THE WALK HOME
CLAUDIA MARSHALL sat at the head of her stately table in the _Palmyra_,
mute as a statue but for the burning eyes which followed her Tod.
To Innes, her guest, she was renewing the impression of heroic
resignation. It was a tragic presence, of brooding solicitude.
Not easy to believe that this was once the most vivacious coquette
of Guadalajara! The American girl had often wondered if it had been
Tod Marshall’s sentence, only, which had changed the butterfly into
a gentle martyr. Listening to her brilliant host, she let her mind
wander to the silent woman near her. What was it she was mourning, her
position in San Francisco, the honors her Tod had had to relinquish?
Was worldliness, thwarted ambition, her sorrow? Then why didn’t she
enjoy the distinctions he poured into her seemingly indifferent hands,
those busy fingers knitting, knitting, paying no attention to the
labels he won? She might have made a splendid circle, herself the
center, if that _was_ the thing she loved. Eduardo had told her once,
in relating the family history, that the instant Tod Marshall had risen
in Claudia Cardenas’ sky, the coquette of Guadalajara had left her old
orbit; she herself, forever a satellite, to this new sun. But that
could not have silenced her vivacity, thrown that burning fire into
her tragic eyes!
“I saw Cor’nel to-day, mother!” Innes caught the opportunity to glance
at her. She had her first intuition. Claudia had flinched! “_Mother?_”
“That’s a character, Miss Innes! Have you talked with him?”
“With him!” echoed Innes. “_To_ him! Will he talk?”
“Ah, we are cousins, brothers!” chuckled her host. And then her
discovery intrigued her; she could hear the words of Tod Marshall; he
was telling anecdotes of the old Indian; faintly, she heard him--“As a
fly to molasses, is Cor’nel to the river;” but her subterranean thought
was with the woman at the head of the table. Childlessness! Of course.
How was it that she had never sensed it before! That her sentence, her
renunciation. And he calls her “mother!”
A phrase of Marshall’s caught her. “A Yuma, Cor’nel? I always thought
him a Cocopah.”
Marshall’s fine head was thrown back in laughter. “Too much work,
Yuma!” He was mimicking the old Indian’s laconic brevities. “Marry
Cocopah. Go live Cocopah. No work, Cocopah!”
Mrs. Marshall, it struck Innes, was hastening the dinner. She overheard
her sending back a course. “It’s too much, Tony!” And as the coffee
was being passed, she could not wait longer to open her work-bag
which she had carried to the table. Her steel needles began to “put
in” the sleeve of an infant sack; white soft worsted, with a scallop
of blue wool. The work did not absorb her attention. Seemingly, she
was engrossed in her Tod. Though her fingers never faltered, her
gaze followed him. Tragically centered it was to Innes Hardin; her
discovery accenting that sad stare which had the persistence of polar
attraction. He was her universe, of apprehension, rather than her
joy. And the girl, watching, found a pitiful thought; he was also her
limitation; her fond sentence. Loving him; fearing for him; having life
and love meet, and end in him!
No definite horizon, in truth, here, save as her husband made, or rose
above it. The world, as related to him only, came to Claudia in her
Tucson hotel, or her box rooms in the _Palmyra_. Her other interest,
the orphanage of Santa Rosalia at Tucson; for whose babies she cut and
sewed and sent an interminable procession of tiny garments.
Priestly counsel had turned her to vicarious motherhood. The priests,
never her Tod, had heard her complaints of her abridged life. The blow
that had sent Tod Marshall to the desert, had forbade her motherhood
She was overflowing with maternal passion. And the doctors and priests
told her that resignation, consecration, life in a minor key, soft
pedal pressed, was the price she must pay for her few happy months
of wifehood. Into her eyes had come the look that Innes had found
tantalizing; the gaze of fervent abridgment.
She had never grown to feel at ease with her husband’s countrywomen;
and they could not understand her gulf of silence. The nearest approach
to a woman friendship was with Innes Hardin, and this, without a bridge
of speech. There had been many terrible hours before the orphans’
call had been heard. Then, those her Tod did not fill, she learned to
crochet into soft baby-smelling jackets for the Santa Rosalia babies.
