Introduces our Heroine and a Benighted Traveler.
"Virgie, I shall have to give up the race."
"Papa!"
"My strength is failing rapidly. It was all that I could do to creep home
to-night. My trembling limbs, my labored breathing, and this dreadful
cough, all warn me that I must set my house in order, and make provision
for your future."
It was an apparently old man who spoke thus, and yet the years of his life
numbered but a little over fifty.
His hair was silvery white; his face was colorless and haggard, his eyes
dim and sunken, and his form was much attenuated and bowed by the disease
which was fast consuming him.
He was sitting by a blazing fire, in an ordinary easy-chair over which a
heavy coverlid had been thrown to make it more comfortable; but he
shivered, and hovered over the blaze, as if he were chilled to the very
marrow, while the hands which he held extended to catch the warmth were
livid, and trembling from weakness.
The room was small, but cozy and home-like. A cheap, coarse carpet, though
of a bright and tasteful pattern, lay upon the floor. An oval table,
covered with a daintily embroidered cloth, stood in the center. There was
a pretty lamp, with a bright Japanese shade upon it. There were also a few
books in choice bindings, and a dainty work-basket filled with implements
for sewing. A few pictures—some done with pen and ink, others in crayon,
but all showing great talent and nicety of execution—hung, in simple
frames, upon the walls. The two windows of the apartment were screened by
pretty curtains of spotless muslin over heavier hangings of crimson, while
a lounge and two or three chairs completed the furnishing of the room.
Beside the table, in a low rocker, several paces from the invalid by the
fire, yet where she could catch every expression of his pale, sad face,
there sat a young girl, with a piece of fancy work in her hands, upon
which she had been busily engaged before her father spoke.
She was perhaps twenty years of age, with a straight, perfect form, and a
face that would have better graced a a palace than the humble mountain
home where she now abode. It was a pure, oval, with delicate, beautiful
brows; soft, round cheeks, in which a lovely pink came and went with every
emotion. Her eyes were of a deep violet color, shaded by dark silken
lashes, though their expression was saddened somewhat just now by a look
of care and anxiety. Her white forehead was surmounted by rich
chestnut-brown hair, which was gathered into a graceful knot at the back
of her finely shaped head. A straight, patrician nose; a small, but rather
resolute mouth, and a rounded chin, in which there was a bewitching
dimple; small, lady-like hands and feet, completed the <i>tout ensemble</i> of
Virginia Abbot, the daughter and only child of a whilom honored and
wealthy bank president of San Francisco.
When addressed, as recorded above, the beautiful girl had started and
grown suddenly pale, and a look of keenest pain shot into her violet eyes.
Then her sweet mouth straightened itself into a stern, resolute line.
There was a moment of solemn silence, which she broke, by saying, in a
repressed but gentle tone:
"I am sorry that you are feeling worse than usual to-night, papa. I know
you must be weary. You are always that after being all day in the mine,
and the storm, of course, aggravates your cough; but if you will rest a
few days you will surely be better."
"No, Virgie, it is useless to build upon false hopes. I shall never be any
better. My work is done. I shall go no more to my claim, and I have
decided to dispose of it to the first one who will offer me a fair price
for it. But, dear child, if it were not for you I believe I should be glad
to know that my saddened life is almost at an end. I——"
The weary voice quivered and failed here, and the man sank back in his
chair with a bitter sigh.
The young girl, her own face now blanched to the hue of death, laid down
her work, arose, and moved swiftly to her father's side, where she knelt
by his chair.
"Papa, do not talk so. You must not leave me," she cried, in a voice of
agony. "I cannot spare you. There must be something to help you—to build
up your strength. Let us go back home, where you can have the best medical
advice."
The man sat up in his chair, stopping her with a gesture almost of
despair.
"Home!" he cried, hoarsely. "Virgie, we have no home but this. You know
that I am already the same as dead to every one but you; that even our
real name is sunk in oblivion."
"But, papa, you must try to live for my sake," Virgie cried, clasping her
trembling hands about his emaciated arm, and shuddering as she felt how
frail it was. "If you will not go back, let me at least send for Dr.
Truel. He is skillful. He was always our friend. He will cheer you and
give you something to build you up, and he will keep our secret, too. Oh,
you ought to have had advice long ago. What shall I do in this dreary
place if you leave me alone?"
The sick man unclasped her clinging hands from his arm, and drew her
slight form to him in a tender embrace.
"My darling," he said, fondly, "that is just what I wish to talk with you
about; so calm yourself and listen to me. Neither Dr. Truel, nor any other
doctor, can help me now; if I had called him a year ago he might have
prolonged my life; but my pride would not let me face any one whom I had
ever known. But I will not speak of the past; it is too familiar and
painful to both of us. It is useless, however, for me to think for a
moment of going back, even to die, in the home where we were once so
happy, for only disgrace is connected with our name—disgrace and wrong,
all the more keenly felt because unmerited."
"Hush, Virgie!" he continued, as a shuddering sob burst from the breast
pressed so closely to his, "you must not give way so. I did not mean to
alarm you unnecessarily by what I have said; I may not leave you for some
time yet. I may be spared for a few months, perhaps until autumn, but I
feel that the time has come to arrange some definite plan for your future.
I must, however, give up my work, for I have no longer strength to carry
it on; but if there was only some one whom I could trust to take charge
of my claim. I might even yet reap something of benefit from it to add to
the hoard that I have been saving for you against this emergency."
