The opinion of the cynical bystander on the wharf proved to be a correct
one. The coroner's jury brought in the usual verdict of “Found drowned,”
which was followed by the usual newspaper comment upon the insecurity of
the wharves and the inadequate protection of the police.
Randolph Trent read it with conflicting emotions. The possibility he had
conceived of the corpse being that of his benefactor was dismissed when
he had seen its face, although he was sometimes tortured with doubt, and
a wonder if he might not have learned more by attending the inquest. And
there was still the suggestion that the mysterious disappearance might
have been accomplished by violence like this. He was satisfied that if
he had attempted publicly to identify the corpse as his missing friend
he would have laid himself open to suspicion with a story he could
hardly corroborate.
He had once thought of confiding his doubts to Mr. Revelstoke, the bank
president, but he had a dread of that gentleman's curt conclusions
and remembered his injunction to “hang on to his trust.” Since his
installation, Mr. Revelstoke had merely acknowledged his presence by
a good-humored nod now and then, although Randolph had an instinctive
feeling that he was perfectly informed as to his progress. It was wiser
for Randolph to confine himself strictly to his duty and keep his own
counsel.
Yet he was young, and it was not strange that in his idle moments his
thoughts sometimes reverted to the pretty girl he had seen on the night
of his arrival, nor that he should wish to parade his better fortune
before her curious eyes. Neither was it strange that in this city, whose
day-long sunshine brought every one into the public streets, he should
presently have that opportunity. It chanced that one afternoon, being
in the residential quarter, he noticed a well-dressed young girl walking
before him in company with a delicate looking boy of seven or eight
years. Something in the carriage of her graceful figure, something in
a certain consciousness and ostentation of coquetry toward her youthful
escort, attracted his attention. Yet it struck him that she was neither
related to the child nor accustomed to children's ways, and that she
somewhat unduly emphasized this to the passers-by, particularly those of
his own sex, who seemed to be greatly attracted by her evident beauty.
Presently she ascended the steps of a handsome dwelling, evidently their
home, and as she turned he saw her face. It was the girl he remembered.
As her eye caught his, he blushed with the consciousness of their former
meeting; yet, in the very embarrassment of the moment, he lifted his
hat in recognition. But the salutation was met only by a cold, critical
stare. Randolph bit his lip and passed on. His reason told him she
was right, his instinct told him she was unfair; the contradiction
fascinated him.
Yet he was destined to see her again. A month later, while seated at his
desk, which overlooked the teller's counter, he was startled to see her
enter the bank and approach the counter. She was already withdrawing
a glove from her little hand, ready to affix her signature to the
receipted form to be proffered by the teller. As she received the gold
in exchange, he could see, by the increased politeness of that official,
his evident desire to prolong the transaction, and the sidelong
glances of his fellow clerks, that she was apparently no stranger but a
recognized object of admiration. Although her face was slightly flushed
at the moment, Randolph observed that she wore a certain proud reserve,
which he half hoped was intended as a check to these attentions. Her
eyes were fixed upon the counter, and this gave him a brief opportunity
to study her delicate beauty. For in a few moments she was gone; whether
she had in her turn observed him he could not say. Presently he rose and
sauntered, with what he believed was a careless air, toward the paying
teller's counter and the receipt, which, being the last, was plainly
exposed on the file of that day's “taking.” He was startled by a titter
of laughter from the clerks and by the teller ironically lifting the
file and placing it before him.
“That's her name, sonny, but I didn't think that you'd tumble to it
quite as quick as the others. Every new man manages to saunter round
here to get a sight of that receipt, and I've seen hoary old depositors
outside edge around inside, pretendin' they wanted to see the dep, jest
to feast their eyes on that girl's name. Take a good look at it and
paste a copy in your hat, for that's all you'll know of her, you bet.
Perhaps you think she's put her address and her 'at home' days on the
receipt. Look hard and maybe you'll see 'em.”
The instinct of youthful retaliation to say he knew her address already
stirred Randolph, but he shut his lips in time, and moved away. His desk
neighbor informed him that the young lady came there once a month and
drew a hundred dollars from some deposit to her credit, but that was all
they knew. Her name was Caroline Avondale, yet there was no one of that
name in the San Francisco Directory.