Some day, perhaps, she might be brave enough to approach Tod with her
plea; perhaps he might let her take one of those helpless darlings.
To do that, she must lay bare her ache to him--not yet had she found
the daring. Until then, the Santa Rosalia Orphanage! Her room at the
Rosales Hotel was lined with work-boxes and knitting bags filled with
tender rainbow wools. Unsewn slips lay in snowy piles waiting for
Tod’s days of absence. They needed her undivided attention; he liked
to see her listening to him. She had learned to crochet with her eyes
shut that she might work without distracting him. The balls of wool
lost their baby fragrance in the fumes of his tobacco; that the one
dissipation she did not protest against. Late hours, excitement, might
abridge the life she so passionately policed; but she would not demand
the sacrifice of his cigar. The babies must have their sacques; so
lavender sticks and sachet bags made a fumigating compromise.
Claudia could not lessen her sorrow by sharing it. Only by a flash of
intuition could Innes have penetrated her secret. Divined, it chained
her sympathy. Her look listening to Tod Marshall, her memory gathered
pitiful evidence of the renunciation. Dull, never to have felt it
before!
Marshall’s cigar followed the coffee. Tony, the white-capped Italian
cook of the _Palmyra_, was removing the cups. Innes was carrying her
double interest, listening to Tod Marshall’s broad sweep, getting a
new view-point as he minimized the local scheme--feeling that silent
presence at the head of the table.
Then something drove Claudia from her mind. What Mr. Marshall had said
swept a disturbing calcium on Tom. What if, truly, the river fiasco
could be traced to that overzealous hand? To Tom, this undertaking
blotted out the rest of related big endeavor; but that was not the
way her host was looking at it. He was too courteous to give her
discomfort; he had not said it directly. But always it met her, rose up
to smite her, wherever she was. “If this is a failure, then it’s hell
to pay at Laguna.” That the reason of the importance of this section;
as it affected other enterprise, as it was related to irrigation in the
lump. Not because it was Tom, who had started it, the general who had
conceived it--Marshall, who with his railroad was carrying it through.
Not for personal reasons; as a block of the great western activity
to fit into its place in the mosaic. More and more disturbing, her
thoughts of Tom!
Can a man change equipment, method, his entire habit of life, in a
five-minute walk from home to office? She had to meet a question of her
host. Yes, she had heard of Minodoka. Yes, it was a big undertaking.
She saw him well started toward the Salt River country before she went
back to meet her fear. Was it not egotism, personal pride, that was
making her cover her eyes, like any simple ostrich? _Her_ brother.
Assume him anybody else’s brother! Grant a man a moment of apparent
distinction given him by a distinguishing enterprise. That moment of
distinction his betrayal, unless the method of the man is big enough to
rise equal to it!
Big issues had never found this man, her host, wanting. He had pulled
opportunity from a denying fate; he had _made_ big issues. It gave her
a strange sinking of the heart as she put him in her brother’s place;
the river then would not be running into a useless sea! Because he had
the trick of success; his big opportunities did not betray him! Ah,
now she had touched the thought. It paled her pride in being a fervid
Hardin. There was a looseness in the method. The dredge fiasco--the
wild night at the levee--no isolated accidents those. Hardin’s luck!
A flush of miserable shame came to her. How they had all been trying
to spare her--Eduardo, these kindly Marshalls--MacLean! She loved Tom
just the same, just as fondly, perhaps more tenderly, even; for the
limitations of his upbringing, his education, he was not to blame!
It did not justify Gerty’s resentments--that was a personal feeling,
a craving for distinction; hers, a wistful shame that Tom, not being
equal to his opportunity, must drag it down with him, cancel forever
that vision! It must not be a failure--it must succeed! She was
turning, impulsively, to ask Tod Marshall if he thought, could he think
it probable that they would fail, when a step that sent the blood to
her face took the car’s stairs at two leaps. Now, indeed, the dinner
was spoiled.
“That’s Rickard,” Marshall came back from Salt River. “I forgot to tell
you that I asked him to dinner. He couldn’t get away. He said he’d run
in for coffee. Hello, Rickard. Thought you’d forgotten us!”
