It was early morning when the wagon containing the wounded man, Gideon,
Jack Hamlin, and the surgeon crept slowly through the streets of
Martinez and stopped before the door of the "Palmetto Shades." The
upper floor of this saloon and hostelry was occupied by Mr. Hamlin as
his private lodgings, and was fitted up with the usual luxury and more
than the usual fastidiousness of his extravagant class. As the dusty
and travel-worn party trod the soft carpets and brushed aside their
silken hangings in their slow progress with their helpless burden to
the lace-canopied and snowy couch of the young gambler, it seemed
almost a profanation of some feminine seclusion. Gideon, to whom such
luxury was unknown, was profoundly troubled. The voluptuous ease and
sensuousness, the refinements of a life of irresponsible indulgence,
affected him with a physical terror to which in his late moment of real
peril he had been a stranger; the gilding and mirrors blinded his eyes;
even the faint perfume seemed to him an unhallowed incense, and turned
him sick and giddy. Accustomed as he had been to disease and misery in
its humblest places and meanest surroundings, the wounded desperado
lying in laces and fine linen seemed to him monstrous and unnatural.
It required all his self-abnegation, all his sense of duty, all his
deep pity, and all the instinctive tact which was born of his gentle
thoughtfulness for others, to repress a shrinking. But when the
miserable cause of all again opened his eyes and sought Gideon's hand,
he forgot it all. Happily, Hamlin, who had been watching him with
wondering but critical eyes, mistook his concern. "Don't you worry
about that gin-mill and hash-gymnasium downstairs," he said. "I've
given the proprietor a thousand dollars to shut up shop as long as this
thing lasts." That this was done from some delicate sense of respect to
the preacher's domiciliary presence, and not entirely to secure
complete quiet and seclusion for the invalid, was evident from the fact
that Mr. Hamlin's drawing and dining rooms, and even the hall, were
filled with eager friends and inquirers. It was discomposing to Gideon
to find himself almost an equal subject of interest and curiosity to
the visitors. The story of his simple devotion had lost nothing by
report; hats were doffed in his presence that might have grown to their
wearers' heads; the boldest eyes dropped as he passed by; he had only
to put his pale face out of the bedroom door and the loudest
discussion, heated by drink or affection, fell to a whisper. The
surgeon, who had recognized the one dominant wish of the hopelessly
sinking man, gravely retired, leaving Gideon a few simple instructions
and directions for their use. "He'll last as long as he has need of
you," he said respectfully. "My art is only second here. God help you
both! When he wakes, make the most of your time."
In a few moments he did waken, and as before turned his fading look
almost instinctively on the faithful, gentle eyes that were watching
him. How Gideon made the most of his time did not transpire, but at
the end of an hour, when the dying man had again lapsed into
unconsciousness, he softly opened the door of the sitting-room.
Hamlin started hastily to his feet. He had cleared the room of his
visitors, and was alone. He turned a moment towards the window before
he faced Gideon with inquiring but curiously-shining eyes.
"Well?" he said, hesitatingly.
"Do you know Kate Somers?" asked Gideon.