But Randolph's romantic curiosity would not allow the incident to rest
there. A favorable impression he had produced on Mr. Dingwall enabled
him to learn more, and precipitated what seemed to him a singular
discovery. “You will find,” said the deputy manager, “the statement
of the first deposit to Miss Avondale's credit in letters in your
own department. The account was opened two years ago through a South
American banker. But I am afraid it will not satisfy your curiosity.”
Nevertheless, Randolph remained after office hours and spent some time
in examining the correspondence of two years ago. He was rewarded at
last by a banker's letter from Callao advising the remittance of one
thousand dollars to the credit of Miss Avondale of San Francisco. The
letter was written in Spanish, of which Randolph had a fair knowledge,
but it was made plainer by a space having been left in the formal letter
for the English name, which was written in another hand, together with
a copy of Miss Avondale's signature for identification--the usual
proceeding in those early days, when personal identification was
difficult to travelers, emigrants, and visitors in a land of strangers.
But here he was struck by a singular resemblance which he at first put
down to mere coincidence of names. The child's photograph which he
had found in the portmanteau was taken at Callao. That was a mere
coincidence, but it suggested to his mind a more singular one--that the
handwriting of the address was, in some odd fashion, familiar to him.
That night when he went home he opened the portmanteau and took from the
purse the scrap of paper with the written address of the bank, and on
comparing it with the banker's letter the next day he was startled to
find that the handwriting of the bank's address and that in which the
girl's name was introduced in the banker's letter were apparently the
same. The letters in the words “Caroline” and “California” appeared as
if formed by the same hand. How this might have struck a chirographical
expert he did not know. He could not consult the paying teller, who was
supposed to be familiar with signatures, without exposing his secret and
himself to ridicule. And, after all, what did it prove? Nothing. Even
if this girl were cognizant of the man who supplied her address to the
Callao banker two years ago, and he was really the missing owner of the
portmanteau, would she know where he was now? It might make an opening
for conversation if he ever met her familiarly, but nothing more. Yet
I am afraid another idea occasionally took possession of Randolph's
romantic fancy. It was pleasant to think that the patron of his own
fortunes might be in some mysterious way the custodian of hers. The
money was placed to her credit--a liberal sum for a girl so young. The
large house in which she lived was sufficient to prove to the optimistic
Randolph that this income was something personal and distinct from her
family. That his unknown benefactor was in the habit of mysteriously
rewarding deserving merit after the fashion of a marine fairy godmother,
I fear did not strike him as being ridiculous.
But an unfortunate query in that direction, addressed to a cynical
fellow clerk, who had the exhaustive experience with the immature
mustaches of twenty-three, elicited a reply which shocked him. To his
indignant protest the young man continued:--
“Look here; a girl like that who draws money regularly from some man
who doesn't show up by name, who comes for it herself, and hasn't any
address, and calls herself 'Avondale'--only an innocent from Dutch Flat,
like you, would swallow.”
“Impossible,” said Randolph indignantly. “Anybody could see she's a lady
by her dress and bearing.”
“Dress and bearing!” echoed the clerk, with the derision of blase youth.
“If that's your test, you ought to see Florry ----.”
But here one may safely leave the young gentleman as abruptly as
Randolph did. Yet a drop of this corrosive criticism irritated his
sensitiveness, and it was not until he recalled his last meeting with
her and her innocent escort that he was himself again. Fortunately, he
did not relate it to the critic, who would in all probability have added
a precocious motherhood to the young lady's possible qualities.
He could now only look forward to her reappearance at the bank, and here
he was destined to a more serious disappointment. For when she made her
customary appearance at the counter, he noticed a certain businesslike
gravity in the paying teller's reception of her, and that he was
consulting a small register before him instead of handing her the usual
receipt form. “Perhaps you are unaware, Miss Avondale, that your account
is overdrawn,” Randolph distinctly heard him say, although in a politely
lowered voice.
The young girl stopped in taking off her glove; her delicate face
expressed her wonder, and paled slightly; she cast a quick and
apparently involuntary glance in the direction of Randolph, but said
quietly,--
“I don't think I understand.”
