The wayfarers on the Tasajara turnpike, whom Mr. Daniel Harcourt
passed with his fast trotting mare and sulky, saw that their great
fellow-townsman was more than usually preoccupied and curt in his
acknowledgment of their salutations. Nevertheless as he drew near
the creek, he partly checked his horse, and when he reached a slight
acclivity of the interminable plain--which had really been the bank of
the creek in bygone days--he pulled up, alighted, tied his horse to a
rail fence, and clambering over the inclosure made his way along the
ridge. It was covered with nettles, thistles, and a few wiry dwarf
larches of native growth; dust from the adjacent highway had invaded
it, with a few scattered and torn handbills, waste paper, rags, empty
provision cans, and other suburban debris. Yet it was the site of 'Lige
Curtis's cabin, long since erased and forgotten. The bed of the old
creek had receded; the last tules had been cleared away; the channel and
embarcadero were half a mile from the bank and log whereon the pioneer
of Tasajara had idly sunned himself.
Mr. Harcourt walked on, occasionally turning over the scattered objects
with his foot, and stopping at times to examine the ground more closely.
It had not apparently been disturbed since he himself, six years ago,
had razed the wretched shanty and carried off its timbers to aid in the
erection of a larger cabin further inland. He raised his eyes to the
prospect before him,--to the town with its steamboats lying at the
wharves, to the grain elevator, the warehouses, the railroad station
with its puffing engines, the flagstaff of Harcourt House and the
clustering roofs of the town, and beyond, the painted dome of his last
creation, the Free Library. This was all HIS work, HIS planning, HIS
foresight, whatever they might say of the wandering drunkard from whose
tremulous fingers he had snatched the opportunity. They could not take
THAT from him, however they might follow him with envy and reviling,
any more than they could wrest from him the five years of peaceful
possession. It was with something of the prosperous consciousness with
which he had mounted the platform on the opening of the Free Library,
that he now climbed into his buggy and drove away.
Nevertheless he stopped at his Land Office as he drove into town,
and gave a few orders. “I want a strong picket fence put around the
fifty-vara lot in block fifty-seven, and the ground cleared up at once.
Let me know when the men get to work, and I'll overlook them.”
Re-entering his own house in the square, where Mrs. Harcourt and
Clementina--who often accompanied him in those business visits--were
waiting for him with luncheon, he smiled somewhat superciliously as the
servant informed him that “Professor Grant had just arrived.” Really
that man was trying to make the most of his time with Clementina!
Perhaps the rival attractions of that Boston swell Shipley had something
to do with it! He must positively talk to Clementina about this. In
point of fact he himself was a little disappointed in Grant, who, since
his offer to take the task of hunting down his calumniators, had really
done nothing. He turned into his study, but was slightly astonished to
find that Grant, instead of paying court to Clementina in the adjoining
drawing-room, was sitting rather thoughtfully in his own armchair.
He rose as Harcourt entered. “I didn't let them announce me to the
ladies,” he said, “as I have some important business with you first, and
we may find it necessary that I should take the next train back to town.
You remember that a few weeks ago I offered to look into the matter of
those slanders against you. I apprehended it would be a trifling matter
of envy or jealousy on the part of your old associates or neighbors
which could be put straight with a little good feeling; but I must be
frank with you, Harcourt, and say at the beginning that it turns out
to be an infernally ugly business. Call it conspiracy if you like, or
organized hostility, I'm afraid it will require a lawyer rather than
an arbitrator to manage it, and the sooner the better. For the most
unpleasant thing about it is, that I can't find out exactly HOW BAD it
is!”
Unfortunately the weaker instinct of Harcourt's nature was first roused;
the vulgar rage which confounds the bearer of ill news with the
news itself filled his breast. “And this is all that your confounded
intermeddling came to?” he said brutally.
“No,” said Grant quietly, with a preoccupied ignoring of the insult that
was more hopeless for Harcourt. “I found out that it is claimed that
this 'Lige Curtis was not drowned nor lost that night; but that he
escaped, and for three years has convinced another man that you are
wrongfully in possession of this land; that these two naturally hold you
in their power, and that they are only waiting for you to be forced into
legal proceedings for slander to prove all their charges. Until
then, for some reason best known to themselves, Curtis remains in the
background.”
