For nearly five years, Jean and Marie Colchis occupied the old house in
Duke's Lane.
The old man worked hard, and long hours were passed in arduous
experiments. The ozone machine had performed its mission, and was a
thing of the past. The hair on Colchis' brows was whiter, the lines of
care on his face deeper, and his gait slower.
Fortune had smiled upon him. Money had rolled in, and the interior of
the dilapidated old building was in strange contrast with the exterior.
The rooms were handsomely furnished: bric-a-brac, books, a piano, and
a thousand and one little _joujous_ dear to the feminine heart, gave
evidence of the hand that had wrought this change--Marie Colchis.
The seventeen-year-old girl to whom Junius Cobb had bidden a tearful
adieu, had become a highly educated woman of twenty-one. The beauty
of her youth grew with her years. Her disposition was commensurate
with her beauty. The solace of her father in his age, the pride of his
heart, she became the one object for which he lived and labored.
Often and often had this sweet girl asked of her father some knowledge
of Junius Cobb. When would he come? Was it known where he was? and did
her father think that he still remembered his old friends in Duke's
Lane? Then, as her thoughts wandered to their last interview, with its
sad parting, tears filled her eyes, and her bosom heaved and fell with
deep, sorrowing emotion.
She still loved him; time had wrought no change. Her father saw it,
knew it; and while a shade of sadness passed over his brow, he simply
muttered:
"It must be done!"
Thus time passed.
A great invention was Colchis at work upon. It would astonish the
world; it would make him famous for life; his wealth would become
vast in the extreme. But none of these thoughts disturbed the calm
equanimity of this great man.
He cared not for fame and honor, for his life was about run out. But
wealth! Ah! that was another thing! He did want it; but for whom? Not
himself? Who knows?
"They will want it, will want all I can give them," he said to himself
many times.
Later on, there came many visitors to the house in Duke's Lane. They
came singly, and sometimes in pairs. They remained awhile closeted with
the old man, and then they went away. They were scientists sent by the
government to report upon the invention of Jean Colchis.
One day, after a more lengthy visit than usual from one of these
gentlemen, Colchis entered the little parlor where Marie sat reclining
in a large chair, reading a book of poems.
Upon his approach, she quickly arose, and greeted him with warm
affection.
"My daughter," he commenced, as he led her to a chair and seated
himself by her side, "we are going to leave Duke's Lane. I believe
the time has come when you should see more of the world; should mix
in society, and take the place which your talents, beauty, and moral
attainments give you by right. You are nearly twenty-one years old,
highly educated, and exquisitely beautiful. You will make friends
wherever you go, and you will have suitors by the score. With wealth,
position, wit, and beauty, what more can you desire? Do not interrupt
me, darling," as his daughter was about to speak; "I know what you
would say: that your heart is given to Junius Cobb, and that you want
no other suitors. I have had fears, Marie, that Junius would never come
back to us in this world--that, perhaps, he is dead."
A cry of anguish burst from the poor girl's lips:
"Oh! do not, do not say that! He is not dead! You know it, father! Oh!
tell me he is not dead!" and she sank at her father's feet, overcome
with grief.
"O, God!" breathed the old man between his set teeth; "I fear it must
be done!" Then, leaning over and stroking the golden locks of his
daughter, he said:
"Marie, look up."
Her eyes, glistening with tiny tear-crystals, were turned up to his.
"Look into my eyes, my child, and listen well to my words. Do you love
Junius Cobb as fondly now as when you were a girl, on the night when he
said good-bye and left you? Answer me as your heart dictates."
"O, father! can you doubt it?" A heavenly look appeared in her eyes.
"Would to God I could be with him in this life, or in death!" Her head
fell upon her father's bosom.
"Then, life without your lover is worse than death?" and her father
fixed his eyes in a hoping, expecting, desiring expression upon his
daughter.
"Yes!" burst from her lips; "a thousand times yes! for what is life
without him? If I be not with him in death, then death is oblivion!"
"My noble, true-hearted daughter!" and he folded her to his heart.
"Your lover is true to you--that I can swear. Await with patience, my
child, till God wills your union. Now, once more listen to my words:
it is my desire that you enter the world of life and fashion, rule my
house as its mistress; entertain, make friends, and let no worry enter
thy heart. Do this, and if at the end of four years more, you ask for
Junius Cobb, your betrothed, he shall come to you. I swear to you, my
daughter, that my words are true."
"Father, I will do thy bidding." She wept tears of hope as she sank
into her chair.
Soon the world of fashion, the society of money and brains, began to
chipper-chapper of the new Croesus and his divine daughter, who had
suddenly come into their midst.
The Colchis mansion was among the finest of those beautiful homes which
have made San Francisco famous as a city of palaces. His hospitality
was prodigal; his entertainments fit for kings. He and his beautiful
daughter were objects around which fluttered the culture, the fashion,
and the wealth of the city.
Men came, saw the divinity, and worshiped at the shrine. Suitors
implored her love, begged it, but without success. To all was Marie
Colchis kind, honorable, and lovely, but to none gave she the slightest
encouragement.
Time passed, and still she was the same. Suitors still persevered, but
without success. Against her no word of disrespect could be uttered,
none could bear feelings save of love and admiration; all spoke of her
as the frozen sunbeam.
Colchis père saw it, and understood it; she could never change.
Then Jean Colchis arose one morning, and told his daughter that he must
go away on important duty. His stay might be protracted to months,
he could not tell her how long. She was to remain, and under the
guardianship of her housekeeper, she should find what amusement she
chose.
Their adieus were spoken, and Colchis sailed out of the Golden Gate in
a ship of his own.
Months passed, and Marie Colchis grew sad and disconsolate. Her lover
gone, and her father away, there was nothing to live for. Hours upon
hours she sat and wept--wept tears of such sadness as only a heart
bowed down by the most intense sorrow could cause to flow.
The house on the hill was closed to the world, and Marie lived but in
the past, and with slight hopes for the future.
It was the 13th of March, 1897, and Jean Colchis had arrived home to
his child. There was sadness in his eyes as he clasped his darling
daughter to his heart; but a firm, determined expression overspread
his countenance, as though he had fought some great battle, and felt
himself the victor.
"Never again, dear old father, can I open this house to the world," she
said to him, as they sat and spoke of the past.
"And never again shall you, my child," he had returned, holding her in
a loving embrace.
"Let me leave the world and all it contains! Let me go and bury my body
as I have my love! Father, I am dying!"
The time had come. Jean Colchis saw that not an hour was to be lost.
Fate had ordained it; he must comply, though he murdered his beloved
child!
"Grieve not, my child," he tenderly said, "the future is bright and
assured. I am going to take you to your husband!"
Like a burst of the sun through a dark and dreary sky, her eyes lighted
up, and she sprang toward him, clasped him around the neck, and covered
his face with kisses. Then she arose, staggered, and fainted. The good
news was too sudden.
Two weeks after this eventful day, Jean Colchis and his daughter sailed
away in the ship which had once before borne him out of the harbor.
As the vessel passed through the Golden Gate, the father and daughter
stood at the rail and took one last look at the life behind them.
"See! dear father," Marie exclaimed, pointing to the shore on the
south, while a bright smile illumined her face. "See! there is the
Presidio, with its little houses! Junius lived there, once--Junius, my
own, and to whom we are now hastening. God watch over him!"
"Amen!"
The words came sadly from the old man's lips. Thus they sailed away,
and never more was word heard of them by the living world.
The years came and passed, but these two loving hearts came not again
to the haunts of man.
And the other--Junius Cobb? He lay an inert mass in the pedestal of the
Statue of Liberty, on Mt. Olympus.