Wilkins and His Dinah

Wilkins had a pair of eyes that had seen better days. His features were still handsome, and his complexion showed quality of texture—a bloom often seen on the faces of middle-aged men who had been fair in their youth. His figure was imposing. When he lounged into a room, even a barroom, he took the stage, so to speak; you were bound to look at him. When he spoke, you listened to words, wise or otherwise. When he smiled, you were seized with an absurd desire to shake his hand.

He was herding sheep for Silas Upham, a man of flocks and herds, and the father of one child, Hetty. Meeting Wilkins for the first time, I wondered what Hetty thought of her sire's shepherd.

Wilkins told us that our back fence was down, and that a bunch of steers had broken through into Upham's alfalfa. We thanked him, offering whisky and tobacco. He accepted both with a captivating smile and an easy nod.

A minute later he was sitting in our most comfortable chair, staring at our books and engravings. His eyes lingered on the best of these with a look of recognition. He asked no questions.

Next day we rode over to his hut, and smoked some pipes. Wilkins spoke of India, Australia, France, and Italy, but he never mentioned England. Nor did we. Presently, somewhat to our surprise, Hetty Upham cantered into camp. The day happened to be unusually hot, which accounted, perhaps, for her rosy cheeks. She delivered a message to Wilkins, exchanged a few words with us, and galloped off.

"Goes faster than she came," said Ajax.

"Yes," said Wilkins. Then he added with emphasis: "I don't blame any girl from galloping away from such a hole as this." With a derisive glance he indicated the flies swarming about his pots and pans, the ill-trimmed lamp reeking of petroleum, the rough bunk wherein he slept, the rusty stove. We contrasted these sordid surroundings with the splendors of Silas Upham's front parlor, and then we stared furtively at Wilkins.

About a week later Wilkins supped with us. Warmed by good food and drink, his reserve concerning himself somewhat melted. We learned that he had been but two weeks in Upham's service, and that he had worked his passage down the coast from Vancouver to San Francisco.

"And how do you like the Uphams?" said Ajax.

The use of the plural provoked a slight smile.

"Naturally, I don't see much of them," said Wilkins.

He picked up an old photograph album and began to turn over its pages. Obviously, his thoughts were elsewhere; and the sound of his own voice must have startled him.

"By Jove—it's old Sam!"

He spoke in a whisper, as if to himself.

"Yes—it's old Sam," said Ajax quickly. "You were at Harrow?"

Wilkins' eyelids fluttered; then he met our glance with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Yes."

He stared at the portrait of Sam, the Custos of the School, the familiar of the Yard, of the Fourth Room Form, Sam, the provider of birches, Sam of the port wine nose.

"We were at Harrow," said Ajax. "What house was yours?"

Wilkins hesitated; then he said slowly: "Tommy's."

"We were at Billy's."

Wilkins abruptly changed the subject, and soon after he left us. We rushed to the Harrow register. Yes, in Tommy's house, some seven years before our time, there had been a certain Theodore Vane Wilkins. Ajax, whose imagination runs riot, began to prattle about a Dinah, a Delilah of a Dinah, who had wrecked our schoolfellow's life. And, during the ensuing week, Dinah was continually in his mouth. Wilkins had moved camp, and we saw nothing of him. What we heard, however, must be set down. Silas Upham asked us to spend Sunday at his house. At dinner I sat next to pretty little Hetty, and at once she spoke of Wilkins. To my annoyance, Ajax introduced the ridiculous Dinah, the perfidious creature of his fancy. Ajax was in his salad days, but he ought to have known, even then, that if you want to interest a maid in a man, tell her that the man has suffered at the hands of another maid.

Hetty's blue eyes sparkled, her dimpled cheeks glowed with sympathy and indignation.

"Schoolfellow o' yours, was he? Well—I may make that feller foreman one o' these days," said Silas, with a fond, foolish glance at his daughter. Hetty could do what she pleased with her sire—and knew it.

"Poppa," said Miss Hetty, "you're all sorts of a darling, and I must kiss you."

Then she and Ajax strolled onto the verandah, and I found myself alone with my host. He said meaningly: "Wilkins has had a tough row to hoe—eh? But he's a perfect gentleman, straight, sober, and a worker. I've been looking for a man that is a man to run things here, now that I'm getting a bit stiff in the joints. Hetty likes him first-rate too."