“Does he deny the deed under which I hold the property?” said Harcourt
savagely.
“He says it was only a security for a trifling loan, and not an actual
transfer.”
“And don't those fools know that his security could be forfeited?”
“Yes, but not in the way it is recorded in the county clerk's office.
They say that the record shows that there was an interpolation in the
paper he left with you--which was a forgery. Briefly, Harcourt, you are
accused of that. More,--it is intimated that when he fell into the creek
that night, and escaped on a raft that was floating past, that he had
been first stunned by a blow from some one interested in getting rid of
him.”
He paused and glanced out of the window.
“Is that all?” asked Harcourt in a perfectly quiet, steady, voice.
“All!” replied Grant, struck with the change in his companion's manner,
and turning his eyes upon him quickly.
The change indeed was marked and significant. Whether from relief at
knowing the worst, or whether he was experiencing the same reaction from
the utter falsity of this last accusation that he had felt when Grant
had unintentionally wronged him in his previous recollection, certain it
is that some unknown reserve of strength in his own nature, of which
he knew nothing before, suddenly came to his aid in this extremity. It
invested him with an uncouth dignity that for the first time excited
Grant's respect.
“I beg your pardon, Grant, for the hasty way I spoke to you a moment
ago, for I thank you, and appreciate thoroughly and sincerely what you
have done. You are right; it is a matter for fighting and not fussing
over. But I must have a head to hit. Whose is it?”
“The man who holds himself legally responsible is Fletcher,--the
proprietor of the 'Clarion,' and a man of property.”
“The 'Clarion'? That is the paper which began the attack?” said
Harcourt.
“Yes, and it is only fair to tell you here that your son threw up his
place on it in consequence of its attack upon you.”
There was perhaps the slightest possible shrinking in Harcourt's
eyelids--the one congenital likeness to his discarded son--but his
otherwise calm demeanor did not change. Grant went on more cheerfully:
“I've told you all I know. When I spoke of an unknown WORST, I did not
refer to any further accusation, but to whatever evidence they might
have fabricated or suborned to prove any one of them. It is only the
strength and fairness of the hands they hold that is uncertain.
Against that you have your certain uncontested possession, the peculiar
character and antecedents of this 'Lige Curtis, which would make his
evidence untrustworthy and even make it difficult for them to establish
his identity. I am told that his failure to contest your appropriation
of his property is explained by the fact of his being absent from the
country most of the time; but again, this would not account for their
silence until within the last six months, unless they have been waiting
for further evidence to establish it. But even then they must have known
that the time of recovery had passed. You are a practical man, Harcourt;
I needn't tell you therefore what your lawyer will probably tell you,
that practically, so far as your rights are concerned, you remain
as before these calumnies; that a cause of action unprosecuted or
in abeyance is practically no cause, and that it is not for you to
anticipate one. BUT”--
He paused and looked steadily at Harcourt. Harcourt met his look with a
dull, ox-like stolidity. “I shall begin the suit at once,” he said.
“And I,” said Grant, holding out his hand, “will stand by you. But tell
me now what you knew of this man Curtis,--his character and disposition;
it may be some clue as to what are his methods and his intentions.”
Harcourt briefly sketched 'Lige Curtis as he knew him and understood
him. It was another indication of his reserved power that the
description was so singularly clear, practical, unprejudiced, and
impartial that it impressed Grant with its truthfulness.
“I can't make him out,” he said; “you have drawn a weak, but neither a
dishonest nor malignant man. There must have been somebody behind him.
Can you think of any personal enemy?”
“I have been subjected to the usual jealousy and envy of my old
neighbors, I suppose, but nothing more. I have harmed no one knowingly.”
Grant was silent; it had flashed across him that Rice might have
harbored revenge for his father-in-law's interference in his brief
matrimonial experience. He had also suddenly recalled his conversation
with Billings on the day that he first arrived at Tasajara. It would not
be strange if this man had some intimation of the secret. He would try
to find him that evening. He rose.
