Already Arthur was pulling off the bedding and piling it upon the floor.
They stood back of him in an excited group, every head craned forward to
watch his movements.
Off came the pillows—blankets—sheets—finally the mattress. This last, a
thin cotton affair, left a trail of fuzzy, lint-like debris behind it
and disclosed on removal a canvas cover that had been spread underneath.
The canvas, which was about on a level with the boxed-in bed frame, was
as full of holes as a Swiss cheese and especially toward the center the
weave had become disintegrated and given away to a dusty pulp.
“Rats!” exclaimed Uncle John, whose head was thrust between the
shoulders of the major and Runyon.
As if his cry had been a summons, out sprang a huge gray rodent and the
girls pushed back with loud screams as the dreaded beast struck the
floor and scurried away down the passage. Another and another followed
it, and now Louise, Patsy, Beth, Mildred and Inez were all dancing on
top the seats, wrapping their skirts about their ankles and whooping
like a tribe of Indians.
Amid this wild hullabaloo, which struck terror to the hearts of the
brave men assembled, because at the instant they were too bewildered to
realize what caused it, some six or eight monstrous rats leaped from the
tattered canvas which covered the bed and vanished down the stairs.
Arthur put his hand down to raise the canvas and jumped back as he
unearthed a nest of smaller vermin, squirming here and there in blind
endeavors to escape their disturbers. Runyon brought a deep brass bowl
from a shelf and dumped the small rats into it, standing by to capture
others as they appeared.
Gradually Weldon drew back the cover and as he did so the truth of
Runyon’s prophecy was apparent. The entire space boxed in by the carved
bed-frame, from the floor to its upper edge, was packed solidly with
valuable laces. That is, it had once been solidly packed, but now the
rats had eaten tunnels and nests and boulevards through the costly laces
in every direction. It was a scene of absolute ruin. However precious
this collection might once have been, in its present state it was not
worth a copper cent.
The party gazed upon the sight with mingled awe and astonishment. Regret
for the destruction of the beautiful fabrics at first rendered them
oblivious to the fact that the inheritance of Mildred Leighton was at
last recovered—only to be proved worthless.
Arthur dragged out a few scraps and spread them upon the floor, thereby
exhibiting portions of the beautiful patterns of the various pieces.
Then, hoping to find some that had escaped the ruthless teeth of the
rats, he and Runyon began pulling at the heap and working downward
toward the floor. Just a few small pieces were found intact, but these
were of slight value. Practically the entire lot was irretrievably
ruined.
Scarcely a word was spoken as the investigation proceeded. Beth had
clasped one of Mildred’s hands and Patsy the other, but neither dared
look in the poor girl’s face, for they dreaded the poignant
disappointment sure to reign there.
But after the first shock, Mildred bore up bravely. She had not
expected, in the beginning, any tangible result; still it was very
bitter to find her long sought fortune and realize that it amounted to
nothing.
They sat around upon the benches, or leaning against the wall, and
stared at the ruined laces with various emotions, the keenest being
regret for the loss of so much beautiful handwork and sympathy for
Mildred Leighton.
Suddenly Runyon broke the silence.
“This discovery is too thundering bad for mere words,” he said with
feeling; “but Miss Travers—Mildred—must know we’re all as sorry as she
is. She was right about the laces, but the laces are all wrong. This sad
exhibit reminds me of my own perverse mortgages, and my mortgages remind
me of something else. Mildred,” he added, turning to the girl in a
dogged and rather shamefaced way, “I’m going to hold a private
conversation with you right here before our good friends, for I know
every one of them will back me up. Eh?” he questioned, glancing around
the group.
There were some smiles, but many nods. As if encouraged, Runyon
proceeded:
“This settles the question of your fortune. It’s gone—vanished into
scraps. You’re a poor girl, now, with no glittering prospects, so what
I’m going to say won’t seem quite so selfish as it would otherwise. In
fact, had these laces been perfect, they would have rendered me dumb. As
it is, here stand two impecunious ones—you and I. Between us we haven’t
much more than enough to fry a fish, in solid cash, but among my
encumbrances are a delightful little bungalow, nicely furnished, and a
lot of lemon trees that can be coaxed to buy us groceries and ordinary
comforts. I’m a lonely fellow, Mildred, and I need a companion. Will you
marry me, and look after that bungalow?”