All this in an interrogatory tone. Of course, it was easy to fill the gaps in the text. Silas Upham adored his daughter and his ranch. If Hetty married Wilkins, the artful Silas would gain an able-bodied, capable major-domo, and he would not lose his pet lamb. I said, rather tartly—

"Look here, Upham, you know nothing of Wilkins, and I advise you and—er—Miss Hetty to go slow."

"I do go slow," said my host, "but Hetty likes to buzz along. She's a mover, she is."

As we rode home I told Ajax that Opportunity had thrust into Wilkins' hand a very tempting morsel. Was he going to swallow it? And ought we to ask some questions?

I think it was on the following Wednesday that Wilkins walked over to the ranch-house and asked for a job.

"I've left Upham," he said curtly.

We had not much to offer; such as it was, Wilkins accepted it. Ajax drove to Upham's to fetch Wilkins' blankets and belongings. When he came back, he drew me aside.

"Silas offered him the billet of foreman. Wilkins refused it."

A month passed. Wilkins worked hard at first, and his ability, his shrewdness, confounded us, as it had confounded Silas Upham. Then he began to slack, as boys put it. Small duties were ill done or not done at all. But we liked him, were, indeed, charmed by him. As Ajax remarked, Fascination does not trot in the same class with Respect.

Twice I caught that shameless little witch, Hetty, in our back pasture, where Wilkins was splitting rails. Thrice a week she called at the ranch-house on her way to the post office.

"She means to marry Wilkins," said Ajax to me. "And why not? If one woman has made him—er—invertebrate, let Hetty Upham put backbone into him."

That evening we asked Wilkins to witness a legal paper, some agreement or other. He signed his name Henry Wilkins. Ajax stared at me; then he walked to the bookcase. His voice was very hard, as he turned, Harrow register in hand, and said: "The only Wilkins at Tommy's was Theodore Vane Wilkins."

Wilkins rose, shrugged his shoulders, and laughed. Ajax scowled.

"We told Silas Upham that you were an old Harrovian," began my brother.

"So I am; but my name is not Wilkins."

He lit a cigarette before he continued quietly: "I'm a fraud. I'm not even an Englishman. My father was a Southerner. He settled in England after the war. He used to say bitterly that he had been born the wrong side of the Atlantic. He died soon after I left Harrow. With what money he left me I traveled all over the world: shooting, fishing, and playing the fool.

"When I found myself stony-broke, I hunted up my Baltimore relations. Some of them told me it was easier to marry money than to make it. My name—I'll keep that to myself, if you don't mind—had a certain value in the eyes of a rich girl I knew. At the same time there was another girl——"

"Ah—Dinah," Ajax murmured.

"We'll call her Dinah. Dinah," his voice shook for a moment, "Dinah cared for me, and I—I cared for her. But the girl with money had a blaring, knock-me-down sort of beauty that appeals to men. Lots of fellows were after her. Dinah had only me. Dinah was mine, if I chose to claim her; the other had to be won. The competition, plus the coin, ensnared me. I became engaged to the rich girl. I don't think I knew then what I was doing to—Dinah. Within a fortnight I was struck down with scarlet fever. The rich girl—she was game as a pebble—nursed me. I became delirious. My nurse listened to my ravings for two days and nights; then she went away. I came to my senses to find Dinah at my bedside. The other wrote later, releasing me from the engagement and bidding me marry the girl whose name had been on my lips a thousand times. I laughed, and showed the letter to Dinah. A friend promised me work.

Dinah and I were going to live in a cottage, and be happy for ever and ever....

"And then she—sickened!"

In the dreary silence that followed, neither Ajax nor I was able to speak.

"And—and she died."

The poor fellow left us next day, and we never saw him again. It is to be remembered that he never encouraged Hetty Upham, whose infatuation was doubtless fanned by his indifference. She offered him bread, nay, cakes and ale, but he took instead a stone, because cakes and ale had lost their savor. We heard, afterwards, that he died on the Skagway Pass in an attempt to reach the Klondyke too early in the spring. He was seeking the gold of the Yukon placers; perhaps he found, beyond the Great White Silence, his Dinah.