come in the stage with him; to him he told all the circumstances of the
case, and asked for his help. He was not mistaken in the man; and the
stranger at once expressed his determination to aid the side of the law
and the right. Proceeding together to the room of the prisoner, the
captain's assistant was instructed to procure, as secretly as possible,
a conveyance for himself, the stranger, and the prisoner, to the next
town--already in California--some thirty miles away. Then there were
more dark fears expressed concerning mobs and lawless proceedings, and
hints thrown out, suggestive of the contempt in which horse-thieves and
the like were held, and a clump of trees was spoken of, that stood close
by the hotel and had been found convenient for hanging purposes before
this. The stranger was left to guard the prisoner, and the captain made
his way to the bar-room, where he was examined in the most friendly and
patronizing manner, concerning "that little affair;" how much money the
man had taken, whether the captain had yet recovered it, and what he
meant to do next. Not a cent of the money had been recovered as yet, the
captain said (with thirty-five thousand dollars neatly tucked away about
his person), but he hoped that with good help--winking at the most
ill-favored among them--he would get both the man and his money safely
into California. He was not sparing in treats, and had the crowd drink
the health and success of everybody and everything he could think of,
till at last, apparently overpowered with sleep, he beckoned the rowdy
he had spoken to before to one side. Familiarly tapping him on the
shoulder, he said, trustingly:
"Now, old fellow, remember, I depend on you, should any of these rascals
here make an attempt to assist my man in getting away from me. I'm tired
to death, and if you'd sit up for an hour or two longer, while I take a
short nap, I'd take it as a great kindness. At all events, I shall
handcuff my prisoner and myself together, so that he cannot leave the
bed without my knowledge."
The man swore a thousand oaths that he'd see the captain out of this,
and then returned to his companions--to plot the release of the thieving
cattle-agent, who, he felt certain, still had the stolen money about
him. Tired out and sleepy, the captain certainly was; and, after
barricading the door with as much noise as possible (having previously
nailed boards across the window with a great deal of hammering), he lay
down, and was soon in a sound sleep. Sometime after midnight he was
aroused by loud, heavy blows on the door. Of course, the captain knew
who was there, and what they wanted, just as well as though each member
of the rowdy delegation had sent in a card with name and object of the
visit engraved thereon. After considerable parleying, and some "bloody"
threats, the barricade was slowly removed, the door opened, and the
captain discovered, admiring a very handsome six-shooter in his hands.
His confidential friend, the bully from the bar-room, was spokesman of
the gang; and, after some hard staring and harder swearing, the truth
dawned on the minds of these worthies, and they withdrew from the room
to search the rest of the house before taking farther measures.
The captain resumed his broken slumbers, never dreaming that they would
carry proceedings any farther; but next morning, seated on the stage
beside the driver, he saw on the road the wreck of a turn-out, and
grouped about it a number of the would-be liberators of the night
before. They had "raised" a team somewhere, and had started in pursuit
of the fat prize, hoping to outwit and outride justice for once. The
night being dark and their heads very light, they had run full tilt
against a tree in the road, which had the effect of killing one horse,
stunning the other, and scattering the inmates of the wagon
indiscriminately over the ground. Bully No. 1, and two stars of lesser
magnitude, insisted on mounting the stage; and, on arriving at the next
town, the captain, fearing that the local authorities would interfere on
the representation of these men, had his prisoner on the road again
before they had time to take any steps, either legal or illegal.
The horror of the prisoner can be imagined when he learned that these
terrible men, who were trying to get him out of the captain's hands in
order to mete out justice on their own account, were actually pursuing
him--probably with a rope ready to slip around his neck at the first
opportunity. He earnestly besought his protectors not to abandon him;
for the captain had told him that he had no right to hold him as
prisoner, and should have none until certain formalities had been gone
through with in San Francisco.
On they flew--without rest--still pursued by the three roughs, who
seemed to have gotten their spunk up when they found that the captain
was determined to escape from them with the man and the money they
wanted so much. At last Sacramento was reached, and with it the highest
pitch of danger. The prisoner was informed that the men were still
following him, and that they would probably make an attempt to take him
on the way from the hotel to the boat that was to carry them to San
Francisco. All this was strictly true. Captain Herbert had only omitted
to mention the fact that there would be among the number of captors a
member of the Sacramento police, to which both the roughs had applied,
setting forth that the man was illegally restrained of his liberty, etc.