“You will stay to dinner? My wife and Clementina will expect you.”
“Not to-night; I am dining at the hotel,” said Grant, smilingly; “but I
will come in later in the evening if I may.” He paused hesitatingly for
a moment. “Have your wife and daughter ever expressed any opinion on
this matter?”
“No,” said Harcourt. “Mrs. Harcourt knows nothing of anything that does
not happen IN the house; Euphemia knows only the things that happen out
of it where she is visiting--and I suppose that young men prefer to
talk to her about other things than the slanders of her father. And
Clementina--well, you know how calm and superior to these things SHE
is.”
“For that very reason I thought that perhaps she might be able to see
them more clearly,--but no matter! I dare say you are quite right in
not discussing them at home.” This was the fact, although Grant had not
forgotten that Harcourt had put forward his daughters as a reason for
stopping the scandal some weeks before,--a reason which, however, seemed
never to have been borne out by any apparent sensitiveness of the girls
themselves.
When Grant had left, Harcourt remained for some moments steadfastly
gazing from the window over the Tasajara plain. He had not lost his
look of concentrated power, nor his determination to fight. A struggle
between himself and the phantoms of the past had become now a necessary
stimulus for its own sake,--for the sake of his mental and physical
equipoise. He saw before him the pale, agitated, irresolute features of
'Lige Curtis,--not the man HE had injured, but the man who had injured
HIM, whose spirit was aimlessly and wantonly--for he had never
attempted to get back his possessions in his lifetime, nor ever tried
to communicate with the possessor--striking at him in the shadow. And
it was THAT man, that pale, writhing, frightened wretch whom he had once
mercifully helped! Yes, whose LIFE he had even saved that night from
exposure and delirium tremens when he had given him the whiskey. And
this life he had saved, only to have it set in motion a conspiracy to
ruin him! Who knows that 'Lige had not purposely conceived what they had
believed to be an attempt at suicide, only to cast suspicion of murder
on HIM! From which it will be perceived that Harcourt's powers of moral
reasoning had not improved in five years, and that even the impartiality
he had just shown in his description of 'Lige to Grant had been
swallowed up in this new sense of injury. The founder of Tasajara, whose
cool business logic, unfailing foresight, and practical deductions were
never at fault, was once more childishly adrift in his moral ethics.
And there was Clementina, of whose judgment Grant had spoken so
persistently,--could she assist him? It was true, as he had said, he
had never talked to her of his affairs. In his sometimes uneasy
consciousness of her superiority he had shrunk from even revealing his
anxieties, much less his actual secret, and from anything that might
prejudice the lofty paternal attitude he had taken towards his daughters
from the beginning of his good fortune. He was never quite sure if her
acceptance of it was real; he was never entirely free from a certain
jealousy that always mingled with his pride in her superior rectitude;
and yet his feeling was distinct from the good-natured contempt he
had for his wife's loyalty, the anger and suspicion that his son's
opposition had provoked, and the half-affectionate toleration he had
felt for Euphemia's waywardness. However he would sound Clementina
without betraying himself.
He was anticipated by a slight step in the passage and the pushing open
of his study door. The tall, graceful figure of the girl herself stood
in the opening.
“They tell me Mr. Grant has been here. Does he stay to dinner?”
“No, he has an engagement at the hotel, but he will probably drop in
later. Come in, Clemmy, I want to talk to you. Shut the door and sit
down.”
She slipped in quietly, shut the door, took a seat on the sofa, softly
smoothed down her gown, and turned her graceful head and serenely
composed face towards him. Sitting thus she looked like some finely
finished painting that decorated rather than belonged to the room,--not
only distinctly alien to the flesh and blood relative before her, but
to the house, and even the local, monotonous landscape beyond the window
with the shining new shingles and chimneys that cut the new blue sky.
These singular perfections seemed to increase in Harcourt's mind the
exasperating sense of injury inflicted upon him by 'Lige's exposures.
With a daughter so incomparably gifted,--a matchless creation that was
enough in herself to ennoble that fortune which his own skill and genius
had lifted from the muddy tules of Tasajara where this 'Lige had left
it,--that SHE should be subjected to this annoyance seemed an infamy
that Providence could not allow! What was his mere venial transgression
to this exaggerated retribution?