“More coffee, Tony,” ordered Mrs. Marshall, after she had greeted her
guest. “A cup for Mr. Rickard.”
She hadn’t thought of that contingency! She found herself shaking hands
with him. Could he not hear her mind, ticking away at the Maldonado
episode?
Of course, he would insist on seeing her to her tent. Punctilious,
always. Well, she just wouldn’t. She didn’t know how to prevent it, but
she just wouldn’t! Perhaps, she could slip out, some way. She would
watch her chance. She would ask Mrs. Marshall--that was it, ask to be
shown--anything. Then she would slip away. Mrs. Marshall’s needles were
clicking. Her eyes were on her Tod’s face, watching for the first sign
of fatigue. Tony carried in liqueurs. Rickard allowed his glass to be
filled, but Innes noted that he did not touch it. She remembered that
he had not refused it at her sister’s dinner. She was in a mood to carp.
“No spirits, either?” She thought she detected a mockery akin to hers
in Marshall’s tone.
“Can I do what I won’t let my men do, sir?”
“Not smoking yet, I see!”
“I think I’ve learned to dislike it, for myself--” added Rickard. “Can
I talk shop for a while?”
They withdrew to a cushioned window seat. Innes could hear bits of
their talk. Rickard, she gathered, was urging a warm protest against
a policy of his superior. She caught enough scraps to piece together
their opposition. “Reclamation Service,” “Interference,” “A clean
slate--” and then “We’re handicapped enough,” she heard Rickard say,
and then caught a quick glance in her direction.
Marshall’s answer was judicial. Again Innes got the wide view, the
broad sweep. She remembered what Eduardo Estrada had told her of
Rickard’s complications. This was what they were talking of. Marshall
advocated a hospitality to their ideas, if set; “Where it is possible.
‘Be soople, Davy, in things immaterial,’” he twinkled. “Remember your
Stevenson? Government men are a bit stilted, and we rough railroad men
can teach them a point or two, I agree with you, but we’re looking far
ahead, Rickard. And it’s all the same thing, Laguna, Imperial. If it’s
to be the same system, stands to reason they want it done their way,
eh? Can’t see it? Wait till you’re old like me.”
His Claudia looked at him with quick anxiety. He was not old. And
he looked well. Sometimes, she almost believed he _was_ well. That
terrible sword--
Innes had found her chance. She asked to be shown over the car. Mrs.
Marshall put aside her wools and led the way through Tony’s domain,
who would have had them linger. A large diamond blazing on his finger
pointed out ingenious cubby-holes and receptacles. He wanted to tell
the young lady of his wonderful luck; how he had been picked up by
Mr. Marshall--half dead in San Francisco--and brought down to the
Southwest. He had not coughed for a month. He tried to tell her of
his brilliant salary, “one hundred and fifty, Mex.,” but his mistress
abridged his confidences.
“Tony would talk all night,” she explained as she led the way back
through the sitting-room to her sleeping compartment.
Here Innes confided her plan. She wanted to slip out. “She would not
interrupt their evening; Mr. Marshall had business to discuss--”
Mrs. Marshall would not hear of it. She felt that Tod’s evening had
been long enough; that he should be in bed after his long day of
observation on the river. But she said that Mr. Marshall would never
forgive her if she let Miss Hardin go home alone. Her opposition was
softly implacable.
Innes went back to the sitting-room of the car angrily coerced. Rickard
was still closeted, conversationally, with his superior.
She endured a half-hour of crippled conversation. She, herself, was not
easily vocal. She felt that Mrs. Marshall liked her in her own silent
remote way, but they needed Tod Marshall to bridge over the national
gap. Swift fraternization, as between socially equipped women, was not
possible with them. She tried many subjects. There were no points of
contact, she told herself.
At last, desperately, she rose to go. Of course, he must insist upon
going with her. Of course!
“I was going back early, anyway. I’m to be up at dawn to-morrow.”
The good-bys were said. She found herself walking rebelliously by his
side. “No, thank you!” to the offer of his arm.
