Mildred had hastened upstairs in alarm at the pandemonium of sound her
own cry had aroused, for the baby’s screams also gave back a thousand
echoes and these sent the little one into fresh paroxysms of terror.
“This won’t do, at all,” she said anxiously, when baby Jane had sobbed
herself into a doze, with the bottle to comfort her. “If we scream again
it will frighten the child to death.”
“Perhaps they have heard us,” suggested Inez, rocking Jane to and fro in
her arms.
“Perhaps. Let us hope so,” sighed Mildred.
Presently she went over to the couch and examined the condition of the
bedding. The linen sheets had withstood the years very well, but the
blankets and coverlets had a musty smell. She spread some of these out
to air and then went back and sat beside Inez.
Together they watched the light fade until the narrow space was full of
creeping shadows. The air began to grow chilly, so Mildred arranged the
couch and they laid baby Jane upon it, covered her snugly with a blanket
and drew the silk curtain to shield her eyes from the glare of the
candles. They had lighted several of these, placing them in heavy brass
candlesticks which they found ranged upon the shelves. Each of the girls
took a blanket and folded it about her and then they sat down together
to await their fate as patiently as they could.
They both realized, by this time, that their dilemma was likely to prove
serious. Not a sound from within the house penetrated the adobe walls of
their prison. They were unable to tell if their whereabout had yet been
discovered.
“I think it best to wait until morning before we make any further effort
to be heard,” said Mildred. “Our cries would only distract baby and if
our screams have not already attracted notice it would be folly to
continue them. Anyway, let us try to be brave and patient. Something may
happen to save us, before morning.”
Even by the flickering candle-light the place was awesome and uncanny.
Inez crept closer to Mildred’s side, quite forgetting her former
aversion for her companion. Because the sound of their own voices lent
them a certain degree of courage they conversed together in low tones,
talking on any subject that occurred to them.
At one time Inez broke an oppressive stillness by saying:
“Tell me about yourself—when you were a girl. And why did you leave here
to go to New York?”
Mildred regarded the girl musingly. She felt a strong temptation to
speak, to confide in some one.
“Will you keep my secret, Inez?” she asked.
“Yes; of course. I do not tell all I know,” was the reply.
“If you told, it would drive me away from here,” said Mildred.
Inez gave a start, remembering that a few hours ago she would have done
anything to drive Mildred away. But, somehow, she had come to regard her
companion in misfortune more favorably. A bond of sympathy had been
established between them by this terrible experience they were now
undergoing. Whatever their fate might be, Inez could not hate Mildred
after this.
“I do not wish to drive you away,” she asserted in a positive voice. “I
will not tell your secret.”
For a time Mildred mused silently, as if considering how to begin.
“My mother died when I was a baby,” said she. “She was a Travers and
lived on a ranch near here.”
“I know the Travers Ranch,” said Inez quickly. “But no Travers have live
there in a long time.”
“My mother lived there,” continued Mildred, “until she married my
father. Indeed, she lived there several years after, for I was born in
the ranch house. But my mother’s people—the Traverses—did not like my
father, and when mother died he took me away to a house in Escondido. I
think he was sent away, and the family sold the ranch and went back to
England, where they had originally come from.
“In Escondido an old Mexican woman kept house for us. She was named
Izbel.”
“Ah!” cried Inez, nodding her head wisely; “I know.” Then, as Mildred
looked at her questioningly, she added: “Go on.”
“My father was away from home much of the time. He traveled, and
sometimes he took me with him into Mexico, and we went as far south as
Matanzas, and once to Mexico City. That was when I was quite small, and
I do not remember much about it. But often we came here to visit Señor
Cristoval, with whom he had some secret business. I have seen him give
my father big bags of golden coins, although everyone said he was a
miser. I remember that at one time my father hid in this very wall for a
day and a night, and officers came to the house and searched it, saying
they were looking for a smuggler and had traced him here.
“But Señor Cristoval laughed at them and told them to examine the house
thoroughly. This they did, and went away satisfied. Afterward my father
came out of the wall and took me across the country to San Bernardino,
where we stayed at a friend’s house for several days. Finally Señor
Cristoval came there to visit us and I heard him tell my father it would
not be safe for him to return home and advised him to go far away. He
also gave my father much money, and one curious thing which he said to
him I never forgot. ‘I will keep your fortune safely until you need it,’
was his remark. ‘I will hide it where no one will ever find it, any more
than they could find you.’”
“Ah! then he hid your father’s fortune in this place?” cried Inez
eagerly. Then her face fell. “But, no,” she added. “We have look, and
there is no fortune here.”
Mildred sighed and continued her tale.
“After this Señor Cristoval shook my father’s hand, and kissed me—for he
was always fond of me—and went away. I never saw him again. My father
and I traveled to New York and as I was then eleven years of age I
became much troubled over our exile and begged to be told why it was not
safe for us to stay in California. He explained to me that he had
purchased laces and other goods in Mexico and brought them into the
United States secretly, without paying the duty which the robbing
government officials imposed. For that he said he was liable to be
arrested and put in prison, and if I ever allowed the secret to escape
me I would be the means of ruining him. I was a very sensitive child,
and the importance of this great secret weighed upon me heavily. My
father declared he had done no wrong, but I knew that the officers of
the law were constantly searching for him and it so crushed me and
destroyed my happiness that at twelve years of age I was as nervous, as
suspicious and evasive as any old woman could be.”