“Clemmy, girl, I'm going to ask you a question. Listen, pet.” He had
begun with a reminiscent tenderness of the epoch of her childhood, but
meeting the unresponding maturity of her clear eyes he abandoned it.
“You know, Clementina, I have never interfered in your affairs, nor
tried to influence your friendships for anybody. Whatever people may
have to say of me they can't say that! I've always trusted you, as I
would myself, to choose your own associates; I have never regretted it,
and I don't regret it now. But I'd like to know--I have reasons to-day
for asking--how matters stand between you and Grant.”
The Parian head of Minerva on the bookcase above her did not offer the
spectator a face less free from maidenly confusion than Clementina's
at that moment. Her father had certainly expected none, but he was not
prepared for the perfect coolness of her reply.
“Do you mean, have I ACCEPTED him?”
“No,--well--yes.”
“No, then! Is that what he wished to see you about? It was understood
that he was not to allude again to the subject to any one.”
“He has not to ME. It was only my own idea. He had something very
different to tell me. You may not know, Clementina,” he begun
cautiously, “that I have been lately the subject of some anonymous
slanders, and Grant has taken the trouble to track them down for me. It
is a calumny that goes back as far as Sidon, and I may want your level
head and good memory to help me to refute it.” He then repeated calmly
and clearly, with no trace of the fury that had raged within him a
moment before, the substance of Grant's revelation.
The young girl listened without apparent emotion. When he had finished
she said quickly: “And what do you want me to recollect?”
The hardest part of Harcourt's task was coming. “Well, don't you
remember that I told you the day the surveyors went away--that--I had
bought this land of 'Lige Curtis some time before?”
“Yes, I remember your saying so, but”--
“But what?”
“I thought you only meant that to satisfy mother.”
Daniel Harcourt felt the blood settling round his heart, but he was
constrained by an irresistible impulse to know the worst. “Well, what
did YOU think it really was?”
“I only thought that 'Lige Curtis had simply let you have it, that's
all.”
Harcourt breathed again. “But what for? Why should he?”
“Well--ON MY ACCOUNT.”
“On YOUR account! What in Heaven's name had YOU to do with it?”
“He loved me.” There was not the slightest trace of vanity,
self-consciousness or coquetry in her quiet, fateful face, and for this
very reason Harcourt knew that she was speaking the truth.
“Loved YOU!--you, Clementina!--my daughter! Did he ever TELL you so?”
“Not in words. He used to walk up and down on the road when I was at the
back window or in the garden, and often hung about the bank of the creek
for hours, like some animal. I don't think the others saw him, and when
they did they thought it was Parmlee for Euphemia. Even Euphemia thought
so too, and that was why she was so conceited and hard to Parmlee
towards the end. She thought it was Parmlee that night when Grant and
Rice came; but it was 'Lige Curtis who had been watching the window
lights in the rain, and who must have gone off at last to speak to
you in the store. I always let Phemie believe that it was Parmlee,--it
seemed to please her.”
There was not the least tone of mischief or superiority, or even of
patronage in her manner. It was as quiet and cruel as the fate that
might have led 'Lige to his destruction. Even her father felt a slight
thrill of awe as she paused. “Then he never really spoke to you?” he
asked hurriedly.
“Only once. I was gathering swamp lilies all alone, a mile below the
bend of the creek, and he came upon me suddenly. Perhaps it was that I
didn't jump or start--I didn't see anything to jump or start at--that he
said, 'You're not frightened at me, Miss Harcourt, like the other girls?
You don't think I'm drunk or half mad--as they do?' I don't remember
exactly what I said, but it meant that whether he was drunk or half mad
or sober I didn't see any reason to be afraid of him. And then he told
me that if I was fond of swamp lilies I might have all I wanted at his
place, and for the matter of that the place too, as he was going away,
for he couldn't stand the loneliness any longer. He said that he had
nothing in common with the place and the people--no more than I had--and
that was what he had always fancied in me. I told him that if he felt
in that way about his place he ought to leave it, or sell it to some one
who cared for it, and go away. That must have been in his mind when he
offered it to you,--at least that's what I thought when you told us you
had bought it. I didn't know but what he might have told you, but you
didn't care to say it before mother.”