The prisoner shook in his boots, and probably wished in his heart that
he was safely back in British Columbia, with the cattle unsold, and his
employer unrobbed. What was to be done? Time was flying, and he _must_
be gotten on to that boat, or he might never see San Francisco; so
feared the captain as well as his prisoner.
Again it was the intrepid stranger and travelling companion who came to
the rescue. The captain's plan was "hatched" and carried out in a very
little while. With a pair of handcuffs clasped on his wrists, and his
arms securely tied behind, the obliging stranger was led to the boat by
the hard-hearted captain, who handled this free-will prisoner very
roughly--while the guilty cattle-agent was slinking along with
unfettered hands by the side of the captain's assistant, to whom he
"stuck closer than a brother." Just as the captain was hustling his
prisoner on to the gang-plank, a policeman stepped from the crowd, laid
his hand on the man's shoulder, and, amid the cheering of the roughs and
the angry protestations of the captain, led him to the office of the
nearest justice. The _bonâ fide_ prisoner in the meantime slipped
unnoticed on board, and was taken out of the cold, and kindly cared for
on reaching San Francisco, by the proper authorities, who had been
summoned to meet the boat, by a telegram from the captain.
An excited crowd had gathered around the door of the office into which
the stranger had been brought. The intense disgust of the roughs can be
better imagined than described when their eyes and ears convinced them,
very much against their will, that their benevolent purposes could not
be carried out, and that _this_ "prisoner at the bar" had never
absconded with anybody's money. They listened in dogged silence to the
man's declaration that, far from being restrained of his liberty, he had
come with the captain "just for fun," and had worn the handcuffs because
they were just an easy fit.
"And what is your name!" thundered the enraged justice.
"Henry Fitzpatrick," was the quiet reply, "merchant, from San Francisco.
I fell in with the captain at Salt Lake, where I was stopping on my way
home from the States; and as he's a mighty clever fellow, I thought I'd
go all the way with him. Sorry you detained us, gentlemen--we both had
urgent business in San Francisco."
He went his way in peace, though the real sinner--the thieving
cattle-agent--had never been in as much danger of coming to harm at the
hands of these men as was this inoffensive person.
The captain saw no more of him till a day or two after his return to San
Francisco. Entering the store of his friend Taylor, to tell him of his
safe return, he was surprised to see the stranger, Mr. Henry
Fitzpatrick, in the counting-room. The senior partner greeted him with:
"Well, well, captain, so you brought Harry home with a pair of handcuffs
on, after all! Allow me to introduce my partner, Mr. Henry Fitzpatrick
McDonald."
"Happy to meet you again, captain. It _was_ fun, wasn't it, though? But
I didn't think it was necessary to give those inquisitive chaps at
Sacramento the benefit of my full name. I did not want them to say, in
case I should ever run for office, that 'McDonald had been led through
the country with a pair of handcuffs on.'"
_HER NAME WAS SYLVIA._
"San Mateo! Stages for Pescadero and Half-Moon Bay!" shouted the
conductor, and a dozen or two of passengers left the uncomfortably
crowded car.
Some of them entered the handsome equipages in waiting, to carry them to
luxurious country residences; a few sought their cottage in the suburbs
on foot; others, armed with satchels, shawls, and field-glasses,
clambered into and on the stage. Among these, a young lady--whose glossy
braids and brilliant eyes were not altogether hidden by a light
veil--stood irresolute, when the polite agent addressed her, "Have a
seat outside, Miss--with the driver? Very gentlemanly person, Miss;
ladies mostly like to ride with him." Her indecision was abruptly ended
by the gloved hand of the driver, reaching down without more ado and
drawing her up, with the agent's assistance, gently, but irresistibly,
out of the crowd and confusion below.