“I thought you did not--ladies so seldom do,” continued the paying
teller suavely. “But there are no funds to your credit. Has not your
banker or correspondent advised you?”
The girl evidently did not comprehend. “I have no correspondent or
banker,” she said. “I mean--I have heard nothing.”
“The original credit was opened from Callao,” continued the official,
“but since then it has been added to by drafts from Melbourne. There may
be one nearly due now.”
The young girl seemed scarcely to comprehend, yet her face remained
pale and thoughtful. It was not until the paying teller resumed with
suggestive politeness that she roused herself: “If you would like to see
the president, he might oblige you until you hear from your friends. Of
course, my duty is simply to”--
“I don't think I require you to exceed it,” returned the young girl
quietly, “or that I wish to see the president.” Her delicate little face
was quite set with resolution and a mature dignity, albeit it was still
pale, as she drew away from the counter.
“If you would leave your address,” continued the official with
persistent politeness, “we could advise you of any later deposit to your
credit.”
“It is hardly necessary,” returned the young lady. “I should learn it
myself, and call again. Thank you. Good-morning.” And settling her veil
over her face, she quietly passed out.
The pain and indignation with which Randolph overheard this colloquy he
could with the greatest difficulty conceal. For one wild moment he
had thought of calling her back while he made a personal appeal to
Revelstoke; but the conviction borne in upon him by her resolute bearing
that she would refuse it, and he would only lay himself open to another
rebuff, held him to his seat. Yet he could not entirely repress his
youthful indignation.
“Where I come from,” he said in an audible voice to his neighbor, “a
young lady like that would have been spared this public disappointment.
A dozen men would have made up that sum and let her go without knowing
anything about her account being overdrawn.” And he really believed it.
“Nice, comf'able way of doing banking business in Dutch Flat,” returned
the cynic. “And I suppose you'd have kept it up every month? Rather
a tall price to pay for looking at a pretty girl once a month! But I
suppose they're scarcer up there than here. All the same, it ain't too
late now. Start up your subscription right here, sonny, and we'll all
ante up.”
But Randolph, who seldom followed his heroics to their ultimate prosaic
conclusions, regretted he had spoken, although still unconvinced.
Happily for his temper, he did not hear the comment of the two tellers.
“Won't see HER again, old boy,” said one.
“I reckon not,” returned the other, “now that she's been chucked by her
fancy man--until she gets another. But cheer up; a girl like that won't
want friends long.”
It is not probable that either of these young gentlemen believed what
they said, or would have been personally disrespectful or uncivil to any
woman; they were fairly decent young fellows, but the rigors of business
demanded this appearance of worldly wisdom between themselves. Meantime,
for a week after, Randolph indulged in wild fancies of taking his
benefactor's capital of seventy dollars, adding thirty to it from his
own hard-earned savings, buying a draft with it from the bank for one
hundred dollars, and in some mysterious way getting it to Miss Avondale
as the delayed remittance.
The brief wet winter was nearly spent; the long dry season was due,
although there was still the rare beauty of cloud scenery in the
steel-blue sky, and the sudden return of quick but transient showers.
It was on a Sunday of weather like this that the nature-loving Randolph
extended his usual holiday excursion as far as Contra Costa by the
steamer after his dutiful round of the wharves and shipping. It was with
a gayety born equally of his youth and the weather that he overcame his
constitutional shyness, and not only mingled without restraint among
the pleasure-seekers that thronged the crowded boat, but, in the
consciousness of his good looks and a new suit of clothes,
even penetrated into the aristocratic seclusion of the “ladies'
cabin”--sacred to the fair sex and their attendant swains or chaperones.
But he found every seat occupied, and was turning away, when he suddenly
recognized Miss Avondale sitting beside her little escort. She appeared,
however, in a somewhat constrained attitude, sustaining with one hand
the boy, who had clambered on the seat. He was looking out of the cabin
window, which she was also trying to do, with greater difficulty on
account of her position. He could see her profile presented with such
marked persistency that he was satisfied she had seen him and was
avoiding him. He turned and left the cabin.