Mr. Harcourt sat gazing at her with breathless amazement. “And
you--think that--'Lige Curtis--lov--liked you?”
“Yes, I think he did--and that he does now!”
“NOW! What do you mean? The man is dead!” said Harcourt starting.
“That's just what I don't believe.”
“Impossible! Think of what you are saying.”
“I never could quite understand or feel that he was dead when everybody
said so, and now that I've heard this story I KNOW that he is living.”
“But why did he not make himself known in time to claim the property?”
“Because he did not care for it.”
“What did he care for, then?”
“Me, I suppose.”
“But this calumny is not like a man who loves you.”
“It is like a JEALOUS one.”
With an effort Harcourt threw off his bewildered incredulity and grasped
the situation. He would have to contend with his enemy in the flesh and
blood, but that flesh and blood would be very weak in the hands of the
impassive girl beside him. His face lightened.
The same idea might have been in Clementina's mind when she spoke again,
although her face had remained unchanged. “I do not see why YOU should
bother yourself further about it,” she said. “It is only a matter
between myself and him; you can leave it to me.”
“But if you are mistaken and he should not be living?”
“I am not mistaken. I am even certain now that I have seen him.”
“Seen him!”
“Yes,” said the girl with the first trace of animation in her face.
“It was four or five months ago when we were visiting the Briones at
Monterey. We had ridden out to the old Mission by moonlight. There were
some Mexicans lounging around the posada, and one of them attracted my
attention by the way he seemed to watch me, without revealing any more
of his face than I could see between his serape and the black silk
handkerchief that was tied around his head under his sombrero. But I
knew he was an American--and his eyes were familiar. I believe it was
he.”
“Why did you not speak of it before?”
The look of animation died out of the girl's face. “Why should I?” she
said listlessly. “I did not know of these reports then. He was nothing
more to us. You wouldn't have cared to see him again.” She rose,
smoothed out her skirt and stood looking at her father. “There is one
thing, of course, that you'll do at once.”
Her voice had changed so oddly that he said quickly: “What's that?”
“Call Grant off the scent. He'll only frighten or exasperate your game,
and that's what you don't want.”
Her voice was as imperious as it had been previously listless. And it
was the first time he had ever known her to use slang.
It seemed as startling as if it had fallen from the marble lips above
him.
“But I've promised him that we should go together to my lawyer
to-morrow, and begin a suit against the proprietors of the 'Clarion.'”
“Do nothing of the kind. Get rid of Grant's assistance in this matter;
and see the 'Clarion' proprietor yourself. What sort of a man is he? Can
you invite him to your house?”
“I have never seen him; I believe he lives at San Jose. He is a wealthy
man and a large land owner there. You understand that after the first
article appeared in his paper, and I knew that he had employed your
brother--although Grant says that he had nothing to do with it and left
Fletcher on account of it--I could have no intercourse with him. Even if
I invited him he would not come.”
“He MUST come. Leave it to ME.” She stopped and resumed her former
impassive manner. “I had something to say to you too, father. Mr.
Shipley proposed to me the day we went to San Mateo.”
Her father's eyes lit with an eager sparkle. “Well,” he said quickly.
“I reminded him that I had known him only a few weeks, and that I wanted
time to consider.”
“Consider! Why, Clemmy, he's one of the oldest Boston families, rich
from his father and grandfather--rich when I was a shopkeeper and your
mother”--
“I thought you liked Grant?” she said quietly.
“Yes, but if YOU have no choice nor feeling in the matter, why Shipley
is far the better man. And if any of the scandal should come to his
ears”--
“So much the better that the hesitation should come from me. But if you
think it better, I can sit down here and write to him at once declining
the offer.” She moved towards the desk.
“No! No! I did not mean that,” said Harcourt quickly. “I only thought
that if he did hear anything it might be said that he had backed out.”