For the first five miles the young girl saw nothing and knew nothing of
what was on or in the stage; her eyes were feasting on the scenery, new
to her, and fascinating in its beauty of park-like forest-strips and
flower-grown dells, where tiny brooks were overhung by tangled brush and
the fresh foliage of maple-tree and laurel-wood. The sunshine of a whole
San Francisco year seemed concentrated in the bright May morning; and
the breeze stirred just enough to turn to the sunlight, now the glossy
green side of the leaves on the live oaks, then the dull, grayish
side--a coquetry of nature making artistic effects.
At Crystal Springs our friend suddenly became aware that she had thrown
aside her veil, and a deep blush covered her features when she saw a
wonderfully white hand reaching up with a cluster of roses, evidently
meant for her acceptance. The rustling of the trees, the sound of water
splashing, the sight of birds, coming in flocks to drink at the
fountain, had so held her senses captive, that she did not even know how
long they had been stopping at this place; but the bunch of roses, and
the deep blue eyes looking up into hers, recalled her to reality. Had
she not looked into these eyes before? Had not the stage-driver just
such a long, tawny moustache? And was this he, offering the flowers with
all the courtliness and easy self-possession of the gentleman? All these
thoughts flashed through her brain in a second, and she shrank,
momentarily, from what seemed a piece of presumption on the part of the
man. But a glance at the sad eyes, and the barely perceptible play of
sarcasm around the firm-closed lips, induced her to bend forward and
accept the offering, with a grace peculiarly her own.
Not a word was exchanged after he had remounted his seat; but since her
veil was dropped she noticed that there were others on the outside of
the stage beside herself. There was a female with a brown _barège_ veil,
and a big lunch-basket on the seat back of her, who had been most intent
on studying how the young lady could possibly have fastened on those
heavy braids, that they looked so natural; whereas hers were always
coming apart, and showing the jute inside. And there were the two
tourists--English people probably. They had never disturbed her yet by a
word of conversation. Then her thoughts travelled to the inside of the
stage, and her eyes rested uneasily for a moment on her neighbor, the
driver. Had she only dreamed of the white, well-shaped hand? Large,
heavy gloves were on his fingers, and covered the wrist with a stiff
gauntlet. Just as stiff was the brim of the light-colored hat; and it
was so provokingly put on that nothing was visible from under it but the
end of the long moustache.
But she was soon lost in thought again, and in contemplation of the
placid blue ocean, that suddenly shone out beyond the low hills, away
off to the right.
"Das Meer erglänzte weit hinaus--"
She turned with a start, to see whether she had dreamed this too, or
whether a voice at her elbow had really hummed it--and was just in time
to see the driver gather up the lines of the six horses closer, while he
strove hard to banish the guilty color from his face.
A stage-driver, who offered her roses with the air of a cavalier of the
_ancien régime_, and sang snatches of German music. It made her more
thoughtful than ever; and when they reached Spanishtown, and had taken
dinner, she had decided on what course to pursue. The driver was on hand
to assist her back to her lofty perch, but she said, with perfect
_sang-froid_:
"I think I should prefer to ride inside for the rest of the way; the sun
is too hot outside."
Perhaps she had feared to see an expression of wounded feeling on the
bronzed face, but it was rather a quizzical look that shot from his eyes
as he answered:
"No sun after this; fog from here out--depend upon it."
Her face relaxed. "I don't know that I want to be enveloped in a
fog-cloud, either;" but she placed her foot on the wheel, and, without
another word, she was assisted back to her old seat. The ice was broken,
and the fog that soon rolled in on them did more to thaw it away between
them than the sunshine of the morning had been able to do.
After awhile she told him that she was on her way to visit an uncle and
aunt, who had taken up their residence at Pescadero, and that she meant
to make them many a visit, as she was fond of them, and they petted her
to her heart's content. And she liked the country, too. Then he told her
of the pebbles to be found on the beach near Pescadero, and of the
attractions of the sea-moss, at a point more distant; and he hoped that
he might always have the pleasure of carrying her through the country,
whenever she came this way.
"Uncle shall surely let you know when I am coming back, so that I may
come with you," she said; "but what is your name?--so that he can find
you out."
"Jim!" he replied, grimly, pulling his hat far down over his eyes,
apparently indifferent as to the impression his abbreviated appellation
might make on her. Then, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, he asked,
"And yours?"