Yet, once on the deck again, he repented his haste. Perhaps she had not
actually recognized him; perhaps she wished to avoid him only because
she was in plainer clothes--a circumstance that, with his knowledge of
her changed fortunes, struck him to the heart. It seemed to him that
even as a humble employee of the bank he was in some way responsible for
it, and wondered if she associated him with her humiliation. He longed
to speak with her and assure her of his sympathy, and yet he was equally
conscious that she would reject it.
When the boat reached the Alameda wharf she slipped away with the other
passengers. He wandered about the hotel garden and the main street in
the hope of meeting her again, although he was instinctively conscious
that she would not follow the lines of the usual Sunday sight-seers, but
had her own destination. He penetrated the depths of the Alameda, and
lost himself among its low, trailing oaks, to no purpose. The hope of
the morning had died within him; the fire of adventure was quenched, and
when the clouds gathered with a rising wind he felt that the promise of
that day was gone. He turned to go back to the ferry, but on consulting
his watch he found that he had already lost so much time in his devious
wanderings that he must run to catch the last boat. The few drops that
spattered through the trees presently increased to a shower; he put up
his umbrella without lessening his speed, and finally dashed into the
main street as the last bell was ringing. But at the same moment a
slight, graceful figure slipped out of the woods just ahead of him, with
no other protection from the pelting storm than a handkerchief tied over
her hat, and ran as swiftly toward the wharf. It needed only one glance
for Randolph to recognize Miss Avondale. The moment had come, the
opportunity was here, and the next instant he was panting at her side,
with the umbrella over her head.
The girl lifted her head quickly, gave a swift look of recognition, a
brief smile of gratitude, and continued her pace. She had not taken
his arm, but had grasped the handle of the umbrella, which linked them
together. Not a word was spoken. Two people cannot be conversational or
sentimental flying at the top of their speed beneath a single umbrella,
with a crowd of impatient passengers watching and waiting for them.
And I grieve to say that, being a happy American crowd, there was some
irreverent humor. “Go it, sis! He's gainin' on you!” “Keep it up!”
“Steady, sonny! Don't prance!” “No fancy licks! You were nearly over the
traces that time!” “Keep up to the pole!” (i. e. the umbrella). “Don't
crowd her off the track! Just swing on together; you'll do it.”
Randolph had glanced quickly at his companion. She was laughing, yet
looking at him shyly as if wondering how HE was taking it. The paddle
wheels were beginning to revolve. Another rush, and they were on board
as the plank was drawn in.
But they were only on the edge of a packed and seething crowd. Randolph
managed, however, to force a way for her to an angle of the paddle box,
where they were comparatively alone although still exposed to the rain.
She recognized their enforced companionship by dropping her grasp of the
umbrella, which she had hitherto been holding over him with a singular
kind of mature superiority very like--as Randolph felt--her manner to
the boy.
“You have left your little friend?” he said, grasping at the idea for a
conversational opening.
“My little cousin? Yes,” she said. “I left him with friends. I could not
bear to make him run any risk in this weather. But,” she hesitated half
apologetically, half mischievously, “perhaps I hurried you.”
“Oh, no,” said Randolph quickly. “This is the last boat, and I must be
at the bank to-morrow morning at nine.”
“And I must be at the shop at eight,” she said. She did not speak
bitterly or pointedly, nor yet with the entire familiarity of custom.
He noticed that her dress was indeed plainer, and yet she seemed quite
concerned over the water-soaked state of that cheap thin silk pelerine
and merino skirt. A big lump was in his throat.
“Do you know,” he said desperately, yet trying to laugh, “that this is
not the first time you have seen me dripping?”
“Yes,” she returned, looking at him interestedly; “it was outside of the
druggist's in Montgomery Street, about four months ago. You were wetter
then even than you are now.”
“I was hungry, friendless, and penniless, Miss Avondale.” He had spoken
thus abruptly in the faint hope that the revelation might equalize their
present condition; but somehow his confession, now that it was uttered,
seemed exceedingly weak and impotent. Then he blundered in a different
direction. “Your eyes were the only kind ones I had seen since I
landed.” He flushed a little, feeling himself on insecure ground,
and ended desperately: “Why, when I left you, I thought of committing
suicide.”
