THE MESSAGE
It was the morning after they arrived at San Francisco that Mrs.
Corner came to Mary Lee's door. "Daughter," she said, "Mr. Sanders is
down-stairs; he says he has something important to say to you. I saw
him for a moment only when he asked to speak to you. Go down and see
him and I'll be there directly."
Wondering what Mr. Sanders could have to say to her especially, and
how he happened to be in San Francisco, Mary Lee went down to find her
friend waiting for her. "Well, Miss Mary," he said, "you didn't expect
to see me here, did you? I've come with a message for you; I have it
here." He produced an envelope which he held in his hand.
"I'm glad to see you whatever brings you," returned Mary Lee.
"Well, it is rather a sad business that brings me. It's queer you
should happen to be in this city just now and queerer still that I
should." He paused a moment. "You remember Jo Poker, don't you?" he
then asked.
"Indeed I do," answered Mary Lee.
"Poor Jo! Well, miss, you'll never see him again."
"Why, Mr. Sanders, what has happened?"
"He's paid his last debt, poor old Jo. He got hurt in a runaway awhile
ago and though at first they thought he would get over it, for he was
well enough to be about, he suddenly got worse and when he found his
last hour was nigh he sent for me. There's a long story. Here's your
mother, I reckon she'd better have it, too. I was just saying, Mrs.
Corner, that we've buried a friend of your daughter's. I reckon you've
heard her speak of Jo Poker."
"The man who was so good to her when she was visiting at your house?
Yes, indeed. Both the girls have spoken of him often. Did you say that
he was dead, Mr. Sanders?"
"Yes, ma'am. He fell ill a couple of weeks ago after being in an
accident, took a bad turn of a sudden and sent for me, said that there
wasn't any one nearer. He handed me over his papers and I learned
from them that his name was Joseph Middleton. His father was a well
off man at one time but I fancy he wasn't always just straight in
business affairs. Jo was pretty wild in his young days and got into
some scrapes. Fought with his brother-in-law, a sort of duel, I should
judge, cut him up pretty badly and had to get out and leave his wife
at her father's."
"I knew his right name couldn't be Poker," said Mary Lee listening
eagerly to the story. "What did they fight about, Mr. Sanders?"
"Well, it seems that old Middleton bought a piece of property from a
Mexican, or Spaniard, Jo calls him, who thought afterward that there
hadn't been fair dealing and was bitter against the whole Middleton
family. Jo fell in love with the daughter and she with him then, as
he wasn't one to give up a thing, he wanted, he ran off with her and
married her secretly. The brother caught him coming to the house two
or three times after he had been forbidden the place, and they had it
hot and heavy. The brother charged Jo with all sorts of things and went
for him. Jo didn't stand still and the up-shot was that the brother got
the worst of it, so while he was lying between life and death Jo had to
skip. The father was fiercer than ever against Jo and the young wife
was kept close as a nun. She lived only a short time and left a little
girl that she called Pepita."
"Pepita," exclaimed Mary Lee. "That was the name of Miss Dolores'
cousin."
"It's quite a name among the Spanish, I believe," Mr. Sanders told her.
"It's the same as our Josephine."
"Oh, that's why she gave her baby the name; it is the nearest she could
get to calling it after her husband, poor thing."
"I haven't a doubt of it. She probably called him Pepé; that's the
Spanish for Jo. Well, old Middleton took to drinking, went through his
money and Jo got reckless, too, after he heard that his wife was dead,
so he never settled down anywhere. Lived just like you know, Miss Mary,
as I was telling you there at home. Never went back to claim his little
girl it seems, because he felt he couldn't be any benefit to her, and
she had a good home with her mother's people. Now he's gone, and I am
sorry, for I liked the man, though folks did say hard things of him.
He is about the last link to those old days when I was a youngster
and first came out to this country. Most of the old crowd are dead or
scattered; I don't know which. I couldn't put my finger on another if I
tried."
"You say this Joseph Middleton was talked about," said Mrs. Corner.
"Was he then a bad man?"
"Well, ma'am, I shouldn't call him bad exactly. He was his own worst
enemy: I never knew him to harm any one but that brother of his wife's
and he wouldn't have touched him if he'd been let alone. He was always
good to animals and children and was always a gentleman to the women.
I've seen worse men that had a better name, so I say he was more sinned
against than sinning. This here envelope he asked me to hand you,"
Mr. Sanders went on turning to Mary Lee. "He said it had his good-bye
message to you in it."
"I don't think I will read it now," said Mary Lee trembling a little as
she took the note. It seemed so strange that the kindly man who played
to the birds and beasts, who was so alive to things of this earth,
should no longer be of this world. Mary Lee held the note closely. "It
was very kind of him to want to bid me good-bye," she said, "and kind
of you to bring me the message. He used to say that if he should ever
find his daughter and if he were able to claim her he would like her to
be like me, fond of animals and woodsy things. I think that is why he
wrote to me."