"Stella," she answered simply; and they both laughed, and she fastened
the roses in her hair before they came to the end of their journey,
which had on the whole passed off so pleasantly.
So pleasantly that Stella reverted to it when in Aunt Sarah's
comfortable sitting-room, where Uncle Herbert was allowed to smoke his
after-dinner cigar.
"I should like to go back with the same driver; his name is Jim. Do you
know him, uncle?" she continued, with the most innocent face, in which a
sharper eye than Uncle Herbert's would nevertheless have detected a
somewhat heightened color.
"They have nicknamed him 'The Duke,'" he replied, knocking the ashes off
his cigar with a thoughtful look, "and they say he is quite a character.
Proud and unapproachable, but the best driver on the road, and, so long
as no one interferes or asks questions about himself, perfectly
obliging, and courteous in his manners."
After the usual round of dissipations, consisting of a sea-bath for the
more venturesome, a visit to the pebble-beach, a more extended tour to
gather sea-moss, Stella was ready to return to San Francisco. To both
aunt and uncle she imparted her design of soon revisiting Pescadero, for
the purpose of exploring the distant hills, with their dark forests,
where the redwood was said to reach a circumference of sixteen feet,
which the wise little lady would not believe till her own eyes had
proved it. The old couple were without children, and nothing could be
more welcome than the niece's prospective visits.
Stella thought she could see a sudden light flash over the gloomy face
with the sunburnt moustache when she came out of the waiting-room to
mount the stage, for she naturally wished to view in the light of the
morning sun the scenery on which the evening shadows had lain when she
came. Not that she saw much of it, after all; the fog prevented her from
seeing what her veil did not shut out. But the sun breaking through the
fog suddenly and driving it back, the sky became clear, her companion
said, "heaven smiled once more;" and while he spoke he was careful to
manipulate the veil she had dropped, in such a manner that it found its
way into his coat-pocket, from where, he was determined, it was not to
be unearthed till the steeples of San Mateo should come into sight.
He listened with such an air of interest to Stella's recital of all she
had seen, that it did not strike her till after a long while that she
had really sustained conversation altogether on her side; and when she
grew quite still after this, he made no effort to draw her on or speak
himself. But when they approached the long, steep bridge across the
Toanitas, and rolled along close by the sea, where the waves dashed
against the crags with angry roar, through which there wept and moaned a
bitter grief and sighed a forlorn hope of peace to come, he pushed his
hat back with an impatient motion, and, gazing moodily into the waters,
he muttered:
"Bleib Du in Deinen Meerestiefen Wahnsinniger Traum."
"Do you really read Heine in the original?" she asked, quickly.
"And only a stage-driver," he returned, with the old sarcasm, seeing
that she hesitated. "Yes; I read Heine in German--or did. I read nothing
now. I drive stage."
There was painful silence; an apology would have made matters worse; but
seeing the grieved expression on her face, he continued, in his gentlest
voice, "You say you are coming this way again in the course of the
season--coming with me--in my stage? You wonder how I came to be
stage-driver; when we are better acquainted, and you think it worth
while to remind me of my promise, I will tell you my story."
"And forgive me now?" she asked, extending her hand. The glove came off
his right hand, and the fingers that clasped hers were not less white
and soft, but strong they looked--strong as iron. "Thanks," she said;
and he felt, somehow, that she wanted her veil just then, and he
pretended to discover it, by chance, on the seat.
In the course of the season she came again--more than once--coming
always when she knew she would meet his stage at the San Mateo depot.
One bright day in October, when, after the drought of the long summer,
the earth had been refreshed by generous autumn showers, Stella again
sat beside him, high up, on the driver's seat. The same azure was in the
sky, the same deep blue on the waters; it was all as it had been the day
she first saw the tangled wildwood by the brook, the spreading live-oak
by the roadside--only, the foliage on the brush had changed its colors
to deep-red and yellow.
"You once said," began Stella, timidly--for she had learned that his
temper was very uneven--"that if I reminded you of your promise when we
were better acquainted, you would tell me your story."
