THE INTERPRETATION THEREOF
After all his suffering, his oaths, his refusals, his rejection of each
friendly offer, Denver had changed his mind in the fraction of a second
when he saw Drusilla whirl past. He forgot his mine, the fierce battles,
the prophecy--all he wanted was to see her again. Placed on his honor
for the trip he started down the road, walking fast when he failed to
catch a ride, and early the next morning he reported at the prison to
apply for an immediate parole. But luck was against him and his heart
died in his breast, for the Board of Prison Directors had met the week
before and would not meet again for three weeks. Three weeks of idle
waiting, of pacing up and down and cursing the slow passage of time; and
then, perhaps, delays and disappointments and obstructions from
Bible-Back Murray. He sat with bowed head, then rose up suddenly and
wrote a brief letter to Murray.
"Get me a pardon," he scrawled, "and I'll give you a quit-claim. This
goes, if you do it quick."
He put it in the mail, with a special delivery stamp, and watched the
endless hours creep by. She was there in Pinal, running her scales,
practicing her exercises, singing arias from the operas at night; and he
was shut in by the gray concrete walls where the guards looked down from
the towers. He could not trust himself now outside of the yard, his
nerve was gone and he would head for Pinal like a homing bird to its
mate. And then it came, quicker than he had ever thought or hoped for,
though he had offered the Silver Treasure in return for it--a full
pardon from the Governor, with his citizenship restored and a letter
expressing confidence in his innocence. Denver clutched it to his breast
and started out across the desert with his eyes on distant Pinal.
It lay in the shadow of Apache Leap, that blue wall that loomed to the
east, and he hardly stopped to shake hands with the Warden in his haste
to get out on the road. There he stopped the first automobile that was
going up the canyon and demanded a ride as his right, and so earnest was
his manner that the driver took him in and even speeded up his machine.
But at the fork of the ways, where the new road turned off to Murray,
Denver thanked him and got off to walk. The sun was low but he did not
hurry--he had begun to doubt his welcome. A hot shame swept over him at
his convict's shirt, his worn shoes and battered hat; and he wondered
suddenly if it was not all a mistake, if he had not thrown his mine
away. She was an opera singer now, returning from a season which must
have given her a taste of success--what use would she have for him?
Up the wash to the west, where the automobile road went, a big camp had
sprung up in his absence; but when he topped the hill and gazed down on
Pinal nothing had changed, it was just the same. The street was broad
and empty, the houses still in ruins, his cave still there across the
creek; and from the chimney of Bunker's house a column of smoke mounted
up to show that supper was being cooked. Yes, it was the same old town
that he had entered the year before when Old Bunk had taken him for a
hobo; but now he was hobo and ex-convict both, though the pardon had
restored him to citizenship. His broad shoulders drooped, he turned back
and crossed the creek and slunk like a thief to his cave.
The door was chained but he wrenched it open and slipped in out of
sight. Bunker Hill had closed up the cave and covered all his things,
and his bed was spread with clean, white sheets; the floor was swept and
the dishes washed, and he knew whose hands had done it. It was Mrs.
Hill's, that kindest of all women; who had even invited him to their
home. Denver started a fire and cooked a hasty supper from the canned
goods that were left in his boxes and then he looked down on the town.
The sun had set now and a single bright star glowed solemnly in the
west, but the valley was silent except for the frogs that made the air
palpitate with their chorus. Old Bunk came out and went over to the
store; someone struck a chord in the house, and as Denver listened
hungrily a voice rose up, clear and flute-like, yet somehow changed.
It was her's, it was Drusilla's, and yet it was not; the year had made a
change. There was a difference in her singing; a new note of tenderness,
of yearning, of sadness, of love. Yes, he recognized it now, it had the
quality of the Cradle Song that she had listened to so enviously on his
phonograph. She had caught it, at last, that secret, subtle something
which gives Schumann-Heink her power; and which comes only from
love--and suffering. Denver rose up, startled; he had not thought of it
before, but Drusilla must have suffered, too. Not as tragically as he
but in other ways, fighting her way against the whole world. He went in
hastily and lit his lamp but even when he was dressed his courage failed
him and he bowed his head on the table. He dared not face her--now.
The singing had ceased, the frog chorus seemed to mock him, to din his
convict's shame into his ears; but as he yielded to despair a hand fell
on his shoulders and he looked up to see Drusilla. She was more
beautiful than ever, dressed in the soft yellow gown that she had worn
when first he saw her, but her eyes were reproachful and near to tears
and she drew her hand away.
"What is it?" she asked. "Can't you ever care for me? Must I make every
single advance? Oh, Denver, after I'd come clear home to see you--why
wouldn't you come down to the house?"
He roused up startled, unable to comprehend her, his mind in a whirl of
emotions.
"I was afraid you didn't want me," he said at last and she sank down on
the bench beside him.
"Not want you?" she repeated. "Why, haven't I done everything to get you
out of prison? Didn't I go to the Professor and beg and plead with him
and sing all my German songs; didn't I go to the Governor and take him
with me, and go through everything to have you pardoned?"
"Pardoned!" burst out Denver and then he stopped and shook his head
regretfully. "No," he said, "I wish you had, though. I traded my mine
for it--to Murray!"
"Why, Denver!" she cried, "you did nothing of the kind. I got you that
pardon myself! And then, after all that--and after I'd played, and sung,
and waited for you--you wouldn't even come down to see me!"
"Why, sure I would!" he protested brokenly, "I'd do anything for you,
Drusilla! But I was afraid you wouldn't want me. I've been in prison,
you know, and it makes a difference. They call me an ex-con now."