She paused and gave a little shudder. Said Inez, who had listened
intently:
“I know now who you are. Your name is Mildred Leighton.”
“You know that!” cried Mildred, amazed.
“Of course I know that, when I know your father was the great smuggler
that the officers never could catch. I am told many stories about
Leighton the smuggler, and old Izbel, who kept his house, is my aunt.
Old Izbel say Señor Cristoval give Leighton the money to buy with, and
Leighton give Señor Cristoval, who love money so much, half of all he
make. But no one could ever prove that. Leighton was very clever man. No
one could ever catch him.”
Inez spoke admiringly, as if Mildred’s father was a hero and Mildred had
gained added prestige by being his daughter. But the other girl frowned
and continued her story.
“In New York,” she said, “we lived in a boarding house and I was sent to
school. My father was not kind to me any more. He grew cross and gloomy
and often would say if I told his secret he would kill me. I did not
tell; I kept the secret safe locked in my heart and suffered agonies of
apprehension for his sake, for I still loved him fondly. He now bought a
little ship and began to make sea voyages to and from Cuba. He would not
let me go with him and he only swore when I tried to get him to give up
the wicked and dangerous life he was leading. Often he denounced
Cristoval, who had in his possession valuable goods and money belonging
to my father but would not give them up because he knew my father dared
not go to California to get them.
“For years father continued to smuggle without being suspected. Then one
morning I received a note asking me to come to the prison to see him.
They had caught him at last and seized his ship, and he said there had
been a fight in which several of the government agents had been shot,
and one killed. My father did not shoot, he told me, but they would
blame him for everything.
“He stayed in the prison for a month, and every day I went to see him.
Then came the trial and he was sentenced to prison for life. They—they
proved that he ordered his men to shoot,” she added, lowering her head
as if ashamed.
“Well, that was right,” maintained Inez, cheerfully. “If they try to
arrest him, Leighton was right to shoot.”
“No, Inez, he was very wrong,” replied Mildred sadly. “I would never be
allowed to see my father after he was taken away, so they let us talk
for the last time. He told me they had taken away all his money and he
had nothing to give me, but that if I could manage to get to California
old Señor Cristoval owed him much money and—and other things, and
perhaps he would give it to me, although he had refused to give it to my
father. Afterward they took him away to Sing Sing prison, and that was
the last I ever saw of him, for a year later he died.
“I do not suppose, Inez, any girl was ever left with such a heritage of
shame and trouble. You think me hard and cold; but can you blame me?
Always I think some one will discover my secret, that they will say I am
the daughter of Leighton the smuggler and point the finger of shame at
me.
“I was a friendless girl with no money. The people at the boarding house
would not let me remain and I took my little bundle and wandered out
into the street in search of home and employment. It was then that a
kind lady, a Mrs. Runyon, had pity on me and put me into a school for
nurses. I was fifteen years old and big and strong for my age. At
seventeen I was nursing in a charity hospital, but my father’s disgrace
had made me an outcast and prevented my obtaining situations with good
families. Mrs. Runyon tried to help me but my story was too well known.
I changed my name from Leighton to Travers, but even that did not bring
me better luck.
“For two years longer I worked for a bare pittance, and then suddenly a
ray of sunshine appeared. Miss De Graf came to the hospital where I was
caring for an injured child and offered me a position with her cousin
out here in California, where I had known the happiest days of my life.
More than that, I found to my joy that I was coming directly to the old
Cristoval house, for although Señor Cristoval was long since dead—as I
had found out by writing him—I remembered the secret rooms and hoped I
might find at least a part of my father’s fortune still hidden there.
“Well,” she added after a pause, “these are the rooms, and there is
nothing of value left in them; this is the old Cristoval home, where my
father was forced to hide from the law; this is the country where the
officers hounded the hated smuggler like a dog and finally drove him
away. And here is the girl, Inez, who has passed through all these
scenes and to-day finds nothing in life worth living for.”
Inez took her hand, shyly but tenderly.
“Meeldred,” she said softly, “perhaps your life will end here. It will
be strange, will it not, if that is so? But if we cannot get out, it
makes a good story to die in this old den of the smuggler, your father.
I will die with you; but I do not mind—much. But Mees Jane—”
She broke off with a wail of anguish and Mildred said hastily:
“Inez, we must save the baby! And, if we do, we shall also save
ourselves. Come; you, at least, have much to live for. You will care for
the baby after I have gone far away, and you will be glad, then, that
the hated Mildred is out of your life.”
“But I do not hate you any more!” cried the Mexican girl protestingly.
“I like you now, Meeldred. We will be friends, an’ we will be happy
together, if—if—”
“If what, Inez?”
“If we live to get out of this wall.”