“Oh, dear, not so bad as that, I hope!” she said quickly, smiling
kindly, yet with a certain air of mature toleration, as if she were
addressing her little cousin. “You only fancied it. And it isn't very
complimentary to my eyes if their kindness drove you to such horrid
thoughts. And then what happened?” she pursued smilingly.
“I had a job to carry a man's bag, and it got me a night's lodging and
a meal,” said Randolph, almost brusquely, feeling the utter collapse of
his story.
“And then?” she said encouragingly.
“I got a situation at the bank.”
“When?”
“The next day,” faltered Randolph, expecting to hear her laugh. But Miss
Avondale heaved the faintest sigh.
“You are very lucky,” she said.
“Not so very,” returned Randolph quickly, “for the next time you saw me
you cut me dead.”
“I believe I did,” she said smilingly.
“Would you mind telling me why?”
“Are you sure you won't be angry?”
“I may be pained,” said Randolph prudently.
“I apologize for that beforehand. Well, that first night I saw a young
man looking very anxious, very uncomfortable, and very weak. The second
time--and not very long after--I saw him well dressed, lounging like any
other young man on a Sunday afternoon, and I believed that he took the
liberty of bowing to me then because I had once looked at him under a
misapprehension.”
“Oh, Miss Avondale!”
“Then I took a more charitable view, and came to the conclusion that the
first night he had been drinking. But,” she added, with a faint smile at
Randolph's lugubrious face, “I apologize. And you have had your revenge;
for if I cut you on account of your smart clothes, you have tried to do
me a kindness on account of my plain ones.”
“Oh, Miss Avondale,” burst out Randolph, “if you only knew how sorry
and indignant I was at the bank--when--you know--the other day”--he
stammered. “I wanted to go with you to Mr. Revelstoke, you know, who had
been so generous to me, and I know he would have been proud to befriend
you until you heard from your friends.”
“And I am very glad you did nothing so foolish,” said the young
lady seriously, “or”--with a smile--“I should have been still more
aggravating to you when we met. The bank was quite right. Nor have I any
pathetic story like yours. Some years ago my little half-cousin whom
you saw lost his mother and was put in my charge by his father, with
a certain sum to my credit, to be expended for myself and the child.
I lived with an uncle, with whom, for some family reasons, the child's
father was not on good terms, and this money and the charge of the child
were therefore intrusted entirely to me; perhaps, also, because Bobby
and I were fond of each other and I was a friend of his mother. The
father was a shipmaster, always away on long voyages, and has been home
but once in the three years I have had charge of his son. I have not
heard from him since. He is a good-hearted man, but of a restless,
roving disposition, with no domestic tastes. Why he should suddenly
cease to provide for my little cousin--if he has done so--or if his
omission means only some temporary disaster to himself or his fortunes,
I do not know. My anxiety was more for the poor boy's sake than for
myself, for as long as I live I can provide for him.” She said this
without the least display of emotion, and with the same mature air of
also repressing any emotion on the part of Randolph. But for her size
and girlish figure, but for the dripping tangles of her hair and her
soft eyes, he would have believed he was talking to a hard, middle-aged
matron.
“Then you--he--has no friends here?” asked Randolph.
“No. We are all from Callao, where Bobby was born. My uncle was a
merchant there, who came here lately to establish an agency. We lived
with him in Sutter Street--where you remember I was so hateful to you,”
she interpolated, with a mischievous smile--“until his enterprise failed
and he was obliged to return; but I stayed here with Bobby, that he
might be educated in his father's own tongue. It was unfortunate,
perhaps,” she said, with a little knitting of her pretty brows, “that
the remittances ceased and uncle left about the same time; but, like
you, I was lucky, and I managed to get a place in the Emporium.”
“The Emporium!” repeated Randolph in surprise. It was a popular “magasin
of fashion” in Montgomery Street. To connect this refined girl with its
garish display and vulgar attendants seemed impossible.