"But, papa, I would much rather that you should spend every dollar that
you have, if it would prolong your life; if I lose you, I have not a
friend in the world."
The man heaved a heavy sigh, for too well he realized the truth of her
words.
"My dear," he returned, with tender pathos, "if it were possible for me to
regain my health, at any sacrifice, I would gladly make it for your sake.
But I know that it cannot be, and my care now must be to make the best
provision that I can for you."
"I have been very successful since coming here," he went on, speaking more
cheerfully, "more so than I ever dared to hope, and the claim promises
much for the future and ought to bring a good price if sold; so you will
have quite a snug little fortune, my Virgie, and I trust that your lot in
life will yet be happy, in spite of the dark cloud that has so shadowed it
in the beginning. What say you to writing to my old friend, Laurence
Bancroft, of New York, confiding you to his care after——"
"Oh, my father, you make me utterly wretched," cried the young girl,
reaching up her arms and clasping them convulsively about his neck, while
she lifted her tear-stained face appealingly to him.
He bent forward and kissed her white forehead softly with his trembling
lips.
"Bear with me a little longer, my daughter, and then we will never mention
this again while I live," he returned, huskily. "Laurence Bancroft, as you
know, was a dear friend of my early life. He has a cultivated wife, and
two daughters about your own age; he will believe me when I tell him the
truth regarding our misfortunes, and will, no doubt, give you a home in
his own family, and care for your interests until—woman's best gift—the
love of some true man comes to you, and you have a home of your own. New
York is almost on the other side of the world, and no evil breath of the
past will be likely to touch you there. What do you say, Virgie?—may I
write to my friend, giving you to his care?"
"Yes, papa," Virgie said, wearily assenting to his project, more to put an
end to the painful conversation than because she had any choice in the
matter, "you may do whatever your judgment tells you is best, and I will
be guided entirely by your wishes."
Mr. Abbot looked intensely relieved.
This question had troubled him for many months, and he had always shrunk
from speaking of it, because of the pain which he knew it would inflict.
With this vital matter settled, he felt that he could give up all care,
and spend the few remaining days of his life in peace with his idolized
child, and calmly await the end, which he knew was so near.
"That is right, dear," he said, with a contented smile. "I am greatly
comforted. I will write a full account of everything, together with my
wishes for your future, and it will be ready to be sent to Mr. Bancroft at
a moment's warning. I do not care to have him know anything about us just
yet; hark! what was that?" he broke off abruptly, and started into a
listening attitude.
"Only the wind and the storm beating against the house, I think," answered
Virgie, lifting her head, and calmed for the moment as she, too, listened
to what had seemed an unusual noise.
"It is a wild night, my child. I hope no one is homeless in this storm,"
said Mr. Abbot. "I am thankful for this peaceful, though humble refuge,
after the turmoil and wrong of a few years ago, only it is hard for you to
be so shut away and isolated from those of your own age. But surely that
was a knock, Virgie."
The young girl started to her feet as a loud and imperative rap echoed
through the small entry outside the parlor.
It was seldom that they were disturbed at that hour of the evening, for
among the hard working people of the mining district in which they lived,
there were few who were not early wrapped in slumber after the labors of
the day.
Virgie passed quickly out of the cheerful parlor into the tiny hall, and
opened the outer door, though the heavy burglar chain was fastened and
would admit of its being opened but a little ways.
"Who is there?" she asked, in her clear, sweet tones.
"A stranger who has lost his way and seeks direction to the nearest public
inn," answered a rich, mellow voice from without.
Mr. Abbot now came out, a heavy shawl wrapped about his shoulders to
shield him from the dampness.
"It is more than a mile from here, and a very poor place at that," he
said.
The stranger outside gave a low whistle of dismay at this information, and
muttered something about being in "a very uncomfortable fix."
Mr. Abbot unfastened the chain, threw wide the door, and invited the
unknown to come in out of the storm.
"Thanks," was the courteous response; "but I will not trespass upon your
hospitality if you will kindly direct me to the inn of which you speak.
The darkness came on so suddenly that I lost my way. I left Oreana at
noon to go to Humboldt, but my horse sprained his foot on the rough
mountain road, and I have had to come at a snail's pace ever since."
"You are sadly out of your way, indeed, if you are going to Humboldt, for
it is a good ten miles from here. Come in—come in out of the pouring
rain, and we will discuss what will be best for you to do," returned his
host, in a hearty tone, for he was won by the man's frankness and
courtesy.
The stranger stepped, dripping, into the hall, a tall, straight figure,
booted and spurred, and enveloped in waterproof jacket, trousers, and
havelock.
"Thanks," he said, "you are very kind; but allow me to introduce myself;
my name is Heath—William Heath, at your service."
"Then, Mr. Heath, come to my fireside and dry and warm yourself; my name
is Abbot and this is my daughter," replied Mr. Abbot, leading the way into
the cheerful parlor whither Virgie had retired when her father opened the
door to the benighted wayfarer.
Mr. Heath bowed with all the polish that could have been expected of him
had he been in a royal drawing-room instead of a rude cottage in a ruder
mining district of the mountains of Nevada, while his dark eyes flashed
with a look of admiration over the perfect figure and into the lovely face
of his host's daughter.
He removed his hat and havelock, revealing a grand head covered with
waving brown hair, and a handsome face all aglow with intelligence. His
eyes were a dark, wine-brown, his glance as keen and straight as an
eagle's, his manner and bearing betraying that he was accustomed to mingle
with people of culture and refinement.