The Chester Mansfield to whom I have referred was the young minister
of my church, and also the son of my dearest friend. Mrs. Mansfield
had been my playmate and schoolmate in childhood, my confidante in
girlhood, and when we were matrons and neighbors our early affection
had settled into the deep, enduring friendship of later life. She had
married our minister and was an exemplary wife and mother. Our
children were schoolmates also, and her only son Chester was a boy of
unusual promise. He distinguished himself in school and college, and,
finishing his course just before his father's death, was unanimously
called to fill the vacant pulpit. Here his eloquence and spirituality
fully justified the promise of his youth, and he became almost the
idol of his congregation. He married a lovely girl, and life seemed to
hold for him the highest blessings that man can dream of.
The sorrow, then, of his sudden and peculiarly sad death cannot be
described. Not only his family and church, but the whole town, mourned
as if for a brother, and the church could not hold the concourse that
followed his body to the grave.
The mothers and sisters and the frail young wife were almost crushed
by the blow, and even after the lapse of nearly five years it was
fresh enough in my heart to make Charlie Reynolds' face bring back
those days of mourning with sad reality. I formed then the hope,
foolish, perhaps, that if this young man should be found to be a
relative of the dead man and reclaimed, he might in some measure
atone to those bereaved ones for their loss. With this idea, I
improved every opportunity to cultivate Charlie Reynolds' acquaintance
and win his good opinion, although I was much embarrassed by the
laughing eyes that Howard never failed to turn upon me in my
efforts at conversation.
They were efforts, indeed; for if I had come from a foreign land, and
spoken an unknown language, I could hardly have had more difficulty in
finding a topic of common interest or in making myself intelligible,
for old-fashioned English seemed to be less understood than any others
of the numerous tongues I heard.
I could hear from my window, Mexicans, Chinamen, Indians, Frenchmen,
and Spaniards chatting in the plaza, until I could almost guess what
they said, but the vernacular of the American miner and rancher is
beyond comprehension.
There are about four topics discussed at the Eldorado tables, chief of
all, the mines, and to this day I cannot talk coherently about drifts
and leads and dumps, and the like.
Then there were the games, the most absorbing of all, who had lost and
won, and as I don't know one card nor one game from another, I am not
interested in that subject. There was, it seemed to me, a fresh murder
or robbery or Indian fight to discuss every morning at breakfast; and
the ranch talk, in which my most intelligent questions always provoked
a shout of laughter. When I quoted Talmage one morning, a young man
looked at me pityingly, and said, "Oh, he's dead a year ago! He had
one of the finest saloons in Las Vegas; he was a smart man, poor
fellow!" My attempts to interest my table companions in a description
of the Chautauqua and its purpose, and the mission of the W. C. T. U.,
and their painful efforts to be politely interested, almost sent my
son into convulsions in consequence of laughing into his coffee-cup;
and the intense earnestness with which the man they called Bunco Brown
asked, "And didn't they sell no booze there?" and then, "Well, then,
how in thunder do they get it if they're too pious to steal?" might
have seemed amusing to one who was not struck by the horror of the
fact that the man could not conceive of life for any person without
drink.
So, owing to the missionary's usual difficulty in making himself
understood, I had to wait to learn a means of communication with my
subject. I even ventured to the door of the billiard room and tried to
manifest an interest in the science of the game, but here, also, I
was too hopelessly old-fashioned to be able to comprehend the beauty
of the angles, and beat an ignominious retreat. I heard Charlie remark
as I went up-stairs: "Game, for such a pious old lady, isn't she?" I
took it as a compliment.
But my opportunity finally came through the humble instrumentality of
an onion. It was about the size of a dinner-plate, and lay on the
newel-post as I came down stairs one morning. Charlie was standing in
the front door, with his back to me, peeling an orange. He turned
around at my exclamation of surprise and asked, "Why, don't they grow
like that where you live?"
"In New England? Oh dear, no!" I cried; and then he asked me a number
of questions, and seemed very much interested in my account of
vegetables and fruit and trees and flowers in the East. I was
delighted to tell him, although I had a lurking suspicion that such a
remarkable ignorance of that country was feigned. And yet his eyes, so
wonderfully like Chester Mansfield's, except in expression, had a
certain vacant honesty--for which, I presume, an accustomed
story-teller could find a better expression--that I was obliged to
believe genuine. As soon as he found that I was curious about the
flora and fauna of the locality, he took great pains in bringing me
specimens, and on two occasions took me out for a walk to see
something that could not be brought. In this closer acquaintance I
found so much that was kind and pleasant, and so many peculiar little
resemblances to my dead friend--a backward toss of the head when he
laughed, a frown when listening, an odd little gesture with the left
hand in explaining anything--that he puzzled me more and more. Among
the few books that I could find to read in the town was the "Woman in
White," which I read with compunction, not having been addicted to
works of fiction, and the curious resemblance between the two women
made a deep impression upon me, and seemed to have a strange
significance just at this time. Although I had as yet not succeeded in
drawing any confidence from Charlie--who, indeed, seldom spoke of
himself, and never related any past experience--a very suspicious
trait I thought, I felt sure that time would unravel the dark mystery
that enveloped him.
Just as I was feeling that I had now Charlie's friendship, the man
Crouch seemed to become jealous of my influence, and became so
attentive to him that my acquaintance with him was virtually suspended
for a time. One day, a bright, hot day in March, a Mexican wagon train
arrived in town, laden with beans, hides, and "Chili Colorade," and a
crowd of rancheros from another direction swarmed into the plaza. The
town was full of excitement and whiskey; the tinkle of the dance
saloons came up from all quarters; the rancheros, with their red
shirts and broad hats, galloped their tough mustangs madly through the
streets, firing at random, and lassoing the unlucky curs and pigs that
happened to be in the way. While there were street brawls at every
corner, I hardly dared to leave my room, and I could not venture to
sit by my window. It was a great relief that Howard came in very
early. All through the evening I listened to the confused sounds that
came up through the resonant air, and could distinguish the soft voice
of the pretty Mexican girl in the saloon opposite my window,
accompanied by her castanet. It was another of those still, white
nights, when the town seemed to hang in mid-air. I felt the
premonition of impending disaster so common to nervous women, and made
Howard sit in my room as long as I could think of a pretext for
keeping him. When I was alone, I lay wakeful through the noisy hours,
waiting for daylight. At perhaps three o'clock, or a little later, I
fell into a semi-conscious doze, from which I was aroused by the
footsteps and low voices of men in the hall. The slowness of the
steps, and the hushed tone in which they spoke, gave me a thrill of
terror. Something had happened. Yes, they were talking about it, and
carrying something--some one--by. "Right this way, lay him on the
bed." "What, doctor?" "Pretty near dead." "Small chance," and so on.
Then with strained nerves I listened for the doctor, heard him come,
heard his quick directions, heard the running to and fro to get what
he required, and then arose and dressed myself with trembling hands,
unable to bear the tension any longer, and thinking that I might be of
assistance. I went to Howard's door, aroused him, and sent him to
learn what was the matter. He went a little reluctantly, but returned
wide awake.
"Why, it's Charlie Reynolds, poor fellow! I guess he's about
killed--some row, I suppose; didn't wait to find out. The doctor is
attending to him now."
A little later, in the gray, solemn dawn, the doctor came out of the
room in which Charlie had been laid, and I went to learn the worst. I
knew now that I had grown very fond of the young man, and I could see
that Howard liked him, too.