“The Emporium,” reiterated Miss Avondale simply. “You see, we used
to dress a good deal in Callao and had the Paris fashions, and that
experience was of great service to me. I am now at the head of what they
call the 'mantle department,' if you please, and am looked up to as
an authority.” She made him a mischievous bow, which had the effect of
causing a trickle from the umbrella to fall across his budding mustache,
and another down her own straight little nose--a diversion that made
them laugh together, although Randolph secretly felt that the young
girl's quiet heroism was making his own trials appear ridiculous. But
her allusion to Callao and the boy's name had again excited his fancy
and revived his romantic dream of their common benefactor. As soon as
they could get a more perfect shelter and furl the umbrella, he plunged
into the full story of the mysterious portmanteau and its missing owner,
with the strange discovery that he had made of the similarity of the
two handwritings. The young lady listened intently, eagerly, checking
herself with what might have been a half smile at his enthusiasm.
“I remember the banker's letter, certainly,” she said, “and Captain
Dornton--that was the name of Bobby's father--asked me to sign my name
in the body of it where HE had also written it with my address. But the
likeness of the handwriting to your slip of paper may be only a fancied
one. Have you shown it to any one,” she said quickly--“I mean,” she
corrected herself as quickly, “any one who is an expert?”
“Not the two together,” said Randolph, explaining how he had shown the
paper to Mr. Revelstoke.
But Miss Avondale had recovered herself, and laughed. “That that bit of
paper should have been the means of getting you a situation seems to me
the more wonderful occurrence. Of course it is quite a coincidence that
there should be a child's photograph and a letter signed 'Bobby' in
the portmanteau. But”--she stopped suddenly and fixed her dark eyes on
his--“you have seen Bobby. Surely you can say if it was his likeness?”
Randolph was embarrassed. The fact was he had always been so absorbed
in HER that he had hardly glanced at the child. He ventured to say this,
and added a little awkwardly, and coloring, that he had seen Bobby only
twice.
“And you still have this remarkable photograph and letter?” she said,
perhaps a little too carelessly.
“Yes. Would you like to see them?”
“Very much,” she returned quickly; and then added, with a laugh, “you
are making me quite curious.”
“If you would allow me to see you home,” said Randolph, “we have to pass
the street where my room is, and,” he added timidly, “I could show them
to you.”
“Certainly,” she replied, with sublime unconsciousness of the cause of
his hesitation; “that will be very nice?”
Randolph was happy, albeit he could not help thinking that she was
treating him like the absent Bobby.
“It's only on Commercial Street, just above Montgomery,” he went on. “We
go straight up from the wharf”--he stopped short here, for the bulk of a
bystander, a roughly clad miner, was pressing him so closely that he was
obliged to resist indignantly--partly from discomfort, and partly from a
sense that the man was overhearing him. The stranger muttered a kind of
apology, and moved away.
“He seems to be perpetually in your way,” said Miss Avondale, smiling.
“He was right behind you, and you nearly trod on his toes, when you
bolted out of the cabin this morning.”
“Ah, then you DID see me!” said Randolph, forgetting all else in his
delight at the admission.
But Miss Avondale was not disconcerted. “Thanks to your collision, I saw
you both.”
It was still raining when they disembarked at the wharf, a little behind
the other Passengers, who had crowded on the bow of the steamboat. It
was only a block or two beyond the place where Randolph had landed that
eventful night. He had to pass it now; but with Miss Avondale clinging
to his arm, with what different feelings! The rain still fell, the day
was fading, but he walked in an enchanted dream, of which the prosaic
umbrella was the mystic tent and magic pavilion. He must needs even
stop at the corner of the wharf, and show her the exact spot where his
unknown benefactor appeared.
“Coming out of the shadow like that man there,” she added brightly,
pointing to a figure just emerging from the obscurity of an overhanging
warehouse. “Why, it's your friend the miner!”
Randolph looked. It was indeed the same man, who had probably reached
the wharf by a cross street.
“Let us go on, do!” said Miss Avondale, suddenly tightening her hold of
Randolph's arm in some instinctive feminine alarm. “I don't like this
place.”
But Randolph, with the young girl's arm clinging to his, felt supremely
daring. Indeed, I fear he was somewhat disappointed when the stranger
peacefully turned into the junk shop at the corner and left them to
pursue their way.
They at last stopped before some business offices on a central
thoroughfare, where Randolph had a room on the third story. When they
had climbed the flight of stairs he unlocked a door and disclosed a
good-sized apartment which had been intended for an office, but which
was now neatly furnished as a study and bedroom. Miss Avondale smiled at
the singular combination.
