The Reformation of James Reddy Page #8

"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

								

remembered that interview to which Nelly's wafted kiss had inspired
him. He recalled to-day, as he had many times before, the singular
complacency with which Mr. Woodridge had received his suit, as if it
were a slight and unimportant detail of the business in hand, and how he
had told him that Kelly and her mother were going to the "States" for a
three months' visit, but that after her return, if they were both "still
agreed," he, Woodridge, would make no objection. He remembered the
slight shock which this announcement of Kelly's separation from him
during his probationary labors had given him, and his sudden suspicion
that he had been partly tricked of his preliminary intent to secure her
company to solace him. But he had later satisfied himself that she
knew nothing of her father's intentions at the time, and he was fain to
content himself with a walk through the fields at her side the day she
departed, and a single kiss--which left him cold. And now in a few days
she would return to witness the successful fufillment of his labors,
and--reward him!

It was certainly a complacent prospect. He could look forward to a
sensible, prosperous, respectable future. He had won back his good
name, his fortune, and position,--not perhaps exactly in the way he
had expected,--and he had stilled the wanton, foolish cravings of his
passionate nature in the calm, virginal love of an honest, handsome girl
who would make him a practical helpmeet, and a comfortable, trustworthy
wife. He ought to be very happy. He had never known such perfect health
before; he had lost his reckless habits; his handsome, nervous face had
grown more placid and contented; his long curls had been conventionally
clipped; he had gained flesh unmistakably, and the lower buttons of
the slim waistcoat he had worn to church that memorable Sunday were too
tight for comfort or looks. HE WAS happy; yet as he glanced over the
material spring landscape, full of practical health, blossom, and
promise of fruition, it struck him that the breeze that blew over it was
chilly, even if healthful; and he shivered slightly.

He reached the hotel, entered the office, glanced at the register, and
passed through into his private room. He had been away for two days,
and noticed with gratification that the influx of visitors was still
increasing. His clerk followed into the room.

"There's a lady in 56 who wanted to see you when you returned. She asked
particularly for the manager."

"Who is she?"

"Don't know. It's a Mrs. Merrydew, from Sacramento. Expecting her
husband on the next steamer."

"Humph! You'll have to be rather careful about these solitary married
women. We don't want another scandal, you know."

"She asked for you by name, sir, and I thought you might know her,"
returned the clerk.

"Very well. I'll go up."

He sent a waiter ahead to announce him, and leisurely mounted the
stairs. No. 56 was the sitting-room of a private suite on the first
floor. The waiter was holding the door open. As he approached it a
faint perfume from the interior made him turn pale. But he recovered his
presence of mind sufficiently to close the door sharply upon the waiter
behind him.

"Jim," said a voice which thrilled him.

He looked up and beheld what any astute reader of romance will have
already suspected--the woman to whom he believed he owed his ruin in
San Francisco. She was as beautiful and alluring as ever, albeit she was
thinner and more spiritual than he had ever seen her. She was tastefully
dressed, as she had always been, a certain style of languorous silken
deshabille which she was wont to affect in better health now became her
paler cheek and feverishly brilliant eyes. There was the same opulence
of lace and ornament, and, whether by accident or design, clasped around
the slight wrist of her extended hand was a bracelet which he remembered
had swept away the last dregs of his fortune.

He took her hand mechanically, yet knowing whatever rage was in his
heart he had not the strength to refuse it.

"They told me it was Mrs. Merrydew," he stammered.

"That was my mother's name," she said, with a little laugh. "I thought
you knew it. But perhaps you didn't. When I got my divorce from
Dick--you didn't know that either, I suppose; it's three months ago,--I
didn't care to take my maiden name again; too many people remembered
it. So after the decree was made I called myself Mrs. Merrydew. You had
disappeared. They said you had gone East."

"But the clerk says you are expecting your HUSBAND on the steamer. What
does this mean? Why did you tell him that?" He had so far collected
himself that there was a ring of inquisition in his voice.

"Oh, I had to give him some kind of reason for my being alone when I did
not find you as I expected," she said half wearily. Then a change came
over her tired face; a smile of mingled audacity and tentative coquetry
lit up the small features. "Perhaps it is true; perhaps I may have a
husband coming on the steamer--that depends. Sit down, Jim."

She let his hand drop, and pointed to an armchair from which she had
just risen, and sank down herself in a corner of the sofa, her thin
fingers playing with and drawing themselves through the tassels of the
cushion.

"You see, Jim, as soon as I was free, Louis Sylvester--you remember
Louis Sylvester?--wanted to marry me, and even thought that he was the
cause of Dick's divorcing me. He actually went East to settle up some
property he had left him there, and he's coming on the steamer."

"Louis Sylvester!" repeated Reddy, staring at her. "Why, he was a bigger
fool than I was, and a worse man!" he added bitterly.

"I believe he was," said the lady, smiling, "and I think he still
is. But," she added, glancing at Reddy under her light fringed lids,
"you--you're regularly reformed, aren't you? You're stouter, too, and
altogether more solid and commercial looking. Yet who'd have thought of
your keeping a hotel or ever doing anything but speculate in wild-cat
or play at draw poker. How did you drift into it? Come, tell me! I'm not
Mrs. Sylvester just yet, and maybe I might like to go into the business
too. You don't want a partner, do you?"

Her manner was light and irresponsible, or rather it suggested a
childlike putting of all responsibility for her actions upon others,
which he remembered now too well. Perhaps it was this which kept him
from observing that the corners of her smiling lips, however, twitched
slightly, and that her fingers, twisting the threads of the tassel,
were occasionally stiffened nervously. For he burst out: Oh yes; he had
drifted into it when it was a toss up if it wasn't his body instead
that would be found drifting out to sea from the first wharf of San
Francisco. Yes, he had been a common laborer,--a farm hand, in those
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