“His sister knows of his offer, and though she don't like it nor me, she
will not deny the fact. By the way, you remember when she was lost that
day on the road to San Mateo?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she was with your son, John Milton, all the time, and they
lunched together at Crystal Spring. It came out quite accidentally
through the hotel-keeper.”
Harcourt's brow darkened. “Did she know him before?”
“I can't say; but she does now.”
Harcourt's face was heavy with distrust. “Taking Shipley's offer and
these scandals into consideration, I don't like the look of this,
Clementina.”
“I do,” said the girl simply.
Harcourt gazed at her keenly and with the shadow of distrust still upon
him. It seemed to be quite impossible, even with what he knew of her
calmly cold nature, that she should be equally uninfluenced by Grant or
Shipley. Had she some steadfast, lofty ideal, or perhaps some already
absorbing passion of which he knew nothing? She was not a girl to betray
it--they would only know it when it was too late. Could it be possible
that there was still something between her and 'Lige that he knew
nothing of? The thought struck a chill to his breast. She was walking
towards the door, when he recalled himself with an effort.
“If you think it advisable to see Fletcher, you might run down to San
Jose for a day or two with your mother, and call on the Ramirez.
They may know him or somebody who does. Of course if YOU meet him and
casually invite him it would be different.”
“It's a good idea,” she said quickly. “I'll do it, and speak to mother
now.”
He was struck by the change in her face and voice; they had both
nervously lightened, as oddly and distinctly as they had before seemed
to grow suddenly harsh and aggressive. She passed out of the room with
girlish brusqueness, leaving him alone with a new and vague fear in his
consciousness.
A few hours later Clementina was standing before the window of the
drawing-room that overlooked the outskirts of the town. The moonlight
was flooding the vast bluish Tasajara levels with a faint lustre, as if
the waters of the creek had once more returned to them. In the shadow of
the curtain beside her Grant was facing her with anxious eyes.
“Then I must take this as your final answer, Clementina?”
“You must. And had I known of these calumnies before, had you been frank
with me even the day we went to San Mateo, my answer would have been as
final then, and you might have been spared any further suspense. I am
not blaming you, Mr. Grant; I am willing to believe that you thought
it best to conceal this from me,--even at that time when you had just
pledged yourself to find out its truth or falsehood,--yet my answer
would have been the same. So long as this stain rests on my father's
name I shall never allow that name to be coupled with yours in marriage
or engagement; nor will my pride or yours allow us to carry on a simple
friendship after this. I thank you for your offer of assistance, but
I cannot even accept that which might to others seem to allow some
contingent claim. I would rather believe that when you proposed this
inquiry and my father permitted it, you both knew that it put an end to
any other relations between us.”
“But, Clementina, you are wrong, believe me! Say that I have been
foolish, indiscreet, mad,--still the few who knew that I made these
inquiries on your father's behalf know nothing of my hopes of YOU!”
“But I do, and that is enough for me.”
Even in the hopeless preoccupation of his passion he suddenly looked
at her with something of his old critical scrutiny. But she stood there
calm, concentrated, self-possessed and upright. Yes! it was possible
that the pride of this Southwestern shopkeepers daughter was greater
than his own.
“Then you banish me, Clementina?”
“It is we whom YOU have banished.”
“Good-night.”
“Good-by.”
He bent for an instant over her cold hand, and then passed out into the
hall. She remained listening until the front door closed behind him.
Then she ran swiftly through the hall and up the staircase, with an
alacrity that seemed impossible to the stately goddess of a moment
before. When she had reached her bedroom and closed the door, so
exuberant still and so uncontrollable was her levity and action, that
without going round the bed which stood before her in the centre of
the room, she placed her two hands upon it and lightly vaulted sideways
across it to reach the window. There she watched the figure of Grant
crossing the moonlit square. Then turning back into the half-lit room,
she ran to the small dressing-glass placed at an angle on a toilet table
against the wall. With her palms grasping her knees she stooped
down suddenly and contemplated the mirror. It showed what no one but
Clementina had ever seen,--and she herself only at rare intervals,--the
laughing eyes and soul of a self-satisfied, material-minded, ordinary
country-girl!