The night was bright with stars. “Bright as day, isn’t it?” Because her
voice was curt, and she had not used his name, the rising inflection
helped a little! Hateful, to stumble over a rut in the road! Of course,
he’d make her take his arm! Of course!
Rickard grasped her elbow. She walked along, her head high, her cheeks
flaming, anger surging through her at his touch.
Stupid to press this companionship, this awkward silence on her. If he
thought she was going to entertain him, as Gerty did, with her swift
chatter, he’d be surprised! Any other two people would fall into easy
give-and-take, but what could she, Innes Hardin, find to chatter about
with this man stalking along, grimly grasping her arm? Close as they
were, his touch reminding her every minute, between them walked her
brother and her brother’s wife--and there was the Mexican--hateful
memory! Of course, she could not be casual. And she would not force it.
He had brought this about. Let him talk, then!
Oppressive that silence. Then it came to her that she would ask him the
question that his coming had aborted. A glance at his face found him
smiling. He found it amusing? Not for worlds, then, would she speak.
And they stalked along. Unconsciously, she had pulled herself away from
him. He took her hand, and put it in the crotch of his arm. “That’s
better,” he said. She wondered if he were still smiling.
Their path led by his tent. Neither of them noticed a subdued light
through the canvas walls. As they reached the place, a figure darted
from the door.
“Oh, señor, I thought you would never come.” It was the wife of
Maldonado. Her expression was lost on Innes. The face was quivering
with terror.
“Mr. Rickard,” Innes’ words like icicles, “I will leave you here. It is
quite unnecessary to come farther.” Quite unveiled her meaning!
It came so quickly that he was not ready; nor indeed had Gerty’s
innuendos yet reached him. But the situation was uncomfortable. He
turned sharply to the Mexican. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Oh, señor,” she gasped. “It is the worst. The señor said I was not
to go home; and I tried, _Dios mio_, how I tried to obey. But the
children, little Rosita, not yet four? How could I know that that woman
fed them, or combed their hair? I crept in, just to see--and _Dios
mio_!” She covered her face with her hands.
“Come in,” he took her roughly by the arm. She would wake up the camp
with her crying. He put her in a chair. “Now tell your story.” The
woman had got to be a nuisance. He couldn’t have her coming around like
this. He had seen that look in the girl’s eyes--the Mexican’s rocking
grief was theatric. He wouldn’t have her coming around. It didn’t look
right--“Murdered? Who did you say was murdered?”
She lifted a face, frightened into haggardness. “Maldonado and the
girl.”
The night was stripped to the tragedy. “You found them?”
Her face was lifted imploringly to his. “The señor knew best. I should
never have gone. Will they come after me? Will they come and take me?”
Her terror was physical. Her teeth were chattering. She was exhausted
from running. She had stumbled, blindly, the distance between the camp
and her home. “Oh, señor, it was not I. By the Mother of Christ, it was
not I.”
Rickard was not sure. Her fear made him suspect her. “Who was it, you
think?”
“Felipe,” she gasped.
“But they took him to Ensenada, you said;” Rickard was inclined to
think the murderer was before him.
“No, señor. He got away from the rurales--he came back. He went
home--there was no one there. Some one told him where she had gone.
He came to Maldonado’s. Lucrezia, the eldest, opened the gate. He was
terrible, she said. He rushed past her. And when he came out, his hands
were red. The children heard cries. They were afraid to go in. I got
there last night. I went in. They were not quite cold--I was afraid to
stay. It would look like me, señor. I made the children stay behind.
They could not run so fast.”
“How do you know it was Felipe?” sternly asked Rickard.
“A long scar, señor, from here to here,” she motioned from lip to ear.
“Lucrezia had seen him. Will they take me, señor?” She was a wreck of
terror.
“Not if what you tell me is true. Now, get to bed. I’ll give you
something that will make you sleep.”
“But the children?”
“Nothing can be done to-night. Drink this.” He was not sure yet that
she was telling him the truth. “I’ll send MacLean down in the morning.”
He hustled her out of the tent.
He wondered as he got into bed as to the truth of her story.
Disgusting, such animal terror! Awkward hole, that. Fate seemed
possessed to queer him with those Hardins!