He turned and looked steadily into her faltering eyes a moment, then
drew his hat down over his brows, and commenced, without further
preliminaries:
"Her name was Sylvia--and her eyes were as deep as a well; so deep that
I don't think I ever quite fathomed them. When my mother died, she said
we were both young, and we must not be married until at least a year had
passed over my mother's grave. I was touched with the sympathy she
displayed on this sorrowful occasion; so was my father. I was his only
son, and would undoubtedly fall heir to his wealth--great wealth--after
his death. I had grown up as rich men's only sons generally grow up; had
visited schools, colleges, universities; was called good-looking, a
clever fellow generally, the best driver of a four-in-hand, the best
shot--in short, a great catch for any girl to make. Sylvia told me so
herself often. But, after all, I was only the son, you see, and my
father might live for twenty years longer, and if Sylvia married me, she
married only a prospect--whereas, if she married my father, she was the
wife of a wealthy man at once. I had not been brought up to business
habits, as Sylvia pointed out, and if my father ever became displeased
with me--of which he showed strong symptoms about this time--I should be
thrown on the world with a wife as helpless as myself, and as poor. For
Sylvia, though brought up among aristocratic relatives, was as poor as a
church mouse. What need to make many words? She married my father before
the year was out, and I left home secretly on the morning of their
wedding-day, with never a cent of the riches which had bought my
best-beloved to be my father's bride--never a dollar of all the wealth I
had been taught to look upon as my own.
"For years I read in every Eastern paper that happened to fall into my
hands the promises of reward to any who might bring tidings of me--dead
or alive--to my father; but I never could tell: Was it his own heart
that urged him to this long continued search, or was it she that felt
some slight compunction at having driven the son from the father's
house? There are officious people everywhere--greedy people--who will do
anything for money. One of these soul-sellers, worming himself into my
confidence when sick and broken from unaccustomed labor, strung together
what might have passed with others for the ravings of a delirious
patient, and wrote my father of my whereabouts and occupation. Before I
had recovered, my father was with me, urging me with much kindness, I
must say, to go with him, if not to his home, at least to the city,
where he proposed to set me up in business for myself, in case I was too
independent to live under his roof.
"His wife's health, delicate since her marriage, had been so much
benefited by the climate of California that she advocated their
remaining here, and he intended to settle in San Francisco. I thanked
him for all his kindness--I did, indeed; he is a weak old man, but he
had been an over-indulgent father to me in my boyhood, and why should I
harbor an unkind feeling against him? But I would not go with him. He
said I was taking a cruel revenge on him. That is not so, however--or do
you too blame me for being a stage-driver?" He bent down toward her
quickly and raised her face with his hand. There were tears in her eyes,
and his arm stole around her as gently as though he had forgotten about
the six horses he was guiding with his other hand.
Don't be shocked, reader; there was no one on the outside of the stage
but these two. And supposing even that he had pressed her head to his
breast and kissed her forehead; no one saw it, or made remarks about it,
except the sea waves, and they seemed rippling all over with good nature
and laughter, and rejoicings at the new light in the man's eyes, and the
tears and the smiles in the woman's.
For a long while neither spoke; but when the stage halted he lifted her
down so tenderly, and she looked up into his face so confidingly, that
words seemed unnecessary between them. Then he went his way, and Stella
knew that she must not expect to see him again till she should be ready
to return to the city; for neither Uncle Herbert nor any one else in the
place had ever succeeded in enticing him to visit their homes.
But when he assisted Stella into her usual place on the morning of her
departure for San Francisco, his eyes told her that his thoughts had
been with her all the days since relating to her "his story." He had not
encouraged any one else to ride on the outside; and once clear of the
town, he touched Stella's hand with his lips, drew it through his arm
and pressed it, very much, I am afraid, as any ordinary lover might have
done. But when the fog rolled away, he sent out his clear baritone to
greet the sun-kissed ocean, and the burden of his song was once more:
"Das Meer erglänzte weit hinaus!"
And the hat was not drawn down over his face when she turned to him, and
his eyes were like the ocean, dark-blue, and a sunny light laughing in
them.
"It is my farewell to the sea," he said, gayly. "I am never coming back
again. I am going to San Francisco, turn 'gentleman,' put on 'store
clothes,' and enter the ranks of respectable business men."