"The daughter is dead, too, you know," said Mr. Sanders. "He had found
that out, he told me."
Mary Lee turned to her mother. "I think I am glad of that," she said.
"Now, maybe, they are all three together."
"Well, I must be going," said Mr. Sanders. "I am glad to have seen you
again."
"The others will like to see you, Mr. Sanders," said Mrs. Corner.
"I know Jack will want to hear about your little girl. Go find your
sisters, Mary Lee, and tell them Mr. Sanders is here."
Mary Lee laid the envelope in her mother's lap and went to seek the
others who came rushing in to ask about Bessie and to hear all the news
of the ranch.
"I am so sorry Jo Poker is dead," said Jack; "now he can never play on
the flute for us any more."
"Never mind, Jack," said Jean, "perhaps he's playing on a harp now."
"But I can't hear him," returned Jack nothing comforted.
After answering Jack's hundred questions and being made the bearer of
as many messages, Mr. Sanders took his leave saying that he must make
a train soon if he wanted to get home that night. "I'm glad I had your
address," he said as he was about to go, "or I mightn't have been able
to get that message delivered for some time."
Mary Lee gathered the note again into her own keeping. "Come, mother,"
she said, "let's go somewhere by ourselves. I want you to be with me
when I read this. I feel so very solemn about it."
"We'll go to my room," said her mother leading the way.
Mary Lee held the letter a few moments before breaking it open, then
she said suddenly: "Suppose you read it to me, mother."
Mrs. Corner settled herself by the window and Mary Lee leaned on the
back of her chair.
"Dear Miss Mary," the letter began, "this is my farewell to you. I'm
not going to live long, the doctor says, so I'll write this while I
can, and I'll get Jim Sanders to give it to you after I'm gone, then
I'll not be breaking the word I gave to one over twenty years ago. You
asked me about that Miss Garcia, and now that all are dead and gone who
would care, in my judgment it isn't fair to keep some things secret.
Her Aunt Dolores Garcia was a good friend to me. She was my wife's
cousin and helped me in a time of great trouble. I promised her then
that while I lived I'd not tell all I knew about the family affairs.
Dolores Garcia's sister married a young American. Her father hated all
Americans, because he was a proud Spaniard and because he thought one
of them had cheated him and his brother out of their property. When
his daughter married a young fellow whose people wouldn't acknowledge
her----"
"Mother!" cried Mary Lee.
"What is it, daughter?"
"Never mind, go on," said Mary Lee breathlessly. "Go on, quick, please."
"Where was I? Oh yes: whose people wouldn't acknowledge her the old don
was cut to the quick and vowed they should never know his daughter's
child to teach her to despise her family. He was very proud of his
Spanish blood and he made every member of his family swear not to tell
the child's name, or to let her father's family know of her. The baby's
father died before she was born and its mother soon after. It nearly
broke the old man's heart, but he loved that baby as much as he hated
her father's people who were not to have the chance to acknowledge her
because they refused to accept the mother."
"Oh, oh," whispered Mary Lee, "doesn't it tell the father's name? Oh,
mother!"
"So now I am keeping my word," Mrs. Corner went on, "and while I live
the secret will not be told, but I think Elvira would want it known
and I am sure John Pinckney would want his daughter to have people of
her own and not have to be making her living when she needn't to. So
there, Miss Mary, I've told you. John Pinckney was from New York, Jack
they called him. He and Elvira were married in Mexico but he is buried
at Santa Barbara where he died. Good-bye, Miss Mary, and thank you for
coming into my life. I hope the good Master will let me see my wife
and baby in another world.
"Your old friend,
"JO POKER,
("_Joseph T. Middleton._")
"Mother! Mother!" cried Mary Lee. "Oh, it's wonderful! Only a fairy
tale could turn out so beautifully. How shall we tell them?"
"Them?"
"Why yes. Oh, don't you see? The señorita is Mr. St. Nick's
granddaughter."
"Why Mary Lee. Of course. I didn't take it in at first. It is
wonderful."
"I am so excited I can scarcely breathe. Where are Nan and Aunt Helen?
we must tell them first. Nan will be simply wild. Oh, you dear Jo
Poker, I hope you're in heaven with your little Pepita." She ran from
the room to find Nan and Miss Helen to whom the marvelous news must be
told. Then all four gathered in Mrs. Corner's room where the letter was
re-read and discussed.
"It has been Mary Lee's theory all along," said Nan. "I pooh-poohed it,
but she has said a dozen times that it might be so. One time we thought
Jo Poker himself might be Miss Dolores' father, but I am glad enough he
was not. Mary Lee has just dinged and dinged at this for weeks and I
think she ought to have the honor of telling the señorita."
"I think so, too," agreed Miss Helen, and Mrs. Corner echoed her.
"Oh, how shall I begin?" said Mary Lee.
"Ask her what her cousin's last name was, and then tell her Jo Poker's
story; after that it will be easy to work around to her own," suggested
Nan.