“I should fancy,” she said, “you would never feel as if you had quite
left the bank behind you.” Yet, with her air of protection and mature
experience, she at once began to move one or two articles of furniture
into a more tasteful position, while Randolph, nevertheless a little
embarrassed at his audacity in asking this goddess into his humble
abode, hurriedly unlocked a closet, brought out the portmanteau, and
handed her the letter and photograph.
Woman-like, Miss Avondale looked at the picture first. If she
experienced any surprise, she repressed it. “It is LIKE Bobby,” she said
meditatively, “but he was stouter then; and he's changed sadly since he
has been in this climate. I don't wonder you didn't recognize him. His
father may have had it taken some day when they were alone together. I
didn't know of it, though I know the photographer.” She then looked at
the letter, knit her pretty brows, and with an abstracted air sat down
on the edge of Randolph's bed, crossed her little feet, and looked
puzzled. But he was unable to detect the least emotion.
“You see,” she said, “the handwriting of most children who are learning
to write is very much alike, for this is the stage of development when
they 'print.' And their composition is the same: they talk only of
things that interest all children--pets, toys, and their games. This
is only ANY child's letter to ANY father. I couldn't really say it WAS
Bobby's. As to the photograph, they have an odd way in South America
of selling photographs of anybody, principally of pretty women, by the
packet, to any one who wants them. So that it does not follow that the
owner of this photograph had any personal interest in it. Now, as to
your mysterious patron himself, can you describe him?” She looked at
Randolph with a certain feline intensity.
He became embarrassed. “You know I only saw him once, under a street
lamp”--he began.
“And I have only seen Captain Dornton--if it were he--twice in three
years,” she said. “But go on.”
Again Randolph was unpleasantly impressed with her cold, dryly practical
manner. He had never seen his benefactor but once, but he could not
speak of him in that way.
“I think,” he went on hesitatingly, “that he had dark, pleasant eyes, a
thick beard, and the look of a sailor.”
“And there were no other papers in the portmanteau?” she said, with the
same intense look.
“None.”
“These are mere coincidences,” said Miss Avondale, after a pause, “and,
after all, they are not as strange as the alternative. For we would have
to believe that Captain Dornton arrived here--where he knew his son and
I were living--without a word of warning, came ashore for the purpose of
going to a hotel and the bank also, and then unaccountably changed his
mind and disappeared.”
The thought of the rotten wharf, his own escape, and the dead body were
all in Randolph's mind; but his reasoning was already staggered by
the girl's conclusions, and he felt that it might only pain, without
convincing her. And was he convinced himself? She smiled at his blank
face and rose. “Thank you all the same. And now I must go.”
Randolph rose also. “Would you like to take the photograph and letter to
show your cousin?”
“Yes. But I should not place much reliance on his memory.” Nevertheless,
she took up the photograph and letter, and Randolph, putting the
portmanteau back in the closet, locked it, and stood ready to accompany
her.
On their way to her house they talked of other things. Randolph learned
something of her life in Callao: that she was an orphan like himself,
and had been brought from the Eastern States when a child to live with
a rich uncle in Callao who was childless; that her aunt had died and her
uncle had married again; that the second wife had been at variance with
his family, and that it was consequently some relief to Miss Avondale
to be independent as the guardian of Bobby, whose mother was a sister
of the first wife; that her uncle had objected as strongly as a
brother-in-law could to his wife's sister's marriage with Captain
Dornton on account of his roving life and unsettled habits, and that
consequently there would be little sympathy for her or for Bobby in his
mysterious disappearance. The wind blew and the rain fell upon these
confidences, yet Randolph, walking again under that umbrella of
felicity, parted with her at her own doorstep all too soon, although
consoled with the permission to come and see her when the child
returned.
He went back to his room a very hopeful, foolish, but happy youth. As he
entered he seemed to feel the charm of her presence again in the humble
apartment she had sanctified. The furniture she had moved with her
own little hands, the bed on which she had sat for a half moment, was
glorified to his youthful fancy. And even that magic portmanteau which
had brought him all this happiness, that, too,--but he gave a sudden
start. The closet door, which he had shut as he went out, was unlocked
and open, the portmanteau--his “trust”--gone!