At the announcement that she was a millionaire Clara turned pale, took the
proffered paper mechanically with trembling fingers, and then, without
looking at it, said, "Oh, Coronado!"
It was a tone of astonishment, of perplexity, of regret, of protest; it
seemed to declare, Here is a terrible injustice, and I will none of it.
Coronado was delighted; in a breath he recovered all his presence of mind;
he recovered his voice, too, and spoke out cheerfully:
"Ah, you are surprised, my cousin. Well, it is your grandfather's will.
You, as well as all others, must submit to it."
Aunt Maria jumped up and walked or rather pranced about the room, saying
loudly, "He must have been the best man in the whole world." After
repeating this two or three times, she halted and added with even more
emphasis, "Except _you_, Mr. Coronado!"
The Mexican bowed in silence; it was almost too much to be praised in that
way, feeling as he did; he bowed twice and waved his hand, deprecating the
compliment. The interview was a very painful one to him, although he knew
that he was gaining admiration with every breath that he drew, and
admiration just where it was absolutely necessary to him. Turning to Clara
now, he begged, "Read it, if you please, my cousin."
The girl, by this time flushed from chin to forehead, glanced over the
paper, and immediately said, "This should not be so. It must not be."
Coronado was overjoyed; she evidently thought that she owed him and Garcia
a part of this fortune; even if she kept it, she would feel bound to
consider his interests, and the result of her conscientiousness might be
marriage.
"Let us have no contest with the dead," he replied grandly. "Their wishes
are sacred."
"But Garcia and you are wronged, and I cannot have it so," persisted
Clara.
"How wronged?" demanded Aunt Maria. "I don't see it. Mr. Garcia was only a
cousin, and he is rich enough already."
Coronado, remembering that he and Garcia were bankrupt, wished he could
throw the old lady out of a window.
"Wait," said Clara in a tone of vehement resolution. "Give me time. You
shall see that I am not unjust or ungrateful."
"I beg that you will not bestow a thought upon me," implored the sublime
hypocrite. "Garcia, it is true, may have had claims. I have none."
Aunt Maria walked up to him, squeezed both his hands, and came near
hugging him. Once out of this trial, Coronado could bear no more, but
kissed his fingers to the ladies, hastened to his own room, locked the
door, and swore all the oaths that there are in Spanish, which is no small
multitude.
In a few days after this terrible interview things were going swimmingly
well with him. To keep Clara out of the hands of fortune-hunters, but
ostensibly to enable her to pass her first mourning in decent retirement,
he had induced her to settle in one of Muñoz's haciendas, a few miles from
the city, where he of course had her much to himself. He was her adviser;
he was closeted frequently with the executors; he foresaw the time when he
would be the sole manager of the estate; he began to trust that he would
some day possess it. What woman could help leaning upon and confiding in a
man who was so useful, so necessary as Coronado, and who had shown such
unselfish, such magnanimous sentiments?
Meantime the girl was as admirable in reality as the man was in
appearance. Unexpected inheritance of large wealth is almost sure to
alter, at least for a time, and generally for the worse, the manner and
morale of a young person, whether male or female. Conceit or haughtiness
or extravagance or greediness, or some other vice, pretty surely enters
into either deportment or conduct. If this girl was changed at all by her
great good fortune, she was changed for the better. She had never been
more modest, gentle, affable, and sensible than she was now. The fact
shows a clearness of mind and a nobleness of heart which place her very
high among the wise and good. Such behavior under such circumstances is
equal to heroism. We are conscious that in saying these things of Clara we
are drawing largely upon the reader's faith. But either her present trial
of character was peculiarly fitted to her, or she was one of those select
spirits who are purified by temptation.
She remembered Garcia's claims upon her grandfather, and her own supposed
obligations to Coronado. She informed the executors that she wished to
make over half her property to the old man, trusteeing it so that it
should descend to his nephew. Their reply, translated from roundabout and
complimentary Spanish into plain English, was this: "You can't do it. The
estate is not settled, and will not be for a year. Moreover, you have no
power to part with it until you are of age, which will not be for three
years. Finally, your proposition defies your grandfather's wishes, and it
is altogether too generous."
Clara's simple and firm reply was, "Well, I must wait. But it would seem
better if I could do it now."
There was one reason why Clara should be so calm and unselfish in her
elevation; her sorrows served her as ballast. Why should she let riches
turn her head when she found that they could not lighten her heart? There
was a certain night in her past which gold could not illuminate; there had
once been a precious life near her, which was gone now beyond the power of
ransom. Thurstane! How she would have lavished this wealth upon him. He
would have refused it; but she would have prayed and forced him to accept
it; she would have been the meeker to him because of it. How noble he had
been! not now to be brought back! gone forever! And his going had been
like the going away of the sun, leaving no beautiful color in all nature,
no guiding light for wandering footsteps. She exaggerated him, as love
will exaggerate the lost.
Of course she did not always believe that he could be dead, and in her
hours of hope she wrote letters inquiring about his fate. In other days he
had told her much of himself, stories of his childhood and his battles,
the number of his old regiment and his new one, titles of his superiors,
names of comrades, etc. To which among all these unknown ones should she
address herself? She fixed on the commander of his present regiment, and
that awfully mysterious personage the Adjutant-General of the army, a
title which seemed to represent omniscience and omnipotence. To each of
these gentlemen she sent an epistle recounting where, when, and how
Lieutenant Ralph Thurstane had been ambushed by unknown Indians, supposed
to be Apaches.