This extraordinary proposal was heard in breathless silence. The men
were astounded, the girls delighted. Every eye turned curiously upon
Mildred Travers, who regarded the big rancher with frank wonder, a wan
smile upon her pallid features.
“You do not say you love me,” she suggested, striving through mild
banter to cover her confusion.
“Well, isn’t that implied?” he answered. “No one would propose to a girl
he didn’t love, would he?”
“You have only known me two days.”
“Two days and seven hours. But mother endorsed you and I’ll bank on her
judgment.”
“When the mortgages come due, there won’t be any bungalow,” she
continued.
“Don’t you believe it,” cried Runyon, earnestly. “With you to work for,
I’ll make those tart old lemons pay the interest and a good income
besides. In fact, if we live long enough, we may even manage to reduce
the mortgages. You see, I’ve been extravagant and foolish, but it was
because I had no aim in life. The minute you say ‘yes,’ I’m a reformed
character.”
She shook her head and the smile faded from her face.
“Don’t think me ungrateful, Mr. Runyon,” she said quietly. “Unusual
and—and—peculiar—as this proposal is, I believe you are sincere in what
you say. But you are influenced just now by pity for me and I assure you
I am quite capable of earning my own living.”
“But—oh, Mildred—he’s so lonely,” cried Patsy, impulsively.
“I’m sorry for that,” she said, “but it is not my fault.”
“It will be, though, if you refuse,” declared Runyon.
“I fear I must.”
“I see,” he said with a sigh. “Mother endorsed you, but she didn’t
endorse me. You’ve heard some tough yarns about me—all true as
gospel—and you’re prejudiced. I don’t know as I blame you. If I were a
girl I’d hesitate to reform such a desperate character, I’m sure. But
I’ve the notion there’s the making of a decent fellow in me, if the
right workman undertakes the job.”
She looked at him earnestly, now—very earnestly. In spite of the squeaky
voice and the inopportune time he had chosen for such a serious
proposal, there was an innate manliness and ingenuousness in his
attitude, as he stood there unabashed and towering above the other men,
that seemed to her admirable and impressive. Both Beth and Patsy were
reflecting that a girl might do much worse than to accept Bulwer Runyon
as a mate.
Said Mildred, still speaking in the same quiet and composed voice:
“I will give you a positive answer in three days, Mr. Runyon. That delay
is mere justice to us both.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Shall we fuss with these tattered laces any
longer? It hardly seems worth while.”
Now that the strain of the situation was removed they all began
chattering volubly in order to give countenance to Mildred. Runyon
seemed not to need such consideration.
Old Miguel had witnessed and overheard this scene from the background
and his bright black eyes had roamed restlessly from the girl’s face to
Runyon’s as if trying to read their true feelings. The discovery of the
laces had not drawn any exclamation from the ancient ranchero, whose
stolid expression nothing seemed able to disturb. As the others filed
down the stairs and out of the recess in the wall, into the roomy
nursery, old Miguel followed imperturbable and serene as ever. In the
court he touched his hat to his master.
“I go now, Meest Weld?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you, Miguel, for your help.”
“I thank you, too,” said Mildred, stepping forward to take the Mexican’s
hand. “I remember you well, Miguel. In the old days you often took care
of me while my father and Señor Cristoval talked. Don’t you remember?”
He nodded, his eyes fixed full upon her face.
“Once a friend, always a friend, Miguel,” she continued brightly. “Even
to-day you have been trying to help me, and I am grateful. Some time we
will have a good talk together about the old days.”
Then he went away, and if one who knew old Miguel Zaloa could have
followed him, his actions would have caused surprise.
First he wandered deep into the orange groves, where—when absolutely
alone—he began muttering excitedly. At times he would kick his booted
foot viciously against a tree-trunk, regardless of the impact that
numbed his toes and sent a tingle up his legs. After a time this
remarkable exhibit of passion subsided and for the period of half an
hour he stood quite motionless, staring straight before him and seeing
nothing. Then he started off through the groves, climbed the fence into
the lane and marched away through miles and miles of the surrounding
country.
It was growing dark when Miguel at last appeared at the quarters,
growling at the men and ordering them to get into the groves and work.
They marked his ill temper and took care not to arouse his further
anger. In the morning he was up at daybreak and in more gentle mood
directed the beginning of the day’s labors.