"Would that be all right?" Mary Lee appealed to her mother.
"I think so. It seems a very good plan, and in the meantime we can be
telling Mr. Pinckney."
Therefore Mary Lee went to seek Miss Dolores. She found her in the
garden pacing up and down, a thoughtful look upon her face.
"What are you thinking about, dear Miss Dolores?" asked the girl.
"I was thinking of that position in Pasadena and was wondering if I
would be less lonely there than in some spot further from home."
"I don't think you will ever be lonely again," said Mary Lee. "May I
walk with you, Miss Dolores? I have something to tell you."
"I shall be very glad of your company, my dear. I, too, wish to tell
you something, and it is that you can never know how my sad heart has
been cheered by your love to me. I many times hide what I feel, and
perhaps you do not think I appreciate and return it, but I do."
"I am so very glad," replied Mary Lee, slipping her hand in that of
the señorita. "I have been wondering, Miss Dolores, what was the last
name of your little cousin, your Cousin Pepita that you were telling me
about the other day."
"She was named Pepita Middleton, for she, too, was half American. If
she had lived we should be as sisters."
Mary Lee was silent while she formed the next question. "Did you know
her father has just died?"
"Her father? He was supposed dead some years ago."
"No, and Miss Dolores, isn't it strange that he should be that Jo Poker
of whom you have heard me tell?"
"Impossible, my dear."
"No, it is quite true. I have a letter here, a letter of farewell from
him. Mr. Sanders has just left it for me. Miss Dolores, did you know
that Jo Poker was a friend of your aunt's when he was young, and that
he knew your father?"
The señorita dropped Mary Lee's hand, turned and gazed with startled
eyes at her. "You have heard more," she said. "I see it in your face.
Tell me, tell me quickly."
Mary Lee threw her arms around her. "I do know more. Oh, Miss Dolores,
all these months I have been trying to find out for you who your father
was. We did not want to tell you of our trying, Nan and I, for fear we
should fail. Mr. Pinckney has been helping us all he could, too, and
now, oh, dear Miss Dolores, we have found out, and you will be so glad."
"Tell me! Tell me!"
"His name was John Pinckney."
"Pinckney? Pinckney? The same as our good friend?"
"Yes, yes, and oh, to think your father was his own son. You are dear
Mr. St. Nick's granddaughter, and Mrs. Bobs is your aunt."
"No, no! I dream! I am asleep!" cried the señorita, putting her hands
on Mary Lee's shoulders and gazing into her eyes.
"You are wide awake. Oh, isn't it too good to be true? But it is true."
"And he, Mr. Pinckney, does he know?"
"I think he must by now. Mother and Aunt Helen are telling him."
"Will he be--will he----?"
"Will he be glad? I should think so. I can just imagine how overjoyed
he will be. Come, let us find them. No, there they come now."
The señorita stood still with bowed head waiting. Down the path came
Mr. Pinckney on as fast a trot as his weight would allow. "My little
girl--Jack's little girl," he said tremblingly as he came up to the
señorita. He held out his arms. "Aren't you going to forgive your old
grandfather?" he faltered.
The señorita looked up. The tears were rolling down the dear man's
face. She made a step forward. "Oh, how I shall love you," she murmured
as she put her arms around his neck and began to sob.
"There, there, darling, don't cry," said the old gentleman patting her
on the back while her own eyes ran. "My Jack's little girl! Thank God
I've found her.
"It's all due to these blessed children," he said when he had led her
to a seat. "Where are the darlings? You won't be jealous, Dolores, if I
keep on loving them, will you? I can't help it."
"Jealous? Of the best, the most loving little friends a girl ever had?
Ah, no, my grandfather, I too shall love them more than ever."
"Call them every one and let us share this joy with them."
"My dears, my dears," cried the señorita, running up the path and
calling to the retreating figures who had delicately withdrawn, "we
want you."
"Us, too," called Jack from the garden gate.
"You, too."
"My friends," said the señorita as they all came up, "such a wonderful
thing has happened as some of you know. I am no longer alone. I have
here what you have not, a grandfather."
Jack and Jean hand in hand stood looking with grave curiosity as they
saw Mr. Pinckney gather their señorita close to him. "I don't believe
it," said Jack; "you're just fooling us."
"Are you her grandfather, Mr. St. Nick?" asked Jean.
"I am, my child, I am, and proud enough of it."
"Then why didn't you tell us before?" asked Jack.
"We have just found it out. Mary Lee was really the discoverer. I have
been trying for many years to learn what she has found out to-day."
"Wouldn't you ever have found out if it hadn't been for Mary Lee?"
asked Jack eagerly.
"I am afraid not."
Jack stood looking him up and down. "Then aren't you glad I bumped into
you that day in the candy shop?" she said.
At this every one burst into a laugh which was a relief to the
overstrained feelings, and, after many congratulations and much hugging
and kissing, the four Corners left the two Pinckneys to themselves.