These letters she wrote and mailed without the knowledge of Coronado. This
was not caution, but pity; she did not suspect that he would try to
intercept them; only that it would pain him to learn how much she yet
thought of his rival. Indeed, it would have been cruel to show them to
him, for he would have seen that they were blurred with tears. You
perceive that she had come to be tender of the feelings of this earnest
and scoundrelly lover, believing in his sincerity and not in his villainy.
"Surely some of those people will know," thought Clara, with a trust in
men and dignitaries which makes one say _sancta simplicitas_. "If they do
not know," she added, with a prayer in her heart, "God will discover it to
them."
But no answers came for months. The colonel was not with his regiment, but
on detached service at New York, whither Clara's letter travelled to find
him, being addressed to his name and not marked "Official business." What
he did of course was to forward it to the Adjutant-General of the army at
Washington. The Adjutant-General successively filed both communications,
and sent a copy of each to headquarters at Santa Fé and San Francisco,
with an endorsement advising inquiries and suitable search. The mails were
slow and circuitous, and the official routine was also slow and
circuitous, so that it was long before headquarters got the papers and
went to work.
Does any one marvel that Clara did not go directly to the military
authorities in the city? It must be remembered that man has his own world,
as woman has hers, and that each sex is very ignorant of the spheres and
missions of the other, the retired sex being especially limited in its
information. The girl had never been told that there was such a thing as
district headquarters, or that soldiers in San Francisco had anything to
do with soldiers at Fort Yuma. Nor was she in the way of learning such
facts, being miles away from a uniform, and even from an American.
One day, when she was fuller of hope than usual, she dared to write to
that ghost, Thurstane. Where should the letter be addressed? It cost her
much reflection to decide that it ought to go to the station of his
company, Fort Yuma. This gave her an idea, and she at once penned two
other letters, one directed "To the Captain of Company I," and one to
Sergeant Meyer. But unfortunately those three epistles were not sent off
before it occurred to Coronado that he ought to overlook the packages that
were sent from the hacienda to the city. By the way, he had from the first
assumed a secret censorship over the mails which arrived.
Meantime he also had his anxiety and his correspondence. He feared lest
Garcia should learn how things had been managed, and should hasten to San
Francisco to act henceforward as his own special providence. In that case
there would be awkward explanations, there would be complicated and
perilous plottings, there might be stabbings or poisonings. Already, as
soon as he reached the Mohave valley, he had written one cajoling letter
to his uncle. Scattered through six pages on various affairs were
underscored phrases and words, which, taken in sequence, read as follows:
"Things have gone well and ill. What was most desirable has not been fully
accomplished. There have been perils and deaths, but not the one required.
The wisest plans have been foiled by unforeseen circumstances. The future
rests upon slow poison. A few weeks more will suffice. Do not come here.
It would rouse suspicion. Trust all to me."
He now sent other letters, reporting the progress of the malady caused by
the poison, urging Garcia to remain at a distance, assuring him that all
would be well, etc.
"There will be no will," declared one of these lying messengers. "If there
is a will, you will be the inheritor. In all events, you will be safe.
Rely upon my judgment and fidelity."
It is curious, by the way, that such men as Coronado and Garcia, knowing
themselves and each other to be liars, should nevertheless expect to be
believed, and should frequently believe each other. One is inclined to
admit the seeming paradox that rogues are more easily imposed upon than
honest men.
No responses came from Garcia. But, by way of consolation, Coronado had
Clara's correspondence to read. One day this hidalgo, securely locked in
his room, held in his delicate dark fingers a letter addressed to Miss
Clara Van Diemen, and postmarked in writing "Fort Yuma." Hot as the day
was, there was a brazier by his side, and a kettle of water bubbling on
the coals. He held the letter in the steam, softened the wafer to a pulp,
opened the envelope carefully, threw himself on a sofa, scowled at the
beating of his heart, and began to read.
Before he had glanced through the first line he uttered an exclamation,
turned hastily to the signature, and then burst into a stream of whispered
curses. After he had blasphemed himself into a certain degree of calmness,
he read the letter twice through carefully, and learned it by heart. Then
he thrust it deep into the coals of the brazier, watched it steadily until
its slight flame had flickered away, lighted a cigarito, and meditated.
This epistle was not the only one that troubled him. He already knew that
Clara was inquiring about this man of whom she never spoke, and conducting
her inquiries with an intelligence and energy which showed that her heart
was in the business. If things went on so, there might be trouble some
day, and there might be punishment. For a time he was so disturbed that he
felt somewhat as if he had a conscience, and might yet know what it is to
be haunted by remorse.
As for Clara, he was furious with her, notwithstanding his love for her,
and indeed because of it. It was outrageous that a woman whom he adored
should seek to ferret out facts which might send him to State's Prison. It
was abominable that she would not cease to care for that stupid officer
after he had been so carefully put out of her way. Coronado felt that he
was persecuted.
Well, what should be done? He must put a stop to Clara's inquiries, and he
would do it by inquiring himself. Yes, he would write to people about
Thurstane, show the letters to the girl (but never send them), and so
gradually get this sort of correspondence into his own hands, when he
would drop it. She would be led thereby to trust him the more, to be
grateful to him, perhaps to love him. It was a hateful mode of carrying on
a courtship, but it seemed to be the best that he had in his power. Having
so decided, this master hypocrite, "full of all subtlety and wiles of the
devil," turned his attention to his siesta.
For twenty minutes he slept the sleep of the just; then he was awakened by
a timid knock at his door. Guessing from the shyness of the demand for
entrance that it came from a servant, he called pettishly, "What do you
want? Go away."
"I must see you," answered a voice which, feeble and indistinct as it was,
took Coronado to the door in an instant, trembling in every nerve with
rage and alarm.