptuous indignation passed over her face, and
gave it a strength and expression he had never seen there before. "Oh,
you've not reformed yet, then?" she said, under her scornful lashes.

"I don't understand you," he said, flushing.

"Father ought to have told you," she went on dryly, "that that woman has
gone off to the Springs with her husband, and you won't see HER at San
Francisco."

"I don't know what you mean--and your father seems to take an
unwarrantable interest in my affairs," said Reddy, with an anger that he
was conscious, however, was half simulated.

"No more than he ought to, if he expects to trust you with all HIS
affairs," said the girl shortly; "but you had better tell him you have
changed your mind at once, before he makes any further calculations on
your staying. He's just over the hill there, with mother."

She turned away coldly as she spoke, but moved slowly and in the
direction of the hill, although she took a less direct trail than
the one she had pointed to him. But he followed her, albeit still
embarrassedly, and with that new sense of respect which had checked his
former surliness. There was her strong, healthy, well-developed
figure moving before him, but the modish gray dress seemed to give its
pronounced outlines something of the dignity of a goddess. Even the firm
hands had the distinguishment of character.

"You understand," he said apologetically, "that I mean no discourtesy to
your father or his offer. And"--he hesitated--"neither is my reason what
you would infer."

"Then what is it?" she asked, turning to him abruptly. "You know you
have no other place when you leave here, nor any chance as good as the
one father offers you. You are not fit for any other work, and you know
it. You have no money to speculate with, nor can you get any. If you
could, you would have never stayed here."

He could not evade the appalling truthfulness of her clear eyes. He
knew it was no use to lie to her; she had evidently thoroughly informed
herself regarding his past; more than that, she seemed to read his
present thoughts. But not all of them! No! he could startle her still!
It was desperate, but he had nothing now to lose. And she liked the
truth,--she should have it!

"You are right," he said shortly; "these are not my reasons."

"Then what reason have you?"

"You!"
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes