Mr. Daniel Harcourt's town mansion was also on an eminence, but it
was that gentler acclivity of fashion known as Rincon Hill, and
sunned itself on a southern slope of luxury. It had been described
as “princely” and “fairy-like,” by a grateful reporter; tourists and
travelers had sung its praises in letters to their friends and in
private reminiscences, for it had dispensed hospitality to most of the
celebrities who had visited the coast. Nevertheless its charm was mainly
due to the ruling taste of Miss Clementina Harcourt, who had astonished
her father by her marvelous intuition of the nice requirements and
elegant responsibilities of their position; and had thrown her mother
into the pained perplexity of a matronly hen, who, among the ducks' eggs
intrusted to her fostering care, had unwittingly hatched a graceful but
discomposing cygnet.
Indeed, after holding out feebly against the siege of wealth at Tasajara
and San Francisco, Mrs. Harcourt had abandoned herself hopelessly to
the horrors of its invasion; had allowed herself to be dragged from her
kitchen by her exultant daughters and set up in black silk in a certain
conventional respectability in the drawing-room. Strange to say, her
commiserating hospitality, or hospital-like ministration, not only gave
her popularity, but a certain kind of distinction. An exaltation
so sorrowfully deprecated by its possessor was felt to be a sign of
superiority. She was spoken of as “motherly,” even by those who vaguely
knew that there was somewhere a discarded son struggling in poverty
with a helpless wife, and that she had sided with her husband in
disinheriting a daughter who had married unwisely. She was sentimentally
spoken of as a “true wife,” while never opposing a single meanness of
her husband, suggesting a single active virtue, nor questioning her
right to sacrifice herself and her family for his sake. With nothing
she cared to affect, she was quite free from affectation, and even the
critical Lawrence Grant was struck with the dignity which her narrow
simplicity, that had seemed small even in Sidon, attained in her
palatial hall in San Francisco. It appeared to be a perfectly logical
conclusion that when such unaffectedness and simplicity were forced to
assume a hostile attitude to anybody, the latter must be to blame.
Since the festival of Tasajara Mr. Grant had been a frequent visitor
at Harcourt's, and was a guest on the eve of his departure from San
Francisco. The distinguished position of each made their relations
appear quite natural without inciting gossip as to any attraction in
Harcourt's daughters. It was late one afternoon as he was passing the
door of Harcourt's study that his host called him in. He found him
sitting at his desk with some papers before him and a folded copy of the
“Clarion.” With his back to the fading light of the window his face was
partly in shadow.
“By the way, Grant,” he began, with an assumption of carelessness
somewhat inconsistent with the fact that he had just called him in, “it
may be necessary for me to pull up those fellows who are blackguarding
me in the 'Clarion.'”
“Why, they haven't been saying anything new?” asked Grant, laughingly,
as he glanced towards the paper.
“No--that is--only a rehash of what they said before,” returned Harcourt
without opening the paper.
“Well,” said Grant playfully, “you don't mind their saying that you're
NOT the original pioneer of Tasajara, for it's true; nor that that
fellow 'Lige Curtis disappeared suddenly, for he did, if I remember
rightly. But there's nothing in that to invalidate your rights to
Tasajara, to say nothing of your five years' undisputed possession.”
“Of course there's no LEGAL question,” said Harcourt almost sharply.
“But as a matter of absurd report, I may want to contradict their
insinuations. And YOU remember all the circumstances, don't you?”
“I should think so! Why, my dear fellow, I've told it everywhere!--here,
in New York, Newport, and in London; by Jove, it's one of my best
stories! How a company sent me out with a surveyor to look up a railroad
and agricultural possibilities in the wilderness; how just as I found
them--and a rather big thing they made, too--I was set afloat by a
flood and a raft, and drifted ashore on your bank, and practically
demonstrated to you what you didn't know and didn't dare to hope
for--that there could be a waterway straight to Sidon from the
embarcadero. I've told what a charming evening we had with you and
your daughters in the old house, and how I returned your hospitality by
giving you a tip about the railroad; and how you slipped out while we
were playing cards, to clinch the bargain for the land with that drunken
fellow, 'Lige Curtis”--
“What's that?” interrupted Harcourt, quickly.
It was well that the shadow hid from Grant the expression of Harcourt's
face, or his reply might have been sharper. As it was, he answered a
little stiffly:--
“I beg your pardon”--
Harcourt recovered himself. “You're all wrong!” he said, “that bargain
was made long BEFORE; I never saw 'Lige Curtis after you came to the
house. It was before that, in the afternoon,” he went on hurriedly,
“that he was last in my store. I can prove it.” Nevertheless he was so
shocked and indignant at being confronted in his own suppressions and
falsehoods by an even greater and more astounding misconception of
fact, that for a moment he felt helpless. What, he reflected, if it were
alleged that 'Lige had returned again after the loafers had gone, or had
never left the store as had been said? Nonsense! There was John Milton,
who had been there reading all the time, and who could disprove it. Yes,
but John Milton was his discarded son,--his enemy,--perhaps even his
very slanderer!
“But,” said Grant quietly, “don't you remember that your daughter
Euphemia said something that evening about the land Lige had OFFERED
you, and you snapped up the young lady rather sharply for letting out
secrets, and THEN you went out? At least that's my impression.”
It was, however, more than an impression; with Grant's scientific memory
for characteristic details he had noticed that particular circumstance
as part of the social phenomena.
“I don't know what Phemie SAID,” returned Harcourt, impatiently. “I KNOW
there was no offer pending; the land had been sold to me before I ever
saw you. Why--you must have thought me up to pretty sharp practice with
Curtis--eh?” he added, with a forced laugh.
Grant smiled; he had been accustomed to hear of such sharp practice
among his business acquaintance, although he himself by nature and
profession was incapable of it, but he had not deemed Harcourt more
scrupulous than others. “Perhaps so,” he said lightly, “but for Heaven's
sake don't ask me to spoil my reputation as a raconteur for the sake of
a mere fact or two. I assure you it's a mighty taking story as I tell
it--and it don't hurt you in a business way. You're the hero of it--hang
it all!”
“Yes,” said Harcourt, without noticing Grant's half cynical superiority,
“but you'll oblige me if you won't tell it again IN THAT WAY. There are
men here mean enough to make the worst of it. It's nothing to me, of
course, but my family--the girls, you know--are rather sensitive.”
“I had no idea they even knew it,--much less cared for it,” said Grant,
with sudden seriousness. “I dare say if those fellows in the 'Clarion'
knew that they were annoying the ladies they'd drop it. Who's the
editor? Look here--leave it to me; I'll look into it. Better that you
shouldn't appear in the matter at all.”
“You understand that if it was a really serious matter, Grant,” said
Harcourt with a slight attitude, “I shouldn't allow any one to take my
place.”
“My dear fellow, there'll be nobody 'called out' and no 'shooting at
sight,' whatever is the result of my interference,” returned Grant,
lightly. “It'll be all right.” He was quite aware of the power of his
own independent position and the fact that he had been often appealed to
before in delicate arbitration.
Harcourt was equally conscious of this, but by a strange inconsistency
now felt relieved at the coolness with which Grant had accepted the
misconception which had at first seemed so dangerous. If he were ready
to condone what he thought was SHARP PRACTICE, he could not be less
lenient with the real facts that might come out,--of course always
excepting that interpolated consideration in the bill of sale, which,
however, no one but the missing Curtis could ever discover. The fact
that a man of Grant's secure position had interested himself in this
matter would secure him from the working of that personal vulgar
jealousy which his humbler antecedents had provoked. And if, as he
fancied, Grant really cared for Clementina--
“As you like,” he said, with half-affected lightness, “and now let us
talk of something else. Clementina has been thinking of getting up
a riding party to San Mateo for Mrs. Ashwood. We must show them some
civility, and that Boston brother of hers, Mr. Shipley, will have to
be invited also. I can't get away, and my wife, of course, will only
be able to join them at San Mateo in the carriage. I reckon it would be
easier for Clementina if you took my place, and helped her look after
the riding party. It will need a man, and I think she'd prefer you--as
you know she's rather particular--unless, of course, you'd be wanted for
Mrs. Ashwood or Phemie, or somebody else.”
From his shadowed corner he could see that a pleasant light had sprung
into Grant's eyes, although his reply was in his ordinary easy banter.
“I shall be only too glad to act as Miss Clementina's vaquero, and lasso
her runaways, or keep stragglers in the road.”
There seemed to be small necessity, however, for this active
co-operation, for when the cheerful cavalcade started from the house
a few mornings later, Mr. Lawrence Grant's onerous duties seemed to be
simply confined to those of an ordinary cavalier at the side of Miss
Clementina, a few paces in the rear of the party. But this safe distance
gave them the opportunity of conversing without being overheard,--an
apparently discreet precaution.
“Your father was so exceedingly affable to me the other day that if I
hadn't given you my promise to say nothing, I think I would have fallen
on my knees to him then and there, revealed my feelings, asked for your
hand and his blessing--or whatever one does at such a time. But how long
do you intend to keep me in this suspense?”
Clementina turned her clear eyes half abstractedly upon him, as if
imperfectly recalling some forgotten situation. “You forget,” she said,
“that part of your promise was that you wouldn't even speak of it to me
again without my permission.”
“But my time is so short now. Give me some definite hope before I go.
Let me believe that when we meet in New York”--
“You will find me just the same as now! Yes, I think I can promise THAT.
Let that suffice. You said the other day you liked me because I had not
changed for five years. You can surely trust that I will not alter in as
many months.”
“If I only knew”--
“Ah, if I only knew,--if WE ALL only knew. But we don't. Come, Mr.
Grant, let it rest as it is. Unless you want to go still further back
and have it as it WAS, at Sidon. There I think you fancied Euphemia
most.”
“Clementina!”
“That is my name, and those people ahead of us know it already.”
“You are called CLEMENTINA,--but you are not merciful!”
“You are very wrong, for you might see that Mr. Shipley has twice
checked his horse that he might hear what you are saying, and Phemie is
always showing Mrs. Ashwood something in the landscape behind us.”
All this was the more hopeless and exasperating to Grant since in the
young girl's speech and manner there was not the slightest trace of
coquetry or playfulness. He could not help saying a little bitterly: “I
don't think that any one would imagine from your manner that you were
receiving a declaration.”
“But they might imagine from yours that you had the right to quarrel
with me,--which would be worse.”
“We cannot part like this! It is too cruel to me.”
“We cannot part otherwise without the risk of greater cruelty.”
“But say at least, Clementina, that I have no rival. There is no other
more favored suitor?”
“That is so like a man--and yet so unlike the proud one I believed you
to be. Why should a man like you even consider such a possibility? If I
were a man I know I couldn't.” She turned upon him a glance so clear and
untroubled by either conscious vanity or evasion that he was hopelessly
convinced of the truth of her statement, and she went on in a slightly
lowered tone, “You have no right to ask me such a question,--but perhaps
for that reason I am willing to answer you. There is none. Hush! For a
good rider you are setting a poor example to the others, by crowding
me towards the bank. Go forward and talk to Phemie, and tell her not to
worry Mrs. Ashwood's horse nor race with her; I don't think he's quite
safe, and Mrs. Ashwood isn't accustomed to using the Spanish bit.
I suppose I must say something to Mr. Shipley, who doesn't seem to
understand that I'M acting as chaperon, and YOU as captain of the
party.”
She cantered forward as she spoke, and Grant was obliged to join her
sister, who, mounted on a powerful roan, was mischievously exciting
a beautiful quaker-colored mustang ridden by Mrs. Ashwood, already
irritated by the unfamiliar pressure of the Eastern woman's hand upon
his bit. The thick dust which had forced the party of twenty to close up
in two solid files across the road compelled them at the first opening
in the roadside fence to take the field in a straggling gallop. Grant,
eager to escape from his own discontented self by doing something for
others, reined in beside Euphemia and the fair stranger.
“Let me take your place until Mrs. Ashwood's horse is quieted,” he half
whispered to Euphemia.
“Thank you,--and I suppose it does not make any matter to Clem who
quiets mine,” she said, with provoking eyes and a toss of her head
worthy of the spirited animal she was riding.
“She thinks you quite capable of managing yourself and even others,”
he replied with a playful glance at Shipley, who was riding somewhat
stiffly on the other side.
“Don't be too sure,” retorted Phemie with another dangerous look; “I may
give you trouble yet.”
They were approaching the first undulation of the russet plain they had
emerged upon,--an umbrageous slope that seemed suddenly to diverge
in two defiles among the shaded hills. Grant had given a few words of
practical advice to Mrs. Ashwood, and shown her how to guide her mustang
by the merest caressing touch of the rein upon its sensitive neck. He
had not been sympathetically inclined towards the fair stranger, a rich
and still youthful widow, although he could not deny her unquestioned
good breeding, mental refinement, and a certain languorous
thoughtfulness that was almost melancholy, which accented her blonde
delicacy. But he had noticed that her manner was politely reserved and
slightly constrained towards the Harcourts, and he had already resented
it with a lover's instinctive loyalty. He had at first attributed it
to a want of sympathy between Mrs. Ashwood's more intellectual
sentimentalities and the Harcourts' undeniable lack of any sentiment
whatever. But there was evidently some other innate antagonism. He
was very polite to Mrs. Ashwood; she responded with a gentlewoman's
courtesy, and, he was forced to admit, even a broader comprehension
of his own merits than the Harcourt girls had ever shown, but he could
still detect that she was not in accord with the party.
“I am afraid you do not like California, Mrs. Ashwood?” he said
pleasantly. “You perhaps find the life here too unrestrained and
unconventional?”
She looked at him in quick astonishment. “Are you quite sincere? Why,
it strikes me that this is just what it is NOT. And I have so longed
for something quite different. From what I have been told about the
originality and adventure of everything here, and your independence of
old social forms and customs, I am afraid I expected the opposite
of what I've seen. Why, this very party--except that the ladies are
prettier and more expensively gotten up--is like any party that might
have ridden out at Saratoga or New York.”
“And as stupid, you would say.”
“As CONVENTIONAL, Mr. Grant; always excepting this lovely creature
beneath me, whom I can't make out and who doesn't seem to care that I
should. There! look! I told you so!”
Her mustang had suddenly bounded forward; but as Grant followed he
could see that the cause was the example of Phemie, who had, in some
mad freak, dashed out in a frantic gallop. A half-dozen of the
younger people hilariously accepted the challenge; the excitement was
communicated to the others, until the whole cavalcade was sweeping
down the slope. Grant was still at Mrs. Ashwood's side, restraining
her mustang and his own impatient horse when Clementina joined them.
“Phemie's mare has really bolted, I fear,” she said in a quick whisper,
“ride on, and never mind us.” Grant looked quickly ahead; Phemie's roan,
excited by the shouts behind her and to all appearance ungovernable, was
fast disappearing with her rider. Without a word, trusting to his own
good horsemanship and better knowledge of the ground, he darted out of
the cavalcade to overtake her.
But the unfortunate result of this was to give further impulse to the
now racing horses as they approached a point where the slope terminated
in two diverging canyons. Mrs. Ashwood gave a sharp pull upon her
bit. To her consternation the mustang stopped short almost
instantly,--planting his two fore feet rigidly in the dust and even
sliding forward with the impetus. Had her seat been less firm she might
have been thrown, but she recovered herself, although in doing so
she still bore upon the bit, when to her astonishment the mustang
deliberately stiffened himself as if for a shock, and then began to back
slowly, quivering with excitement. She did not know that her native-bred
animal fondly believed that he was participating in a rodeo, and that to
his equine intelligence his fair mistress had just lassoed something!
In vain she urged him forward; he still waited for the shock! When the
cloud of dust in which she had been enwrapped drifted away, she saw to
her amazement that she was alone. The entire party had disappeared into
one of the canyons,--but which one she could not tell!
When she succeeded at last in urging her mustang forward again she
determined to take the right-hand canyon and trust to being either met
or overtaken. A more practical and less adventurous nature would have
waited at the point of divergence for the return of some of the party,
but Mrs. Ashwood was, in truth, not sorry to be left to herself and the
novel scenery for a while, and she had no doubt but she would eventually
find her way to the hotel at San Mateo, which could not be far away, in
time for luncheon.
The road was still well defined, although it presently began to wind
between ascending ranks of pines and larches that marked the terraces
of hills, so high that she wondered she had not noticed them from the
plains. An unmistakable suggestion of some haunting primeval solitude,
a sense of the hushed and mysterious proximity of a nature she had never
known before, the strange half-intoxicating breath of unsunned foliage
and untrodden grasses and herbs, all combined to exalt her as she
cantered forward. Even her horse seemed to have acquired an intelligent
liberty, or rather to have established a sympathy with her in his needs
and her own longings; instinctively she no longer pulled him with the
curb; the reins hung loosely on his self-arched and unfettered neck;
secure in this loneliness she found herself even talking to him with
barbaric freedom. As she went on, the vague hush of all things animate
and inanimate around her seemed to thicken, until she unconsciously
halted before a dim and pillared wood, and a vast and heathless opening
on whose mute brown lips Nature seemed to have laid the finger of
silence. She forgot the party she had left, she forgot the luncheon she
was going to; more important still she forgot that she had already left
the traveled track far behind her, and, tremulous with anticipation,
rode timidly into that arch of shadow.
As her horse's hoofs fell noiselessly on the elastic moss-carpeted aisle
she forgot even more than that. She forgot the artificial stimulus and
excitement of the life she had been leading so long; she forgot the
small meannesses and smaller worries of her well-to-do experiences; she
forgot herself,--rather she regained a self she had long forgotten.
For in the sweet seclusion of this half darkened sanctuary the clinging
fripperies of her past slipped from her as a tawdry garment. The
petted, spoiled, and vapidly precocious girlhood which had merged into
a womanhood of aimless triumphs and meaner ambitions; the worldly but
miserable triumph of a marriage that had left her delicacy abused and
her heart sick and unsatisfied; the wifehood without home, seclusion,
or maternity; the widowhood that at last brought relief, but with it the
consciousness of hopelessly wasted youth,--all this seemed to drop from
her here as lightly as the winged needles or noiseless withered spray
from the dim gray vault above her head. In the sovereign balm of that
woodland breath her better spirit was restored; somewhere in these
wholesome shades seemed to still lurk what should have been her innocent
and nymph-like youth, and to come out once more and greet her. Old songs
she had forgotten, or whose music had failed in the discords of her
frivolous life, sang themselves to her again in that sweet, grave
silence; girlish dreams that she had foolishly been ashamed of, or had
put away with her childish toys, stole back to her once more and became
real in this tender twilight; old fancies, old fragments of verse and
childish lore, grew palpable and moved faintly before her. The boyish
prince who should have come was there; the babe that should have been
hers was there!--she stopped suddenly with flaming eyes and indignant
color. For it appeared that a MAN was there too, and had just risen from
the fallen tree where he had been sitting.