"No, but Denver," she entreated, "surely you didn't think--why, we
_asked_ you to come and stay with us."
"Yes, I know," he said but the sullen look had come back; he could not
forget so soon. "I know," he went on, "but it wouldn't be right--I guess
we've made a mistake. I wanted to see you, Drusilla; I gave everything I
had, just to get here before you went----"
"Did you really?" she asked taking him gently by the hand and looking
deep into his eyes, "did you give up your mine--for me?"
"Just to see you," answered Denver, "but after I got here----"
"Oh, I'm so glad!" she sighed, "and you haven't lost your mine. I got to
the Governor first."
"You did?" he cried and then he sat up and the old fire came back into
his eyes. "That's right," he laughed, "you must have beat him to it--I
thought that pardon came quick! This'll cost old Murray a million."
"No, you haven't lost your mine," she went on, smiling curiously. "You
think a lot of it, don't you?"
"Well, I don't know," grumbled Denver, "whether I do or not now. I
believe that mine was a Jonah. I believe I made a mistake and chose the
wrong treasure--I should have taken the gold."
"Oh, Denver!" she beamed, "do you really think so? I've always just
hated that mine. I've always had the feeling that you thought more of it
than you did of me--or anybody."
"Well, I did," confessed Denver, "it seemed to kind of draw me--to make
me forget everything else. And Drusilla, I'm sorry I didn't come
down--that night when you went away."
"It was the mine," she frowned, "I believe it was accursed. It always
came between us. But you must sell it now, and not work for a while--I
want you to entertain me."
"I'll do it!" exclaimed Denver, "I'll sell out for what I can get and
then we can be together. How did you get along on your trip?"
"Oh, fine!" she burst out radiantly, "Oh, I had such _luck_. I was
only the understudy, and doing minor parts, when the soprano was taken
ill in the second act and I went in and scored a triumph. It was 'Love
Tales of Hoffmann' and when I sang the 'Barcarolle' they recalled me
seven times! That is they recalled us both--it's sung as a duet, you
know."
"Um," nodded Denver and listened in glum silence as she related the
details of her premier. "And how about those tenors?" he asked at last,
"did any of 'em steal my kiss?"
"No--or that is--well, we won't talk about that now. But of course I
have to act my parts."
"Oh, sure, sure!" he answered rebelliously and a triumphant twinkle came
into her eyes.
"Do you still believe in the prophecy?" she asked, "and in all that
Mother Trigedgo told you? Because if you do, I've got some news--you
won't die until you're past eighty."
"I won't?" challenged Denver and then he stopped and waited as she
smiled back at him mischievously.
"She's a nice old woman," went on Drusilla demurely, "but I wouldn't
take her too seriously. She told me, for instance, that I'd give up a
great career in order to marry for love. Yes, I went over to see her,
myself."
"But what about me?" demanded Denver eagerly, "did she say I'd live till
I was eighty?"
"Yes, she did; and she told me some other things, including the color of
your eyes. But don't you see, Denver, that you made a mistake when you
took what she said so seriously? Why, you wouldn't even speak to me or
let us be friends for fear that I'd rise up and kill you; and now it
appears that it was all a mistake and you're going to live till you're
eighty."
"Well, all the same," responded Denver sighing and stretching his great
arms, "I'm awful glad she said it. And a man could live to be eighty and
still be killed by his friend. No, I believe that prophecy was true!"
"Very well," she assented, "but you don't need to worry about our
friendship, and that's the principal thing. I just did it to set your
mind at rest."
"Yes, it _was_ true," he went on rousing up from a reverie, "but I
was wrong--I should have taken the gold."
"Is that all you think of?" she asked impatiently, "is there nothing but
silver and gold?"
"Yes, there is," he acknowledged, "but--say, Drusilla I'm going to buy
out the Dutchman. I believe that stringer of his is rich."
"What stringer?" she demanded looking up from her own musings and then
she nodded and sighed. "Yes, I know," she said, "you're back at your
mining--but you promised you'd think only of me. I may not be here long
and you want to be nice to me; because I almost hated you, once. Now
listen, Denver, and let _me_ interpret--don't you know you've got
everything wrong?"
"No!" declared Denver, "it has all come out perfectly. I've lived clear
through it, already. Only I chose the wrong treasure and so I lost them
both and suffered a great disgrace. I should have taken the gold."
"No; listen Denver," she went on patiently, "and don't always be
thinking of _things_. A golden treasure isn't necessarily of gold,
it might be even--me."
"You?" echoed Denver and then he clutched his hands and stared about him
wildly.
"Why, yes," she answered evenly, "haven't you noticed my hair? Other men
are not so blind--and one of them said it reminded him of fine-spun
gold. Yes, I was the golden treasure in the shadow of Apache Leap, but
all you could think of was mines. The mine was your silver treasure, and
you had to choose between us--and you always chose the mine. No matter
how I sang, or did up my hair or came around where you were at work; you
always went into that black, hateful hole, and I used to go home and
cry. But--no, listen, Denver--when you saw me come back, and you wanted
to see me, and there was no other way to do it; then you threw away your
mine and told Murray to take it--and I knew that you really loved me.
You loved me even more than your mine, and so you won us both. Do you
like your golden treasure?"
"I was a fool!" moaned Denver but she stroked his rumpled hair and
raised his face from his hands.
"We've both of us been foolish," she whispered, "I nearly hated you
once, and nearly gave your kiss to a tenor. But--oh Denver, I'll never
sing with those men again! I know you wouldn't like it."
"No, I wouldn't," he admitted, "and if you'll only----"
"There it is," she interrupted, giving him the long-treasured kiss. "I
saved it just for you."